6 - Sundays

Chapter Fifteen: Sundays

Los Angeles basked under an ever- present sunshine that caressed everything it touched, winking at newly watered lawns, blushing and blurring its edges. Seasons changed like Polaroid pictures, a change was sensed before the eye caught the full image.

In the shops, seasons were hurried through, before the customers had a chance to feel the need for a sweater, before the sun got hot enough for a bathing suit brightly displayed in the window in April.

Time seemed still, a starlet posing for a photo shoot.

Our lives, Uncle's, his wife's, the three babies', felt like  languid reflections, plastic toys bobbing in  backyard pools,like  leaves streaming from one end of the water to the other, without direction until, suddenly, something made them all settle at the bottom of the drain.

I had been in that house for five years in suspended animation- as if in a spell.

I sent home letters describing not my reality, but my wishes, words painting broad smiles,sunny dispositions, blessed sainthood.

The truth had been locked away, and threathened to come out and shout only on Sundays.

I went to the eight o’clock Mass when the prayers were recited in Latin, ancient language of my people. Every mass felt as if my mother and I were together, she with a shawl covering her head, bowed in resignation, grateful that I had escaped a fate like hers, thanking God and the Virgin Mary for the life her daughter was enjoying.

“Oh Mamma, If you only knew!” I was praying to the Virgin Mary, and talking to my mother, one and the same to a crying heart.

“Please, Mother, Virgin Mary, guide me, save me from my anger and my loneliness.”

"Why, daughter, why are you unhappy? You are ungrateful and spoiled. How did this happen?" These were the words I heard spoken back at me.

I couldn't explain my life.

I only wanted to end it.

I NEEDED to send a message to the saints, the family back home, a message that would have liberated me from the spell. Prayers after prayers rose with the liturgy; prayers and tears washed my soul for a few hours every week, giving me the courage to start a new week, to carry on.

After church, I prepared the day’s main meal and waited for the rest of the family to gather together. I waited, watching television-Donna Reed and her perfect world where children were loved and families were whole. On Sundays, Uncle rode his bike for hours, and his wife read the Sunday paper as children watched television and snacked on potato chips.

Nobody ate the meal I prepared. Nobody was ever hungry as I was. The food sat on the stove until it was time to clean up the kitchen.

On one such evening, Uncle’s wife barged into my bedroom room after I had gone to bed and turned the light on.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, feeling like a sinking raft.

“Do you want rats in the house? You are used to rats, aren’t you? Aren’t you? Well, this is not your rat infested hovel back home. We are civilized here.” She was holding a piece of bread that had been left on the table.

Mortified, confused with shame and disappointment, I tried to explain the bread left on the table: “Uncle was at the table. I thought he would eat it.!”

I just wanted to scream.

The truth was we were not family. Back home, everyone came to the table for the main meal. First, while waiting for everything to be ready, we snacked on olives, celery. Then, taking up our assigned seats, with Papa’ at the head of the table, the midday meal would be served. The whole meal was woven with story telling, singing.

“Mangia, mangia” Mother encouraged. The meal would end two, three hours later, when groggy from all that food, people took a long siesta, talking “sotto voce” allowing the little ones and the very old to fall asleep.

Meals were prepared according to recipes passed down for generations. Never written, never changed, the ingredients came from our farm, seeds carefully stored and carefully passed down from family to family. All of life’s moments were shared at these meals. Grandma Maria Rosaria would join each of her seven children, once a week for a midday meal that would stretch into the evening. She arrived before noon, right after the last Mass, and she regaled us with stories about her childhood, when as an only child, her pa‘pa, the padrone of the masseria, would take her on buggy rides, visiting neighbors, checking on the land that nourished them for generations.

“These hazelnuts taste just like those on that piece of land by the river, the one your great-nonna got as a wedding present. Have not tasted any thing that good. Too bad I lost it all when we went to Brazil. Those crooks sold the land right from under us. We lost everything.” Those ‘crooks’ were her brothers who instead of managing the land, saw an opportunity to sell and cash in the profits.

Invariably, the conversation would include her greatest adventure, her time in Brazil. She lost a child there, and disappointed and homesick she and Nonno returned to Italy penniless. Nonno died a few years later, leaving his wife with seven children to raise by herself.

She spoke of humid heat, of flowers of exceptional perfume, mango and bananas, fruit I had never seen. She painted canvasses of extreme beauty and extreme harshness, life and death in the same frame.

Papa' sang about a man living away from home, missing his mom. Tears streamed from everybody’s faces, especially at the end: “ Mamma, solo per te…..E per l’amore not ti lascerei mai piu”, (Mamma, because of you, ….and for that love I will never leave you again). Papa’s voice, a beautiful tenor strengthened from years of performing at weddings and anniversaries, was grandma’s pride and joy.

We tasted happiness with each bite, each song, each movement. It felt like the joyful harvesting of grapes, family and neighbors singing along as they collected grapes from one vineyard to the other.

A lifetime sat with us at these meals.

And Sunday was our day to splurge, cook a stuffed rabbit, redolent with garlic and basil, stuffed with leftover bread, sage and wild mushrooms. The meal was begun after Mother returned from the early mass, the mass for busy housewives and old people.

The rabbit was fattened in the cellar, months of scampering among wine flasks, eating scraps we brought down every time we went to the cellar.

Always with plenty of tomato sauce to coat the homemade pasta, the rabbit had stewed for hours, perfuming the entire house, sending inviting aromas to the whole neighborhood. Sunday meals lasted all day, until every thing had been eaten and everyone felt satisfied.

The world was full of food, company and grace on Sundays.

Chapter Sixteen: Parting Ways

I had been teaching in the heart of the city, on Pico Boulevard, under the path of  many jets flying to LAX. None of us noticed; we made our own noises to shut out the world.

I was in my element.

Wearing a sort of uniform, dark a-skirts, white shirts, sweaters for  chilly days, I looked the same as I did in college, not much different from the girls I was teaching. Anywhere else  I’d feel out of place, old-fashioned, convent-girl look; here, I felt joyful, every minute of every hour. Clothes were incidental. We appreciated hard work and  rules.

Early October, I overheard a couple of nuns talking about their pilgrimage to Rome, and within minutes, I had reserved a seat on the same plane. Finally, an end in sight.

That evening, at home, as I fixed dinner and waiting for Uncle to close the store,  I casually mentioned the news. Aunt's face went into an immediate frown, "Is that the reason you're late again?"

I didn’t think I needed to remind her that I worked full time. and attended graduate school. Maybe she hadn't understood.

“I’m not going to inconvenience you any longer." I said, and without taking another breath, I went on:"It’s been a long time. Why, my folks may not even recognize me! I’m thinking it’s going to be difficult to adjust back home.  I may not know how to behave like an Italian any more.”

My chatter was quick and fast.

“How can you talk like that? We have given you everything!" She was now angry and loud.

Usually, I would have smiled, and attended to some chore to placate her. Instead, I walked away without responding. The smell of her Pall Mall cigarettes was encircling me. Her hair in a towel smeared with dark streaks told me she had just colored it.  That combination of smells made me want to rush to the bathroom.

“Well, you need to ask permission from Ted!” She hurled this like a stone aimed for my head.

“I’m too old to be asking for permission!” I asserted boldly and out of character. Something about having money to buy a ticket back home was giving me confidence and courage.

“We won’t hear another word about this. You can’t go around making these decisions by yourself!”

“I don’t need permission. I'm not a child. I'm paying for this myself.” I yelled and slammed the bathroom door shut. This was the only room where I could lock myself in and regain my composure.

The place was in a shamble. Bottles everywhere. No wonder she was angry. I was not home to take care of the children on an evening when she had decided to color her hair.

“You’re an ungrateful slug. You’ve been nothing but trouble.” Hissing with rage, she was pounding at the door.

I opened the door and something came out of my mouth:  “I might as well leave right now.” I then rushed to the bedroom to gather some things before I lost my courage.

“Your Uncle will be very angry! You’ll wait until your Uncle returns.” She was shouting at the top of her range. When she saw me put some clothes and books in a suitcase, she grabbed it forcefully, “We paid for all that stuff!” Those were the last words I heard as I dropped everything and stormed out, walking as fast as I could to the street corner where there was a phone booth.  I called Myra whose number I remembered. She accepted my collect call and picked me up twenty minutes later. 

Chapter 17 :Riding the Waves

The sun had been up for hours when Myra woke me.“You need a day off. Call in sick.” She  laid out a change of clothes for me at the bottom of the bed where I had spent the night crying. The room was bathed in sunshine. I did call in sick, sobbing all the way through the exchange.

Myra tried to console me. “We can go to the beach, shopping, whatever you want to do.”

“I don't know. I really feel awful. Perhaps a walk on the beach, fresh air.”

“We can go to Malibu like that time.”

“I ended up with a sun burn I couldn’t explain. It was so bad, I couldn’t go anywhere after that. Didn’t I tell you about that?”

“I thought you had different schedules from me. I had to drop out soon after; so, we both kind of disappeared. You don’t know do you? Do you want coffee or tea?”

“Coffee, please. What happened?”

“How I moved to this place?”

“Tell me what happened; di you quit school?”

She packed the car as she told me her story. “I got pregnant right after my birthday. That weekend, I think. Anyway, I quit school, had the baby, put her up for adoption and went to work full time. I got this place just a couple of months ago. When you called I happened to be at Mom’s.  Now, are you sure you don’t want to go shopping?”

“I don’t feel like shopping. Besides, I don't even have a cent. She took my purse and everything. I don't get paid for another week; I’ll wash my blouse and underwear and I'll be fine until then.”

Myra drove us to a place where kids were waiting for the waves to grow bigger and the fog to dissipate. It was cold.

“These are all friends I’ve known for a while; see that dude with the red shorts? World Champion!” Myra stripped down and rushed out to join them. This is just like Gidget. I thought, They are really good out there. Waves can wipe you out and kick sand in your face, but these people are really good.

The place was deserted except for the surfers who paddled out and waited for the big wave to throw them off once they stood up to ride it. They kept doing it over and over again, never tiring, never fearing the force of the surf. They just got back, time and time again.

They all had cars, jobs, time to hang out. Everything I didn’t have, including NO Fear! I walked for miles, thinking about my situation, the options I had. It was not a good time to be homeless and penniless, but then, I did have a job, and I was making enough to support myself for a few months until it was time to leave for Italy.

At one point, Myra came on shore and I saw her looking for me,  yelling and waving in the distance. When I got to her she explained that the time flew by and now she was late for work. A friend of hers agreed to take me back to Myra’s place where she'd meet after work.

“Oh, you’re the Italian girl!” The friend greeted me as I got in the front seat.

“That’s me!”

“Myra told me about you. What do you do?”

“I’m teaching.”

“Interesting that I meet you just when I need your help.”

“Ohh?”

“I need to learn Italian.”

“What exactly to do you need?”

“Can I take you to dinner and explain?”

“Sorry. I have things to do tonight.”

“It's just that you would really be helping me. I have an early audition tomorrow morning, I would be listening to you, picking up your accent.”

“Are you an actor?”

“Did you see the Aqua Velva Commercial?”

“Yeah!”

“My name is John Kaneen on screen. Steve O’Donnell in person. Take your pick. So, how about dinner?”

“Sorry!”

“O.k. But we’re both hungry and we can get burgers on the way.”

“I love burgers, fries and strawberry milk shakes are my favorite American foods.”

“ Yeah?”

So, after a day at the beach, after  sun and water had done their magic, after a delicious ride through the drive- in for a fantastic meal, I made a plan. I had nine months to learn to be an American before I took my flight back home. First thing, find a place to live. Second thing, learn to surf and ride the waves. Third thing, eat American drive-in food every night. I was in the real America now. I needed to become an expert.

"First lesson," I said, "try to put a vowel at the end of each word."

"Lika dissa?" He tried.

"Yes! and throw in any Italian word you know, whenever you can, adesso!"

"Ah, si,si, signorina."

I could teach anybody to be who they wanted to be. Now, I had to teach myself to be normal.  My life was not the movie I wanted to be in. 

Chapter Eighteen: Burying Doubt and Guilt

I ended up living in a beautiful mansion, behind tall walls and locked gates, in the convent of the Sisters of St. Joseph. I had a room of my own with a private bathroom, two meals a day, linens laundered and ironed weekly, and access to beautiful gardens and a well stocked library.

That first evening, waiting for confession in the chapel, running through a week's worth of sins, I almost quit my religion. What I had to confess couldn't be spoken.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“How long since your last confession?”

“Two weeks.”

“What are your sins?”

“I spoke curtly to my aunt, disrespecting her authority.”

“Anything else?”

I could talk about suicidal thoughts, about an obsession with death and escape.

“Father, I have angry thoughts.”

“My child, we must maintain pure thoughts before God. Any thing else?”

“No, Father…”

God already knew how I felt. God would forgive me.

“For penance, recite twenty Hail Mary’s. In the name of the…”

Why did I not feel better? Confessions were supposed to cleanse your soul and make you feel better.

I was lying to God. I was becoming the person everyone back home thought I would become, an American girl with no scruples, wanting just fun and good times.

My room was next to that of two girls attending California Art Institute. Four other young people lived down the hall, working girls who needed a safe haven at the end of the day. There were also a couple of potential postulants.

Michelle and Pilar greeted me one evening  with a box of chocolate and a thermus of hot coffee. Michelle from San Bernadino, Pilar from Spain and Mexico. They explained the kitchen closed right after supper, a very inconvenient time around exams when they needed snacks and drinks to stay awake. Since my light was on after ten, they assumed I needed sustenance too. We spoke easily.

Thursday through Sunday, we could mess up the rooms and keep anything we wanted stashed anywhere. At other times, the rooms were cleaned, linens were changed and trash inspected by snooping eyes.

Not having a car was a real handicap in Los Angeles. The convent was close to Wilshire, and convenient to bus stops. Yet, we could never really see the city without a car. Since our curfew was at ten, we could never be sure to get back in time if we had an evening event and relied on buses to be on time. A used car would have been heaven.

Michele had lived  with her brother, a famous radio disk jockey with a successful radio spot living in the hills above Sunset.  She had moved to the convent though, because her brother was too noisy, too erratic, and forever entertaining at night. Taking a bus from the Hollywood Hills to the art school took her hours. She was quite accepting of her life finishing school and forgetting any social life.

I purchased a used Oldsmobile for $600.00, more than I made in one month. I only had a learning permit, so Michelle had to drive us around. Suddenly, we were going everywhere.

One weekend, on the occasion of Michelle's brother's birthday, we drove to Benedict Canyon and arrived  to hear  a new band from England playing in the big garden.The place was crowded, drinks offered to everyone, and everyone seemed to know everyone else. An hour later with more people and more booze, we had trouble keeping up a decent conversation. Nobody noticed when we left early.

On our way back to the convent, we passed the Whisky-a-go-go, the club where the band would be playing later that evening, people clamoring to get in, a long line snaking around the block.

"I want to see that place!" I yelled for Michelle to find a parking spot.

"We can't get in there?" Michelle kept driving away.

"This is our chance. When will be here again?" I was insistent. Something in me didn't want to forgo any opportunity now. I had lived for years without going to a dance, a party or a movie without begging. I was free and wanted to taste the America I had been promised. What would I tell my friends back home, that I lived in a convent in America?

We got in line and had no idea how long we needed to wait, when Michelle saw somebody she recognized and soon we got dragged over to meet them, getting in the club as their guests.

Pilar was catching everybody’s eye the minute we sat down.  Someone had sent her a drink, a couple more lined up to ask her to dance. She sent them all away.

“Don’t you like to dance? “ I could not understand her annoyed disposition. I was so excited to be there, in such a happy place. Nobody was asking me to dance. I knew why too. While I was busy buying the car and paying for its upkeep, I had forgot that my clothes were inappropriate outside of the convent.

“Trust me, it’s a bore” Pilar kept saying to me when I went on and on about how I wished someone would ask me to dance.

A couple of bands played fifteen minutes a piece. Two hours later, or so, the group we saw at Michelle’s brother’s house came on stage. They recognized us. We waved back, and suddenly we became the center of attention, and free drinks were sent our way.

Michelle gave an interview to someone with a camera.  I had no idea who the band was; but everyone seemed to know them.

“I Don’t Get No Satisfaction” was the song they sang that made people wild.

“Yeah!” everybody shouted, while the place reverberated with pounding drums, filling up with smoke and bodies crowding each other uncomfortably. The loudness drowned everybody’s voices; the beat of the music and the panting of the dancers hid the fear on our faces and the loneliness in our souls.

The place looked like a high school dance about to go wrong. Everyone was  touching everyone else, and nobody was leaving the dance floor.

It was late when we got back to the convent and Sister Mary Joseph let us in after a good fifteen minutes of bell ringing.

“Sister, we didn’t realize it was late!” I remained behind to talk to her and explain how the birthday party went so late. She told me we needed to avoid such occasions.

“Maybe we shouldn’t drink.” We felt awful and quite sick by the time we called the night off and left to our separate rooms.

“We shouldn't drink on account of our religion.” Michele said with an air of moral superiority.

“I never heard that!” I responded. We were about to fight, but we all had  headaches and were quite tired..  "See you in the morning!" I said, leaving for my own room, where I threw up a few times during the night.

Drinking and partying probably had rules I never heard of.

“Don’t argue with your elders”, was the rule I knew well, and threw around in my own classes. Discipline was easy in Catholic schools: girls accepted strict rules, and their parents supported us.

The next Friday, the girls picked me up from school as usual. I noticed a big pile of stuff in the back seat, and asked:

”So, what are we doing this weekend?”

“We got a big project to work on.” Pilar looked worried.

“How long is your project going to take, two, three hours? Let’s stop at a liquor store, get some booze, pick up a pizza and we can work on your project tonight.”

“Booze?” The two of them looked at me in disgust..

“We need an education, some trial and error.” I said, confidently. "What it amounts to is getting experience without paying the consequences!" I declared.

The bottles of rum and coke were our first try at mixing booze. That night, we talked about how to protect each other and remain pure. We talked about going out together, how to meet boys, and if one of us wanted to leave, everyone had to leave, even if we really liked someone. If we met a guy who really liked one of us, and asked for a phone number, we told him we would meet him for a coke at the corner drug store. If we liked him after that date, we would insist on double date. Boy, he had to be Catholic to agree to that. We needed practice meeting and dealing with boys.

We were aware of the games girls played, enticing, appearing to be interested until sure of the person, and then find an excuse to leave. Pilar was a natural siren, her statuesque stand and amazing looks said it plainly, “You wish you could have me, you fool, I am too good for you, try it, and you will die.”

She was really shy and self-conscious about her accent. We had no trouble understanding her, but she seldom spoke in public. She never liked any of the boys that came to our table, she said. If she did, our game would have ended. After a drink and twenty questions, they would realize that Pilar's interests were elsewhere. Her body was ready, she said, but not her mind.

“In Spain, they know these things,” she went on, “they send you out with chaperons until your body and mind are on the same plane. Besides, I’m here to learn about advertising so I can take over my family business.”

She knows something we don’t know, I thought. How could we be sure when  bodies and  minds were finally on the same plane?