“You wouldn’t know how to read a map,” Domenica shot back. “You have the brains of an artichoke.”
Pietro Cabrelli was exhausted. “Enough.”
Domenica studied Pretucci’s technique as he knotted the thread on Silvio’s stitches. “Mama, it was my idea, not Silvio’s. I should be punished,” she said, not taking her eyes off the doctor’s technique.
“Oh, you will be punished.”
Silvio tried to sit up. “Signora Cabrelli—”
Pretucci gently touched his shoulder. “Lie down. Signorina, show your mother and father your skills. Trim the thread and finish with the astringent, please.”
“Sì, Dottore.” Domenica washed her hands in the basin before she climbed onto the stool. She trimmed the surgical thread carefully with Pretucci’s scissors. She sprinkled a square of gauze with astringent, carefully dabbing around the stitches.
Vera Vietro did not take her eyes off her son.
“What is going on here?” Netta Cabrelli asked her husband before she turned to Pretucci. “Why is my daughter helping you, Dottore?
“Because she’s able.” Pretucci washed his hands in the basin of fresh water. “Your daughter assisted me. She prepared this basin, the bandages, and she cleansed the wound. She even volunteered to sew the stitches.”
“I’m sure she did.” Netta Cabrelli sighed. “Va bene, Dottore. Domenica, come home as soon as you’re done here.”
“Thank you, Mama.”
“Your father will stay with you until the doctor releases you.” Netta grabbed her son by the scruff of his neck and led him out the door without saying a proper goodbye to Signora Vietro.
As Domenica dabbed the fresh stitches, the skin around Silvio’s wound turned bright pink. “Signora Vietro, see the pink skin? That means it is healing.”
Domenica studied the doctor’s artful stitchwork. The surgical thread had been sewn in a row of small stitches so tight, a series of black dots followed the arch of Silvio’s thick black eyebrows. “Well done, Dottore.” Domenica was impressed. She turned to Silvio’s mother. “If you put olive oil on the stitches before Silvio goes to sleep, there won’t be a bad scar,” Domenica said.
There was still a good chance that Silvio would not have a permanent reminder of this awful day. But Domenica would. It wasn’t Aniballi’s charge to the bullies, or the sound the rock made when it hit Silvio’s face, or the taunts of the mob that she would remember; it was her parents’ shameful behavior in the doctor’s office. They had failed to greet Signora Vietro, who was, as far as Domenica could tell, a fine person besides being the mother of her best friend. Domenica was treated well by Signora, and for that reason, her parents should have reciprocated, but they ignored her completely.
Perhaps Mama had forgotten that Signora Vietro had made their family a pot of potato soup with bits of smoked ham the previous winter and mended their wool stockings when the moths had gotten to them. Had Mama forgotten that Signora had given pastels and paper to the children so they might trace the frescoes in San Paolino while she worked inside, polishing the pews with lemon oil for Holy Week? Maybe if her parents remembered how kind Signora Vietro had been to their family, they would treat her with the same respect they gave to the other families in the village, the families with two parents. And even though Signora Montaquila was a widow, her sons were treated with respect at school. They were invited to picnics and parties. Her parents welcomed the Greco, DeRea, Nerino, and Tiburzi families into the Cabrelli home. Their children were allowed to play in Boncourso’s garden without an invitation; why not Silvio? Domenica couldn’t think of one good reason to justify her parents’ behavior. Maybe they had failed to greet Signora Vietro properly because she was not wearing a hat. Her mother could be a stickler about silly things like gloves and hats.
Poor Silvio. He spent his days trying to be invisible to avoid trouble, while his mother moved through Viareggio as though she were.
CHAPTER 6
Netta Cabrelli dipped the rag into the slick black paste and buffed the toe of her husband’s work shoe. She rubbed the leather back and forth in small strokes, applying pressure. The scuffs soon disappeared. The wax filled in the cracks where the leather had worn thin. She held the oxford up to the lamp and examined the repairs Massimo the shoemaker had made. He had installed an extra layer of black pebbled rubber between the upper and sole.
Massimo explained that the rubber had come from the finest lot out of the Congo. It had been mixed in vats with hearty black ash to thicken the sap made from the hemp. The goo was poured into sheets, dried in the sun, and cut into boards before being shipped to Italy. The shoemakers customized the rubber and sewed it into shoes and boots. The layer of rubber prevented the shoe from leaking through the rains of the long winter, while helping to preserve the leather and extend the long life of the handmade shoe. Netta wanted her husband, the apprentice, to look like a master craftsman as he worked hard to become one, so she took special care with his appearance, down to his shoes. La bella figura also applied to men, especially breadwinners.