An Italian Wife by Ann Hood

Eva’s mind. She was grief-stricken; he understood that. But he had made her feel alive. Inside, her clothes were tossed around the rooms, her bed was unmade, but Eva was not there. He waited, finally falling asleep on those cloudlike pillows. But when he woke in the morning, he was still alone.
    The old woman at the stove called to him as he sat outside on the stairs trying to figure out what to do next.
    â€œShe won’t come back,” the woman said, peering up at him through the open slats.
    â€œShe has to come back,” he said, hating how weak he sounded.
    The woman climbed the steps toward him. She smelled sour, like cabbage and boiled meat.
    â€œI know this girl,” she said softly. “Her heart is broken into so many pieces and now she’s broken your heart. That’s how the world goes.”
    Carmine licked his lips and glanced in the direction of the ocean. All he could see from here were rooftops, but he knew it was out there, glittering in the hot August sun.
    â€œBoy?” she said, as if trying to wake him from a deep sleep. “Boy!”
    He looked at her pasty, saggy face, hating her.
    â€œEva is my daughter. She told me to let her know when you go away finally.”
    Carmine got to his feet and grabbed the woman roughly by her shoulders, shaking her. “Tell me where she is,” he said. He shook her harder. “Tell me!”
    She shrugged away from him, and made her way back down the stairs.
    Carmine thought about chasing her, making her tell him how he could find Eva. But there was something in the woman, a resignation, a sadness so deep that he understood her hopelessness.
    THE THING TO DO was to go to fight the war. But still.
    Back at home, Anna waiting for him so expectantly that he almost hated her. He enlisted with Angelo. They would save the world. But all he could think of was Eva Peretsky, those slanted blue eyes, that silky blond hair, her pale skin so smooth and translucent that the veins were like road maps, blue and complicated.
    His homecoming was also a farewell. His mother made large pans of eggplant parmesan, his favorite, and baked ziti, and sausage and peppers. Carmine went to the liquor store to buy vodka, but the man there only frowned.
    â€œThat Russky stuff?” he said. “Don’t carry it.”
    He came in late to his own party. His mother and Anna stood in the kitchen together, heads bent, as they stuffed figs with walnuts and roasted chestnuts. A crowd had already gathered. He saw Angelo with Carla, her face puffy from kissing or crying or both; he saw his sister Giulia looking fat and tired, pregnant perhaps?; he saw the neighbors, all of them crowded in there, shoving food into their faces.
    Anna looked up at him.
    â€œWhy don’t you go in?” she said.
    He shrugged, unable to answer. “Do you want to come for a walk?” he asked her. Something like fear crept across her face. “I just need air.”
    â€œAir?” his mother said. “You just got here. You go and talk to everyone and take a walk later.”
    Anna waited to see what he would do. He felt so tired that he wanted to curl up and sleep, until after the war, maybe. Or after his wedding, which had been put on hold until he came back. He wondered if he left here and went back to Coney Island if he could find Eva Peretsky, if she would take him back into her arms. Sometimes he felt he had dreamed her.
    â€œWhat are you waiting for?” his mother said, without turning around. She elbowed Anna. “Go in there with him. You’re going to be his wife.”
    Anna took off the apron she was wearing, and touched his elbow, urging him forward. He’d known these people forever, but when he walked into the room, they all seemed like strangers. Anna stood on tiptoe but still had to tug on him to bend down.
    â€œAfter,” she whispered in his ear, “we can do it if you want.”
    Carmine nodded.
    He didn’t want to.