Magdala was alone once again.
Magdala misses her mother, although she would never write that in a letter. It’s all right for her mother to say she misses her, and Madgala is sure the letter in her pocket will contain this declaration, but for Magdala to say she misses her mother means there is trouble in her marriage, and trouble in the marriage is never something to share with one’s mother. These kinds of things are not to be discussed. Her mamma had outlived her husband already by a generation, and Magdala couldn’t help wondering what her mamma thought about her own life, her own marriage, if she had planned to be with Papa forever, instead of her daughter, and was deeply pained, or if she was secretly relieved Papa had died quickly and young, that she would never have to see him suffer or lose interest in her. These are things Magdala cries over, because it isn’t right to ask. And it isn’t right either to ask why Mamma had been so intent for Magdala to marry an older man, her senior by twenty years. But she knows why. Their village was dying. All the young men were moving to cities, to other countries to find work. Tonio had money, was kind, and was travelling to a better place, if a snowy one.
Oh, the snow! Madgala knows it’s on its way. She can smell its crisp foreboding in the air. Only a few more weeks, maybe less, and she will no longer be able to hang her laundry outside, but will have to retreat into the basement to avoid all the falling leaves and frosts. Mamma, she thinks, staring up at all the billowing fabrics, how I wish I had stayed with Mamma, laid in her arms a little longer, not taken away her dresses whether she wanted to get rid of them or not. Soon Magdala will need the black dress. Tonio can’t hold out much longer; it’s only her constant care that has kept him alive for so long. The blood on the handkerchiefs spells his end, just as the first leaves on the ground spell the end of summer. The doctors are pessimistic about his chances. Yet he holds on lazily, and her hands bleach out the secret messages she can’t write to her mother, can’t tell her neighbours.
What happened to that Italian boy who used to work on the cars at all hours of the night? Magdala doesn’t know, and she can’t ask. Teresa had liked him, and Magdala had worried maybe they were sweet on each other. Too young. Too young. My little Teresa must stay little forever, free of men, free of marriage, free of sickness and death, she thought then. Now she sees a daughter full of life, full of prettiness, full of thoughts Magdala never had. What was it she said? She wanted to take courses in business? Maybe open a clothing store in the West End before the rents rise too high? Yes, that was it, but Magdala had stopped listening, imagining a boy in a ski mask hitting her over the head to get her money. “Better to get married,” she told her. “Have someone buy you a house, make a vegetable garden.” Even that Italian boy would be all right, she thought, since he knows a trade. And Teresa listened, or else she got herself into trouble first and listened later, but now there was a ring, she showed her the ring, and that other boy in the car was the man’s cousin, yes, and she’d been dizzy because she’d fallen on the sidewalk, which is why he took her home. There was no need to get so upset and Papa wouldn’t stop about his dreams, but everything is fine. He’s Portuguese, too, but from Brazil. “Nice eyes, strong face and hands,” Madgala told her daughter after shaking his hand for the first time. “A little dark, but that happens in Brazil. Everyone is mixed.” Sheepishly, head bowed, Teresa said, “I will have to learn how to run a restaurant. He owns a restaurant, Mamma, with his brother. Maybe one day Rosa can help out, and we can open a clothing store, too.” Magdala nodded happily, but wondered how much of it all was true. In the old days, Tonio would have gone out in the streets, asked around, met all the cousins and the rest of the family, but now Magdala just has to trust her daughter.
Once a year, Magdala bleaches the wedding dress to keep it fresh and white, make sure moths and mould don’t have their way. Tough fabric, it has held for three generations and likely more if Teresa is careful when she has a daughter of her own. The long and simple skirt, straight cut with a thick circular line and laced at the waist, is probably back in style. The high neck and round pearl beads along the chest are elegant without being grand, the lace sash and cuffs symmetrical as butterfly wings. Wedding dress first, mourning dress afterward. Magdala is lucky, the first in three generations who hasn’t lost her husband a decade before the first child reached adulthood. And Rosa will be here to take care of her when she starts to slip. Just like her own sister and their mamma. Family tradition if one of the children is born that way. A curse on the child, but a blessing on the mother since she will never be left alone. And Magdala needs the help. Her back is already sore after only two loads of laundry. There are still cucumbers and zucchini to chop, and she promised to teach Rosa cross-stitches this afternoon. The house will need to be changed to suit her, Magdala reminds herself as the wooden pins clip each thought to the clothes and sheets. Shelves must be heightened, the garden properly marked, the bathroom cupboards switched, and, of course, all the bedrooms must be rearranged so Rosa can start to learn to take care of Magdala. It won’t be long after Papa that she … she will need to teach Rosa. Teach her things like what Magdala knows from the letters …
… the weather’s hot. Mamma screams in her sleep. I worry. She’s old. She talks about Papa. She never used to. She talks about her wedding and all the trips they were going to take before he died. Hated her own mamma for not telling her about boys and she was so scared when her belly started to grow. She drinks three jugs of water a day and walks back and forth to the bathroom all night.…
A wall of white in front of her, blocking everything else from view, Magdala thinks of her wedding night in Portugal, how the town had danced under the yellow lanterns her family had hung from the trees, and Tonio, a few grey hairs across his temples, had twirled her in his arms, called her his little girl. Leaning against the bricks, another letter in her pocket, another load of laundry hung, she wonders who will send sympathy cards, and how they’ll afford Teresa’s wedding.
Wine Stains: Pour lots of salt onto the stain, dunk into cold water, and rub out.
Inside Tonio are two dreams: fire and water. His wife, Magdala, helps lift his large back away from the bed, holds him across the armpits to prop up his pillow, then slowly releases him. He recovers like a blade of grass. Looking out the window, he can see his undershirts and sheets on the line in the backyard, wooden pins marking the days he has survived in the trenches, all flags of white. “I surrender,” he wants to tell his dreams. “I surrender.” But still the shirts and sheets are hung.
Morning is roll call. Magdala peels off his shirt, throws it in her plastic basket. Then she pulls down the blankets, exposing legs limp like useless, splintered crutches, his olive skin wan and yellow without sun. She pats his thighs, meaning he should attempt to rise a little so she can slip off his underwear, flipping it quickly inside out and back again to examine it for stains. Into the same basket they go, whether or not there are any. A washed pair then appears, white cotton with an elastic waistband, a thin stripe of blue or black across the top. He doesn’t watch, can’t look down there without shaking. The only time he mentions it is if the band has caught on any hair.
This morning Tonio was dreaming before the sun hit his face. Shielding his eyes, he still saw Magdala opening the door, already dressed and working. “Papa,” she said. “Time to get up.” The sun denies him of his dreams, though he’s been trying to embrace them, keep himself in the dream’s arms so it will end. He wants to know how everything turns out, what happens after the fire and water rush over him. Magdala inspects the sheets for stains, tucking in stray sides as she does so, and leans in as she kisses him on the forehead to smell for sweat. This morning she doesn’t need to change the sheets. Maybe later. She checks three times a day, more if he screams.
There are bombs inside Tonio’s body: little bombs that go off randomly but persistently in twos or threes. Hot, hot, hot, they shoot up his arms and down his legs like burns, smelling like sulfur, stinging his nostrils. Tonio feels like he’s had his hand on a hot stove for the last six years. And then there are the tides. Ones that swell inside his throat and want to rush out onto the bed, others that stir and churn inside his stomach as if a drain were plugged. They steam inside him, pound against his veins, pour out of his body. Every entry a spout. “Move on,” he
