me you’ll find a way to keep the money safe, she repeats in a breath. Everything else, including the marble palace with the white curtains, will one day be revealed.
Not today?
Nothing is clear today and won’t be for a long time.
They sit so close. He is slumped down, deep in the crook of her arm. He turns his face to her, away from the icy window. Tell me honestly, do you think we’ll be okay? His tremulous voice is too small for his body. Or do you think because of what we did we might be in danger?
She meets his eyes, a beat, another, a blink, and then she smiles. No, she says. We’ll be fine. She kisses his forehead, his hair, his face. Don’t worry. Everything is going to be all right. They sit with their heads pressed together.
Ti voglio bene, she says. You are what I love most in life.
Now maybe. Once you loved someone else too.
Yes, my son, and still do, she says, her voice trailing off, the marsh grasses outside, the taupe and gray towns flying by. Klin, Kalashnikovo, Okulovka, Luka. Once another Calais lay on my heart. Once I loved more than just one someone.
Sic Transit Gloria Mundi, she whispers. Thus passes the glory of the world.
If you press me to say why I loved him,
I can say no more than because he was he,
and I was I.
—Michel de Montaigne
Love is not blind;
that is the last thing that it is.
Love is bound;
And the more it is bound
The less it is blind.
—GK Chesterton
One
ALL LOVE STORIES END. Who said that? Gina heard it once years ago. But she didn’t believe it. That hers never would is what she believed.
Gina set her internal clock by two things. One was the train schedule to Boston, a shining city on a hill if ever there was one. And the other was her monthly cycle. She’d been marking the calendar for the last three years. She’d been making the trip to Boston for twelve, and she was making it still, setting store by it, anticipating it. She would put her long-fingered hands in black silk gloves on the train window to touch the towns she passed and would dream about other cities and cradles, parks and prams, annual fairs and lullabies.
Her gauzy reflection in the glass returned curls and dark auburn hair, hastily piled up because she was always late, always running out of time. Returned translucent skin, full lips, bottomless coffee pools for eyes. Her rust-colored wool skirt and taupe blouse were not new but were clean and pressed and perfectly tailored, a custom fit for her tall, slender, slightly curvy figure. She always made sure, no matter how broke they were, that whenever she went out she was dressed as if she could run into her high society father-in-law and not look like an immigrant, could run into her husband’s ditched and furious former fiancée and not look like steerage, could run into the King of England himself and curtsy like a lady.
Where else besides Boston might the train take her? If she stayed on past North Station, where might she ride to? Where would she want to ride to in her velvet hat and leather shoes? If the train could take her anywhere, where would it be? She spent Monday mornings imagining where she might ride to.
Every Monday but today.
Everything was different today, and was going to be different from now on. Everything had changed.
Gina was running down Salem Street past the lunchtime peddlers, breathing through her mouth to avoid the pervasive odor of the North End—fish and molasses—that today was making her subtly queasy. The train had been delayed and she knew her brother would be upset because until she arrived to look after his little girl, he couldn’t go to work.
By the time she got to his cold-water flat, all the way in the upper-north corner of Charter and Snow Hill, he was fit to be tied, pacing about the tiny living room like a caged lion, carrying Mary, who was cooing merrily. She clearly thought it was all in good fun, daddy carrying her back and forth, back and forth, rocking her in his arms as if he were a swing.
“I’m sorry,” Gina said, extending her arms to the child. Salvo had dressed her, but like a dad would. Not only did nothing match, but he had dressed the child in shorts—in December.
He didn’t want to hear it. “You’re always sorry.” He swung the baby upside down. She squealed more more and then cried when he handed her over. Not to be outdone, Gina held the girl upside down by her ankles. Mary chortled, and this allowed Gina to speak.
“I have to talk to you, Salvo.”
“You’ve made that impossible. Should’ve thought of that before you sauntered in two hours late.”
“It’s not my fault.”
“Nothing is ever your fault.”
“The train was late.”
“Should’ve taken an earlier train.”
“Salvo, basta.”
There was no more talking after that. He left, after kissing Mary’s feet.
“Let’s re-dress you, angel, shall we? What was your daddy thinking?” Gina dressed the girl warmly and wrapped her snug, then took her out in the carriage so they wouldn’t be cooped up all afternoon playing patty cake and staring out onto Copp’s Old Burying Ground. “At least in the graveyard there are trees she can look at,” Salvo would say. “Anywhere else, poor thing would just be looking at a tenement.”
Trees and graves.
They walked slowly to Prince Park, with Mary suddenly deciding she wanted to push her own carriage, which added nine to thirteen years to their already lengthy excursion. They got a sandwich they split in half, caught the end of a
