Dancing on Sunday Afternoons

Dancing on Sunday Afternoons

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by Linda Cardillo

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Reading these words, written to her grandmother decades before, Cara Serafini finally learns the great secret, the triumph, of Giulia's life—the love she shared with her first husband, Paolo.

It's a love that began when Giulia left the Italian village of her birth and came to New York, where Paolo Serafini captured her heart…and took her

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Reading these words, written to her grandmother decades before, Cara Serafini finally learns the great secret, the triumph, of Giulia's life—the love she shared with her first husband, Paolo.

It's a love that began when Giulia left the Italian village of her birth and came to New York, where Paolo Serafini captured her heart…and took her dancing on Sunday afternoons.

And as Cara discovers, it's a love that's never ended— and never will.

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Two Husbands Giulia D'Orazio 1983

I had two husbands--Paolo and Salvatore.

Salvatore and I were married for thirty-two years. I still live in the house he bought for us; I still sleep in our bed.All around me are the signs of our life together. My bedroom window looks out over the garden he planted. In the middle of the city,he coaxed tomatoes,peppers,zucchini--even grapes for his wine--out of the ground. On weekends, he used to drive up to his cousin's farm in Waterbury and bring back manure. In the winter, he wrapped the peach tree and the fig tree with rags and black rubber hoses against the cold, his massive, coarse hands gentling those trees as if they were his fragile-skinned babies. My neighbor, Dominic Grazza, does that for me now. My boys have no time for the garden.

In the front of the house, Salvatore planted roses.The roses I take care of myself.They are giant,cream-colored,fragrant.In the afternoons,I like to sit out on the porch with my coffee,protected from the eyes of the neighborhood by that curtain of flowers.

Salvatore died in this house thirty-five years ago. In the last months, he lay on the sofa in the parlor so he could be in the middle of everything. Except for the two oldest boys, all the children were still at home and we ate together every evening. Salvatore could see the dining-room table from the sofa, and he could hear everything that was said."I'm not dead, yet," he told me."I want to know what's going on."

When my first grandchild, Cara, was born, we brought her to him, and he held her on his chest, stroking her tiny head. Sometimes they fell asleep together.

Over on the radiator cover in the corner ofthe parlor is the portrait Salvatore and I had taken on our twenty-fifth anniversary.This brooch I'm wearing today, with the diamonds-- I'm wearing it in the photograph also--Salvatore gave it to me that day. Upstairs on my dresser is a jewelry box, filled with necklaces and bracelets and earrings.All from Salvatore.

I am surrounded by the things Salvatore gave me, or did for me. But, God forgive me, as I lie alone now in my bed, it is Paolo I remember.

Paolo left me nothing. Nothing, that is, that my family, especially my sisters, thought had any value. No house. No diamonds. Not even a photograph.

But after he was gone, and I could catch my breath from the pain, I knew that I still had something. In the middle of the night, I sat alone and held them in my hands, reading the words over and over until I heard his voice in my head. I had Paolo's letters.

The Cigar Box Cara Serafini Dedrick 1983

The phone call didn't come at two in the morning, but it might as well have. I was on my way out the door of my office at four,hoping to catch an early train out of Penn Station and make it home to New Jersey for an early start to my vacation. I run a catering company in Manhattan called Artichoke and in the last weeks of August my clients have retreated to their summer homes, giving me and my staff a breather before fall. Celeste, my secretary, waved to get my attention, receiver nestled between her ear and her capable shoulder.

"It's your mother."

"Tell her I'll call when I get home--got to make the 4:25." "She says it can't wait.A family emergency."

My body stiffened and I could feel the color drain from my face. My mother was not the kind of woman who called with reports of every hospitalization or divorce or out-of-wedlock pregnancy in our large extended family.With eighteen aunts and uncles and twenty-nine first cousins, plus both grandmothers,there was ample opportunity for a family emergency. But I trusted my mother's sense of what was urgent and what was merely news, and knew she wouldn't insist on talking to me now if it wasn't someone close. Had my father gone into diabetic shock? Was my brother in a car accident?

I turned back to my desk and picked up the phone."Mom?" "Cara, thank God you're still there! It's Nana."

My father's mother, Giulia, was a robust woman in her nineties who ran circles around most of us.Three weeks before, against the wishes of all eight of her children, she'd flown to Italy to be at the bedside of her dying older sister.Zia Letitia-- we used the Italian form to refer to the aunts of my grand-mother's generation--Zia Letitia had graciously managed to wait until Nana arrived before taking her last breath.After she died, Nana had assumed the task of arranging her funeral and organizing her financial affairs. Zia Letitia had been a widow and her only son had died many years before, so there was no one left in the family to wrap up the loose ends of her long life except for Nana.As far as I knew, those tasks were almost finished and she was expected back early the next week.

"What's happened?"I couldn't imagine what could have disrupted my grandmother's determined and vigorous grasp on life.

"She fell last night. It was in Zia Letitia's house. She was alone, and no one found her until this morning. Emma, the woman who looked after Zia Letitia, called to let us know."

"Oh, my God! Is she all right? Where is she now?"

"They got her to a hospital in Avellino, but apparently she's broken her hip. She needs surgery.We thought we could fly her home, but the doctors there said it was too dangerous-- the risk of an embolism's too high.Which is why I'm calling you." So it was more than just to inform me of my grand-mother's accident.

"What do you mean?"

"We don't want her to go through this alone. It was one thing for her to go off by herself to hold her sister's hand, but now it's simply out of the question. I'd go, but with Daddy needing dialysis every three days, there's no way I can leave him. Nobody else in the family has ever been to Italy--I don't think they even have passports.

"Honey, you've lived in Italy, you speak Italian, and she'd listen to you sooner than one of her children, anyway. I need you to say yes about this,especially for Daddy's sake.He's angry with her for going in the first place, angry with himself for letting her go, and now he's feeling helpless--although he won't admit it--because he can't go and rescue his mother.Will you do this, Cara?"

"Do you realize what you're asking me to do?" I groaned. I thought of the two weeks left of summer that I'd planned on spending with my kids. A week at the shore, then a week getting ready for school.

"If you're worried about the kids, I can look after them for a few days, and Paul and Jeannie offered to take them to her mother's house at the lake.There really is no one else who can do this, Cara. I know you think of Nana as formidable and indestructible, but she's in a precarious state."

I listened in silence, watching the minutes pass on the clock on my desk. I'd already missed any chance of making my train. I was both dismayed at my grandmother's situation and frustrated that the competence and independence I had developed in my life apart from my family were now the very things pulling me back. I did not want to go. But I knew I would. I fought the resentment that I was the one my mother had turned to--me, with a very full plate of full-time job and four children--when she could have asked my sister or my cousin, both younger,freer,teachers with summers off and no children. But I was also proud that she'd called on me, knowing she was right when she said I was the only one who could do this.

"I'll need to talk to Andrew and sort everything out with the kids. I'll ask Celeste to book me on a flight to Rome tomorrow and I'll take the train from there to Avellino.Do you have some contact information for me--the hospital,Emma?"

I heard my mother exhale in relief. "Thank you, honey. I knew I could count on you. I've got all the numbers right here. Let me read them off to you."

I spent the next half hour writing down the information provided by my mother, phoning my husband and giving Celeste the task of getting me to Italy within the next forty-eight hours. I finally collapsed in a seat in the second-to-last car on the 5:43 to Princeton,scribbling lists to myself and trying to remember a language I had not spoken regularly in seventeen years.

The next afternoon,with my husband and children heading off to Beach Haven, my bag packed and my passport in my purse, I drove up to my parents' house in Mount Vernon, just outside New York City. When my mother had called Giulia that morning to tell her I was coming, Giulia had dictated a list for me--things to do, things to bring. I picked up the list and the key to Giulia's house from my parents and said my goodbyes, recognizing the gratitude in my father's eyes despite his gruff warnings about watching out for both my grandmother and myself.

I left my parents' neighborhood of manicured lawns and stately colonials and drove south to the neighborhood my grandmother had lived in since she'd arrived in America. I climbed the steep steps to Giulia's front porch, past the rose garden her husband Salvatore--my father's stepfather--had planted for her in the middle years of their marriage, well before I was born.With Giulia in Italy for the last three weeks, many of the blooms were long past their peak.Had Giulia been here,I know she would've trimmed the flopping,untidy heads.

I let myself in the front door, but not before glancing up and down this so-familiar street. To my right, a row of pale stucco houses, many of which Giulia owned.To my left, the beginnings of commerce--the butcher,the barber,Skippy's Bar & Grill--and on the corner, Our Lady of Victory elementary school. I remembered how one frigid November morning, when I was in kindergarten, I had dutifully exited in a silent, straight line as we'd been trained by the nuns to do when the fire alarm sounded. I'd been careful to line up along the side of the building, trying to keep still in the cold. It had been at that moment that Giulia had emerged from Lauricella's grocery store across the street and observed the shivering children and the sisters bundled in their black shawls.

"Where is your coat? How could that nun let you outside in this weather without your coat?" Giulia stood on the sidewalk and scolded me from across the street.

She was making a spectacle and I was mortified.The only modestly saving grace was that she was speaking in Italian, but her gesturing and agitation were clearly understood by the nuns and my classmates.

"Go back inside this minute and get your coat!"

I wanted to explain to her that this was a fire drill, but was afraid to speak, afraid to break the rules so dramatically presented to us by Sister Agatha as a matter of life and death. Six hundred children had burned to death at Our Lady of the Angels in Chicago because they hadn't followed the rules.

My grandmother knew none of this. She knew only that her grandchild was shivering and the woman responsible for her was ignoring that.

I had watched in horror as Giulia crossed the street,removing her own coat and ready to wrap it around me, when the bell rang and we began to retrace our steps back into the building.

Now, inside Giulia's house, I adjusted to the dim light of the long front hall.The portrait of the Sacred Heart, his hands spreading his cloak to reveal his throbbing scarlet heart, still hung in its place of honor above the radiator.

The house smelled of ammonia and wax and lemon oil. I was sure Giulia had scrubbed and polished meticulously before she left, leaving the house spotless, reflecting her own sense of order.

My sandaled feet echoed in the silent house as I walked down the hall. Although what I'd come for was upstairs in Giulia' s bedroom, I went first to the kitchen.

Check the sink, the freezer, the pilot light on the stove, she had instructed. Make sure the back door is secured. Dominic Grazza, her neighbor who was supposed to be watching the house, wasn't as reliable as she would like.

But all was as it should be. I drew myself a glass of water and sat in the red vinyl chair at the small table tucked into the alcove formed by the chimney wall.The table was only large enough for two. Through an archway was the larger table where supper was served, but at noon, when it had only been my grandmother and me, it was at this small table that we'd eaten together.I attended the morning session of kindergarten and came to her house every school day for lunch and to spend the afternoon. She always had ready a warm bowl of her homemade chicken soup or pasta e fagioli.

After lunch,when the dishes were dried and put away,I had remained at the table, my back against the warm wall, and watched and listened as women from the neighborhood came for my grandmother's magic.

We called it the "eyes"--her spells to ward off headaches and stomach cramps; to bring on a late period; to counteract whatever curse had been set upon the suffering soul knocking at my grandmother's back door.

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Dancing on Sunday Afternoons 3 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 2 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
harstan More than 1 year ago
Guilia D¿Orazio thinks back over her life especially her two husbands. The presence of her second spouse Salvatore who died over three decades ago is everywhere in her home and her garden, her first husband Paolo left nothing not even a photo. Whereas Salvatore even when he was dying took simple pleasure with his offspring and his first granddaughter Cara Serrafini, Paolo had no children. Though she loved the warm comforting Salvatore, Guilia thinks of Paolo while lying in her bed that she shared with her second husband. P When the family matriarch breaks her hip, her married granddaughter Cara, a Manhattan based caterer, who speaks fluent Italian, comes from America to Italy to help her paternal nana heal though that means leaving her husband and kids behind in Jersey. In Avellino, Italy Guilia shares with Cara the only legacy that Paolo left her, a cigar box filled with letters of love and troubles that remind the younger member of her own life for Nana remembers how her beloved Paolo took her DANCING ON SUNDAY AFTERNOONS in New York that for the enchanting moment washed away their woes. P This is a warm family drama whose prime characters (Nana and her granddaughter) and the support cast as seen through the eyes of the lead females make for a delightful poignant tale. The story line focuses on the letters, which gives it a sense of historical perspective, but also remains anchored in the present as Cara cares for her beloved nana while paralleling her relationship to that of her grandmother. Readers will enjoy Linda Cardillo¿s fine novel of how love can come in so many different ways. P Harriet Klausner