Liz Bosco

ON THE CUSP

Dad and I stood by the telephone table that muggy July night in 1965. His address book lay open under the lamp. I found the number of his brother Sam, dialed the phone, and handed the receiver to my father. He cleared his throat.

“Sam, this is Louie. The doctors don’t expect Pa to make it through the night.”

We called Dad’s out-of-state siblings. Sam was in Florida, Joe and Pauline in Connecticut, Jimmy in California. Then we called Dad’s aunts and uncles. They would make their way to Massachusetts to pay their respects.

My heart broke for my father. I was sad about losing Nano. But even at age twelve, I felt more relief than grief as my grandfather drew his last breaths. I’d never known him as a healthy man, but his love and wit shone through a gap-toothed grin and wheezy laugh.

Nana had moved into our house when Nano’s illness worsened. She was 67, selling her home, moving in with kids, and losing her husband of fifty years. I knew her as a feisty woman, but current events were taking a toll.

My mother guided me to the bedroom I now shared with Nana. She whispered that I should pack a bag for the next morning and move to my sister Joanie’s house until after the services. I stiffened at that. “I’m twelve! Why can’t I go to Nano’s funeral?” Mama explained that she didn’t want me to see my grandfather dead in a casket. When I insisted, she gave a rambling talk about how Sicilians, especially women, carry on at funerals. They were known to weep and wail and clutch the body of the deceased. Mama guaranteed that Nana and Zia Vincenza, both from the Old Country, would express their grief in that manner.

I nodded, got into my pajamas, hauled out my overnight bag, and packed for a few nights at my sister’s. Nana shuffled in for her nightgown, refusing to settle into her twin bed across the room.

“Are you okay, Nana? Do you need a tissue?” She was sniffling, and muttering prayers in Italian. Nana refused to lie down, and kept vigil in the living room. I dropped off to sleep.

It was still dark the next morning when I woke from a troubled dream. There was a siren or alarm wailing in the background, and I struggled to make sense of it. 

Mama tiptoed into my room. “Nano passed away,” she explained. 

I felt frightened. “What’s that sound?” 

My mother sighed and held my hand. “Nana’s feeling very upset about Nano.” I was shaken. I had never heard a sound like that from a human being. “Go to the living room and give Nana a kiss. Tell her you’re sorry about Nano.” I felt more dread than compassion, but couldn’t ignore my grandmother’s suffering. I went to Nana and kissed her wet face. 

“Oh, Tore, why did you leave me?” she moaned. Shaking with my own sobs, I quickly dressed for my sojourn at Joanie’s.

My sister’s suburban house was my other home. Joan and Jim had two babies, with their third on the way. Our newlywed cousin Mary Lou joined us from Rhode Island. She admitted a dread of attending Nano’s wake, so Joanie asked her to stay with me and the kids during calling hours. We ate snacks and told stories until Joanie and Jim returned.

“Jesus,” sighed Joanie. “I’ve never seen Cataudella Funeral Home that packed.” We could barely breathe with all the flowers and perfume. They did a good job masking the smell of embalming fluid.” 

Mary Lou tried not to retch. My sister kicked off her heels, and Jim reached in the fridge for a beer.

“That’s awful.” Mary Lou wiped tears from her eyes. “How did Nano look?” 

Jim joined us in the living room, popping the tab of his beer can. “Like an old man laid out in a casket. He looked dead.” Mary Lou was weeping quietly. Joanie rolled her eyes. I hung on every word.

“Nano was wearing a nice suit,” Joanie assured us. “Dad made sure we’ll bury him in style.”

“And how was Nana?”

“She and Zia carried on by the casket until Mr. Cataudella made them take a seat up front. They calmed down when the priest came in to lead the rosary. They were so worn out; they fell asleep during the third decade.”

I erupted in a fit of giggling. That surprised Mary Lou, but Joan and Jim looked amused.

“I had to drag your father upstairs from the smoking lounge when the priest came in,” Jim said. 

“I think Louie was dodging him.” 

Knowing my father’s distaste for religion, we all nodded. I trudged upstairs and settled in bed next to my niece Julie. Mary Lou took the twin bed across the room. We fell asleep to the rhythmic grinding of Julie’s baby teeth.

As instructed, I remained at Joanie’s the morning of Nano’s funeral mass and interment. One of the neighbors stayed with me and the kids. I was secretly relieved for her company, especially during diaper changing time. Jim returned to pick me up for the post-funeral reception at my parents’ house.

Out-of-state cars were parked up and down Oakside Avenue. Dad’s relatives were ready to unwind. I heard the clinking of ice cubes and adult voices from the street. It was a typical family gathering with everyone talking at once. I opened the front door and darted to my room. My mother followed and hugged me close.

“Everyone’s looking forward to seeing you.” She reached into my closet. “Get out of your shorts and put this on.”

“What? No! I can’t wear that today.”

“I thought you liked this dress.”

“But it’s my Confirmation dress. It’s all white. Everyone is dressed in black.”

“Oh honey, they don’t want to see a young girl like you wearing black. Try it on.”

Grumbling, I shed my shorts and tee shirt. I stepped into the dress. It did look good on me. “Do I have to wear shoes?”

“Just while you go around and say hello to everyone. Now go see Nana and all your aunts and uncles. Then have something to eat.”

I made the circuit of our living room, stooping to accept hugs, kisses, and face pinches from seated relatives. 

Che bella! Zia Vincenza shouted in my ear. She kissed me repeatedly. 

“Thanks, Auntie.” I held her plump hands in mine. 

“You look-a just like Elena!” she declared. 

“Last year you said I look like my dad,” I reminded her. “Now I look like my mother?” 

Zia laughed. Nano’s sister had the distinctive space between her front teeth like others in our family. 

My grandmother was perched on a straight chair, ankles primly crossed, balancing a cup and saucer on her lap. She looked composed, regal, even in mourning clothes.  

“Hi Nana, I missed you. How are you?” I kissed her papery cheek and stared into her sad blue eyes.

“I’m gonna be okay. I missed you too. You eat good at Joanie’s house?” 

“I always do. Would you like some biscotti? Cannoli?”

“No, Liza. My corset’s too tight. You eat cannoli for me.” 

I obliged, sitting by her tiny feet. Even her stockings were black. I wondered if she was wearing a black corset. I figured I’d find out at bedtime. 

Unlike most Bosco family gatherings with men gravitating to one room and women to another, couples relaxed together. They shared tales about Nano, Nana, and family friends. Descriptions became more colorful as the alcohol flowed. Uncle Frank was telling generic funeral stories. 

My head swiveled when I heard: “I’ll piss on your grave!” He cackled at my open-mouthed stare. 

Aunt Virginia lit into her husband. “Frank, shut your mouth! You’re drunk! We just buried my father, for God’s sake.” 

I glanced at Nana. Her rosary beads were a blur.

My great-uncles Salvatore and Sebastiano cleared their throats in unison. They glanced at the clock and apologized that it was time to leave for Connecticut. I was beginning to feel queasy. Maybe the pastry wasn’t setting well. I slipped into the bathroom. Conversation carried through the door and I hoped any sound effects I made wouldn’t travel into the living room. I settled on the commode and glanced down. What? Oh, great. Why now? 

Of course, I knew about menstruation. My mother had placed pamphlets where I’d be sure to read them. Besides, no sister of Joan Bosco Gillett could be ignorant of such matters. Big Sis shared lots of personal stuff. I opened the door a crack and hissed for my mother. Her maternal radar caught the desperation in my voice and she pressed her ear to the door jamb. I told my tale of woe and she promised to be right back.

Women in our house did not keep feminine hygiene products in the bathroom where, God forbid, a man might see them. Mama slipped into the bathroom and outfitted me with the cumbersome gear. When I mentioned cramps, she shook two aspirin out of a bottle. She seemed pleased about my situation. I was annoyed. The timing, the inconvenience, and imagining forty years of periods ticked me off. Bad enough I had to wear a bra and tweeze my Mediterranean eyebrows. I should have seen this coming.

With the after-party breaking up, I changed back into my shorts and tee. I stared in the mirror. Nothing external had changed. I shrugged and returned to our departing guests. My aunts gave knowing smiles as they hugged me goodbye. I was embarrassed, but privacy was a fantasy in our family. 

Hours later, dishes washed, leftovers stowed in the fridge, Nana and I settled into our twin beds. I switched off my bedside lamp.

“So,” she began, “your madre tell me you’re a woman now.” 

I snorted. What did that mean, exactly? Since when are twelve-year-olds women? Will I get invited to wakes and funerals now? That idea had lost its appeal.

“How old were you when you became a woman, Nana?”

“I was-a thirteen. My stepfather make me quit school and work in the mill.” She let slip some choice words in Italian.

“How did you get hired that young?”

“My stepfather buy the birth certificate of a dead girl. I had to pretend my name was Caterina. One day the boss find out and send me home. I got a licking for that.”

Now I swore, silently, in Italian. No wonder Nana had a tough side. 

On the cusp of adolescence, my life was a breeze compared with hers.

“Nana?”

“Si.”

“How did you meet Nano?”

“Madonna Mia! You gonna talk all night? Go to sleep. I tell you tomorrow.”

Bio:

Liz Bosco was born to a working-class tribe of storytellers in Lawrence, Massachusetts. Liz’s dad, a musician and memoir writer, appointed her family historian. She wrote The Louie Chronicles, a biographical skit, in observance of his 90th birthday. In Connecticut, Liz was a longtime member of Writing for Your Life, led by poet Joan Seliger Sidney. Now in Florida, Liz is active in Naples Writers Forum. She writes creative nonfiction.