“You can leave it,” I tell Armando.
He drops the bag and retreats.
I take my time drying off, then I snap the bag by the handles, stomp up the stairs, and drop it on my bed.
With a ding, he’s in my phone again.
—The dress is for church—
So he was serious last night about church. Is it even Sunday? I look out the window again, as if the clouds could tell me. I lost time in Italy—lost my footing and my bearings. My phone says it’s Sunday, so it must be.
From the bag, I pull a pair of white stockings, a matching lace bra, and a garter.
—The rest is for me—
The dress is far more demure. It’s a classic navy blue jacket dress with gold crest buttons that—unlike the underwear—is appropriate for church. It’s not as dumpy as the things in my closet though, as if Santino has a more nuanced vision of what his wife is supposed to be.
—The rest is for you? It’s not exactly your size—
Santino’s response comes quickly, and I flush at the knowledge that wherever he is, whatever he’s doing, I’ve captured his attention, if not his sense of humor.
—God owns what the world can see, and I own what the world cannot—
Getting dressed in the clothes he sent for me, I forget that I’m angry. I forget that he betrayed me with my sister before he knew me and with lies after he married me. But that’s wrong. I can’t ever forget it.
—You talk a lot about owning me. You can’t own people—
—You are Italian and my wife. You are mine. Be in church at 11:45am—
He has an answer for everything, but I call bullshit.
I can’t escape Santino, but that doesn’t mean he controls my every move. If I’m not his prisoner, then I don’t have to go where he tells me to go or wear what he tells me to wear.
This life I’ve been living is the life of my mother, my sister, my aunts, my nonnas. The women in my family have all sat idly by as the silent partner, the quiet backbone of a family often torn apart by violence committed by men like my husband. I may not ever really escape it, but I can remind myself of who I once was.
And I can hurt him. If I can’t hurt his body, I’m going to break his heart little by little. Piece by piece. I’ll chip away shards of his control until he tells me everything I want to know.
I text Scarlett.
—Happy jetlag! I don’t know about you but mine is totally worth it—
That last part is questionable, but I leave it and continue.
—I miss your face and I have so much to tell you! But Monday is bad. Are you free today?—
—I can be!—
Before I leave, I check the mirror, trying to guess whether I’ll look normal enough to pass muster with Scarlett. She’s only ever seen me dressed like a normal American college student, never so Sunday-formal or well-pressed. Well, she’s about to see a new side of me, because no matter how good I look, I’m nothing but a designer dress stuffed with secrets, and even the softest fabric can’t soothe the riot of conflict under my skin.
That’s just another reason to skip church.
Convincing Armando to drive me to The Leaky Bean, our favorite off-campus coffee shop, involves a lie about a change of mass time and another about how long I expect my coffee date with Scarlett to last.
I get caught up in the surreal moment of going across the river where the streets are full and people my age are goofing off, shopping, living the lives they imagine for themselves. In this world, if there’s a man whose job it is to drive you places, he drives you where you want to go, not where your husband demands.
The town center is everything I remember from a lifetime ago. The telephone poles flake with layers upon layers of flyers in every color.
ROOM FOR RENT
LEARN GUITAR
HOMEWORK HELP!
LSAT STUDY GROUP
Bicycle racks crammed with pastel cruisers and speeders outline the edge of the sidewalk. A row of mopeds lean on their stands, perpendicular to the curb. What catches my breath are the people walking in the sun with a cup in one hand and a phone in the other, their shoulders and legs exposed, and their voices humming in the air. It’s just as it’s always been, and just like Italy.
Armando parks and I get out, waving him away with a promise that I’ll be back soon.
There are no black cars except ours. No black suits or men sitting with their arms crossed in judgment. It’s burgers and coffee and hacky sack and skateboards.
This is freedom. This is life.
“Violetta?” Scarlett’s voice squeals behind me. I turn just in time to be mauled by my best friend, sporting a very nice, very new tan. “Why does it feel like I haven’t seen you in years?”
“Because it’s been too long.” I want to cry, I’m so happy to see her, and when we get into the coffee shop with its blackboard menu, student art, mismatched wooden tables, and constantly hissing milk steamer, I almost do.
When we order, I have to stop myself from asking for the things I’ve been drinking in Santino’s kitchen—because I don’t have to. No espresso. No cappuccino. Instead, I get a strawberry Frappuccino—which has the distinction of being the least Italian drink with the most Italian name—and Scarlett orders an iced green tea, because though she’s been trying for years, she just can’t quit caffeine. We chatter about her move from coffee to tea, Icelandic men, and her new hairstyle that’s subtly different from her last hairstyle, barely stopping as we pay for our drinks and secure a table.
“Hold the phone.” Scarlett is in the middle of describing a lost suitcase fiasco, but stops as if she hasn’t seen me this entire time. I’m convinced she’s going to comment on the dress, but instead she points at my hand. “Is that… is that what I think it is?”
My cheeks heat up and my heart races. Even though my best friend is the most self-centered person I’ve ever met, the diamond is too huge to miss. I had a story prepared, but now I can’t even remember it.
“Oh… well, you know it’s… I wasn’t sure if you’d, uh…” I’m desperately looking for something to say that sounds casual and mature, but my mouth is moving and nonsense is coming out.
“Not notice?” Scarlett’s eyes almost bug out of her head as she reads my thought. “Have you seen the rock on your finger? You could see it from Mars.”
She grabs my hand to get a closer look at it.
“I guess.” I blush, fully embarrassed, because now I have to tell the entire shocking story and I don’t want to. She’ll never understand.
“Which Greek prince stole your heart?”
I have to tell her something, but what? I have to tell a horrifying story without the horror, and I have never felt so far outside the world I aspired to be a part of. “Um, Italian actually.”
“No shit. I guess you weren’t kidding, huh?” Her face is pure awe, recalling some string of words I wasn’t kidding about.