STAINED GLASS ROSE
By D. A. Brockett
Prologue
Smoke tinged the night air as the 1936 Packard hummed over the bridge.
Underneath, the Colorado River drifted leisurely, winding westward toward Utah.
A light breeze blew through the open windows of the car, but barely cooled the
interior.
Nick
Archieri couldn’t remember a hotter summer. San Jose was bad enough, but the
western slope of Colorado was stifling, as distant wildfires sprinkled soot on
the picturesque valley that cradled Grand Junction, Fruita, Clifton and
Palisade. The air was so dry, Nick could almost hear his eyelids blink. He hoped
their visit would be short.
The glint of his wedding band caught his eye, and he felt his throat
constrict with a sudden surge of agony. The first anniversary of Katharine’s
death was approaching, and Nick wasn’t sure he’d make it. He dragged his
eyes toward his grandmother’s comforting profile. At the moment, Nonna was the
only thing keeping him from following his wife.
He
reached into his pocket and fingered the bottle of pills he’d carried with him
since the funeral. A week ago, he’d poured them out on the kitchen counter and
had just set a large glass of water next to them, when the doorbell rang.
Nonna
had stood on the porch, regally leaning against her walker. With his
grandmother, one never had to guess what she was thinking. Her eyes sparkled in
humor, snapped in anger, squinted in distrust, or softened in affection. That
day, they were commanding, and no one ignored Rose Marie Archieri when she
looked like that.
His
grandmother had stated that a “long overdue obligation” needed to be taken
care of, and he was to drive her to Colorado. Immediately.
His
miserable life had been saved—for the moment. Nick glanced at his grandmother
again and felt his agony dissolve into affection.
A
red pillbox hat sat squarely above short salt and pepper hair, and a matching
cashmere sweater enshrouded her frail shoulders. Nonna was fastidious about her
clothing and always dressed well. Even when visiting cemeteries in the dead of
night, Nick thought with a grimace.
In
the moonlight, Nonna’s dark, intelligent eyes eagerly absorbed the ghostly
scenery. Nick could tell his grandmother was enjoying her late-night adventure.
“Turn
here, Nicky, and follow that road past the first gate.”
Nick
drove by an arched iron entrance, inserted in a long, low stone wall. The
engine’s drone waxed and waned as they passed several more arches.
“I
think it’s at the crest of this hill,” Rose said, her tapered hands
fluttering above her lap. Her voice, though thin with age, still sounded
melodious and rich. Any remnants of an Italian accent had been lost in her
youth.
“Are you sure we should be doing this, Nonna?”
“There, by that elm. My goodness, it was a sapling the last time I saw
it!” Before the car came to a full stop, she pulled at the door handle.
“Let me help, Nonna,” Nick said. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
“Uffa! I’m not as weak as you think.”
His
grandmother leaned against the Packard’s shiny black fender, while he reached
in and retrieved her walker and a folded lawn chair from the back seat.
Shortly
after Katharine’s death, Nonna had insisted her vintage car needed
restoration. Rusting in her garage for as long as he could remember, Nick had
doubted the Packard was serviceable, but one didn’t question Nonna, at least
not to her face. Besides, a diversion had been welcome. He’d towed it to his garage
and was surprised when the engine started right up. The old car displayed a
tenacious spirit. Perhaps some of his grandmother had rubbed off on the mohair
seats, he’d thought. This trip to Colorado was the renovated car’s maiden
voyage.
Nick
walked beside his grandmother, as she made her way to the tree. He unfolded the
chair, kicking a small rock away to level it. The full moon glistened on the
nearby gravestones, while the elm’s branches provided a carpet of mottled
shade at Nonna’s feet.
“Ah,
Nicky, I thought I’d never return to this place. And now,” a deep sigh
escaped, “here I am.” The chair barely creaked, as her weight settled onto
the weave. She looked around her. “I learned to drive in this place.” Rose
chuckled at her grandson’s stricken face.
“Don’t
look so shocked. It wasn’t my idea; it was Mari’s.” Her voice became a
caress. “She could make you do things you’d never dream of doing
yourself.”
Huh,
like someone else I know. Nick cringed as he peered into the darkness. How would
they explain this to the police if they were seen?
“Stop
hovering, young man, and go get it.” As Nick opened the trunk, she called,
“Bring a flashlight, too. You’ll need to find the grave. My eyes are
weak.”
“Nonna,
shouldn’t we at least whisper?”
Nick
lifted a heavy bundle, wrapped in burlap, from the trunk and carefully laid it
on the grass near his grandmother’s feet. He made a second trip to the car for
a shovel and small duffel bag.
“The
summer I left hadn’t been as hot as this one, Nicky, but a warm spring had
provided the best crop of Palisade peaches in years. Their heady scent filled
the valley from Palisade to the red cliffs in the west. Jobs were still scarce,
but the bumper crop seemed a sign the lean times were almost over.” She
smacked her lips. “I can almost taste their sweetness in my mouth.”
Ignoring
the rumble of his stomach, Nick zipped up his coveralls and pulled on leather
gloves. He was ready to get this deed over with.
“I
think it’s near there, Nicky.”
He
searched the scruffy ground and within minutes he’d found the spot. The woody
sentinel towering over them amplified metal striking dirt.
“There
were so many questions that summer of 1937. Why did the Hindenburg crash? Would
they find Amelia Earhart? Would the Junction Tigers go to state again? The most
important question for me was, would Papa ever love me? You see, my father, your
great-grandfather, Nicky, had a terrible problem and, that summer, it nearly
destroyed us both…”
CHAPTER
ONE
A
truck, careening around the corner, narrowly missed Rose, as she scooted onto
the curb. Black lettering on the door stated, ‘Joe’s Auto Repair.’ Rose
resisted the urge to thumb her nose at the retreating vehicle. Traffic these
days, she groused. Grand Junction is getting too big for its bridges.
Rose
giggled at her pun, and felt a spring return to her step as she walked toward
St. Joseph Catholic Church. The farther she got from her house, the happier she
felt.
She
carefully detoured around the two-block area nicknamed Shantytown, where
prostitutes lived and conducted business.
Like
any semblance of sin, good Italian girls avoided this area. A young lady’s
determination to remain pure in thought, word and deed, however, wasn’t helped
when such spectacular sin resided just around the corner from Little Italy.
Was
it only Rose who struggled with temptation? She tried to be a good girl—she
really did. Even if Papa had a differing opinion. Despite what her father
thought, most of the time she felt she succeeded in her mission. Of course,
there were times when she failed miserably. One incident stood out in her mind,
and only she, Father Nick, and the good Lord above knew about it.
One
summer night, Rose had been overcome with curiosity about Shantytown. Peeking
around the corner of the New World Restaurant, she’d seen bawdy women leaning
against doorjambs. They’d waved at the schoolboys cruising by, and the boys
had waved back, honking enthusiastically. Some of them had even stood up in
their rumble seats, trying to catch forbidden sights in the lighted windows.
Goons,
she’d sniffed, but couldn’t help grinning at their antics. Then, she’d
seen her own father slink from a doorway and head toward the tracks.
There
were reasons good Italian girls minded the rules. Running home, Rose had prayed
she wouldn’t die before confession that week. To cover her bases, she’d
imposed on herself five Hail Marys and threw in two Our Fathers for
good measure.
Since
then, she strictly avoided Shantytown.
Striding
down Main Street, Rose passed businesses boasting Italian names: Raso, Fuoco,
Grasso. She was proud of her heritage, and how the immigrants had made a place
for themselves in Beloved America.
A
flash of color at Rush-Sanford Clothiers caught her attention, and the girl
stopped to gaze in the window. A yellow dress with white polka dots was
displayed attractively, while next to it hung the red version. Both were priced
at three dollars.
She
focused on her reflection in the glass, picturing each dress in place of her
Salvation Army frock. She pulled her bodice so the bruise at the base of her
neck was hidden. Flipping her thick braid over one shoulder, she wished for the
millionth time that Papa would let her bob her hair, like her school friends.
Papa insisted good Italian girls kept their hair long, and she never dared to
question Papa. At least not to his face.
Rose
had darker looks than most of her classmates. She didn’t mind. She was proud
of her large expressive eyes, tiny waist, and graceful hands. Why, she’d even
caught Ivan, the right tackle on Junction’s football team, admiring her ankles
in the school halls.
Rose
felt the weight of coins sewn into the hem of her sleeve. Perhaps, Ivan would
find her ankles even more attractive below a new dress.
She
sighed. What’s the use of dreaming? She knew she couldn’t spend one
penny. Tomorrow was Papa’s birthday, and she may need all her secret money for
his present.
Her
ancestors hadn’t celebrated birthdays in the old country, but she loved the
great American tradition. Unfortunately, Papa followed the old ways, and
Rose’s seventeen birthdays had passed without a hint of acknowledgment.
She
heard delicate laughter behind her and saw a small group of well-dressed young
ladies, arms laden with packages, reflected in the window. They were smiling at
her and whispering. Turning around, Rose thought they were the prettiest women
she’d ever seen. One, whose auburn hair framed her face in soft curls, reached
out and caressed Rose’s cheek with a manicured finger.
“The
red would go better with your complexion, little one.” Her voice sounded like
warm honey on hot rolls.
“You
shouldn’t, Darla.” One of the ladies held out an admonishing hand.
A
horn tooted nearby. Rose saw her friend, Marj, driving past in her beat-up old
Chevy, Agony. With its numerous dents and chipped paint, Rose had always thought
the moniker perfect. Despite the flivver’s dubious looks, it was reliable, and
that’s what counted these days. Rose waved and when she looked back, the group
of ladies was crossing the street. Darla winked over her shoulder.
In
a million years, I’ll never look that glamorous. Rose watched them stroll
for a minute more, then turned toward St. Joe’s.
After
spending the morning polishing pews, Rose walked to the park to eat her dinner.
She lowered herself into the shade of an elm tree. Coming from the direction of
the soup kitchen, a delicious aroma of fresh bread and homemade vegetable soup
enveloped her.
The
Catholic sisters daily served numerous hobos and unemployed men in the valley,
no questions asked. Rose had stopped by one time, but quickly decided it would
be her last visit. The food was delicious, but the stench of poverty was
overwhelming. She did not know how the sisters endured. It surely earned them
some points in Heaven.
Tucking
her feet under her dress, she unfolded her handkerchief and spread it flat on
the grass. An apricot, a thick slab of bread and thin slices of salami were
withdrawn from the pockets of her skirt, unwrapped and placed neatly in the
middle of the starched white square. Nearby, several laughing children chased
each other around their mother, who was laying out a picnic lunch.
Rose
felt a pang of envy. She’d never known her mother.
She
bowed her head, crossed herself and murmured a blessing. Bless us O Lord, and
these thy gifts, which we are about to receive… When she lifted her head,
Rose was startled to realize she was no longer alone.
The
young man's blue eyes were friendly above a shy smile, and pale freckles spanned
the bridge of his slightly crooked, swollen nose. In spite of the swelling, Rose
noticed he was on the handsome side. She guessed he was a little younger than
she, around fifteen or sixteen. As he ran a tentative hand through wavy, dark
hair, her glance took in his soiled coveralls and threadbare work shirt.
His
glance fell to her meal.
She
pointed toward the church. “The soup kitchen’s that way.”
Freckles
blurred, as the young man nodded vigorously, but instead of heading off in the
direction of the church, he sat down next to her. His movements were akin to a
pocketknife folding into itself—precise and graceful.
Placing
his worn hat between them, he said, “Name’s Satter Simpson. What’s
yours?”
Good
Italian girls didn’t engage in conversation with strangers, especially if the
stranger was a rude young man. Rose looked at the nearby family and wondered if
she should join them. No, she really didn’t want to impose. Sighing, she
looked back at her unexpected visitor. He seemed safe enough. Besides, there was
bound to be a story behind that nose…
“My
name is Rose. Like the flower.” She held out her hand, which was engulfed in a
large, calloused grip.
His
reply sounded something like, “Mawty nawsta meecha.”
It
took a moment for Rose to decipher what she’d heard. Mighty nice to meet
you. She nodded, knowingly. Not a local but, she mentally shrugged, who was
these days?
Satter’s
eyes fell downward again, so she tore her bread in half, topped it with three
slices of salami, and offered it to her new acquaintance.
She
smiled, as he chewed animatedly, his enjoyment obvious. She ate too, and when
Satter eyed the apricot, she held it out to him.
“You
were hungry! Did you just pull into town?”
Another
blur of freckles. “Left the railroad couple of days ago. Was gandy-dancing.
Eastern Utah.”
Between
sentences, Satter licked the fruit’s juice that ran down his hand. Rose handed
him her handkerchief. He sopped at his hands and mouth before returning it. It
had soaked up more dirt than juice.
“What’s
candy dancing?”
He
grinned broadly. “Gandy-dancing. After Gandy Manufacturing Company of
Chicago. They used to make railroad tools, but they went belly-up.”
“You
dance with tools?”
Satter
chuckled. “Dames!”
Rose’s
cheeks, and temper, began to flare. She jumped up. “Well, if you’re not
going to explain-”
“Hey,
don’t get sore.” He patted the ground. “Didn’t mean to offend you.”
Rose
sniffed, but settled herself on the grass again, giving him a warning look.
Satter
grinned back. “Why, even spittin’ mad, you’re cute.” He lifted his hand
to calm her renewed indignation. “Now, hold your fire, young lady. Let’s get
back to the matter at hand.” He cleared his throat.
“Gandy-dancers
help lay railroad tracks,” he said, as if reciting a passage he’d memorized
from a manual. “They follow the jack crews, tamping gravel or slag into the
raised space under each tie. It’s called ‘dancing’ ‘cause the long line
of workers all move together, like they’s doing a crazy dance.” Satter
crooked an arm, and a large muscle pressed against his shirtsleeve. “You can
see, that kind of work ain’t for Milquetoasts.”
Rose
stared at the bulge, and felt her heart skip. Get a hold of yourself, for
goodness sake! She dragged her eyes upward. “My papa works for the
railroad.”
“Yeah?
Doing what?”
“He
works in the roundhouse. Like most everyone in my neighborhood.”
“A
steady job. That’s good. Me, I’ve had it with the railroad. Damn hard work,
er, ‘scuse me, dern hard work dancing ten hours a day, nearly every
dad-blasted day of the week.” He reached up and pulled on a low tree branch.
“No shade, neither, for miles and miles.”
He
looked at Rose, pointedly. “Seems I got three good reasons to stick
around town a bit longer.” The branch snapped upward.
Rose
felt a flutter in her belly and began folding her handkerchief to cover her
confusion. “Three?”
“Hmm?”
“You
said you had three reasons.”
“Oh.
Yeah, my sister lives here, too. She’d like me to stick around for a while.
Says she misses me. Heard J.C. Penney’s was hiring, so maybe I’ll apply for
the position there.”
Silently,
Rose hoped he got the job, but these days, married men usually got first crack
at any available openings.
“You
live near here?” Satter gazed around the park.
“No,
mornings I work at St. Joseph Catholic Church.” She looked affectionately in
the direction of the church. “Everyone calls it ‘St. Joe’s’ for
convenience’s sake.” Leaning against the tree trunk, she pointed toward the
south end of town. “I live that way, down by the railroad. Little Italy.”
“You
don’t sound Eye-talian.”
Rose
replied, “My parents were immigrants from Italy, but,” she raised her chin
in pride, “I was born here in America. Where are you from?”
“Oklahoma.
Folks moved here a few years back, and now Pa’s a sharecropper out Fruitvale
way. Everyone’s crammed in a three room boxcar on the property.” The boy
chuckled. “You can’t miss the place. Leaning against the outdoor privy is a
scarecrow that’s looks like Eleanor Roosevelt dressed in britches. Pa don’t
care for opinionated womenfolk, you see.”
“Ah.
He sounds like my father.” Papa’s stern face flashed in Rose’s
mind, but she brushed the image away quickly. “You said ‘crammed’. How
many people live there?”
“My
folks and five of the kids.
Oh, yeah, and my nephew lives there, too.”
“My
goodness, they must feel like sardines!”
Satter’s
brows came together. “Room enough for everyone but yours truly, it seems, even
though it was me who helped Pa tend the fields that first year. After harvest,
he kicked me out on my own.”
“Why
don’t you still work with him?”
He
winced as he touched the tip of his nose. “Matter of fact, yesterday I
approached him ‘bout that very idea, but he didn’t take kindly to my
inquiry.” His jaw became hard. “See, Pa thinks I’m worthless. But, I’m
gonna show him! One day he’ll see what I’m made of!”
Rose
placed a calming hand on his and said, “I’m sure you’ll make him proud.”
She decided to change the subject. “Satter, if you don’t live with your
parents, where do you live?”
The
young man’s voice still held an edge when he answered. “Don’t got a real
home. My sister lives in town, and I sometimes stay with her, but most times, my
home is wherever I lay my head.”
Rose
thought of the little house she shared with Papa. No matter how hard she tried,
she could never make it feel warm and cozy and inviting, the way her neighbor,
Mrs. Baldino’s, house felt.
She
smiled sadly at Satter, “I guess four walls don’t always make a home.” She
laughed, shaking her melancholy away. “Well, I hope you stick around town for
a while.” She glanced shyly at the boy. “Will you?”
“Don’t
know yet, Rose. If I had my druthers, I’d be hopping the rails to find my pot
of gold. But like I said, I have some reasons to stay. At least for the time
being.”
To
hide her pleasure, Rose looked away. The nearby family had gathered their
things, and was headed toward a parked sedan. This reminded her she still had a
birthday present to buy. She brushed crumbs off her apron and stood up.
“Well,
I best be getting home. It was nice meeting you, Satter. I hope you get the job
at Penney’s.” She’d reluctantly turned to leave, when Satter stopped her.
“Will
I see you again?”
“I
don’t, um, get out much.”
“I’ll
be down at the café on Main this Saturday night. Come if you can.”
“We’ll
see. Bye, now.” Rose hurried away.
When
she finally crawled into bed that night, Rose allowed herself to daydream about
Satter. There was something about him she liked; but, she warned herself, good
Italian girls didn’t fall for drifters. Or shouldn’t.