Grandma's Secret

Sometimes it’s the people you love who shock you the most. If anyone had told me the truth before that hazy summer day, I would’ve sworn they were wrong. How could this even be? Certainly not her, right?

As is the case with most deep, dark family secrets, ours was buried deep in the oral history passed down from generation to generation. I’m proud of my heritage. I’m a third-generation Italian.

My great-grandparents sailed across the Atlantic while Nona was pregnant with my grandmother. Mary Lista was born in New York City just ten days after they left Ellis Island to settle in Brooklyn with the family that sponsored them.

My grandmother grew up as the daughter of a very successful immigrant. My great grandfather, Angelo, had a keen sense of business and an entrepreneurial talent. He purchased one-hundred acres of what was considered swampland in central New Jersey.

I’m sure that the gentleman who sold it to him thought he got one over on the Italian who was ‘fresh off the boat,’ but that wasn’t the case. Angelo knew that the land could easily be used to raise feeder pigs and sell them for profit.

But the pig business wasn’t his only venture. With his massive piece of land, he sent word back to the old country. After he divided his property into forty, two and a half-acre plots, he wanted to sell thirty-nine of them. He invited his cousins and neighbors to come to join him in America. Angelo Lista offered everyone a deal. Anyone who came could buy their own real estate.

He sold each parcel for the same price he’d initially paid for the entire property. Naturally, being the business-minded guy he was, he offered to carry the notes for each lot at a nominal rate of interest. Within five years of their arrival in America, the Listas were surrounded by relatives and friends, and my great grandfather was very wealthy.

My grandmother was the oldest of the four daughters Angelo and Rose, would bring into this world. As the daughter of the Listas, she enjoyed extra benefits. The rest of her peers gave her respect. The respect wasn’t as much for her, as it was for her father. After all, her father made it possible for most of them to come to America. But, still, she was never bullied, slighted, or made fun of. Her childhood was a dream.

And so, Mary Lista and her sisters, Frances (Fannie) Constance (BeaBea,) and Lena, were treated like princesses. The only thing missing was little tiaras on their heads.

Angelo watched over his daughters’ beauty and took the actions he felt necessary to ensure their happiness. Right after the fifteenth birthday of Mary, he contacted a paraninfa in Italy. He told the woman he wanted a man of pure Italian heritage for his first-born daughter.

With the usual fanfare, my grandmother celebrated her sixteenth birthday with a huge party. Everyone even remotely connected to the family was in attendance. Mary and her sisters met all of the people who felt they owed their lives to their father that day.

One particular party guest caught the birthday girl’s eye, as well as her sisters'. He was tall, swarthy, and came from one of the families her father sponsored to bring to the United States. The town of Metuchen sat squarely in the heart of the ‘swamp’ bought by my great grandfather, and so, he was the unofficial mayor of the area.

Pasquale Casentino farmed with his father. In addition to pigs, they discovered the fertile soil under the pig pens was perfect for growing tomatoes. Their ability to see past the pigs allowed them to be the first to branch out into other areas. And so, Pasquale was also wealthy and considered a good catch.

Mary and two of her sisters watched the young man as he socialized and moved about the party. It was 1921, and it wasn’t out of the question for women to be a bit more forward than their mothers.

My grandmother positioned herself at the banquet table so that when Pasquale came to refill his plate, he had to run into her. As she waited for him, she pinched her cheeks and scraped her teeth across her full lips. It was the only way she knew to accentuate her looks.

There wasn’t any need to worry. She didn’t need any enhancements. Her large and deep brown eyes were surrounded by thick, long lashes. Her olive complexion still held last summer’s tan, and her long, dark hair was positioned in an up-do for the party.

Naturally, Pasquale couldn’t help but notice the lovely girl standing right near the food.

“Hello. May I tell you that you look lovely and wish you a Happy Birthday?” Pasquale spoke excellent English, as well as Italian. He knew Mary was younger than him, so he addressed her in English.

“I’m sorry. My English not so good. Parli Italiano?”

“Probably not as well as you do. How about I talk in both? That way, you can practice your English.”

He smiled so sweetly that Mary thought she could do anything for him. “Si, um, I mean, yes.”

One of the songs Mary chose for the band began. She lowered her head and only raised her eyes to Pasquale’s face.

He took the hint. “Would you like to dance, birthday girl?”

One dance led to another, and the two were on the dance floor for most of the evening.

~&&&&~

BeaBea told Fannie in Italian, “You know he only picked her because it’s her birthday. He was looking at me first.”

“Putana! He was looking at me,” Fannie spit back at her sister.

The two younger girls could only watch their big sister enjoy the boy they all wanted. BeaBea looked forward to her sixteenth birthday, which was only thirteen months away.

~&&&&~

Mary was having the time of her life. She knew there was one more thing that would make the evening complete.

While the young couple danced to Irving Berlin’s ‘Remember,’ Pasquale whispered, “This band does a nice job, don’t they?”

Not sure of what he said, Mary replied, “Scuse?”

Pasquale laughed and pulled Mary closer. She didn’t pull away, and the two relaxed in one another’s arms. But Mary knew her father would eventually stop visiting and look their way at some point.

When the song ended, Mary grabbed Pasquale’s hand and pulled him out onto the veranda. Their dancing and I-english conversation continued.

~&&&&~

Both BeaBea and Fannie watched their sister pull the young man outside. Each had her own idea about what might or might not be happening away from their mother and aunts’ watchful eyes.

~&&&&~

Angelo was waiting for the right moment to bring out his birthday present for his lovely daughter. When the colossal cake came out from the kitchen, he began to look for Mary.

Spying her sisters, Angelo called, “BeaBea, Fannie. Have you seen Mary?”

“Yes, Papa. She is outside on the veranda,” said Fannie.

Angelo went outside, and it was almost fifteen minutes before he and Mary returned to the banquet hall. It looked as though Mary had been crying, and Angelo’s face was brick red.

But nothing would keep him from presenting his birthday gift to Mary.

Frances Mangione, the man, sent by the paranafina, met Mary Lista that night, and within two weeks, they were married.

~&&&&~

Family history rarely told any stories about Pasquale. His presence in the narrative appeared as just a footnote. He died from scarlet fever in 1922. By that time, my grandparents were raising the first two of their four children. Little Rose and Little Angelo were born before my grandmother turned twenty.

~&&&&~

The funeral for my grandmother was very traditional. Her body was viewed in the funeral home the night before her burial. The room was full of many people, and it seemed I was related in one way or another to everyone in attendance.

A parish priest joined us toward the end of the evening. He led us in reciting the rosary, and we all prayed for Grandma’s eternal soul. Afterward, he asked if anyone wanted to say a few words.

For several moments everyone looked at everyone else. Finally, Aunt BeaBea stood and walked to the front of the room. I mentally did the math. If Grandma would have been ninety in a few weeks, then BeaBea was close to eighty-eight.

Her voice was surprisingly strong as she spoke. “Mary was more than beautiful in the face and figure. Her inner beauty was the thing everyone who knew her loved her. She loved with everything in her. There was only one person in her life who she didn’t love so deeply.

“When my father insisted Mary marry Frances Mangione, she was heartbroken. You see, she’d already given her heart away. My sister was in love with a man named Pasquale Casentino.”

The room grew quiet. Everyone held a collective breath. The silence ended when my Aunt BeaBea spoke again. “You see, on her sixteenth birthday, Mary gave Pasquale the only thing a young woman has of value. She gave him her virginity as a token of love. He accepted fervently, but my father’s arrangements pushed Pasquale out of the picture.”

BeaBea searched the crowd for the face of my mother. “Rose, you need to know this. Despite your parents being married for almost nine months when you were born, Frances Mangione was not your father. Until tonight, the only people who knew were your mother, me, and my other late sister, Fannie.”

It took me a few minutes to realize that this didn’t only affect my mother. I was also related to a man who no one knew or talked about. This Pasquale’s blood flowed in my veins. That meant the cousins in Italy weren’t really related to me, along with quite a few other people.

Shock and disappointment filled my soul. Or, at least they did until I faced a wonderful reality.

My grandmother made the decision for herself. She gave her maidenhead to the boy of her dreams. It made so much more sense now why her attitude towards my mother, and even me, was different than all the others.

My mother was her lovechild. My grandmother had proof that she celebrated life on her sixteenth birthday. And as I allowed my thought to follow that path, I was happy for her.