then was only able to sleep fitfully for a couple of hours. She had mulled over each and every possible bachelor she knew of in the region, and although she acknowledged that her Babbo was right, her prospects were grim, she still came to the conclusion that she would rather stay and be with her family and friends in a poor village with no suitors, than go live among strangers in another country—even one she had heard was the land of riches.
When she woke from her fitful sleep, her eyes were red and scratchy, but she was resolute. She avoided Mama and Babbo for the morning, though, making sure neither could get her alone, and rushed to meet her two close friends at the well.
Even though she had no intention of accepting the proposal, Catarina enjoyed being the center of attention for just a little while. After all, there was hardly any excitement in the village, so why not give her friends something interesting to talk about for once?
The well pump and trough were attached to a stone wall at the village center and for the last three years it had been Catarina’s chore to get up and out early each morning, rain or shine, to go fetch the water. She brought the family’s hand cart and two large, empty ceramic urns, which she would fill and haul back to her house.
“I would never go,” Anna insisted after hearing the proposition. “They couldn’t drag me away!” She helped Catarina hoist the first of her heavy, now-full urns onto the cart.
“What if your babbo ordered you?” asked Maria Nina, who leaned against the wall awaiting her turn. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” She shook her head at Anna. “You’re a fool, Anna, so why try to reason with you?”
Anna frowned while they watched Catarina pump water into her second water jug. Anna was mild mannered and quiet. She had fine, golden-blond hair that was unusual for a southern Italian girl. It contrasted beautifully with her warm olive complexion and light-brown eyes. Her demure personality, however, was at odds with her dramatic coloring: the thought of changing her life had never entered her mind.
“Catarina, you must go,” Maria Nina implored. Her personality was the opposite of Anna’s. Of the three friends, Maria Nina was the most outgoing, the quickest to find mischief to get into, and the boldest about flirting with the boys in the village. Like Catarina, she had dark, wavy hair and a slim figure, but her eyes were a warm chocolate brown and she had an elegant, Roman nose. Both Maria Nina and Anna were taller than Catarina, who somehow managed to appear strong in spite of her small stature.
“It would be a mistake to stay here,” Maria Nina continued to encourage her friend. This time it was she who helped Catarina lift and place the second jug onto the cart. She then took her own turn at the pump, and began the laborious task of filling her own family’s water urns.
“There’s nothing for us here but some old olive trees and withering grapevines,” she said as her arms moved up and down with the pump lever. “You could live an exciting life in America. You would be in a big city. I bet they have dances every night.” Her eyes looked into the distance, visualizing it.
“Now who’s the fool?” Anna laughed. “Dances every night! Ha. I’m sure Catarina would still have to work hard in San Francisco. But instead of taking care of the Carlucci household and seeing her family every day, she’d have to take care of some stranger’s house and live with people she doesn’t even know. What if they’re cruel? What if they won’t let her ever come back to visit?”
“It doesn’t matter, so stop arguing,” Catarina told them. “I’m not going. I’m staying right where I am, so I can become an old lady with you two. I’m not leaving my family. I’m not leaving my country.”
She looked around the square, beyond the houses and stores to the orchard and hillsides where the olive trees and grape vines had been planted hundreds of years before. To Catarina, they were beautiful. They dictated the seasons of life: whether it was the green leaves of spring, wet with raindrops; the heavily laden grape vines of summer; the autumn harvest and crush; or the bare, dormant plants of winter. They spoke to her and she couldn’t imagine life away from their rhythm. While in the back of her mind she did feel excitement at the thought of a big city, that alone wasn’t enough to sway her resolve.
It didn’t matter, she told herself. She would stay. She knew it would be difficult to go against Babbo, but he said he wouldn’t force her to leave and she intended to hold him to that. She would tell them right away, she decided, so she gave both of her friends kisses on their cheeks, took the handles of her cart and wheeled her water jugs across the cobblestone square and back to her front door.
On the way back home, her resolve began to melt. She pictured her sister’s face when she brought up the idea of Catarina being able to help give other family members the opportunity to move there as well. Was she being selfish? She trusted her father’s opinion. She knew he was worried about the family being caught up in the war. She wondered if she should respect his wishes about going. By the time she opened the front door and unloaded the water urns, she was thoroughly confused. She had planned to tell them that she would absolutely stay. Now she wasn’t so sure.
She decided to spend the day thinking about it and then brought it up again with her father at dinner. Instead of the calm, reasonable Babbo of the evening before, she found her father impassioned on the subject.
“Oh, mio Dio,” he practically yelled while waiving a fork twirled with spaghetti. “You will be wasting your life here if you don’t go! There are no suitable men for you to marry,” he began, and then continued with, “War is coming. Mark my words; this will be no place for a beautiful young girl when that happens.”
He huffed while Catarina and her mother waited for him to cool down. After his final onslaught of, “Even if you find someone to marry here, he will probably be killed in the fighting,” Catarina’s mother, Celestina, had put up with enough.
“For the love of the Virgin, Emiliano,” she interrupted, “enough about fighting and death. Our girl is staying. Besides,” she pretended to be objective, “there are good men here. After all, this is where I found the love of my life,” she smiled, trying to cajole him back to being reasonable, “and I’m sure Catarina will, too.”
She was equally determined. Her youngest child would stay.
Catarina knew she would disappoint her father if she stayed, which weighed heavily on her. She knew he wanted her to have more opportunity than she would if she stayed—even though he would miss her dearly. She also knew deep down that he was right. But her heart was at home with her family. She tried to convince him that she would be happy if she stayed, but as the days passed, she began to wonder if she was trying to convince him or herself.
Every time she decided to say “no” to the proposal a jolt passed over her heart. She couldn’t help but wonder if she would be missing her one chance. But when she thought about saying “yes” her heart would pound with a sense of dread, especially at leaving her mother and Mateo.
“I don’t know what to do, Mama,” Catarina said one morning, while making herself a cup of strong caffè before leaving for work at the Carlucci’s.
“We don’t know what the future will bring. We can only do what we think will be best, Catarina.” She smiled at her daughter and gave her arm a squeeze as she poured milk into Catarina’s caffè latte.
“How could I ever leave you?”
“I don’t want you to, but no matter what happens I know you’ll make a happy life, whether you stay or go, because you are a happy person. That’s one of your gifts.”
“Thank you, Mama,” she said and hugged her before leaving.
It would definitely be easier to be happy, she mused, as she reluctantly walked to her employer’s house, if only I could change this one circumstance. She sighed as she arrived, and slowly turned the knob to enter. The Carlucci’s home, which was connected to the other houses on the street, was tall and narrow, with windows facing out to the curved cobbled lane. There were boxes of flowers in the front windows and a dour black-painted front door. It painted a sharp contrast with her stone farmhouse.