Bellagrand

“Was what worth it?”

“The toil, the sacrifice of blood and men, time away from home, sickness, misery. Are you crowned in glory? I mean, from my perspective, it seems a monumental achievement, almost like a miracle. But what do you think?”

“From an engineering and technological standpoint, without a doubt,” he said. “And no one but us could’ve done it, by the way. It was the American heavy machinery that made it happen, and we only had the steam shovels and the trains and the excavators because we spent the last sixty years building railroads across this nation. So in that regard, to build the canal through fog and mountain, to dam rivers, to raise the seas, to divide the Divide, it is a feast of civilization. But we didn’t build it just to build it. We built it so it could change the path of mankind. And perhaps it’s too soon to answer your question—was it worth it? First we must gauge the impact it’ll have on the world, on war, on the world at war, on the economies and standard of living of distant countries, on the living conditions and life span of sailors and navies. Clearly I hope that the answer is yes. But ask me again in fifteen years. If I haven’t keeled over by then from the mosquitoes and the sandflies.”

“Let’s shake on it,” said Gina. But she did not extend her roughened hand, even in jest. And he knew she wouldn’t, for he made no movement toward her. Only his eyes gleamed at the possibility of being in touch with her in fifteen years. Well, why not, reasoned Gina. It was over fifteen years ago when they had first met, and here they were, though under vastly different circumstances.

“Why don’t we take a drive to a pumpkin farm next Sunday afternoon?”

“Why would I want to go there?”

“Because it might be an enjoyable way to spend a few hours. We can go pumpkin picking. There might be hot mulled cider. Sometimes they have sack races. We could race and beat the very small children. You get to weave your own basket. You learn to make pumpkin butter.”

“Ugh.”

“Apple butter?”

“Better.”

“There is a corn maze.”

“I don’t like mazes. I always get lost.”

“I never get lost. You can come with me.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I have so much work at Rose’s. We’ve taken too long today as it is. We walked nearly to Walden Pond! We haven’t been very good workers on Sundays, I’m afraid.”

“You’re right. But even the good Lord rested on Sunday.”

Feebly she protested. “But even on the Sabbath you have to take care of the sick. The Lord didn’t rest when there was work to be done, did He? And … Rose has been chiding me for my absent-mindedness, for my derelictions. I don’t want to displease her. It’s like displeasing God.”

“Come on,” Ben said. “The world is not a sad and solemn place.” He took hold of her calloused hand. “Don’t fret. Be glad like the belle of Belpasso. Be glad in the trees and the silence. Come to the maze with me.”

“You know there is nothing like that we can do except dream it.” She had been soaking her hands in milk every night to lessen the visible hurt of her work. Perhaps Ben didn’t notice they still felt like sandpaper.

“We can do anything,” he said. “For a few hours on Sunday, even the weary can sing in the trees. Even monkeys eat red bananas and have bliss.”

“Ben …”

“Don’t Ben me. Just say you’ll come with me.”

Three

SUNDAY FROM NOON TO TWO.

Harry asks if she brought him the newspaper.

Gina hands him the newspaper.

He leafs through it purposefully. He is clean-shaven. When she asks why he always shaves, he says they make him shave on Sundays. It’s God’s day, they tell him. It’s also visitors’ day. They want me to look my best for you, with my prison pajamas and my clean-shaven face.

She wants to ask if she looks her best for him. She wears a white crepe de chine blouse and a plaid fitted skirt. He likes it best when she wears fitted styles to emphasize on her the things that he used to murmur he loved. Her tapered waist. Her long arms and legs. Her slender hips. Her high breasts. Her smooth neck like royalty’s, the throat he loves to lay his lips upon.

His gray eyes are not full of bliss. They’re sad and solemn, and they barely glance at her as he reads, as he holds out his hand for a smoke, the ring gone from his finger a long time. There are scrapes and scratches on his knotted knuckles she hasn’t seen before. She wants to reach across the partition and take his hand, but he is holding the newspaper.

The hour passes. Another conjugal Sunday with Harry. Like Mass earlier in the day: the liturgy, the supplication, the sermon, the presentation of gifts, the laments. The dry Communion. The guard calls time. Gina stands for Harry, as earlier she stood for Jesus, and collects her bag.

He stares at the newspaper for another moment. Then he gets up too.

I’ll see you next Sunday, okay, mio marito? she says. Be well. She bows her head.

Don’t forget to bring me the newspaper.

Of course. I won’t forget.

Last week you forgot.

Ah. Yes. I’m sorry. I won’t forget.

Is it cold out? He glances at the light coat she has put on, the thin crepe beige wool.

It’s crisp. Not too cold yet.

The leaves?

They’re falling.

Mimoo?

She is good.

Are you still with Rose?

On the weekends, yes.

He is silent for just one moment too long. You don’t work in these clothes, do you? he says. His eyes are on her white silk blouse.

No, I change to come see you.

He nods. You always look so fresh, as if you just ran in from outside.

I did, she says, run in from outside.

They stand face to face, the table, the barrier between them. They blink at each other, wary, affectionate, sorrowful.

Have you heard from Purdy?

Not yet, she says. But last time I saw him, he said it all looked good for Christmas.