Carmella Commands
Mrs. Barrington smiled graciously at well-regulated intervals. Sometimes a fraction too graciously, but her own world rarely measured halftones. Carmella smiled easily and contagiously. Often her eyes smiled when her lips did not—a puzzling sort of smile that lures confidence but repels familiarity.
Two strong souls looked through each other’s front windows for a moment. Neither could turn a corner in the other’s house. But at least they saw past the entrance.
Carmella had never heard of Kipling, and Mrs. Barrington had long since forgotten him as of no immediate conversational value. The two lived perhaps four miles from each other, across the city. But there was neither East nor West, though they came from the ends of the earth.
“Carmella,” began Mrs. Barrington, recovering first from the mutual study⸺
“Mrs. Barrington,” Carmella interrupted, “please call me Kate.”
“Why— why—ye-es—of course. But isn’t your name Carmella?”
“Sure it is—my dago name. But it’s wop—wop—wop. So help me Santo Dio, Mrs. Barrington, I get so damn’ sick⸺”
“Carmella, you’re swearing!”
“Yes’m! I’m trying to. I get so damn’ sick of this wop stuff. You can’t imagine! My name, when I get to be an American, is going to be Catherine. But
[17]
