Carmella Commands
Tommaso frowned. It was a phrase like this, which though slang in America, was nothing at all when translated literally into his own Neapolitan, that caused him worry. “Shoot it!” What did the girl mean? Yet that was what she had said.
In tiny ways like this Carmella had become a continual torment.
But Tommaso had heard talk from others about daughters. Even about American daughters. He had heard that they worried their parents as well.
What should worry them he could not entirely gather. Per la Madonna! They at least spoke the same language as their daughters. If only he could be as glib of speech as Carmella! Then he would know, and he could be a father to her, and she should grow up to be a fine young woman, and marry well, and⸺
He meant that she should do so, anyway. But it was hard, hard, hard. It brought wrinkles between his eyes. Trying to found a business and to bring up a family, both in an unknown tongue. And heavens, how he loved the girl! He had loved Maria, his wife. Yes, he still loved her. But Carmella—ah! There was a girl for you! If only she didn’t forever slip out of his world into a foreign world of speech.
“Listen to me, Carmella,” he said. And as he spoke he took out a stained brown leather billfold and counted out ten one-dollar bills.
“Listen, Carmella! Here is ten dollars. It is for
[35]
