An Italian Wife by Ann Hood Read Free Book Online Page A

beautiful. And Elisabetta knew these things about herself. She had an air of disdain for everyone else in the family, but especially for Chiara, who was short and ordinary and homely. Elisabetta wanted to become a scientist like Madame Curie; Chiara wanted to be Elisabetta.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Elisabetta demanded right in the middle of an especially fervent Our Father.
    Chiara kept her head bent, finished the prayer, said, “Nothing.” She could feel Elisabetta’s eyes on her.
    Giulia, who was merely pretty but not smart or tall, said matter-of-factly, “We’re rolling gnocchi.”
    â€œI know what we’re doing, you cretin. I asked what Clara was doing.”
    This was yet another annoying habit of Elisabetta’s. She called them all by the Americanized versions of their names. We’re American, she would say haughtily, not a bunch of guineas right off the boat. So she called Concetta Connie; Isabella Belle; Giulia Julie; Chiara Clara; and she referred to herself as Betsy. She liked to tell them about all the famous Betsys in America. Betsy Williams, the wife of Roger Williams, the founder of Rhode Island. Betsy Ross, the woman who designed and sewed the American flag. Elisabetta knew so much information that Chiara wondered why her head didn’t explode, like Mount Vesuvius.
    The problem was, Betsy was a cute name, the name of a girl people wanted to be friends with. Someone named Betsy could jump high, and smile easily. But Clara was an ugly name. No one would want to be friends with a Clara. At least Chiara sounded exotic, like a dancer or an opera singer.
    â€œYou’re praying again, aren’t you?” Elisabetta demanded.
    Chiara sighed and looked at her sister. She had successfully finished a complete rosary so she could say honestly, “No, I am not praying.”
    Elisabetta said, “Well, you were . You always move your lips when you pray. And when you read,” she added, disgusted.
    â€œI hate reading,” Giulia said. “And arithmetic. I want to be famous, and when I am, I won’t have to read or do fractions ever again.”
    â€œThat,” Elisabetta said, flicking the tines of the fork off the pasta, leaving perfect ridges, “is idiotic.”
    It must be hard to be Elisabetta, Chiara thought, having to do everything just right. Then Chiara bent her head again, and began another rosary.
    WHEN THE SPANISH INFLUENZA swept their neighborhood, taking dozens of people with it, Chiara prayed even harder. Her brother was fighting in France, so she had to pray for him as well as for all the American soldiers. She prayed so much there was hardly time for anything else.
    â€œWhy don’t you run off and join the convent?” Elisabetta said. “Then you can pray all day and all night.”
    She said it to be mean, of course, but Chiara thought it was a wonderful idea.
    â€œHow do you join?” Chiara asked her.
    â€œHow should I know?” Elisabetta said. She was doing complicated algebra problems at the kitchen table, smiling to herself as she solved each one. “Go ask Father Leone.”
    â€œSorry,” Chiara said, “I thought you knew everything.”
    Elisabetta kept scribbling numbers and letters on a piece of paper. “I know everything that matters,” she said.
    CHIARA, LIKE ALMOST everyone else, was terrified of Father Leone, despite his handsome face and thick, wavy hair. When she had told her mother this, her mother had said she should never be afraid of one of God’s servants. He is so holy, her mother had told her, that the pope writes him letters of admiration. This only made Chiara even more humbled and frightened of the priest.
    But today, when she climbed the steep stone steps that led to his residence behind the church, she burned with pride instead of fear. Imagine telling the most respected priest in the entire world that you too wanted to become God’s