Once a year, Magdala bleaches the wedding dress to keep it fresh and white, make sure moths and mould don’t have their way. Tough fabric, it has held for three generations and likely more if Teresa is careful when she has a daughter of her own. The long and simple skirt, straight cut with a thick circular line and laced at the waist, is probably back in style. The high neck and round pearl beads along the chest are elegant without being grand, the lace sash and cuffs symmetrical as butterfly wings. Wedding dress first, mourning dress afterward. Magdala is lucky, the first in three generations who hasn’t lost her husband a decade before the first child reached adulthood. And Rosa will be here to take care of her when she starts to slip. Just like her own sister and their mamma. Family tradition if one of the children is born that way. A curse on the child, but a blessing on the mother since she will never be left alone. And Magdala needs the help. Her back is already sore after only two loads of laundry. There are still cucumbers and zucchini to chop, and she promised to teach Rosa cross-stitches this afternoon. The house will need to be changed to suit her, Magdala reminds herself as the wooden pins clip each thought to the clothes and sheets. Shelves must be heightened, the garden properly marked, the bathroom cupboards switched, and, of course, all the bedrooms must be rearranged so Rosa can start to learn to take care of Magdala. It won’t be long after Papa that she … she will need to teach Rosa. Teach her things like what Magdala knows from the letters …
… the weather’s hot. Mamma screams in her sleep. I worry. She’s old. She talks about Papa. She never used to. She talks about her wedding and all the trips they were going to take before he died. Hated her own mamma for not telling her about boys and she was so scared when her belly started to grow. She drinks three jugs of water a day and walks back and forth to the bathroom all night.…
A wall of white in front of her, blocking everything else from view, Magdala thinks of her wedding night in Portugal, how the town had danced under the yellow lanterns her family had hung from the trees, and Tonio, a few grey hairs across his temples, had twirled her in his arms, called her his little girl. Leaning against the bricks, another letter in her pocket, another load of laundry hung, she wonders who will send sympathy cards, and how they’ll afford Teresa’s wedding.
Wine Stains: Pour lots of salt onto the stain, dunk into cold water, and rub out.
Inside Tonio are two dreams: fire and water. His wife, Magdala, helps lift his large back away from the bed, holds him across the armpits to prop up his pillow, then slowly releases him. He recovers like a blade of grass. Looking out the window, he can see his undershirts and sheets on the line in the backyard, wooden pins marking the days he has survived in the trenches, all flags of white. “I surrender,” he wants to tell his dreams. “I surrender.” But still the shirts and sheets are hung.
Morning is roll call. Magdala peels off his shirt, throws it in her plastic basket. Then she pulls down the blankets, exposing legs limp like useless, splintered crutches, his olive skin wan and yellow without sun. She pats his thighs, meaning he should attempt to rise a little so she can slip off his underwear, flipping it quickly inside out and back again to examine it for stains. Into the same basket they go, whether or not there are any. A washed pair then appears, white cotton with an elastic waistband, a thin stripe of blue or black across the top. He doesn’t watch, can’t look down there without shaking. The only time he mentions it is if the band has caught on any hair.
This morning Tonio was dreaming before the sun hit his face. Shielding his eyes, he still saw Magdala opening the door, already dressed and working. “Papa,” she said. “Time to get up.” The sun denies him of his dreams, though he’s been trying to embrace them, keep himself in the dream’s arms so it will end. He wants to know how everything turns out, what happens after the fire and water rush over him. Magdala inspects the sheets for stains, tucking in stray sides as she does so, and leans in as she kisses him on the forehead to smell for sweat. This morning she doesn’t need to change the sheets. Maybe later. She checks three times a day, more if he screams.
There are bombs inside Tonio’s body: little bombs that go off randomly but persistently in twos or threes. Hot, hot, hot, they shoot up his arms and down his legs like burns, smelling like sulfur, stinging his nostrils. Tonio feels like he’s had his hand on a hot stove for the last six years. And then there are the tides. Ones that swell inside his throat and want to rush out onto the bed, others that stir and churn inside his stomach as if a drain were plugged. They steam inside him, pound against his veins, pour out of his body. Every entry a spout. “Move on,” he tells the tides. “Keep marching and you’ll overtake them.” Tonio knows the tides and the bombs are a part of him, and yet they are also enemies, trying to silence him, making it difficult for him to speak his words or tell his dreams. They don’t want to be detected. Masters of camouflage.
“There are bombs, Magda.” He wants to tell her more, but the small dish is in front of him and Magdala has put a plastic spoon in his right hand.
“The war is over, Tony. You’re at home.” She walks over to the window on the left side of his bed and opens the blinds. The sun rushes against her face, turning her into an outline. Tonio would rather the blinds were shut. It’s harder to fall asleep in the afternoons with the sun in his face and his eyes are too sore to read anymore. Because the blinds are cracked, even when shut the few missing rungs allow for light and the sight of his laundry waving in the breeze, his empty shirt sleeves helpless.
Tonio slams his hand down on the bed, trying to pound out his words. He starts to cough and Magdala rubs his back, procures a handkerchief, and holds it in front of his mouth to catch the spit. “The doctor is coming tomorrow, Papa.” He shakes his head and coughs harder. Magdala rests her basket, sighing as her body relieves itself of the burden of the weight, and calmly waits for the fit to pass. Sometimes she hums, trying to soothe him, or, if his eyes are open, smiles to show him she’s not worried. He tries to focus on the photographs hung on the right wall, pictures of the girls and Magdala when she was younger, recently arrived in Toronto, in front of the new house. Tonio, with hand gestures and broken English, had asked one of the neighbours, now he can’t remember which, to take the photograph for them. The camera was also new. It was a time of new things. Rosa would be born in less than a year. Teresa three years later.
“No more doc —” Two bombs explode up Tonio’s arms. His head slams against Madgala. She holds her face, biting her lip to hold in the pain. “Okay, Tony,” she says. “No more doctors. It’s easier on the children.”
Tonio’s fire abates and he hands her back the damp handkerchief. She throws it in the basket and places a white one on the nightstand. He feels small in the room, in the king-size bed, as if he’s been shrinking. He remembers when he was first brought in here, for good, he was sure the room didn’t have enough air, that he wouldn’t be able to get used to the cramped space. But, over the years, the room