1947Chicago, Frannie and the greenbeans
"Francesca!"
Frannie opened the door of her room just long enough to call, "I'll be down in a minute, Ma!" before closing and locking it again. She turned back to the scattered bills on the bedspread. So little left. No money, no husband, no home of her own, not even a job anymore.
Still, she was a Vecchio, and she was young, and she had prospects. So little left, she might as well carry it with her. She hid her nest-egg away neatly in her girdle, checked that her hair still curled neatly, and went down to dinner.
When Ray saw the greenbeans on the table, he opened his mouth to complain, but Frannie kicked him under the table. She tipped her head towards Mama, spooning polenta onto the baby's dish. Then she got up and went into the kitchen.
Ray followed. "What? You know I hate greenbeans. Why'd Ma make 'em?"
"I lost the catering company, Ray. The clients wouldn't hire us if we couldn't promise that we'd have meat and butter, and the grocer wouldn't give us any more credit since Zuko's cousin stiffed us."
"And this has to do with greenbeans, how?"
She sighed, infuriated at his lack of understanding. "No clients, no money. No money, no credit. No credit, no vegetables from the market. We're eating the rest of the veggies from last year's Victory garden, and this year's too. And that means --"
"Greenbeans."
"Lots of them." Frannie agreed.
Ray scratched what little hair remaining on his head. "It's enough to make me eat out for dinner, too."
"Eat out! What, you'll be down at the diner while we're feeding the baby strained greenbeans for breakfast, lunch, and dinner! You already spend enough eating lunch!"
"Frannie, you know I can't brown-bag lunch." He sighed. "I'll talk to Tony about kicking in some more. And I'll ask the Lieutenant about overtime. Anyway, it'll be nice for Ma and Maria to have you around to help out."
"I'm not going to be around to help out, Ray. I'm going to get another job."
He looked at her in exasperation, "Doing what, Frannie? There's thousands of men still walking the streets, looking for jobs since they were discharged. Who's gonna hire you? Your catering business lost money, that jerk you got involved with before still owes you money --"
"Ray Kowalski is not a jerk! And we weren't involved. He was just --"
"Raymundo, Francesca, are you coming back to the table?"
"Yes, Ma, be there in a minute." Ray turned back to Frannie. "He treated you lousy. He nearly got you killed. Don't you mention his name in this house."
"It's my life, Ray!"
"Yeah, but it's my house." Ray turned and left the kitchen.
Frannie was left staring at the doorway. His house. His doorway. Although the deed said it was Ray's house, they both knew it really belonged to Ma. But Ma wouldn't argue with Ray. She'd just quietly make sure that he came around to her way of thinking, eventually.
Frannie tidied the counters; empty pans in the basin, food in the icebox, all the detritus of making a big Italian meal. If she stayed at home, she'd have to listen to Maria and Ma talking about babies and husbands all day. Ma didn't believe in women working outside the home.
Ma thought she should marry Marty Caruso. Just because he had a job, and he was Italian, and he went to their church, and he was interested in her. But Marty Caruso had a face like a toad, and a personality to match.
She put the unused eggplant back in the bin, suddenly sickened by the thought of so much food. So much Italian food. She wanted something different, something she'd never cooked, something easy, like a sausage and beer at a ball game.
That sounded just like Ray Kowalski. Frannie smiled, sadly. Even his being Catholic wasn't enough to atone for the twin crimes of being Polish and quitting the police force. But when she'd been his receptionist, and for the short while when he'd tried to train her in the field, he'd been a total gentleman. Okay, he'd yelled at her a couple times and he didn't hold doors or anything, and he still hadn't paid her for the last three months she'd worked for him, but he was fun to be around. He didn't ignore her, like Ray did, like Tony did. (Of course, Tony had to ignore her, if he didn't want Maria to hit him with the frying pan. But he didn't have to ignore her.)
She caught herself about to run water to wash the dishes. Let Maria wash the dishes. Frannie had had enough of family obligations. She checked her hair one last time in the side of the shiny toaster, then let herself out the kitchen door.
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