Chapter 2 Part 1
Provident Instead
Women have no wilderness in them—they are provident instead.
Louise Bogan
By
Leslie Golding Mastroianni
1
Ralph Cappazolli turned over in bed and poked his wife’s leg with his toe.
“Hon. You up?”
“Mmm.”
“You up?” He poked harder.
“Yeah, I’m up—now.”
“I gotta get going.”
“Okay, okay.”
Gina got out of bed and, standing, looked at her husband. She smiled.
“You jerk.”
“Coffee. Please?”
“I’m goin,’ I’m goin.’”
Ralph Cappazolli, known to everyone who mattered as “Cappy,” put on his work clothes: blue pants made out of a tough material, stained from contact with paint and grease, and a long sleeved blue denim work shirt, also stained. No short sleeves, even in summer. When he got downstairs, the coffee was ready and Gina was cooking scrambled eggs.
“You shouldn’t eat eggs every day, Cap,” said his wife. “Too much cholesterol. It’s bad for your heart.”
“AMA crap. I’ll outlive all the experts.”
“Just the same. How about eggs only every other day? Maybe oatmeal in between.”
“Who are you, the Angel of Death? Do I need this first thing in the morning?” The two looked at each other, smiling. Cappy shoved his food into his mouth and rose to leave, his mouth full.
“What, no goodbye kiss?” asked Gina, laughing.
“You want a mouth full of egg? I gotta go, hon. I’ll call you this afternoon.”
Cappy hopped up into the cab of his black truck that had “Ralph Cappazolli, Contractor” painted on both sides in gold. Some of his clients asked why black and gold? Cappy laughed in their faces. “You call yourself a Pittsburgher, huh? Black and gold, that’s the Steelers’ colors.” Cappy never lost a client from being fresh and what he called “outspoken.”
Once Gina remonstrated, telling him he should maybe watch his manners.
“Sorry, hon, ain’t nothin’ gonna change. The people like me like this. They smile and laugh and shake their heads after I’m gone and say that they just love Italians, always so colorful and vivid and full of life.”
Cappy, while driving the 15 minutes to his office, organized his thoughts. He felt good. Business was very good. For a small time, one man contractor he was doing fine. Being self-employed was no picnic, as he frequently told himself. This was late spring, and the whole three months of the coming summer were blocked off with jobs to do, mostly renovations and additions. He had a small, wealthy group of clients who wanted renovations which was saying something, Cappy thought proudly. Pittsburghers were known for not wanting to alter things. They did not like changes, and you could see that in the handling of their sports teams, the Pirates and Steelers. Loyalty, stability, that was everything.
Gwen was already in the office, sitting at her desk and putting some papers in order. Cappy liked Gwen for several reasons. She was a good typist, a neatness freak, and she was pretty. He often told Gina that he absolutely needs to like the women who worked in his office, and this was true of the men he contracted, the plumbers, roofers, cabinet makers, electricians. It was of primary importance that these people were 100% efficient at their jobs; however, after that, he loved having genial, fun-loving people working for him. This, said Cappy to Gina one time when she questioned his hiring practices, is what makes life worth living. To eat their sandwiches together in the lunch break, laughing about some television show they saw last night, news of their families, stuff like that. Of course, you had to be a Steelers and Pirates fanatic to work well with Cappy, men and women alike.
“Hi, Cap. Watch the game last night?” Gwen was grinning. Cappy never missed a Pirates game unless he was kept late on a job. The Pirates had won last night again. Gwen was in her early 20’s with rusty red hair. She was engaged to a tall, serious, black-haired boy named Allan who was pursuing a graduate degree at the University of Pittsburgh in Chemistry.
Cappy picked up a big paper clip and threw it over the partition that separated him from Gwen. She giggled; it had lodged in her hair. She threw it back at him.
“Did I watch the game? Sheesh. I ought to fire you for that, Gwennie.” The two chatted through the partition about their families, television, and Allan, who in Cappy’s opinion was taking much too long to “get educated.”
“You’re a nice, warm, ripe young girl, Gwen,” said Cappy once. “Your Allan better get moving or some other hombre will come along and pluck you from the vine. You get what I’m saying here? Something happens to women in their insides who wait too long to get married. I had an aunt who waited and she went…”
Gwen, her face and neck enveloped in a dark red blush, told Cappy, firmly but politely, that there was no reason to talk about such matters in the office. Cappy, who knew when his friendliness and protective instincts had gone too far and was no fool besides, apologized and the subject was not aired again.
At 9: 45 the telephone rang. Gwen answered: “Ralph Cappazolli Contractors.” She stood up and said over the partition, “For you, Cap.”
“Ralph Cappazolli here. Can I help you?”
A woman’s voice, a nice, polite voice said, “Hello, Mr. Cappazolli. We do not know each other; I picked your name out of the Yellow Pages. I need to find a contractor who will help me renovate a house.”
Every time, in a self-employed person’s office, when the telephone rings, that self-employed person’s heart jumps. It doesn’t matter how well they’re doing, how many clients they have, or what is in the bank. They all are waiting for the ”Big One,” the job or client that will get them noticed, written up and photographed for the newpapers and magazines, and bring in a lot of money. That is what happened to Cappy when he heard the telephone ring, but his heart dropped when he heard the woman’s voice and what she asked for—a renovation on a house. Probably an old house, thought Cappy, that the woman thought was “charming,” with so much to be done to it that the only civilized thing would be to tear it down.
“OK. Where is this house? What neighborhood?”
“On Allequippa Street, on the edge between Oakland and the Hill.”
Crap, thought Cappy, double crap. Something old and charming and on the edge of the Hill. He was not prejudiced, he didn’t think so anyway, but renovating a big house in one of the blackest neighborhoods in Pittsburgh? He would be polite to this woman but get her off the telephone quickly.
“Look, I’m sorry, lady. That ain’t my thing and anyway, I have too much to do as it is.”
The woman on the telephone started to cry.
“You’re the tenth person I’ve tried, and everybody says the same thing. I’ve got to find somebody who will believe in this project, someone who is capable and not so afraid!”
Then two things happened. The woman broke into sobs, the last syllable of “afraid” tailing off into a wail—and Cappy got mad. It was something in his guts, he said, long afterwards, just hearing the word “afraid,” which meant that he was being accused of not working hard. And hearing this woman crying—it was too much for him.
“Listen,” he said. “Please stop crying, lady. I will look at this house on the edge of the Hill and I am 100% sure it will be a washout, but I will look. Where is it?”
lgmwriting 