by Tony Romano
“It does matter what you think,” she insisted. “That’s why I came here.”
“If what I thought mattered,” he said, “you would have come to see me before you did what you did.”
“Don’t be angry, Father. Please. It’s not something I planned.”
“Yeah, well, planning would be an interesting consideration.”
She felt herself sinking into the padded kneeler. He’d never been this cold toward her. Only later did it occur to her that he might have been struggling with his own affection, that maybe he was remotely jealous in a way even he couldn’t understand. But in the confessional, all she heard was his sternness. And it was the first time she felt regret over coming to see him. For the first time she had to endure long patches of screeching silence in the confessional.
She heard him sigh and shift around on his chair. He whispered some Latin incantations to himself that struck her as soothing if unintelligible.
“Listen,” he told her. “Listen to me. I’m sorry if I got you upset. I shouldn’t have let my disappointment interfere with…with my sacred duties here.” He cleared his throat, a sign of his discomfort. “I won’t disguise my disappointment in you. We’ve been through all this before. You’re an intelligent young woman with strong convictions, but you’re human, too, and you make mistakes. What’s important here is that you recognize your mistakes. You do, I think. And it seems to me that you want to learn from those mistakes. God forgives mistakes—if that’s what you want.”
She cared less about God’s forgiveness at that point than Father Ernie’s. She’d settle for simple understanding. But he’d barricaded himself, hunkered himself behind his little sermon.
“Pontificate,” she said. “Isn’t that the word you hate? Isn’t that what you said to me one time? You didn’t want to pontificate, you told me. Because I wouldn’t listen anyway. I guess that doesn’t apply anymore, huh?”
He didn’t answer.
“I guess I better go,” she said. “Someone else might need to get in here.”
She heard his door open and then close. He sat back on his stool. “No one out there,” he said. “But if you need to go.”
“I hate to leave with, you know, you being disappointed in me and all.”
“My disappointment is nothing compared to your own.”
“Do you hate me?”
He chuckled. “Vicki—”
“Because this hasn’t exactly been my favorite time at confession, let me tell you.”
“Confession shouldn’t come easy.”
“So do you hate me? And please, no more priest answers.”
“Actually…” He sighed, and she could make out his hand rubbing his brow. “You make me laugh, Vicki. Gladys, the secretary at the rectory, she says she can always tell when I’ve been talking with you. No, Vicki. I don’t hate you. That is farthest from the truth. In fact, I love you. Not only as a priest but as a friend.”
She couldn’t speak for a few moments. “Thanks,” she said finally. “I guess I needed to hear that. What should I do now?”
He waited. “Maybe you should talk to—”
“No, I mean about penance. What prayers should I say?”
“No penance this time. Just talk to this person you care about. Tell him everything. Find out what he’s made of.”
“I’d rather have the twenty Hail Marys, thank you very much. Nothing’s easy with you, is it?”
He sighed, the old Father Ernie sigh that told her everything would be okay between them.
“If you weren’t a priest,” she muttered, which surprised her, this line that held no teasing this time, only acknowledgment.
“If—” He couldn’t finish. With the back of his hand he wiped the corner of his eye, which stirred her own tears. “That’s my line,” he managed, bringing the two of them safely back to what they’d always been to each other. Though she was grateful, she had no regrets about blurring that line. She knew their friendship could withstand this tiny jolt. There would be no shame over this.
“Talk to him, Vicki,” he urged again.
She walked home a bit more assured about her troubles. Confession had done her good. But mostly, Richie was over two hundred miles away, and she wouldn’t have to face him until Christmas.
Angela Rosa missed her husband. She woke up one morning after two months of being away and ached to hear his voice and take in his musk scent. And with that ache came the quiet realization that she’d been missing him since Benito’s passing, for nearly two years now. In that time he had reached out to her, but she’d resisted each time. She didn’t have the energy to look at him. After a while she forgot how to respond.
Theirs had been a marriage of regularity, set patterns built up over years of familiarity. They’d allowed their grief to generate its own routine, by stepping around their sadness. They never mentioned Benito’s name. They allowed his room to be filled with Agostino’s odd clutter, which took on a shape and a breath of its own. Vince had driven her and Agostino to the cemetery several times after the funeral, but the silence in the car and at the grave site was maddening. The two of them, the two men, were lost among the markers, and so she began to take the trolley alone each week. Looking back now, she wondered whether she should have taken along her children, whether they needed to go, but she’d been too intent on shielding them; the idea of walking around the graveyard with them never remotely occurred to her. She did hug her sons more, especially the two younger ones—she made a point of doing that—and she would have done the same with Victoria if she would have allowed it. She saw the pain in her daughter’s eyes and wanted to lift that from her.
But Agostino she resisted. She knew he felt punished—and she wondered sometimes how she could be so cruel to her own husband. It wasn’t that she blamed him. Lately she’d been thinking that her son’s death was no one’s fault. But she did punish Agostino. She punished him, finally, for his drifting, for his callousness, for his thinking she was stupid enough to believe his late-night excuses. She’d never confronted him and didn’t care to spy, preferring to know as little as possible, but she remained confident always that he would curb his straying once Anthony was born, then once Alfredo was born, then after Benito arrived. And as far as she could tell, she was right. The birth of each child unleashed a paternal side to him that she always found endearing. And he had been mostly faithful throughout their twenty years together. He came home each night, which was more than one could say about some of the other fathers in the neighborhood. He came home sober. And never raised a hand to her. This was something. She felt she couldn’t complain. Besides, who would listen?
She wondered how her life would be different if Agostino had not come along, if she had married a different man. Would the same questions of fidelity still plague her? She assumed that most men were like her old black-shirted friend, Giuseppe Conti, who had a passion for wandering. But unlike Conti, most men concealed their lusts and confined themselves in threadbare prisons that barely kept them. Conti once told her that he’d seen and heard too much of the baser side of human nature—how Mussolini ordered tailors to take clothes from the dead and refashion them into military uniforms—that Conti would dedicate himself to spreading joy instead. She knew that this joy he spoke of was grounded in his own selfish pleasures, but she admired his passion nonetheless. She asked him if he could ever be a father. Could he experience this boundless joy he spoke of within the confines of a marriage? He wasn’t sure, he said. But he knew that all marriages involve great lies; both partners had to perpetuate the lie. They had to pretend.
Conti was right, of course, she knew that now, but she preferred to view marriage as compromise rather than fabrication. Lately, though, she couldn’t give Agostino even that. They’d burrowed themselves away from each other for so long that they barely looked at each other. But she was determined now to come back to him, to give him what he needed. She only hoped she wasn’t too late.
Another sharp pain. Respiri, they said. B
reathe. And then their incessant whispering. Half prayer, half curse. She understood a quarter of what they said and didn’t care to know even that. If they would only shut the hell up for five minutes. What could any words from their mouths possibly matter? Especially Lupa. She never said anything. She talked without interruption now and never said anything. Say something. Say some thing. The pains were more frequent now. Respiri. Shut up, she thought. She thought it and thought it and said it finally. Shut up! But that didn’t stop their whispering. They couldn’t stop. Nothing could make them stop. She would lie in this bed forever with the two of them hovering over her like a bad dream. She closed her eyes and felt herself drifting away. When she opened them again a third woman appeared who took Victoria’s hand but didn’t say a word. Victoria didn’t think she could stand a third voice in this room. Sforzati, the woman said. Push. She squeezed the woman’s hand, this woman without features who suddenly appeared at her bed. She was older than Mama, a paisley kerchief holding back her iron-gray hair. Respiri, the woman said. The voice was soothing, without ranc Damnation. Ruination. They both agreed. She felt a tightening below and arched her back from the bed. Sforzati, ordered the woman. Push. They were at her side again, Mama taking her hand. Respiri, the woman said. Respiri. Lupa with her broad shoulders towered over the foot of the bed now. She gripped the mahogany bed frame. She gazed at Victoria, strained benevolence iced on her face. Noi auitiamo, she said. We will take care of you. Can’t you see I can take care of myself? I don’t need anyone except this woman who holds my hand and doesn’t whisper. This pain is mine not yours this pain is mine and all you have is your whispering and this pain is—Sforzati. Sforzati con forza—how much longer if only I hadn’t if I hadn’t…I want to go home. I’ll tell her, I’ll tell the woman I want to go home I’m through here. This pain is mine not yours I’m done here I can’t I won’t how much longer this can’t go on much longer if only I hadn’t if only why does it hurt back there a new pain think about the new pain I can do this the new pain where is she where is the woman with the warm hands who is going to stop all this I need a hand I need I’ll take any hand I’ll take your hand Zia Lupa squeeze my hand Zia squeeze my hand Mama squeeze—Sforzati sforzati—I’ll do anything you say just stop this I’m finished why won’t you end this…there, there she is. The woman. At the foot of the bed now her bloody hands oh God let this be over God I’ll obey I’ll listen I’ll pray just end this—Respiri—I can do that one breath then another easy respiri the skies back home are they blue today six hours six hours I need to see the clock someone bring me the clock what time is it back home subtract six can anyone is there anyone who can feel this pain get it out I need it out why doesn’t he just come out—Sforzati con forza—her hands the woman’s hands strong now firm the same hands that earlier or did I imagine that the same hands that had lit a match and thrown it in a glass and covered it with a cloth and then placed the glass on my swelling that must have been a dream these barbarians with their superstitions let me go home but it wasn’t a dream because the glass and the match are there on the table Mama and Lupa were right damnation ruination stop this and I’ll do anything they say. The woman’s hands were not so soothing anymore. They were forceful, pushing and prodding inside her. Sforzati, she ordered. She pulled something like forceps from a pot of water next to the bed. She disappeared, prodding and pulling inside, her fingers frantic. Aspetta, she shouted suddenly. Aspetta. Wait wait. Victoria thought she might pass out then. She let her body go slack. It’s over, she thought. She could have her body back. Sforzati, she heard again. Sforzati, the woman ordered. Go to hell sforzati, I’m done. The woman showed Victoria her eyes. Sforzati! She heard a finality in the command and drew up all her remaining strength for one last push. One last tug. She thought she felt tearing, a ripping. She heard a baby’s cry and felt a ripping still and wet warmth and then the woman told her, No more. Stop. Respiri. Respiri. They told her not to move, to relax. Mama carried the bloody baby away from the bed while the woman pulled more instruments from the pot and some kind of thread. Victoria didn’t want to look. She refused to look. She just wanted to see this baby. Mama, come here, she thought. Mama. But she felt more tugging and pulling and couldn’t get the words out. Mama, I need to see. My baby, she wept. Zia Lupa placed a cold towel on her forehead and told her to relax. It’s over now, she told Victoria. It’s all over. But it wasn’t over. She needed to hold her baby. My baby, she finally managed to say. Zia Lupa told her to relax. Mama has the baby, Lupa told her. We need to take care of you right now, she said. But the baby. My baby. She felt herself trembling, turning cold. Delirium must have set in because she heard Zia Lupa telling her that everything would be all right and she was soothed by her aunt’s voice. Pure delirium. Everything would be all right, Zia Lupa told her. She heard the woman, still working beneath her, bellowing instructions, and Lupa disappeared. It would be over soon, the woman told her. But Victoria had to keep still. Lupa raced back and handed the woman something and Victoria soon felt another tug and then a burning and she screamed from the burning and the heat surged through her and she screamed My baby my baby I want my baby. The woman with the soothing hands came up from beneath her and wiped her hands and slapped Victoria across the cheek. It’s over, she told her. All over. Victoria was afraid to move. She turned her head and wept into the pillow, hard sobs she couldn’t contain. She wanted to stop her tears, though. She needed to stop. She needed to talk with them, reason with them. They’d dragged her to this farmhouse to steal her baby. That’s what all the whispering was about. She wasn’t stupid. And they believed they were helping. Damnation. Ruination. She’d be damned if she would let them steal her baby. She’d carried that baby for thirty-eight weeks, felt him kicking inside her, felt him tumble and grow. I want to see my baby, she sobbed. The woman gave her something then, made her drink it and told her the baby was a boy. She packed away her things. After a short while Victoria felt drowsy and closed her eyes and slept without dreaming.
When she awoke they let her hold and feed her son. Afterward, they spoke calmly about what would happen. While they talked she stared at her baby snuggled in her arms and wondered about a name, something she hadn’t even begun to consider. They told her they would have to return home in the next several weeks and that they’d find a way for her to secretly feed the baby. Agostino and the others, they scoffed, wouldn’t notice if she fed the boy in front of them, that’s how foolish they were. They, the three of them in this birthing room, would all act as if the baby was Angela Rosa’s, but in a couple of years, once Victoria was ready, married hopefully, which they would pray for, then other arrangements would be made. Angela Rosa would feign sickness and tell everyone she couldn’t care for the baby any longer. She’d tell everyone she was too weak, too old. Who would object? Everyone would think, the baby is in good hands with Zia Victoria. And if Victoria got married sooner, all the better. This is a temporary arrangement, they reassured her. Victoria would be in the same house with her son. She’d feed and care for him. And when she was ready, she would take him. Why should you ruin your life now? they said. Who would want to marry someone with a child? In the meantime, Lupa would go into the village and order formula for the baby to take with them, to be used only when necessary, while driving home from the airport, for instance.
Barely listening, still pondering a name, Victoria muttered, “And the woman?”
“The midwife? She is like a priest in confession,” they said.
They’d worked out all the details, these two most reasonable sisters. They’d devised a foolproof plan to save Victoria. They’d even taken care of the paperwork, documents from this backward country that Victoria would rip to shreds. But what they really wanted was to avoid disgrace. That much was clear. Victoria kissed her baby, wondering how such a perfect little package could possibly lead to disgrace. She could deal with disgrace, she thought. She’d perfected disgrace. But she also knew that right now she needed her mother and Zia Lupa, if only to bring her her baby.
So she remained calm and focused her attention on the baby and told them she’d like to call her son Nicholas.
A week later, Victoria awoke to a quiet farmhouse at early sunrise and wondered if what she saw in the middle of the night had been a dream. She’d seen Mama’s stout frame creeping from one end of the kitchen to the other, all gray shadow and moonlit silhouette, and she’d seen Mama lift Nicholas from his bassinet and tuck him in the crook of an elbow and bring him to her breast. In this dream or nondream she heard her mother whispering to the baby, softly crooning a sweet Mediterranean melody. But after a while, the baby was no longer Nicholas but Benito. And Victoria couldn’t be angry.
Victoria had gone to sleep the night before enraged at Mama and Zia Lupa. She wondered how she’d fallen asleep at all. And she was shocked now that this watery image of Mama feeding her baby failed to stir up some of the rage that had filled her just hours ago. Roller-coaster emotions. That’s what Darlene would have called her moodiness. Wild emotions that controlled her every thought. She’d be angry one moment and crying the next.
The day before, Mama and Lupa had orchestrated an open house. Victoria was able to get around better now, so they’d invited friends and family from the village. The women swooned over the baby and cooed and lightly pinched his warm cheeks, and when they finally got around to seeing Victoria, they called her bella sorella, beautiful sister. The men looked over the women’s shoulders and offered their deep-throated congratulations to Angela Rosa. As these blood relatives and their neighbors paraded through the house all day, Victoria watched the clock, convincing herself that none of them mattered. She’d never see any of them again. What they believed was unimportant. They lived in a different world, and she didn’t know how to even begin to set the record straight with them.
She sat up in her bed and walked to the kitchen and found Nicholas sleeping. Because he would grunt all night they’d moved the bassinet to the kitchen so they could all steal a few hours of sleep; if he cried outright they’d all hear him, Mama assured her. She watched him breathe, good strong breaths that made her weak with pleasure. She glanced outside at the cherry tree and hoped Lupa would ask D’Innocenzio, the neighbor who sublet the land, to pick another bushel for them. She slipped outside and followed the gravel path until she could see the Appenines. She couldn’t wait to get home, but she knew she’d miss these hills. The sun coming up over the hills and the dew at her feet gave her a sense of renewal.
