by Tony Romano
After yesterday, after the rage of watching strangers paw at her baby, she welcomed anything that restored her. She’d been burdened so long by the physical demands of a baby inside her, and she’d been trapped so long in the farmhouse to hide that fact, that she embraced the odd sense of liberation that swept through her this morning. She felt finally that she had options, real options. She could fight Mama and Zia Lupa and bring disgrace upon them all, upon the entire family. She’d feel comfortable in that role. Or she could remain silent and let their incredible scheme unfold. Nicholas, after all, would be with her. She’d treat him like a son, even feed him. She didn’t give a rat’s ass whether others saw her as Nicholas’s mother. Except for Richie. He was the unknown in all this. His reaction mattered. If a baby was going to scare him away, then…She hated thinking this way, giving in to what he might think, but this weighed heaviest on her mind. She recalled her desolation after he left, dark thoughts replaced soon enough by other worries. But Mama was right; what man would want her with a baby? She could deal ultimately with isolation, she’d proven that, but why should she ruin her entire life?
After Richie left she remembered seeing couples everywhere, holding hands, nuzzling each other’s necks. She had the awful sense then that her life was on hold. And then she found out she was pregnant and imagined her own versions of damnation and ruination—pushing a stroller around the neighborhood, fielding the sneers from her mother’s friends, retreating to the apartment. She walked around aimlessly for weeks, sullen and listless, her listlessness interrupted by attacks of panic that gripped her chest and constricted her throat. I am pregnant, she would think. In the midst of her panic black thoughts swept through her. She could end this business swiftly, she thought. She’d heard stories. She could go somewhere and have it done. Arrangements festered in her mind. Hours later she’d berate herself for such selfishness. What kind of mother could think of bringing harm to her own child? What kind of monster was she? And if she went through with this pregnancy and had this baby, her baby, would she grow to resent the child for stealing her life away? Could these sinister thoughts of harming her child resurface? She’d never believed that such darkness dwelled in her, but now she wasn’t so sure. Someone as unstable as she was didn’t deserve a child; she shouldn’t be trusted alone with a baby.
Having cradled and fed Nicholas with her own milk, she knew now he’d be safe with her. The moment she’d heard his little cry and laid eyes upon him, she knew. She knew that much. But she still wasn’t sure whether she could be a good mother to her son, to give him all he needed. She thought some sort of maternal instinct would blossom in her, but so far she’d felt nothing but confusion. The midwife had to come over more than once to teach her how to breast-feed her own baby.
But Mama. She’d grown to admire Mama in the past week. Everything came easy to her. The way she swaddled and enveloped Nicholas in her arms made Victoria believe that a baby belonged there in Mama’s soft cradle. When Victoria tried to swaddle him, the loose tucks flopped out and she feared he might slip out of her arms when she moved him from side to side. She had become more confident each day, but every movement still felt strained and deliberate.
Mama, on the other hand, wasn’t playing at being a good mother. She was a good mother—or a grandmother. Victoria had never seen her so alive. Or maybe because she’d seen her mother only through her grief for two years now, she’d forgotten. She imagined trying to describe to someone the change that had overtaken Mama, but she knew words would be inadequate, like trying to describe the birth of her son. Mama had gone through her own rebirth, and Victoria didn’t know whether she had the heart to take that away.
8
When Agostino received the first telegram he didn’t know where to turn. He fumbled around the store for two hours until his brother returned and then he showed him the paper. In Italian the telegram read: “Agostino. Wonderful news. Doctor visited. We will be blessed with another baby. Angela Rosa.”
Agostino and his brother offered each other embraces and opened a bottle of champagne they’d dusted off from the back, thoughts of Benito underlying everything they said to each other. Is she okay? Vince asked. Is everyone healthy? How far along? Agostino shrugged and looked helpless. Vince pointed to the telegram. Is that all? Agostino shrugged again, almost apologetically. He only knew that he needed to get his wife home. He calculated how long it would take for a telegram to arrive from Chicago to Naples to the village and for someone to deliver that message to the farmhouse. Days at the very least. Nothing was urgent to those civil-service workers in the hills.
Three days later Lupa called and told Agostino that everyone was all right. There was no need to panic. They would make arrangements as soon as possible. Calls and letters went back and forth like this for weeks, Angela Rosa insisting ultimately that she didn’t want to travel in her condition. Agostino suggested he fly to her instead, that Vince and Santo could take care of the store. He got a terse letter back from her explaining that Santo needed to watch out for Anthony and Alfredo, that Santo couldn’t mind them and the store at the same time. Not wanting to upset her, relieved finally that she seemed to be her old self again, Agostino agreed.
Months passed. And then, on a Thursday morning, the second telegram arrived. Delivered again to the store. More hastily written than the first. “Baby born. Nicholas. All fine. Home soon.” Agostino had to sit. He read the two lines over and over again. Baby born. He tapped the table, counting, figuring and refiguring. Baby born? Whose baby? There’d been only a single time in bed, that once when she’d awoken him in the middle of the night just days before her departure. While he slept she’d pushed herself onto him, her body already bare, her warmth penetrating his nightshirt. The episode was like a dream, blissful and bittersweet, both of them tearing at each other, inhaling the other’s scent. They couldn’t breathe deeply enough. They couldn’t touch each other enough, as if making up for time spent apart. But that was a mere six months ago.
His hand shaking, he lit a cigarette and stared at the telegram. He could smell deception better than anyone, he thought. Six months. Ha. So this is what my life has come down to. My own wife deceiving me, adept at my own game. He needed air. He glanced at the clock behind the bar and walked out the front of the store. Vince was upstairs asleep. Santo would be in shortly. He’d wait for one of them. Then he’d go. Maybe take in a movie, stop along the way at Lucca’s market for a sack of ripe peaches from his bushel baskets. That was all he could think to do. His own wife. He thought he’d be more angry. He ran through a mental list of men Angela Rosa encountered in a day but couldn’t stomach those images for long. And what difference did it make now? Agostino was reaping finally all he’d sown; how fitting, then, that Angela Rosa had delivered this baby on her old farmland. He deserved this, he thought. And he could bear this.
The thing he could not bear, the thing he knew, even then, that would destroy him, was the stinging memory of their love-making that night six months ago, how she’d climbed onto him with no other intent than to deceive, to plant her own seed of illusion in his mind. As if he couldn’t count. She’d been cold and calculating, and this, this would be the thing that would eat at him. Worse, she had pulled their own daughter into her plan. Victoria would take his ticket because Angela Rosa couldn’t bear to have this baby with Agostino watching. She needed to have this baby on her own, in the privacy of women. She needed to study the baby for a while, make sure he didn’t resemble the father, make sure no one would detect a flaw in her scheme. He understood now why Lupa tagged along as well; while Victoria took care of her mother, Lupa could tromp to the village telegraph office and put off Agostino with her false reassurances. He only wondered if Lupa had been told everything. All this, this scheming, his wife’s calculated actions, would gnaw at him. In her calculating, she’d forgotten to ask Agostino for help in the naming of this baby. She probably couldn’t bear to lay this final insult on her husband. In any case, not asking Agostino for a name confi
rmed what he already knew, and he felt as if a vault door was pressing in on him.
He lit another cigarette and waved to an old woman walking across the street. Later he’d show Vince and Santo the telegram, as if it had just arrived. He’d feign exuberance and let their excitement shadow his bruises. He’d play along, just as Angela Rosa had played along for nearly twenty years now. And he’d become proficient at forgetting.
He had no destination in mind, but when he arrived at the church that afternoon he knew why he’d come. The heft of the great mahogany door caused him to stagger for a moment, bringing him back to Benito’s funeral when everyone scurried to open doors for him and his family, kindly ushering them around. He pulled again at the door. The church was empty, the only movement the flicker of candles in crimson jars near the altar. His breathing labored, he sat in the middle and waited, dozing off in minutes.
He heard the light footsteps first, intruding on his dream of being trapped in a small room, the steps growing louder and vaguely ominous. Then the voice.
“Mr. Peccatori?”
He woke and gazed up at the young priest wearing his long black cassock and stiff collar, a striking contrast to his ruddy cheeks. Is it possible the priest had gotten younger?
Agostino couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move. Still hazy, trapped in the room, he held his gaze on Father Ernie, comforted by the placid eyes. Agostino blinked, glad not to be rushed, understanding why people were drawn to these pews.
“Father,” he said finally. As if he were in his own bar, he motioned with his head, and Father Ernie sat two pews in front of him, turning to face him, listing to the left. Agostino liked this view that held both altar and priest, his own private mass.
“Did you come for confession, Mr. Peccatori? Because we can go in there.”
Agostino looked to the curtained booths.
“Or if you just want to talk, we can sit in the sacristy. Or my office.” He glanced back at the altar. “Or. We can sit here. Here is fine.”
Agostino wondered how to begin, knowing he could derive no satisfaction here. He was a fool to have come. “This life.” He put out an empty hand, searching for words. “Is hard.”
Father Ernie nodded, fingered the lobe of his ear.
“I make mistakes.”
“You want atonement.”
Agostino knew this word. He’d looked up the word, spoken it, though never to another. The roundness of the middle syllable, sorrowful and pleading, seemed to hold its meaning, though he couldn’t explain why. “Yes,” he said. “I need.”
“Why now?”
“I think I—maybe I see better.”
Father Ernie waited.
“Ah, mio padre. Forget. Non importa.” It doesn’t matter. He began to rant in Italian before catching himself. “When I come to America I try to learn everything. Every day I read newspaper. I look by dictionary. I talk. But I’m buffoon. I no understand Americano.” He gripped the pew in front of him, searching again for words that would not come. He detested his stilted English, the halting starts, yet he often found himself thinking this way. How could he make himself understood if he couldn’t think? He plodded ahead, the words torturous on his tongue. “In Italia, when dog”—he put up a level fist—“how you say?”
Flushed, Father Ernie turned away. “Mount?”
“When dog mount other dog, we no say bad dog. Is not bad. Not good. Naturale. For a little time, they feel good. No sin, hey?”
Father Ernie lifted his chin, about to speak.
“I know, I know. With man is different. But still naturale.” He paused, inviting response now.
“There’s nothing sinful about the act itself. Is that what you’re getting at?”
“Yes.”
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple. You can’t possibly believe—what if you found out that—”
“What?” Agostino couldn’t believe his good fortune. He’d meandered to this church to ask about his wife’s wandering, whether she’d ever confided, outside the confessional, of course, a question he wouldn’t dare pose, and here the priest was raising that very possibility. Just as Agostino could not voice the question, he couldn’t bear the answer. He simply needed subtle affirmation, and then the matter would be dead to him.
Father Ernie waved away his what-if. “No, nothing,” he said, a slight quiver in his voice, affirmation enough for Agostino. “The act alone, the natural act of two people—a husband and a wife—joining, is certainly not a sin. The circumstances dictate the sin.” He seemed on firmer ground now.
“If two people do, and one marry, they make sin? Always?”
“Yes.”
“If they do one time, and no mean nothing?”
“It means something to God,” Father Ernie said. “It means something to the other spouse.”
This last remark pierced Agostino, stirring loathing for himself, and pity for the ones he’d hurt, especially Ella. In his weakness, he’d taken advantage of the poor girl. There was no sidestepping this. If no mean nothing? He was referring to the times before Ella. He’d merely wanted to cleanse himself of those earlier transgressions at least, to return to a time when the world was young, when living and breathing and staring full into the afternoon sun possessed order.
His eyes swept the church. Maple carvings capturing the Stations of the Cross surrounded him. A mortal Christ bearing the weight of the rough-hewn timbers always moved him. Pure suffering. “I know one a thing,” he said. He waited for the young man to look at him. “When you lie is sin.”
He bowed his head, closed his eyes, and brought his palms together. “Bless me, Father. I have sinned.” He waited. “Please. Make bless for me.”
He basked in the Latin unspooling from Father Ernie’s lips, some of which he understood. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. The sign of the cross. Words passed down through centuries of suffering. Like a child, he prayed. He muttered the only prayers he knew, his whispers cushioned by Father Ernie’s steady incantations. To his surprise the words came back to him whole. Padre Nostro, che sei nei cieli, sia santificato it tuo nome. His brother would have called it poetry, the joining of Latin and Italian, rising like song. He wanted not to think, to listen only, but flashes of thought pressed through. He’d lie no further. He’d tell Angela Rosa everything. Sedet ad decteram Dei Patris omnipotentis. But he couldn’t. Hurting her would be the greater sin. They had to bury the past. Their lies had caused enough pain. Why let them fuel more? Ave, Maria, piena di grazia. He’d never find true absolution in denying the past. But this is what he deserved. Benito’s face appeared to him. At the funeral he vowed not to stray, a promise he’d kept. His celibacy, as it turned out, proved easier than he imagined. It seemed just and right. In the middle of the night, when he couldn’t sleep, he’d visit Benito’s room, click on the lamp light, and reaffirm his vow. One time, without reason, he left a clipping from the newspaper on the bureau, a photograph of Sophia Loren standing outside a theater. As the months passed he left more and more, never thinking of why, and felt as if he were losing his mind. But in prayer now, his delirium became clear. Or maybe he’d known all along. The artifacts were constant reminders of what he could no longer have, of the shame he’d brought to his family, designed to cause him suffering, and this it never failed to evoke in him.
Father Ernie’s last prayers trailed off. Everything was still.
“Grazia, padre.”
An automobile horn sounded in the distance. A single bird chirped with little insistence.
“Any word from Italy?”
Agostino pulled the telegram from his shirt pocket and held it out like a communion host. Another immaculate conception, he wanted to say, and nearly cried.
Father Ernie opened it. “This is wonderful news.” He looked into Agostino’s eyes. “You must be—” He rose and took Agostino’s hand in both of his. “Another son.” He sat next to him, handing back the telegram, but before letting go, tightened his grip. They held the paper between them for a
breath. Agostino could feel the pulse in his thumb.
“You got this today, Mr. Peccatori?” He released the paper.
“Yes.”
“This must—you must have. You came here for atonement. On this day.” As if trying to regain his balance, he added quickly, “But who am I to—I imagine this day brings back painful memories. Or maybe I can’t imagine. All you must be feeling.”
Smile, Agostino told himself. Begin now. But he would need to grow into this. “I make happy when everyone come home,” he said.
“When will that be?”
“Soon.”
Agostino stood, a cue for Father Ernie to follow, yet he didn’t move.
“Maybe we talk again, hey?”
On his way out, he dipped his fingers into the porcelain bowl of holy water, crossed himself, felt his pocket for the telegram, and without turning back, marched into the bright afternoon.
Santo hated the word estrangement. When he was a boy and he’d overhear the blue-haired women on their lawn chairs gossiping about this or that uncle they hadn’t seen in fifteen years, the uncle who ran off without explanation or forwarding address, Santo shook his head along with the old women. Why would anyone abandon their families like that? The old women filled in their own explanations, of course, and these explanations eventually became truth. Uncle Louie drank. Cousin Millie stole other wives’ husbands. Vivian was a common whore. And Santo. What would they say one day about Santo?
