by Peggy Jaeger
Nonna didn’t talk much on any given day. She really didn’t have to because she had a black belt in kinesthesia. Her daughters were good at relaying what they wanted or thought about something with simple shrugs and eye rolls, but Nonna was the true grandmaster of the practice.
One askance glance, or just one eyelid moving to half-open while her gaze zeroed in on you, was enough to put fear into the mightiest of warriors.
“I’m going to bed,” she said in the language of her homeland the moment we got through the door, suddenly looking all of her ninety-three years. “Tell your mama I’ll help her with everything in the morning.”
She kissed my forehead and rubbed a gnarled, craggy finger down my cheek. “Mi brava ragazza, Gia.” My good girl. “Te amo.”
“I love you, too, Nonna.”
And I did, in spite of the cantankerous way she acted and the rude way she treated people. In truth, she was an excellent female role model: strong, loyal, and fiercely protective.
Plus, one heck of a good cook.
After my parents came home, exhausted and emotionally drained, I kissed them good night and as I settled into bed, said a prayer for Uncle Vito’s soul and several for me to help me figure out what to do about the situation with Santini, because despite my best effort, I still hadn’t been absolved of my sins or actions.
Chapter Seven
Morning came and with it, relatives from far and near.
By nine a.m., the house was packed with people who’d come to help plan Uncle Vito’s funeral and start the official mourning rituals.
Nonna and Mama had been up since four, baking and baking and baking some more. On any given day, the aromas emanating from within my house were enough to cause strangers walking by our brownstone to stop, sniff the air, and sigh with pleasure. Mama made most of what we ate from scratch, forgoing boxed mixes, jarred sauces, and canned vegetables. Today, my home smelled absolutely mouthwatering.
Yards of fresh bread, dozens of sweet cakes and muffins, three of Mama’s prize-winning coffee cakes made with the secret ingredient she shared with no one she hadn’t given birth to filled the kitchen and spilled out into the dining room.
And even though these two little women had been up cooking enough for an army and a half since before the light cracked the dawn, people still brought food with them.
How to be a Good Italian, Lesson Five:
Never, ever arrive at someone’s house
without a gift. And a food gift is always best.
Most of the people who showed up on our doorstep this morning brought something from Pontevecchio’s Paneterria, knowing what a family favorite the items from the bakery were.
I had a busy day ahead of me with another late-morning test downtown and then the scheduled shift at our booth at the fair.
No one forgot today was the first day of the St. Rita’s Christmas Festival, least of all Mama. Chloe was slotted to be the official booth opener, with my Aunt Gracie relieving her at noon. I’d be there by three and work until nine tonight. It was a long day, but if Uncle Vito hadn’t up and died, Mama and Nonna would have worked at least ten of the twelve hours it was scheduled to be open.
Before I left to catch the downtown train, Mama pulled me aside and wound my scarf around my neck to ward off the evil chill that had blown through and settled during the night. “I’m gonna have Daddy put a few cases of sauce into my car before he leaves for work. Chloe’s got some, but hopefully we’ll need more for later. When you get home, you take my car to the festival. I’m sure someone will be there to help you unload.”
I said a silent prayer it wouldn’t be a certain soon-to-be-ordained priest.
She knotted my scarf at the ends and kissed my cheek.
“I’m sorry I can’t help with the funeral arrangements.” I hugged her. Traces of cinnamon, nutmeg, yeast, and Shalimar drifted up to me and filled my mind with a familiar peace and calm.
Like she was swatting an annoying fly, Mama slapped her hand into the air.
“Don’t be. There are enough of us to get everything taken care of. Since Nonna is the oldest one of them alive now”—she made the sign of the cross—“all the final decisions will be hers. You just do good on your test and don’t worry about anything here. I’ll see you later.”
I kissed her good-bye, crossed myself in front of the pontiff’s picture, and left.
****
“Your sister had a slow start,” Aunt Gracie told me when I showed up at St. Rita’s parking lot later that afternoon. “But business picked up around one, and we sold out the first case.”
The electronic cigarette perpetually hanging from the corner of her mouth for the past three months glowed amber in the fading and cloudy afternoon light.
I shoved one more case of family sauce at her and then retrieved the other from where I’d parked the car.
The festival was pretty crowded for early afternoon, but it was the first day. By six tonight, it would be even more so and in full first-night swing when the working parishioners brought their families out. The local Scouts were grilling hotdogs, hamburgers, and sundry other fast foods at their booth for parents who didn’t want to cook dinner. The Italian club, the men’s organization from the neighborhood, of which Daddy is the treasurer, had sausage and peppers available for sale to boost the club’s coffers. The local Y had an information booth, and the volunteers staffing it were giving out free granola bars. St. Rita’s Elementary School booth was staffed with kids and their parents offering popcorn, red- and green-colored cotton candy, and fried dough for sale.
As predicted, the nuns of St. Rita’s were going strong with Christmas card sales, even though the big day was only two weeks away and most people had already mailed this year’s cards.
“I bought two boxes for next year.” Aunt Gracie cocked her head toward the nuns, her fake cigarette swaying precariously from between her lips.
I recognized many of the people ambling and milling around, browsing at the sale huts, and giving Christmas good wishes to neighbors.
I loved this festival. Even as a kid, I enjoyed walking around and taking in the sights of all the craft booths and smells of the foods offered for sale. Chloe and I had purchased many a Christmas gift for our parents and Nonna here when we were younger and had only babysitting and allowance money to spend. Mama still uses a decoupage jewelry box Chloe gave her one year, and she wears an angel pin I gave her on her coat every year during Christmas season.
“Look, Gia baby”—Gracie took a huge drag on her make-believe cigarette—“I think you’ll be okay on your own. I wanna get back to the house and see how everything’s comin’ along with the plans.”
I nodded and told her to go. I would be fine.
In truth, being around Aunt Gracie is kind of exhausting. She never stops talking—never—and she asks questions as fast as they pop into her head, without giving you any time to answer. Topics and discussions roll off and out of her at a whim, and I usually get a subtle headache whenever I’m around her.
I love her, like I love all my aunts and uncles, but she can be trying on my soul and my patience.
For the next two hours, I sold a total of three jars of sauce, chatted with a few of the nuns, and watched families enjoy themselves.
At five, when it started moving from twilight into full night, I turned on our Christmas lights, causing a domino effect around the parking lot. I said a silent prayer to God, thanking him for helping Uncle Sonny come through with flying colors this time.
Uncle Sonny needs all the prayers he can get to offset so many of his ethical demerits.
I took a little bit of pride at how great the huts looked all lit up. Mama had gotten a uniformity of white lights, not the standard Christmas-tree-colored red and green ones you’d expect, and because of the bright color, the parking lot looked angelic and holy, which was a good thing considering it was a church Christmas festival.
Thinking about how long it had taken to string the lights got me to thinking about t
he person who’d helped me.
I was still overcome with conflicting and tormenting emotions at what had happened between us. It’s one thing to have lusty fantasies about a guy. Quite another to actually act on them.
I still couldn’t reconcile my diverse and quicksilver emotions whenever I was in Santini’s presence. One minute I wanted to jump him, his utter sexiness driving me insane; the next, I didn’t feel anything out of the ordinary. Once again I looked deep inside myself, pondering on whether I was experiencing some weird kind of seasonal mood affect disorder or behavioral syndrome. Test stress, holiday stress, just-living-with-a-crazy-family stress could all lead to some kind of emotional collapse, couldn’t it?
Chloe’s husband, Matt, is a doctor, and I knew I could seek out his advice on the matter. But Matt is a direct pipeline to Chloe, and I was certain I didn’t want her to know what I’d done. She’d love me no matter what dumb or ridiculous situation I’d gotten myself into, but I just wasn’t open to her finding out the way I’d acted with a man of the cloth. There had to be a special room in hell for people like me, and I just knew I was heading there.
Chloe texted me once to ask if I was okay at the booth alone, and I responded I was, no worries. Not two minutes later Mama texted asking me the same thing, and I returned the text telling her she should talk with Chloe. That started a messaging war, where she immediately shot back asking me what was wrong. Why should she talk to Chloe when she could talk to me? Was I hungry? Did I need a break? Was I dressed warmly enough? Yada, yada, yada.
Sometimes I wish my parents hadn’t moved into the twenty-first century and learned about e-mail, texting, and smart phones. Life was a lot easier in my house when they were tech-NO-savvy and used the old rotary phone Nonna still had hooked up in her room.
By seven thirty, I’d had ten texts from Mama and I needed a bathroom break. Miraculously, just when I considered closing the booth for a few minutes to run into the church and relieve myself, Daddy showed up with a shopping bag.
“Your mama thought you might be getting hungry by now.” He dropped a kiss on my head. “So I volunteered to bring you a little something to eat.”
“You didn’t need to, Daddy, but thanks.”
“In truth, Gia baby, I needed to get outta the house.” His sigh was deep, guttural, and filled with meaning. “Nonna’s driving everyone to drink with the funeral arrangements. Before it came to blows, I figured I’d hightail it outta there and get some air.”
“Hold on, Daddy,” I said, sliding under the door divider, thrilled I could get a bathroom break. “I’ll be back in five.”
It was a little more than the five minutes I’d predicted before I got back. The line for the ladies’ room in the church was twenty deep, and there were only two operational stalls in use. The rest had been roped off using yellow crime-scene tape. I knew no actual crime had been committed, or anything gruesome had occurred. The bathroom was being updated, and Dottie Allegari’s husband was a cop, so he’d donated the tape to keep people from using the toilets before the maintenance was completed. It did look weird, though.
Relieved, truly, I made my way back to our booth, ready to dive into Mama’s care bag, when I stopped dead in my tracks by the nun hut.
Daddy was leaning against the open window frame of our booth, speaking with the last person on earth I wanted to see. Fr. Santini.
Dressed in his full priestly regalia this evening, he had on bright green woolen mittens that looked handmade and a matching skullcap covering his ears against the chilly December night air.
They were engrossed in conversation and hadn’t noticed me approaching, so I did the cowardly thing and shot around to the side of the hut so I wouldn’t be seen.
Again, if I didn’t have bad luck, I’d have none, because my desire to go unseen fizzled fast.
“Gia Gabriella, is something wrong?” Sister Alberta Frances, my third grade teacher, old as the hills when I was in her class, asked when she spotted me skulking. Sister Alberta Frances loved names. All names. And she called her students by their full first and second ones. I was lucky she hadn’t taught sixth grade when we made confirmation. Then she would have addressed me as Gia Gabriella Bernadetta. It would have taken forever to call the roll in class every day. As it was with just two names per student, it had taken a chunk of each morning.
“Nothing’s wrong, Sister.” I planted a smile on my face and hoped I didn’t look guilty from fibbing. “I just don’t want to interrupt Daddy when he’s talking with the new gu—er, with Fr. Santini.”
Sister Alberta Frances peered at me through her cataract glasses. Her eyes were huge from the magnification she needed, the left one permanently drifting outward from a congenital defect—so whenever she looked straight at you, you were never sure you were what she was truly looking at—and filled with the skepticism only a sister of a holy order can pull off.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Santini glance my way, and I quickly plastered myself to the side of the hut, trying to make myself invisible and not thinking about what I was doing.
I say that because if I had been thinking, I would never have leaned up against the wooden enclosure clad in the thick wool sweater I had on. The second I flattened myself against the plank, I felt a giant tug around my mid-back.
Yup, you guessed it. My sweater snagged on an errant sticking-out splinter of wood. Not thinking—again—I yanked back and heard a jagged ripping sound. Cold air immediately permeated the skin at my back. The rip was somewhere around the bottom of my bra strap, so I couldn’t see it. I tried to get a feel for it by slipping my hand over my head and then trying to reach it from below, but my arm was too short both ways. I know I looked like some kind of crazy-ass contortionist as I flapped my arm up and then down several times, trying to disengage myself, shaking my shoulders right and left in a vain attempt to reach the tear. You see, the sweater had ripped, but it hadn’t disengaged from the wood chunk, and I was still stuck to the plank—or my sweater was, which is the same thing because I was wearing it.
Now, this whole time, Sister Alberta watched me doing my awkward, flapping, disengagement dance, squinting through her Mr. Magoo magnifying glasses, without offering any help.
And I needed help. I knew if I tugged one more time, the sweater would probably rend in half and fall off my body. I didn’t relish being seen by the entire festival clad in my black lace bra.
“Sister, do you think you can give me a hand here? I’m stuck.” I hoped the subtle whine and pleading tone in my voice would be of benefit.
She was cut off from whatever it was she was going to say to me when Daddy called out, “Gia baby. Come over here and say hello to the new padre.”
My heart froze to icicle status inside my chest.
Caught. So much for trying to remain invisible.
“Just a sec, Daddy,” I called. To Alberta, “Sister? Can you help me?”
With a head bobble I took for a nod, she moved behind me and groped around on the plank. Because it was full-dark nighttime and the huts were lit in the front, not the side or back, she didn’t have a very good view of where I was hung up, so she had to feel her way around my back.
Do you know how uncomfortable it is to be felt up by a nun? It’s not pleasant, that’s for sure.
Cataract surgery couldn’t come quick enough for Sister Alberta.
After a moment or two, she managed to snake her arthritic, gnarled hands around the snag and pushed the patch of sweater caught in it up and off. I was able to move again, but my back was freezing. I couldn’t imagine how huge the hole was. I’d planned ahead, though, thinking it might be cold during the evening hours, so I had a down vest back at our booth.
I thanked the good sister for her help.
“I’ll say a prayer for you, Gia Gabriella.” She adjusted her glasses and peered at me through them, as if looking at a new life form under a microscope. “Maybe more than one.”
In all truth, I could use all the help I could get.
&nb
sp; Like a heretic on her way to the gallows during the Inquisition, I shuffled my way back over to our booth.
Daddy wrapped one arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze as he introduced me. I was surprised he couldn’t feel how my entire body was shaking from nerves at seeing Fr. Santini, and because of the big-time hole in the back of my sweater letting in the chilly night air.
“This is the baby in my family, Father. Gia. Gia, say hello to Fr. Santini.”
I reached back and grabbed my vest off a folding chair and tugged it on, zipping it all the way up to my neck. Done, I looked at Santini.
I guess I expected him to say something like, “Oh, we met on setup day,” but he didn’t. He smiled down at me, removed a mitten, and stuck out his hand. “Your father’s been telling me all about how hard you’ve been studying for your exams.”
We shook hands, his pumping mine enthusiastically, not a trace of acknowledgement his eyes.
Now here’s the really weird thing. I mean, aside from the fact he basically just committed a sin of omission by denying he knew me. Yesterday in the park, the minute he put his hand on my arm a jolt of electricity surged through my clothes and my system like a lightning bolt, settling in my soul, heating my whole body, and making my girlie parts shake like uncooked scungille.
But right now, with my bare hand settled into his, skin against skin with no barrier, there was absolutely nothing. Not a twinge. Not a jolt. Not a bead of awareness. The beautiful chaos of colors in his eyes as he gazed down at me did nothing to my insides. Not a quake. Not a quiver. Not a trickle of lust.
What. The. H. E. Double hockey sticks was going on?
This was the guy I’d wrapped my tongue around twenty-four hours ago and practically climbed up on just to get closer to. The man I’d—God forgive my soul—dry-humped in broad daylight.
In public.
Daddy squeezed me again. “I tell ya, Father, she’s the bright spot in my day.”
Fr. Santini smiled down at me, and again I was filled with confusion. His smile looked a little different, a little…well…smaller than I remembered. And it did nothing to my insides. No zippidee-do-da feeling. No desire to scream “Take me, I’m yours.”
