Hope's Angel

Hope’s
Angel

by
Rosemary Fifield

©
Copyright 2013 Rosemary Fifield

All characters and locations are a work of fiction.

Any resemblance to individuals living or dead is purely
coincidental.

Prologue

November,
1952

Papa
tucked a thin blanket around the four-year-old’s body and lifted her from her
bed.

Icy
night air brushed her cheeks as he carried her outdoors and down the stairs,
and she buried her face against the scratchy surface of his wool coat, too
frightened to ask what was happening. He never spoke, even when he bent low into
the blackness and set her on the cold back seat of a car. Her sister, wrapped
in a blanket of her own, leaned into the far corner. Frosty wisps of breath,
gentle and rhythmic, paced the older girl’s sleep. The child snuggled into her
sister’s warmth and stared, wide-eyed, at the darkness around her.

Papa
slid onto the front seat behind the steering wheel and pulled the car door
shut. Mamma was already on the bench seat, a triangle of red and yellow cloth
tied over her dark hair and under her chin, her jaw set as she stared straight
ahead. No words passed between them.

A
full moon traveled with them as their car wound its way through the Vermont
countryside. The moon passed in and out of wispy clouds, its eerie silver light
periodically illuminating the still woods and dormant fields that flanked the
quiet back roads. The car hummed along for over an hour, lulling everyone
within to a transitory state of calm.

The
child drifted in and out of sleep, then startled awake; the car was no longer
moving. Papa leaned forward, fidgeting with the key. Beside him on the bench
seat, Mamma made the sign of the cross, then brought her curled index finger
and thumb to her lips and kissed them as though she were holding the crucifix
itself. The four-year-old fought to keep her eyes open, but the hour was late
and she was exhausted.

The
night chill worked its way into the car, penetrating the thin blanket around
the child. She opened her eyes. Nothing in the darkness was familiar, except for
the sound of her sister’s steady breathing. But they weren’t in the warm bed
they normally shared. She sat upright and looked around, her small heart
fluttering with fear. Faint light came through the squares of glass surrounding
her.   

“Papa?”
She kept her voice low on the chance that someone else, someone unwanted, might
hear her.

Silence.

“Mamma?”

Nothing.

Her
heart pounded wildly against her ribs, and hot tears welled in her eyes. She
was about to press closer to her sister’s reassuring presence when a glow from
the window beside her sister’s head drew her attention.

A
silvery angel with a serene, benevolent face stood outside the car, its eyes
trained on the child. Flowing robes fell in soft, graceful folds about its bare
feet, and a pair of glorious wings arched above its wide shoulders. It extended
its arms to her in welcome, and the rapt child gaped. She had never seen anyone
so beautiful, so perfect, and all the stories her nonna had told her about the
Lord’s special creatures came back to fill her with wonder and awe. She opened
her mouth to talk to the angel; she wanted to hear its voice, for she knew it
would be wonderful, but—no!—the magnificent angel was silently slipping away,
its haunting eyes fixed on hers as it receded into the darkness.

Something
had frightened it away. The car door was opening.

Terrified,
the child shrank back against her sister, making herself as small as possible behind
the older girl.

A
rush of cold air filled the car. Mamma appeared, bulky in her dark winter coat
and wooly scarf. She settled onto the front seat without a word, and the door
beside her closed. A moment later, the driver’s side door opened, and Papa slid
behind the steering wheel. The car’s motor made a grating sound, then rumbled
to a rhythmic sputtering. Gravel crunched beneath them as the car rolled
forward. The child relaxed against her sister with a sigh of relief and closed
her eyes; all was well once more.

A
baby whimpered.

The
four-year-old’s eyes popped open.

She
scooted forward and peered over the seatback. Mamma was undoing the buttons of
her winter coat with one hand. She held a bundle of blankets in the opposite
arm, and when she brought it to the opening in her clothing, the sound of a
baby suckling was unmistakable. The child’s heart pounded with excitement.
“Mamma?”

“Go
back to sleep, little one.”

She
would never be able to sleep now. “Is that our baby?”

“Yes.”

The
child clutched her blanket to her chest and bounced lightly in place, unable to
contain her exuberance. “Is it a boy or a girl?”

“A
girl.”

“What’s
her name?”

“Hope.
Hope Marie.”

The
child leaned forward in the darkness as the car rumbled down the gravel road.
“The angel smiled at me,” she said, certain that her mother would be pleased.

Mamma’s
head turned toward the rear seat.“What angel?”

The
child blinked in confusion. What was Mamma thinking? “The one who brought the
baby.”

“You
dream.” Mamma sounded weary. “Go back to sleep.”

The
child shook her head, sure of what she knew. “I saw it. It smiled at me.”

“Silence!”
Papa’s voice traveled from the front seat, forceful and uncharacteristically
gruff, and the child jumped. She immediately slid back against the coldness of
the seat and pulled the blanket to her chin, trembling and confused.

She
didn’t understand. They had waited so long for God to bring this baby. Nonna
had come from far away to cook and clean, to take care of the family while Mamma
stayed in bed day after day, waiting and praying. And now the baby was here.
Brought by an angel.

“Go
back to sleep, little one.” Mamma’s voice came from the darkness, as gentle as
a lullaby. “Go back to your dream.”

Chapter One

Friday, August 23, 1968

“You
don’t know how blessed you are, Pietro. You have only daughters. Nobody’s going
to send them to war.”

Connie
Balestra looked up from bagging the customer’s purchases and glanced at her
father.

Papa
continued arranging the kohlrabi on his outdoor stand, his back to the
customer. “They should not send anyone. If President Kennedy, he’s not to die,
we would not be there.”

“Well,
I don’t know about that. I just know they’ve called up my son.” The man gave
Connie a nod of thanks as he reached out to take the bag of vegetables and
fruit from her outstretched hands.

His
facial features resembled those of her father—chestnut brown eyes and a luxuriant
salt-and-pepper mustache beneath a prominent nose. But while Italian by
heritage, the man spoke English without the accent that characterized most of
the people who patronized her family’s neighborhood grocery store.

Papa
scowled as he turned to look at his customer. “
Mi dispiace
, Signor
Altuna.  I will say the prayer for him.
Come si chiama
?”

“Thomas.”

“We
will light the candle for Thomas.”

“
Grazie
.”
The man nodded to Connie once more, then to Papa, and walked out from under the
striped awning.

Papa
moved on to straighten the bulbs of fennel displayed beside the kohlrabi.
“Where is your sister?” he asked.

“Which
one?”

Papa
lifted one bushy black eyebrow in an exaggerated gesture of incredulity. They
both knew where Gianna would be. Gianna was so predictable, she made you want
to cry; Angie was the impetuous one.

“She’ll
be here soon,” Connie reassured him, although she wasn’t sure at all. “Don’t
worry.”

“I
worry.”

Connie
smiled to herself as she refilled the supply of brown paper bags beside the
carton of tomatoes. Papa might not have any sons to lose to the war in Vietnam,
but his three girls provided him with plenty to fret about.

She
climbed cement steps to the open doorway between the shop’s large front
windows. A heady Mediterranean perfume greeted her—a pungent mix of
baccalá
, strong cheeses, and fresh herbs. It was the smell of home, a smell she knew
she would miss some day when she finished college and moved away to find a job.

She
strolled through the old-fashioned store with its dark wood trim and low tinned
ceiling, past the imported pasta and the old deli cooler displaying cured
meats, to the door at the rear marked “Employees Only.” The storeroom held
extra cases of dry goods and a tiny corner office where Gianna kept the books
and placed her orders.

An
unmarked door opened into the large laundry area at the back of the building. Mamma
sat in the brightly lit room, running freshly washed sheets and pillowcases
through the rollers of a mangle, folding and ironing other people’s whites into
neat, warm piles fragrant with the smell of detergent and bluing agent.

“Papa’s
looking for Angie,” Connie said.

Mamma
kept her attention on her work as she folded a flat bed sheet in half and fed
it into the rollers. “She’s at the library.”

“She’s
supposed to be helping Papa. I promised Nonna I would come to the church to
cook for the
festa
tomorrow.”

“Gianna
can do it. She’s upstairs.”

Connie
knew Gianna wouldn’t take well to covering for Angie, but she also knew better
than to say what she was thinking. Instead, she turned on her heel and headed
out the side door into the glare of the sunny August afternoon. The staircase
that led to their second floor apartment clung to the side of the building, and
she took the stairs two at a time.

Gianna
was in the upstairs kitchen, standing at the gas stove, stirring a steaming pot
of macaroni and bean soup with a wooden spoon.

Connie
sighed in dismay at the sight of her. Gianna had plaited her dark hair into two
long braids, then pinned them in concentric circles around the crown of her
head—a hairstyle popular with their grandmother and her ancient sisters,
Lucretia and Mariana.

“Ma
wants you to take Angie’s place downstairs ‘til she gets home.”

Gianna
frowned at Connie from behind her tortoise-shell glasses. “What’s wrong with
you?”

“I
have to help Nonna at the church.” Connie surveyed her older sister’s wardrobe
with disdain—the usual tired apron over the shapeless sundress. “Are you
trying
to look like you just came over on the boat?”

Gianna
looked down at her clothes, then back up at Connie, her forehead creased in
irritation. “What? I should wear bell bottoms like your hippie friends?”

“At
least get rid of the Buddy Hollys.” Connie shook her head. “Even a pair of
granny glasses would look better. Plus they’d match the hairdo and the
housedress. You look like Nonna, for God’s sake.”

“It’s
a sundress, smart mouth, and don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.” Gianna gestured
toward Connie with the wooden spoon like one of the elementary school nuns with
the dreaded yardstick. “You need to go to Confession. You’re turning into a
real heathen.”

“Ha!
Well, at least I have something to confess. It must be awfully boring being
you.”

“
Madonna!
Voi mi fate impazzire
!” Mamma’s angry voice came from behind Connie as the screen
door slapped shut.

“English,
Mamma.” Connie moved out of her mother’s way as the latter brushed past to wash
her hands at the kitchen sink.

“You
girls make me to be crazy, so stop!” Mamma wiped her wet hands on the
ever-present apron she wore over her housedress and turned to Gianna with
blazing dark eyes. “You! Help your papa. His feet hurt. I see it.” Her gaze
shifted to Connie. “You! Go cook at the church.”

Gianna
slid past them both, her eyes narrowed in anger as they met Connie’s. When
Gianna was safely on her way down the back stairs, Connie turned to her small,
dark-haired mother. “She’s going to live with you for the rest of your life,
you know.”

Mamma
rolled her eyes. “I begin to understand why we—
come si dice?—
give to
the marriage at birth.”

“Betroth.
She’s not bad-looking, you know, if she would just drop the ugly glasses and do
something decent with her hair.” Connie rethought that for a moment and sighed.
“Of course, she’d still have to leave the house once in a while for some guy to
actually notice.”

Mamma
crossed the kitchen to the stove and picked up the wooden spoon. “Maybe she
meets a nice boy in the church.”

Connie
doubted that. “She hangs in the choir loft with the nuns.”

Mamma’s
brow furrowed. “She hangs?”

“It’s
an expression. Never mind.” Connie stood for a moment, watching her mother stir
the soup. Was it the right time to bring up Greg? Considering that she and Mamma
were rarely alone, this was probably as good an opportunity as any. “Mammina, I
have something to ask you. I need your help.”

Mamma’s
wary gaze shifted to Connie’s face, her unsmiling countenance a mixture of misgiving
and concern.

“It’s
nothing bad, Mamma. It’s good. I mean, it could be as long as Papa lets it
happen.”

“Aha.
A boy.”

Connie
grimaced. “Not exactly. Well, sort of. You remember I told you I talked to this
guy, Greg Fairchild, the one I see at school all the time? The one who lives in
town here? He commutes every day, like I do. And he asked if I wanted to ride
in together sometimes and, you know, share the cost. It’s not like a date. He’s
got a girlfriend. It’s just a thing—like a convenience. It could save us both
money. And I wouldn’t need to take the car every day.”

Mamma
looked skeptical. “You ride in his car with this boy every day?”

“Not
every day. Just when our schedules work. And he’s not a boy. He’s in college.”

“You
are alone in a car with this… man.” The tenor of Mamma’s voice left no doubt
about her disapproval.

“No,
I would just be in the car. It’s not about being alone with him.”

“How
is this not the same?”

Connie
did her best not to roll her eyes. “Mamma, right now I drive an hour to school
and an hour back every day. I drive in the snow. I drive in the dark.
That’s
when you should worry about me being alone. If I rode with somebody, I wouldn’t
be alone. I’d be safer.”

“No
girls go to the UVM?”

“Not
from here. They live on campus. In the dorms.”

Mamma
frowned. “You don’t know this boy. He could be…
un violentatore
.”

Connie’s
skin flushed with heat at the thought of handsome Greg Fairchild attacking her
in the front seat of his car. “I know him well enough. He’s nice. His father’s
a lawyer. They’re a good family.”

“Aha.”
Mamma nodded and turned to stir her soup. “
L’a
lta società
.”

Connie
let her eyes roll.“I don’t know about high society. I just know he’s a good
person. Besides, he’s got a girlfriend. He’s not interested in me.”

“To
be the girlfriend is more safe. You are nothing to him.”

“Aiee!”
Connie waved her arms in exasperation as she stared at her mother. “I could
have just met him at the Park and Ride, and you never would have known! But I
wanted to do it right!”

Mamma
set the wooden spoon down on the stovetop and turned to look at Connie. Her
expression was stern. “You invite him to meet your papa. That is all I say.”

Connie
groaned. “Mamma, it’s not a marriage proposal. All I want to do is bum a ride!”

“
Sì
.
This means it is no big work.”

Connie
let out a defeated sigh. “Big
deal
. It’s no big deal.”

A
small smile played about Mamma’s lips as she turned away. “This is what I say
,
Concetta. It’s no big deal.”

***

The
women of Our Lady of Mt. Carmel Catholic church were preparing for the annual
festa
in honor of their parish’s patron saint, and Connie spent the remainder of the
afternoon working beside them in the windowless basement kitchen. They stood
side by side at the long counter against the wall or bent over the wooden table
in the middle of the room, cutting up peppers and onions to be fried as
accompaniments to pans full of grilled Italian sausage, forming the stuffed and
breaded rice balls known as
arancini,
and making the sweet ricotta
filling and the deep-fried shells for
cannoli
.

As
they worked, they talked about the same things Americans everywhere were
talking about—the war in a country none of them had heard of just five years before;
the war that came into their living rooms every day via the evening news,
making it impossible to ignore; the war that threatened to take their sons and
grandsons, husbands and boyfriends, as it continued to escalate in spite of
President Johnson’s promises to end it. They also talked about the upcoming
national convention, where Hubert Humphrey was sure to become the Democratic
candidate for President, a position that should have been held by Bobby
Kennedy, God rest his soul.

When
they finished their work in the kitchen, Connie and her grandmother left to
walk home together. As they passed the vacant lot between the church and the
rectory, they saw several men putting the final touches on wooden booths
erected for the sale of the food—pounding in the last of the nails and stringing
colored light bulbs across the booth tops. Others were setting up a station for
dartboards or building temporary bocce courts among the few trees. A small,
covered stage festooned with banners and lights occupied the far end of the
grounds. As part of the festivities on the following day, men of the church’s
Holy Name Society would carry the life-sized statue of Our Lady of Mt. Carmel
in procession from the church to a special dais on the outdoor stage.

Connie
and her grandmother walked the four city blocks to the turn-of-the-century duplex
Nonna shared with her two elderly sisters. The three widows occupied both
levels, Nonna living upstairs with her sister Lucretia, while Mariana lived
downstairs with her unmarried forty-something son, Tony.

When
they reached the house, Nonna invited Connie inside, but Connie declined with
an apologetic smile. Her mother would have supper on the table as soon as the
store closed at six, and anyone who planned to eat was expected to be on time.

“First
you come to the garden.” While she understood English, Nonna refused to speak
it, conversing only in Italian. No one challenged her; as the matriarch of the
family she commanded their respect.

Connie
dutifully followed her around the side of the house to the small urban
backyard. Despite its tight boundaries, the yard managed to accommodate an
extensive vegetable garden, a full-sized pear tree, a chicken coop full of
laying hens, and a grape arbor heavily laden with dangling, ripening fruit. In
their attempt to recreate a small section of Puglia in their Vermont backyard,
the three elderly sisters even managed to keep a fig tree, making poor Tony
bury it in a trench every winter and resurrect it every spring in order for it
to survive the cold.