Authors: Rosemary Fifield
Connie
slipped first one arm, then the other, into the jacket. “Father Ianelli? What
are you talking about?”
“I
saw her get in the car with him this morning. She had a duffel bag or
something, like she was going on a trip.”
Connie
stopped moving to stare at him.“With Father Ianelli?”
“Yeah.
You sound like a broken record. You didn’t know?”
Connie
pulled the jacket across her chest and held it shut with her fist.“No. She said
she was going away for the weekend with a friend.”
Paul
snorted. “Some friend.”
What
was he implying?
“Don’t be an ass. He’s a priest.”
“Come
on, Con.” He regarded her with disbelief. “Just ‘cause he’s a priest, doesn’t
mean they cut off his
coglione
.”
“Get
your mind out of the gutter.”
How could he think things like that?
But
Paul looked seriously worried. “I just think she could be in trouble if she
trusts him too much. You know what I mean? Like, why did she have to meet him
at the church? Why didn’t he pick her up at your house?”
“I
don’t know. Maybe it was a church group or something.” She was tired of trying
to understand Angie and why she did the things she did.
“I
didn’t see anybody but her and him.”
What
had Gianna said?
She cries a lot…
“Shit.
Take me home, Paul. I need to talk to my parents.”
***
Mamma
was asleep on the couch when Connie walked into her family’s living room; Papa
apparently had gone to bed. Connie bent to grasp her mother’s shoulder and
gently shook it until Mamma’s eyes blinked open.
“I’m
home,” Connie said. “Is Gianna here?”
Mamma
shook her head, her eyes closing once more. “I don’t think so. What time is
it?”
“Almost
midnight.”
“They’ll
be home by one. Go to bed.”
Mamma
turned her face toward the back of the couch, but Connie shook her once more.
“Mamma, where’s Angie?”
“She’s
back tomorrow.”
“Mamma,
where did she go?”
“Connie,
please, let me sleep.”
“Where
did she go? Did she go someplace with Father Ianelli?”
Mamma
mumbled something Connie couldn’t make out. She leaned closer to her mother’s
wiry dark hair. “Say it again, Mamma.”
“He
took her to see her people.”
Chapter Fifteen
Sunday
“What
does that mean: ‘He took her to see her people?’”
Mamma
held her pink corduroy robe closed at the neck and brushed past Connie, heading
from the bathroom down the long narrow hall to her bedroom. “I was dreaming.”
“Mamma,
you weren’t dreaming.”
Mamma
turned to scowl at her. “Why would I say this?”
“I
don’t know! That’s what I’m asking you.”
She
turned away from Connie. “I need to go to church. Do you go with Paul?”
“Yes.
Nine o’clock.” She and Paul went to nine o’clock Mass and sat in the back where
no one would see that they didn’t go to Communion. “Mamma, we need to talk
about this! How do you know that she’s okay if you don’t know where she goes?”
“I
know where she goes.”
“Where?”
Mamma
rested a hand on the doorknob of her closed bedroom door and gave Connie a
stern look. “
Scuse
, but your father, he gets dressed. We speak of this
after church.”
Connie
was about to turn away in exasperation, when Papa opened the bedroom door. Tapered
bare feet protruded from the carefully creased pants of his Sunday suit, and he
was fumbling with the cufflink at the end of one sleeve. He thrust his wrist
toward Connie. “Your sister, she has a good heart. Father Ianelli tells her
about people with a sad story, and she goes there to help them.”
Connie
slid the end of the cufflink into the opening in the cuff of his shirtsleeve.
“That’s why she rode with him yesterday?”
“
Si
.
And today, he brings her back.”
Connie
nodded, then gave him a small smile. “Okay. Thank you.” Her mother slipped past
her into the room, and Connie turned away as the door between them closed once
more. She went back to her room, where Gianna also was dressing for church.
“Papa
says these are people Father Ianelli told her about that need help, and she
went to help them.”
“That’s
pretty much what she said before, right?”
“I
guess. It’s just that the way Mamma talked last night, these weren’t just any
people.”
Gianna
pulled a silky slip on over her head. “It sounds like she was half asleep.
La
Boheme
was great, by the way. You should get Paul to take you.”
That
was highly unlikely. “I don’t think he’s the opera type.”
“He
might surprise you. Even non-Italians know
La Boheme
.”
“What
are you and David up to today? Anything?”
“He’s
got to pull a shift at the museum, but he’ll be by for dinner.” Gianna stood in
front of the mirror and brushed out her thick, shoulder-length hair. She had
traded her dark-rimmed glasses for contact lenses the week before, and Connie
smiled at how attractive her older sister had become with just the few
adjustments that Connie had suggested.
“Well
then, this will be the day,” Connie said. “Paul’s coming for dinner, too.”
***
“So,
after she says ‘he took her to see her people,’ she goes back to sleep, and I
can’t get her to talk to me anymore!” Connie waved her arms in exasperation.
Paul
parked the car in front of the bakery and turned off the motor. Mass was over,
and they were picking up the Sunday rolls and ham for his grandparents.
“So,
I waited for Gianna to come home,” Connie continued, “but she didn’t know any
more than I did. Oh, by the way, she said
La Boheme
was really great.
Would you want to go to see that in Burlington next weekend?”
Paul
made a face. “Not really.”
“That’s
what I figured.” She pursed her lips in irritation. “Well, anyway, my pa says
she’s helping some people who need help, and that’s why Father Ianelli ended up
taking her to their house. I don’t know. I don’t get any of it.”
Paul
shrugged. “Who says you have to get it? It’s Angie’s gig, not yours. Let’s go.”
They
went inside the bakery and bought their breakfast items, then returned to
Paul’s car.
“There’s
just too much weird stuff going on with her,” Connie said as he started the car
once more. “And I never told you about the angel.”
Paul
wheeled the car out of the parking space. “What angel?”
His
disinterest was patently clear, but Connie plunged on.“ A statue in front of a
cemetery. I saw it a couple weeks ago.”
“What
about it?”
“I
want to go see it again.”
He
glanced at her. “Why?”
“I
just do. It was interesting.”
Paul
sighed. “What cemetery?”
“I’m
not sure. It’s on a back road about an hour from here.”
“The
one near St. Albans?”
“Maybe.
It’s called ‘Hope.’”
Paul
kept his eyes on the road. “It’s got one big angel out front guarding the gate
and a big arch over the entrance?”
Connie
blinked. “You know it?”
“Yeah.
Nino’s uncle took us there once. Nino’s grandpa carved some of the gravestones.
It’s full of Canucks.”
“French-Canadians,”
Connie corrected him.
Paul
ignored her. “There’s paupers’ graves in the back, and he donated a stone to
some guy he didn’t even know. He just wanted to do it.”
Connie’s
enthusiasm rose. It sounded like a cool place. “Can you take me there?”
“What
for?”
“I
want to see it in daylight. I’ve only seen it at night.”
“Why
do you want to see a cemetery?”
“It’s
a long story. Can we go today?”
Paul
groaned. “The Pats play Denver today.”
“Oh,
who cares? They lose anyway.” Connie gave him an exaggerated pout. “You’d
choose a football game over being on a back road with me?”
A
small smile played about his kissable lips. “You’re going to have to make it
worth my while.”
Connie
feigned shock. “Didn’t you just get out of church?”
“The
choice is yours,” Paul said. “I’m just giving you the options.”
They
left his grandparents’ house shortly before noon. Nothing on the way to the cemetery
was familiar to Connie, and they never passed a low-slung ranch house that
looked like Brad and Bunny’s. But suddenly, in a clearing surrounded by trees, set
back from the road about fifteen feet, was a single stone angel standing tall
beside a black wrought iron fence. A gravel driveway, flanked by brick
pedestals, led into a snow-dusted graveyard of unremarkable tombstones. The
words “Hope Cemetery,” spelled out in wrought iron letters, arched over the
driveway.
“If
you want to see cool sculptures, you need to go to the cemeteries in Barre,”
Paul said as he drove onto the crunchy driveway.
Connie
stepped out of the car and stared up at the granite angel before her. Already life-sized,
it stood a good eight feet tall on its pedestal. Carefully detailed bare feet
peeked out from beneath the hem of its flowing stone robes, and its well-muscled
arms stretched out in welcome. Glorious feathered wings with delicately barbed
vanes arched powerfully above its sturdy shoulders. Its strong, handsome face looked
out toward the road, its benevolent expression an invitation to enter there.
Only its eyes, fixed and lifeless with their eerie, recessed pupils, spoke of
the death that kept its charges from leaving via the same road they had entered.
Impressive
as it was, however, the stone angel held none of the impact it had when it
stood stark and alone, bathed in moonlight on a cold Vermont night. And it
explained nothing about Connie’s reaction to it.
She
shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket and strolled beneath the
wrought iron arch, into the cemetery itself. The warm afternoon sun was melting
the snow on the simple headstones, most of which lay flat to the earth with
very little variation or ornamentation. The surnames carved into them were
primarily French, and the burial dates ranged from the 1880s through the
mid-1950s. The most recent resident she could find had been interred twelve
years before.
“What
are we looking for?” Paul asked as he followed her up and down the narrow paths.
Connie
shook her head, her eyes on the details carved into the stones. “I don’t know.”
“You’re
kidding.”
“This
place means something to me, but I don’t know what.”
A
chill November wind swirled around them. Paul pulled up the collar of his Red
Sox jacket and stared at her.
“I
know this place, but I don’t know why,” she said. “I saw it in a dream when I
was little. And then I never saw it again until a few weeks ago.”
“What
happened a few weeks ago?”
She
was careful not to mention Greg. “I was just riding by. I didn’t even know it
was here. And then suddenly, I saw the angel. Just standing there in the
moonlight. Like in my dream.”
“Maybe
it wasn’t a dream.”
“But
why would I know a cemetery in the middle of nowhere?”
“Damned
if I know.” Paul let out a sigh. “I gotta say, this is less than thrilling,
Con. I could be watching the Pats.”
Connie
nodded. He was absolutely right. “We can go.”
“That’s
it?”
“You
said you want to go watch football. Let’s go.” Connie spun away from him and
headed back toward the car, defeated and dispirited.
“And
then what? You’re going to be pissed?”
“Why
would I be pissed? There’s nothing here.” She reached for the handle on the
passenger side door . “I don’t know what I expected. I’m sorry I wasted your
time.“
“You
didn’t waste my time.” Paul kissed her on the cheek. “I’m with you.” He went
around to the driver’s side and let himself in.
Connie
flopped down onto the front seat and stared out the side window at the
tombstones laid out within the black fence. What was it about this place that
gnawed at her, yet wouldn’t identify itself?
Paul’s
voice broke into her thoughts. “Hey, you. Come here.”
Connie
turned and gave him a smile, then slid across the seat and into his strong
arms.
***
They
drove away from the cemetery an hour later.
“You’re
coming to my house for dinner, right?” Connie asked as she tucked her blouse
back into the waistband of her skirt.
“What
are you having?”
She
laughed at his devilish expression. “That’s rude. Oh, but I should tell you
something.” Her jovial mood faded. “Gianna’s boyfriend is going to be there.
David.”
“Yeah?
So?”
“Well,
there’s something you need to know.”
“Don’t
tell me he’s a Yankees fan.”
I
wish.
“He’s black.”
Paul
stared out through the windshield at the road ahead. “He’s black.”
“Yes.”
“Like…
colored.”
“Yes.”
Paul’s
jaw tightened as he kept his eyes on the road. “Your sister goes out with a
colored guy.”
“His
name is David. He works at the museum in St. J.”
“Why
the hell does she go out with a colored guy?”
Connie
spoke patiently. “A black guy. They don’t want to be called ‘colored.’ Father
Ianelli introduced them. They’re a good match.”
“How’s
that a good match? Your sister’s white.”
He
was not going to make this easy. “What’s the big deal about skin color?” she
asked. “I mean, think about it. You have blue eyes. I have brown. So what?”
“That’s
not the same. It’s not just skin. It’s everything. They’re different. They talk
different. They look different. They eat different stuff. They come from
Africa. They should stick with their own.”