The Incident at Montebello (11 page)

“I got it,” he insisted as his third swipe severed the bird's skinny neck. He lifted it in triumph, his hands covered with blood and feathers. “I told you I could do it.”

For a long moment, she stared at him, her eyes filling with tears. Blood and more blood. The streets were smeared with it that day.

“What's the matter, Isolina? I killed it, didn't I? Professor Zuffi says true men shouldn't be afraid to spill blood for a good cause.”

“You believe everything he says?”

“Well, not everything. But it's true, Isolina. Men always do the dirty work.”

“And women clean it up.” Isolina threw a bucket of water over the bloody stones.

When Charlie ran off, she sat on a crate, plucked the birds' feathers, and carried the carcasses into the kitchen. Marie Elena gutted the birds, plunged them into a basin of cold water, patted them dry, and filled them with bread stuffing while Nonna Angelina slid lemon, garlic and asparagus into a sauté pan.

They didn't look like relatives. The women on Nonna Angelina's side of family were stout and big-breasted like Amelia. Marie Elena took after Nonno Carlo, who had been tall and square-jawed. She even had more black hairs on her head and upper lip than her husband Crispino, who was reputedly hen-pecked. But Isolina didn't care about that. She liked her aunt's direct manner and no-nonsense ways.

Nonna Angelina stirred the coals and set the pot on the burner, but Marie Elena told her, “It's too soon to start the ravioli, mamma.”

Nonna Angelina pointed her spoon at the wall clock. “We're eating at two. I'm not waiting all day for Lucia to get here.”

“I spoke to her this morning,” Marie Elena said. “She's in bed with a headache.”

“She always gets headaches on Sundays,” Nonna Angelina said. “Padre Colletti would be out of a job if he waited for her to show up.”

Marie Elena wasn't afraid to speak her mind. “So what if she misses a mass or two? She works hard all week long. She deserves a rest on Sundays.”

“And I don't?” Nonna Angelina was saying when Amelia scuffled into the kitchen. She frowned. “What took you so long?”

“I needed to speak to Padre Colletti on a matter of great spiritual importance.”

Isolina whirled around and tried to catch her mother's eye, but Amelia kept her head lowered as she sliced the bread. Isolina worried. What if her mother was foolish enough to disobey Lelo and confide in the priest?

“You have more to say to the priest than anyone else I know,” Marie Elena said.

“He gives me comfort,” Amelia insisted.

“He puts me to sleep,” Marie Elena said.

Isolina smiled.

Amelia rubbed her belly. “I saw the midwife the other day. She thinks this one's coming early.”

“Your babies are always in a rush,” Nonna Angelina told her.

Marie Elena sighed. “So, in a few months, we'll lose one child and gain another.”

“Leave it to you to remind us,” Nonna Angelina said. “Let the dead bury the dead, I say.”

“But how can we forget?” Marie Elena demanded. “Take one look at Lucia and it all comes back.”

Nonna Angelina frowned. She didn't like being challenged, but she had the coolness of mind to tell Isolina to set the dining room table. Isolina did as she was told, but peered through a crack in the sliding doors to the kitchen. This had all the makings of a standoff—Marie Elena with bright spots of color on her cheeks and Nonna Angelina as cool as marble. Isolina had no doubt who was going to win and she wasn't going to miss a word of it.

“Did you see Lucia's hair? There's some gray in it now,” Amelia said. “She looks ten years older. It's from the shock.”

Nonna Angelina stirred the vegetables with an angry jerk. “She acts like she's the only one to lose a child. Two of my babies died before their first year but that didn't stop me. I kept busy, too busy to brood. In a year, I was pregnant again with Donato. Lucia's young. She'll have another. She's got to stop feeling sorry for herself.”

Marie Elena's whisper was fierce. “Where's your sympathy, mamma? This is different. Sofia was killed. Justice needs to be done. But the
fascisti
want to distract us. That's why they're hunting down scapegoats. They don't want an investigation.”

“So now you know what Prefetto Balbi is thinking?” Nonna Angelina demanded.

“It's not so hard to figure out,” Marie Elena said. “Now he's claiming Manfredo is linked to an anti-Fascist conspiracy. It's ridiculous. We need justice.”

Isolina's eyes widened. Marie Elena's knowledge of Manfredo and the police startled her. And she was right. The allegations were preposterous. Everyone knew Manfredo was interested in two things—girls and automobiles.

Nonna Angelina's voice chilled her. “Justice? Who needs justice? It was an accident. Besides, Lucia has other children that need her. For weeks Charlie has been running around with a torn jacket. Yesterday I cornered him in the yard, made him take it off, and I fixed it right there and then. You may say I lack sympathy, Marie Elena, but I suggest you open your eyes. I've done more for this family than you'll ever know.”

“We all know what you've done for us, mamma, but that's not the point,” Marie Elena insisted. “Surely, you've heard the rumors. Everybody's knows who's to blame for killing Sofia, but no one's saying a word because they're all afraid of the
fascisti
.”

“If I was going to blame someone, I'd blame Lucia,” Nonna Angelina said.

Isolina listened in shocked silence. She accepted that Nonna Angelina was demanding, opinionated, and hard to please, but with Lucia, she had gone too far.

“You can't be serious, mamma,” Marie Elena cried.

“Not a day went by when she wasn't asking one of us to watch Sofia so she could finish another dress. Not that I minded. Sofia was a delightful child. Smart as a whip. Just like Donato.”

Marie Elena laughed. “Donato.” She never got along with her brother. “If he's so perfect, why isn't he here helping Lucia?”

“And why doesn't he ever write to her?” Amelia added.

“Enough. You're not going to ruin my dinner,” Nonna Angelina said. And because she always had the last word, she poked her head out the kitchen door, shouting for the children to round up their fathers and wash up before eating.

After supper, the men strolled to the
caffè
to play cards and Amelia took the boys home. Isolina and Marie Elena worked fast, scrubbing pots and pans and rubbing them dry while Nonna Angelina sipped some Gran Caruso wine and slipped the silverware into a box lined with velvet. Isolina glanced at her
nonna
whose opinion of Lucia was so unfair, her chest burned with indignation. She felt no better when she thought about her mother and Padre Colletti.

Back home, her brother Peppino was clinging to Amelia's legs and crying. “What took you so long?” Amelia demanded.

Isolina sighed. She'd be doing penance for the rest of her life. “Can I talk to you, mamma?”

“Not now. Put your brother to bed before I go out of my mind.”

She carried Peppino upstairs, set him on their bed and sang him a lullaby. When he was breathing deeply, she grabbed two more boys, made them wash up and climb into bed. All the while, she was worrying about Rodi, wondering what really happened to him. Perhaps he was keeping Manfredo company, or perhaps, he had already been arrested. Her heart raced at the thought.

She was lowering the gas lamps when the front door slammed, but she didn't think much of it until she paused on the stairs, hearing voices. Peering into the parlor, she glimpsed Padre Colletti's
berretta
and cassock, dusty at the hem. He had claimed the best seat in the house—on the horsehair sofa. Her mother was sly, all right, having the priest come over when her father was playing cards.

The priest was telling Amelia, “For your penance, I want you to say the rosary.”

“On my knees,
padre
? You know how they bother me.”

“It doesn't matter where you pray as long as your intentions are good and your heart is pure.”

Isolina stepped on the creaky bottom stair. Amelia and the priest turned as she strode into the room. “Oh, there you are, Isolina,” Amelia said. “The
padre
wants to speak to you.”

“I don't think this is the time or the place, mamma.”

“That's for me to decide.”

Padre Colletti looked expectantly at her and said, “The good Lord forgives all our transgressions.”

Isolina stood before the priest, her hands on her hips. “I'm sorry to waste your time,
padre,
but I've got nothing to confess.”

Amelia sighed. “Do you see how stubborn she is? I've raised her to be a good Catholic and follow the commandments, but the flesh is weak and that boy Rodi can't take no for an answer.”

“Mamma, don't,” Isolina said, but her mother kept talking.

“On the day of the accident, he convinced her to leave the children. They were lying together in the field behind the factory when the car killed Sofia.”

The priest turned to her. “So it's true then? All this time, I've wondered.”

Isolina was trapped. She glared at Amelia whose face reflected her satisfaction at rescuing Isolina from eternal damnation. Her betrayal was so absolute and so irrevocable that Isolina could only mutter, “Yes,
padre
.”

The priest frowned. When he spoke again, his voice was thick with emotion. “Did you stop once to think of our savior Gesù and His commandments?”

“No,
padre
. I wasn't thinking of Gesù at all. I was thinking about Rodi.”

His voice soared. “For a few moments of pleasure you risked a child's life. For a few moments of pleasure, you sacrificed Sofia. The devil whispered in your ear and you listened.”

Ashamed, she bowed her head. The priest's words were still ringing in her ears when he turned to Amelia and said, “I need to speak to Isolina alone.”

“Why yes,
padre
. If you insist,” Amelia said, clearly disappointed about missing Isolina's spiritual chastisement.

When the parlor doors slid shut, the priest paced across the room, his cassock swirling around his ankles. As the minutes passed, she tried to sort out her thoughts. She shouldn't have left the children. He was right about that. But she was also convinced she hadn't sinned with Rodi. If love was a gift from God and she loved Rodi, how could lying with him in the grass be wrong? When she was kissing him, she felt one step closer to heaven. So what was the sin in that?

She studied the priest's ruddy face, trying to measure the depths of this man of God. Instead, she noticed the nick on his chin from shaving and a stain on his cassock from supper and decided he was simply a man after all. Still, she wasn't prepared for his next words.

“You're in more trouble than you think. Prefetto Balbi suspects Rodi is working with the anti-Fascists.”

This news left her speechless, but after a moment she managed to stammer, “I-It's not true,
padre
.”

Padre Colletti sighed. “Prefetto Balbi has already linked Manfredo to them. It's only a matter of time before he uncovers the truth. This is a police matter now,
signorina
, and not a spiritual one. I know you're protecting Rodi, but it's pointless.”

“But,
padre
…”

“You're not listening to me, Isolina. They'll arrest him. I'm telling you this for your own protection.”

She struggled frantically to figure out what to say next. Even if she incriminated herself, the priest and the police had already made up their minds. Her only choice, as far as she could see, was to appeal to his humanity. “I love him,
padre.
I want to marry him. If he gets thrown in jail, I don't know what I'd do.” While she waited for his next words, she knotted her fingers together and prayed for his compassion.

“It's a pity. You belong together.”

She nodded, her mind whirling. “Can you speak to my parents? They'd listen to you.”

“And if you marry, you'll baptize the children?”

“Of course,
padre.
”

The priest sighed. “You must pray to God. You must ask for His forgiveness. Pledge to Him that you will honor His commandments. Dedicate yourself to doing His good works. If I have your word, I might be able to intervene with the police. But you must swear to me that you will obey the laws of God and the state.”

“You have my word.”

“And you'll tell no one what we talked about?”

“No one—not even my parents.”

When the priest slid open the parlor doors, Amelia rushed into the room, twisting her handkerchief. “Did she confess,
padre
? Did she get on her knees and ask for the Lord's forgiveness?”

The priest smiled and rested his hands on her shoulders. “The Good Lord is merciful and just.”