An Italian Wife (5 page)

As soon as it ended, Tommy pulled down his pants and lifted her onto the table, where he entered her. She was still trembling, wondering what had happened to her, when she realized he was not moving. He was inside her, and he was looking at her.

“Do you believe it?” he whispered.

She knew what he meant: soul mates. Her voice seemed to have vanished, but she managed to nod. Tommy Petrocelli was her soul mate. They were—incredibly, wonderfully—in love. So many questions bubbled up in Josephine's throat that a strange, choking sound came from her. Would he take her and all these children with him somewhere?

He took the pin from her hair, and he began to kiss her. Without those fast thrusts, Josephine was able to actually feel Tommy inside her. Soon she was clawing at him, begging him to move inside her. He moved so slowly that she thought she might die from the pleasure of it. And again those jolts were shooting through her, and she heard herself moaning, and she was digging her nails into his hard shoulders. Soon he was moving faster and grunting, and then she actually felt him come inside her.

“Feel my heart,” she whispered. It was beating wildly. “I might die,” she said.

“Le petit mort,”
Tommy said.

“Death?”

“It's French. They call it the little death.”

FOR TWO MORE
FRIDAYS
he came to her, his hands cold from delivering ice. She brought him into the bed she shared with Vincenzo. She imagined leaving her husband, following Tommy Petrocelli anywhere he wanted her to. Everything vanished in the hour they were together each Friday. On the fourth Friday, Josephine woke with her head spinning, and the taste of vomit rising in her throat. And she knew.

But she couldn't let Vincenzo see her like this, or he would know too. She pretended to be asleep until he left for the mill. Then she buried her head in the chamber pot and puked. That day, Tommy Petrocelli did not come to her. He didn't come the next week either. He never came again. People said Alfredo died. Some believed his cousin did too. The blond one who had helped out for a while. Soon a new ice man came.

Josephine tried to think of what to do. It had been years since her husband had lain with her. If he learned she was pregnant, he might kill her. Unless he believed it was his. That night, when he heaved himself into bed, Josephine said, “Vincenzo, do you no longer desire your wife?” The words made her sick, but she had no choice.

Immediately his hand forced her legs open. He grunted, like a pig. Luckily it was dark and he couldn't see her crying. She imagined her passionless life, stretching endlessly before her. She wondered if she could leave this place, leave all of her children, and find Tommy Petrocelli? But even as she wished for such a thing, she knew it was impossible. She had no money; she didn't even speak enough English to find him in the world outside this neighborhood.

When Vincenzo climbed on top of her, his weight pressing down on her so that she couldn't breathe, Josephine thought she might be sick. But she only had to count to five, and he was done.

Throwing up into the chamber pot two weeks later, Vincenzo beamed at her from the doorway. “Poof!” he said. “I only have to look at you and you get pregnant.” He laughed, proud of himself.

Josephine spent all morning throwing up. When she finally had nothing left, she lay in that hot August heat, imagining this baby inside of her. Tommy's baby. In a way, she would have Tommy with her forever. She tried to picture it, this child. What if this baby had Tommy's blond hair? Other than Jacques LaSalle, no one here had hair so pale. Everyone would know. They would remember how she had kept asking for him. They would remember how he always delivered the ice to her house last, even though she was in the middle of the street. As soon as she let herself imagine it, she realized she had to do something.

Josephine went to see Father Leone. She had a lie all ready to tell him. He brought her into his study and offered her a glass of wine, which she eagerly took. Father Leone had one too. He placed the bottle on the coffee table, and came to sit on the red leather sofa, right beside Josephine.

“You're worried about something?” he said kindly.

Josephine nodded. Adultery and lying to a priest, surely she was headed for hell.

Father Leone placed his hand over hers. “Tell me,” he said.

She liked his voice. It was smooth, like the wine he served her. “I'm pregnant again, Father,” she said. “But with six children already, and at my age . . .” She shook her head.

The priest refilled her glass. “Go on,” he said.

“I just wondered if you knew any families who wanted a baby, who maybe couldn't have one of their own.”

“Such a selfless thing to do,” he said, squeezing her hand. “I remember your offering to God, Josephine. I think about it often. How selfless you were. But what does Vincenzo say about it?”

“I haven't told him,” she said, shaking her head again. “It's complicated.”

The priest didn't answer. Josephine gulped at her wine. How foolish she had been to come here. A priest wasn't going to protect a sinner. She should have tried instead to find Tommy. Even without money or English, it might have been possible. Wasn't he her soul mate? The man she loved? She was crying now, and Father Leone lifted her chin and looked right at her, just like he'd done that day in the church.

“Whose baby is it?” he said.

“How could you ask me such a thing?”

“You cannot get help or forgiveness unless I know the truth, Josephine.”

Her mind was swimming from wine and early pregnancy, from having lost Tommy, from desperation.

“You don't have to tell me who the father is,” the priest said. “But don't lie to me about the situation.”

Josephine studied the ruby in the ring the priest wore. It was red and shiny. “Pretty,” she said absently, and touched the ruby with her free hand.

“It can be arranged,” he said, “for you to have the baby in a hospital. Many women do this now, and if you can convince Vincenzo to send you, then all we do is tell him the baby died. The nuns there will give it to a family who can't have their own baby. No one will ever know.”

Josephine was crying harder, pressing her face into Father Leone's jacket. His collar was scratchy against her skin.

“But if you don't tell me the truth . . .” he was saying.

“Fine, fine,” Josephine said, “it isn't Vincenzo's. I can't keep this baby; it isn't his.”

“This service,” the priest said. “There's a fee.”

She looked up, surprised. “I don't have money.”

“Hmmm,” he said. His eyes drifted from her face to her breasts, which had grown even fuller in pregnancy. “Perhaps we can arrange something,” he said. He met her eyes again. “Do you understand?”

Josephine stood up. “I can't . . .”

“Of course you can,” he said harshly. “You gave yourself over to me so easily that day. Remember? I asked you and you did it.”

“For God,” she said, foolishly.

“Do you believe that I am a holy man?”

“Of course.”

“When you offer yourself to me, aren't you giving yourself to God?”

Josephine hesitated. “I . . . I don't know.”

“You don't think I take such things for my own pleasure, do you?”

“No!” she said quickly, even though she didn't know what she thought.

“I have dedicated my entire life to God, haven't I?” he asked her. His voice was kind again.

Out of nowhere, Josephine found herself thinking of the war in Europe. The whole world had gone mad. Isn't that what everyone was saying? Magdalena from down the hill said that soon they were all going to have to speak German, unless we won the war and killed all the Krauts.

Father Leone was waiting patiently, smiling his gentle priest smile. What was left to lose? Josephine wondered. She drank her wine and closed her eyes, but she was not yet to the place where the room was spinning, so she poured more into her glass.

Father Leone laughed. “You like wine, don't you?” he said. “Enjoy it!”

“I do,” she said softly.

This glass did it. She lay back on the sofa and the room spun pleasantly. Josephine smiled. Young boys were getting killed every day over there, she thought. For all she knew, the Germans would come here and kill them too. She was going to hell. Father Leone was going to hell. The whole world was coming to an end.

“The war,” she said, but she was too drunk to put her thoughts into words.

“Remember that God is grateful to you for giving yourself to him, Josephine,” Father Leone whispered. “I just want you to unbutton your dress for me,” he said, his voice low and kind. “Like you did that day.”

Josephine felt her body fly up to the ceiling and watched herself from some distant spot, unbuttoning the dress, unclasping the bra so that her ample breasts fell free. She watched the way Father Leone's eyes gobbled them first, before he bent to suckle them. This was all he had wanted? she found herself thinking. Just like that day in church. Again, newspaper images of the war in Europe filled her mind. All of those young boys had suckled at their mother's breasts, had grown from their milk, grown into men about to die. Josephine wrapped the priest's curls in her fingers and pulled him closer to her.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Give yourself to God.”

With one hand he unbuttoned his trousers and for an instant she froze. He had taken a vow of chastity. He couldn't expect her to do
that
, could he? From her place high above the man and woman on the burgundy leather sofa, with the afternoon light streaming amber and cobalt through the stained-glass window, Josephine saw the priest take himself in his own hand, and smoothly slide his penis up and down in his firm grip, all the while sucking her breasts, all the while Josephine pushing him closer to her, nourishing him, until a spasm went through his body. He lifted his mouth from her then, and turned away.

“Father?” she said.

Father Leone took the clean white linen napkin he had placed beneath the wine bottle and cleaned himself with it. Quickly, Josephine clasped her bra and buttoned her dress, worried he might look back at her and see naked breasts. When he did face her again, his face was as serene and holy as always.

“God loves you,” he told her. “You are selfless, Josephine. He knows that. He is grateful.” Then he touched her forehead and blessed her.

She grabbed his hand and kissed it. “I feel closer to God, Father,” she whispered in a hoarse voice.

Later, as she walked home in the late afternoon light, Josephine thought of his mouth on her nipples. For a while on that sofa, she had forgotten he was a servant of God and she had thought of him as a man. Ashamed of herself for these impure thoughts, Josephine considered going back and confessing them to Father Leone. But hadn't he blessed her? Hadn't he told her God was grateful? “If you need anything else,” he had said to her, “come back.” Her head ached, like the sounds of cannons approaching.

ON VALENTINE'S DAY,
a month earlier than she'd expected, Josephine gave birth alone at Saint Mary's Hospital. The baby was a girl, with soft blond hair, different from any of the other babies Josephine had. So tiny, this beautiful baby girl; her last two babies had been so big they'd ripped her so that she couldn't even pee without pain for weeks. But Valentina was small and calm. Worse, when Josephine held her, she felt a surge of love that she had not felt so immediately with any of her other children. She loved this baby with every cell in her body.

“Her name is Valentina,” Josephine told the nun. “Today is her day. The day of love.”

“Sure,” the nun said, “but the parents give them whatever name they want.”

“Who are they?” Josephine asked, her voice catching.

“Can't tell you. Sorry. She's going to Vermont, though.” The nun lowered her voice. “Very rich family. She's a lucky one. You're doing a selfless thing,” the nun said, handing Josephine her daughter wrapped in swaddling.

It was the only time she was allowed to hold her. Valentina opened her eyes and struggled to focus them. But she managed, and looked right up into Josephine's. Josephine's heart tumbled. “I love you,” she whispered.

That night, as the hospital slept, Josephine got out of bed and went into the long corridor. At the end, two nuns in white habits sat, sipping tea. The lights cast an odd and ugly green over everything, and the floors moved like the sea beneath it. Josephine had to hold on to the wall as she walked quietly down the hallway toward the nursery. She could see it, halfway between her and the nuns. Behind the long pane of glass, all the babies lay under heaters.

Josephine wanted her baby.

She felt the familiar tingle of her milk coming in, and she wanted to get her baby and bring her to her breast. She could not send this baby, her Valentina, away. That was clear to her. Let Vincenzo kill her. Let everyone whisper about this blond-haired girl. But Josephine was going to keep her. Maybe when she felt stronger—because now she was dizzy and her legs wobbled, but soon she would be strong, back to normal—maybe she would take Valentina and find Tommy. “Look,” she would tell him. “Our daughter.”

“Mrs. Rimaldi?” one of the nuns said, her head jerked upright so that her wimple looked like wings and Josephine half expected her to take flight, to swoop down the hallway and carry Josephine back to bed.

“I just want to see her,” Josephine said.

The two nuns looked at each other. The birdlike one stood. “That's not possible.”

Josephine tried again. “I feel my milk coming in. She can nurse now.”

The birdlike one was moving toward her, not flying or soaring, but walking deliberately down the hall. “I'm afraid her parents have already come for her, Mrs. Rimaldi. They've taken her home with them. To Vermont.”