The Possibilities of Sainthood (14 page)

“Um” was all I managed during what could have been the beginning of the most important boy-interaction of my entire almost-sixteen-year career as a girl.

“What Antonia means,” Francesca cut in, going from
sleepy to perky in an instant, batting her eyelashes as she sauntered over to Andy before I could do or say anything else, “is that yes, we knew you'd be here today and we're thrilled for the help. Let me show you around.”

“Yeah” was word two that escaped my mouth and I nodded my head as if I approved of this tour, watching as Francesca, who flirted with everything that moved even though she was getting married in three months, directed Andy around the market. All the good feelings I'd had for her just moments before vanished. As I finally put the tray of spinach pies onto the pastry shelf, in my mind I noted that a Patron Saint of Using Your Words would have been helpful at the moment.

“And this is the stockroom,” I could hear Francesca saying.

Ooh, THE STOCKROOM.

Andy would be working in the stockroom! Presumably, at least occasionally, with me! Impure thoughts began flying through my head: Andy and me in the stockroom laughing over something. Andy and me in the stockroom kissing passionately behind the canned tomatoes. Andy and me having a romantic moment in the stockroom after I've closed the market for the night and turned off the lights!

Deep breaths, I told myself, since I didn't want to get too carried away. Before laughing, kissing, and romance were possible I first had to learn to utter complete sentences in Andy's presence. This was a job for St. Teresa, the Patron Saint of Grace. I silently petitioned her:

 

Dear St. Teresa, I know you are busy because lots of people are in need of grace and everything, but if you could just help me have a little bit of it while I'm around Andy I'd be eternally grateful. Oh, and if you manage to remove any graceful potential from Veronica, Concetta, and Francesca when they're working at the store, that would be a huge help. No—wait. Forget that. That's not very nice. I take that last part back. Thank you, St. Teresa, for your attention.

Francesca proceeded to monopolize Andy for almost an hour, introducing him to virtually every canned vegetable and box of vermicelli we sold in the market, while I moved through the checklist, still tongue-tied. When I looked at the clock again, it was almost eight. Time to get outside. Maria would be here any minute. You knew you had a good friend when she'd show up at eight on a Saturday morning to help you bury the family fig trees. And all I needed to quell any angst about the job ahead was to recall my total joy about Andy's new position at the store, which finally put me in prime position to (a) get Andy Rotellini to really notice me and then (b) get Andy Rotellini to give me my very first, totally amazing, dreamy, passionate kiss! If only I could figure out how to talk in his presence. Maybe
when
he kissed me this could count as my Miracle Number One on the road to sainthood. It certainly seemed to require a miracle to get yourself kissed—at least at the right time and with the right boy.

“Antonia! Time to get going!” my mother yelled from upstairs.

Perhaps it would help with the kissing if I was beatified (i.e., beautified) by the Vatican first.

Despite my reluctance to leave Francesca alone in the market with Andy, I knew I had to get to work outside. Before my mother could yell my name again, I was in my jacket and out the door to the yard in back, soothed by the knowledge that Andy would be nearby the entire day.

“Hi, Antonia,” said a male voice, but not the one I'd been hoping to hear. Andy was just steps away and yet he hadn't come out once to say hello or to offer his assistance.

“Hi, Michael,” I yelled from my perch on the ladder, squinting in the bright sun, trying not to be fazed by his arrival. Instead, I concentrated on the branch I was about to clip with shears big enough to chop down a small tree. As I squeezed the handle, there was a loud
snap
and the branch broke free, tumbling down against the lower limbs and onto the grass below. “Hey, can you make yourself useful and gather those branches down there?” I called out.

“I've got it, Antonia,” Maria said, emerging from behind the other tree, where she'd been pruning its lower limbs.

“Hey, Michael,” she said, giving him a wave. Maria and I had been working steadily all morning and I hadn't even
had a chance to brief her about my nighttime rendezvous with Michael—though I did manage to get some delighted squeals in about seeing Andy.

“Looks like you already have excellent help,” Michael said, approaching the bottom of the ladder.

“Haven't seen you in a while,” I lied. “So are you going to just stand there or what?”

A big smile spread across Michael's face.

“Wait. Don't answer that. I don't want to know,” I said, feeling that familiar head rush I always got when we locked eyes, which made me consider climbing down from the ladder so I didn't plummet to my death. Death by fig-tree winterization was all I needed today of all days. Though I probably had a better chance of becoming the Patron Saint of Figs and Fig Trees if I died on their behalf. And as appealing as this possibility of sainthood was, I reminded myself that (a) my goal was to become a living saint, (b) I refused to live up to my name saint and become yet another fifteen-year-old dead virgin named Antonia, and (c) I really should get down because not only was I getting dizzy but I was currently giving Michael an unobstructed view of my butt.

“How about I come up there and join you?” Michael asked.

“That answer is definitely no,” I said, carefully stepping from rung to rung until I reached the ground, still grasping the pruning shears as if they were a weapon to keep Michael at bay.

“That was nice of you to give Antonia a ride yesterday,”
Maria said, emerging again from underneath the other tree, wiping her brow. We were sweating from the hard labor.

“Anytime, Maria.”

“I'm sure, Michael,” Maria said with a knowing laugh.

Michael looked from me to Maria and upward to the two towering trees that left little room for much else, and back to me with skepticism on his face. The Labella fig trees
were
unusually big.

“This is quite a job,” he said.

“We can handle it,” I said. Though, not without serious assistance. Tomorrow we'd have half the neighborhood men here to help bend the top branches to the ground, holding them while Gram, Mom, and I secured them with rope into small mountains of cardboard and canvas.

“You really know how to make a guy feel welcome, Antonia.” Michael's eyes moved to the pruning shears I was still holding out as if I were about to attack him.

“Someone has to ward off the throng of guys looking for Maria,” I said, lowering the shears to my side.

“Oh, please,” Maria said. “My heart is already taken.”

“So I've heard,” Michael said. “John Cronin, eh? Taming a popular senior like him is quite an accomplishment.”

“He
is
amazing, isn't he?”

“Just be careful. He gets around, Maria.”

“Like you don't, Michael,” Maria came back, laughing.

“I'm saving myself for Antonia,” Michael said. Our conversation last night came back in a rush. I felt my face flush as red as my T-shirt.

“Right. Mabye I should go back to my tree and leave you two alone,” Maria said, backing away.

“Don't go, Maria,” I said, half laughing, half pleading. “I have no idea what he's talking about.”

“Of course you do, Antonia. Just last night you were saying how I kiss all the HA girls and I was saying how I hadn't kissed—”

“Need some help?” said another voice before Michael could finish, and I couldn't stop the smile that spread across my face. Finally! Andy Rotellini was standing in the back doorway of the market looking
godly
in perfect-fitting jeans and a white T-shirt that set off the bronze color of his skin. I suddenly found it impossible to utter another syllable. “Your grandmother said I might be more useful out here than in the market this afternoon.”

“Hi, Andy,” Maria called out since I wasn't showing any sign of language skills. “Of course you know Michael because you're in the same class, or should I make an introduction?” Maria looked amused by the unusual overflow of eligible men in my vicinity.

“Hey, Mike. What's up?” Andy and Michael did the requisite guy-nod-hello gesture.

“Yeah. Hi. Andy,” I managed to croak, the tiny space in the yard that wasn't occupied by the trees suddenly feeling overcrowded with Michael, Andy, and me all standing there together. The laughter left Michael's eyes and I found myself wishing Michael would decide to leave. I'd been waiting for a chance to get to know Andy forever and that
chance was finally here, but so was Michael. “We'd love your help, Andy,” I said, giving him a belated answer. I wanted to fix this awkward situation. “Which also means you, Michael, are off the hook for fig-tree duty since my mother is actually
paying
Andy to be here. Today is his first day working at the store. Had I mentioned that he'd be working here?” Michael should understand. We did just have a conversation about the fact that I had a thing for Andy Rotellini.

“I was just going, actually,” Michael replied. I didn't have to look to know he was hurt—it was there in his voice. “I told Veronica I'd pay her a visit this afternoon anyway.”

“You did?” I tried to sound nonchalant. “That's great, I mean,” I said, crossing the small patch of grass between me and the ladder without looking at Michael. “Why wait? I mean, go see her now so you guys can have lunch. Though, you might want to pick something up from the market on your way since Veronica is not the best cook and neither is her mother.” I grabbed the shears and climbed back up, rung by rung, reminding myself that I didn't have time to socialize. I began hacking at one of the thicker branches, barely paying attention to what I was doing.

“Thanks for the advice, Antonia.” I heard Michael behind me. “Maria. Andy.” Michael said his goodbyes. “I'll be seeing you. Nice chatting.”

The gate clicked shut and Michael was gone before anyone had the chance to say anything else.

“So, Antonia? What would you like me to do?” I'd almost forgotten that Andy, the love of my life, was still standing there, awaiting direction.

“Um. Well.” I tried to say something intelligible.

“Let me get you a pair of clipping shears and then Antonia will show you how to prune the lower branches,” Maria said, heading over to Andy, rescuing me.

I stared at Andy, watched him standing there at my house, gorgeous as ever, something I'd wanted for what seemed like forever, and I wanted to believe that in that moment Andy captivated me all over again. But the truth was I couldn't stop thinking about Michael. And Veronica. The thought of them together didn't feel right. A knot began growing in my stomach, and I wasn't at all confident that Andy's presence could make it disappear.

It was Sunday night. The big weekend was over and I was kneeling before the tiny portrait of St. Walburga that leaned against my vanity mirror. She was standing, eyes facing the ground, holding a scepter in one hand and three ears of corn in the other.

 

Dear St. Walburga, O Patron Saint of Harvests, Against Storms and Coughing, even though you technically have nothing to do with figs or fig trees, I thank you for watching over us this weekend in what was a very successful fig-tree burying. Not only are the family trees—which are basically the family treasures—protected for yet another cold Rhode Island winter, but the sun shined on us for two entire days, not only keeping me from coming down with a cold followed by potentially obstructive and unfortunately timed coughing fits (such as when my beloved is about to kiss me, which he will eventually), but also providing a warm weather incentive
for the neighbors to come out and help with the burying after Sunday Mass. It was a community effort, not to mention the perfect opportunity for some of the men to flirt with my mother, who is so in need of a date. Thank you, St. Walburga, for your intercession in these matters.

I struck a match to light the candle I'd placed nearby. I sank into the red, cushioned vanity chair with its old-fashioned, heart-shaped metal back, and watched my reflection flicker in the light.

I imagined my mother sitting here in this very chair—back when the vanity used to be hers—fixing her hair, putting on jewelry, getting ready to go out with my father for the first time when she was my age. Maybe after Dad died she'd decided she had no more use for it, that her evenings out were in the past. Or maybe she just couldn't bear to look at it anymore, because of all the memories it brought back. So she gave it to me. I hated to think about how lonely she must be, but she refused to date any of the neighborhood bachelors. I wondered whether she'd loosen up with me if she started going out with someone. I had even brought up the subject at dinner earlier in the evening.

Mom, Gram, and I were celebrating the fig-burying, clinking glasses of Asti Spumanti, when I decided to pop the question.

“Mom,” I began, cautious, knowing I was about to dive into forbidden territory. We were sitting around the kitchen table, with its red-checked vinyl tablecloth. Tall candles radiated a soft glow over everything. Gram had
thrown together a sauce and we were having it over linguini. Mom had even set out the nice china and crystal. Everyone seemed so happy. “I was wondering if you ever thought of going out with someone from the neighborhood.”