The Possibilities of Sainthood (3 page)

“Antonia! You'll be at the store at four p.m. sharp, eh?”

“How could I forget, Ma? I have to be there
every
day, same time.”

“I don't want Francesca working by herself. She always confuses the pepper biscuits with the
tarallucci
, stupid girl.”

“Mom, Francesca can't help the fact that she's a total airhead.” I couldn't help agreeing with her about that particular branch of our family tree. I opened the door and felt the cool air that signaled freedom.

“Be there at four,” my mother said, unable to resist another reminder.

“I'm leaving, Mother.”

“Four!”

I was almost outside when I heard an angry “Antonia!” I froze, afraid to turn around. “Yes, Mother?”

“
What
do we do before leaving the house?”

I took a step back.

“Sorry, Mom, I forgot.” I sighed, dipping my finger in the bowl of holy water Mom kept by the doorway and crossing myself.

“You may forget Jesus, Antonia, but
he never forgets you
!”

“Okay,
Ma
.”

She was out of control.

“Bye,
Ma
,” I yelled, exasperated, marching down the stairs and out the side door of Labella's Market without looking back at the giant sign that advertised where we lived. And cooked. And grew figs.

You're probably thinking that I don't get along with my mother, but that's not exactly true. It isn't that Mom and I have a bad relationship. We really love each other and I know she'd walk to the ends of the earth for me if she had to and all that and vice versa as far as I'm concerned. It's just that ours is a typical Italian mother-daughter relationship.

 

The Top Five Ways Italians Express Love

1. By always being totally honest with one another, i.e., fighting.

2. Occasionally we scream at each other, which, for Italians, especially between family members, is how you express the fierceness of your love for the other person.

3. Imparting guilt is another popular sign of affection: making someone feel bad about skipping Sunday
Mass or admonishing your daughter for not making wise decisions about her outfits and potentially embarrassing the entire family, which, of course, she would never want to do.

4. Intense bodily animation, most commonly articulated through incessant talking
at
the person you love without giving them a chance to get a word in edgewise while at the same time gesticulating wildly with your hands.

5. Eating each other's food. And lots of it. Ideally until you can't get up from your chair. Nothing says love to an Italian more than an overfull stomach.

I thought about this, wondering if these lessons in love had scarred me somehow, as I hurried down Atwells Avenue. My books bounced against my back, a reminder that I still had to finish my algebra homework before first period. A gold Mustang raced by, laughter spilling out its open windows. Concetta was driving and Veronica sat on the passenger side. It never occurred to them to offer their poor, only-child cousin a ride to school. I waited at the corner of Atwells and Murphy for a walk signal.

“Antonia! Hello! Over here!” a familiar voice called out.

“Hi, Mrs. B,” I said, turning to wave. I couldn't pass our neighbor Mrs. Bevalaqua without a quick hello. Mrs. B had been in a wheelchair because of arthritis for as long as I could remember. She was out catching the last rays of fall sun on her front porch. In full makeup, I might add.

“How are you,
carina
?”
Carina
is Italian for “dear one.”

“I'm fine,” I said, a little out of breath from leaping up the old wooden staircase. Mrs. B took my hand, squeezing hard. Hers felt bony and brittle. It was spotted with age and blue-gray veins webbed through her skin. Mrs. Bevalaqua's first name was Cecilia, which also was the name of the Patron Saint of Singers and Music, a fitting title for a former opera soprano. Though Mrs. B hadn't been able to sing for years now.

“Do you want a cough drop? I've got your favorite flavor,” I said, pulling a lemon one from my bag with my free hand.

“You're such a nice girl, thank you,” she said, smiling, her pink lipstick cracking across her lips. She took the cough drop and slipped it into the pocket of her thick brown cardigan.

“Tell that to my mother next time you see her, Mrs. Bevalaqua.”

“Don't worry, I will,
carina
. Go on now. I know you need to get to school, but you are sweet to always stop by.” She gave my hand a final squeeze before letting go.

“I'll see you later,” I said, heading down the stairs two at a time, when suddenly I stopped. Why, I wasn't sure. I ran back up to Mrs. Bevalaqua, sitting there in her wheelchair, dressed to the nines as if she were waiting for a date to take her dancing, and my heart filled with what—sorrow, sympathy, helplessness? I bent down and gave her a soft, quick kiss on the cheek. “It's going to be okay,” I
whispered, and was down the stairs again in a flash, bag strung across my shoulders.

“Your mother already has my list,” Mrs. Bevalaqua called out, referring to the grocery request she'd phoned in at the beginning of the week that I would deliver tonight. “You think there is a fig or two left or are they all gone?”

“I'll see what I can do, okay? We might have something hidden in the kitchen. Have a nice day, Mrs. B,” I said, walking backward, waving goodbye until the trees blocked her from view.

A cool breeze picked up, blowing my hair so that I had to keep beating it back from my eyes and mouth, hoping it wouldn't be a tangled mess by the time I got to school. I prayed to Mary Magdalen, the Patron Saint of Hairstylists, for help, but it wasn't doing any good. (Yes,
that
Mary Magdalen.) The fall chill reminded me of the daunting task I had ahead of me this weekend: burying the famous Labella fig trees in the backyard. It would take all day Saturday to prune the thin lattice of branches that hung low around the trunks and almost all day Sunday (not to mention the help of half the neighborhood) to bend what was left of the trees' sturdier but still pliable limbs until they reached the ground. Imagine a person touching their toes with their fingertips, but replace the person with two beautiful old trees reaching their oldest, thickest branches all the way to the soil beneath, a position they would have to endure for an entire season filled with ice and snow. That's basically what it meant to winterize the fig trees, with
the final touch of burying them underneath a mountain of canvas and cardboard to protect them from the winter weather until, come springtime, they would yawn and stretch and burst with figs once again.

Sounds poetic, I suppose, but it was a lot of work. Which was also why a Patron Saint of Figs was a great idea.

“Antonia, Antonia!” Little Billy Bruno barreled out the front door of his family's town house. “See,” he said, pointing to his elbow, where the outline of a Band-Aid was still visible. The skin inside the rectangle was as good as new. “It's better already!”

“Well, look at that!” I said, laughing. “I told you I could kiss it and make it better.”

“You did. It doesn't hurt at all now!”

“Billy, Antonia needs to get to school.” Mrs. Bruno appeared on her front porch.

“Hi, Mrs. Bruno,” I called out, watching as Billy disappeared back into the house as quickly as he'd come out.

“Thank you for taking care of Billy when he fell yesterday,” she said. “He was practically healed by dinnertime. It was so strange . . .”

“Well, you know how kids are . . . crying one minute and fine the next,” I said out loud, but inside I was thanking good old St. Amalburga, the Patron Saint Against Arm Pain and Bruising, for her help with Billy. “See you later.”

Bright leaves—yellow and red and orange ones—fell like confetti from the trees lining the sidewalks as I passed through the heart of Federal Hill, near Our Lady of
Loreto, the church where my mother met my father back when she was still a Goglia, not a Labella. She was just fifteen at the time and a member of the youth group Dad ran two evenings a week. It was all very scandalous—that my dad was fraternizing with a girl he was supposed to be leading
away
from sin, not toward it. I loved to remind Mom that I was now the same age she was when they started dating. This did not change her opinion about when
I
could start dating, however.

I hurried by Jimmy's Bike Shop, Russo's Grocery (our competition and therefore a place that no one in my family was allowed to patronize), and Antonio's Restaurant, supposedly the best Italian restaurant in all of Federal Hill (they served our homemade pasta, of course). Two old men from the neighborhood were sitting outside at a metal table playing a game of chess, sipping tiny cups of espresso.

“Antonia,
bella
,” Mr. Montasero said as I passed. He was about to pick up his queen. “How's Amalia Lucia?”

“She's good. Making pasta as usual,” I answered without slowing down.

People were always asking about my mother, Amalia Lucia, always using both of her names. (All three of us—Mom, Gram, and I—had the same middle name, Lucia, which means “light” in Italian and which made the feast day of St. Lucia, the Patron Saint of Light, particularly special in our family.) Ma was kind of a small-town celebrity because of her cooking.
Everybody
knew her. And
everybody
thought she was the greatest. Of course, I had a more nuanced opinion about the woman who disagreed
with my dress code, barely let me out after dark, kept me slaving away on a daily basis at the market or otherwise saddled me with
something
store-related, usually along the lines of food preparation. “Antonia! I need help making the eggplant! Where are you going?” she would yell. Or, “Antonia, will you help me roll out this pasta dough for the lasagna?” Or, “Antonia, tonight I am going to teach you how to make the braciola (pronounced like “bra” + “shawl” with a tinge of a
z
sound when you say the “sh” part and you always drop the final
a
) because if I die tomorrow this recipe dies with me and then what would you cook for your children? Tell me! What? What!”

My hand bumped along the fence bordering the park where my best friend, Maria, had kissed John Cronin a few weeks ago after a dance. It must have been romantic—the streetlamps giving off a soft glow, the two of them flirting, pushing each other on the swings, both knowing the evening was certain to end with a kiss. At least that's how Maria told the story.
I
was at home with Mom and Grandma making meatballs for a sauce at the time, a slightly less romantic evening. The only kiss awaiting me was a good-night peck on the cheek from Gram when I wandered off to bed, smelling of meat and olive oil and simmering tomatoes.

You'd think I'd be chubby from all the food, but unlike the other women in my family I'm pretty skinny. I didn't inherit the massive Labella family bosoms like Mom and Grandma either. Even my three cousins got them, while I am particularly lacking in the boob area. The only substantial
thing about me is the thick black curls that hang all the way to the middle of my back. Keeping my hair under control was almost as difficult as keeping fig trees alive through the winter, which, by the way, is exactly why the world needs a Patron Saint of Figs and Fig Trees, ASAP.

Somebody, some sympathetic, fig-loving cardinal, was going to read my letter and think,
Hmmm. Figs. This girl Antonia is absolutely right! We need a saint for figs! In fact, Antonia seems like the girl for the job.
Perfetto! Then he would tell the Pope.

I was even named after my favorite saint, Anthony of Padua. Anytime someone lost anything in our house—homework, jewelry, the sugar bowl (that would be due to Grandma)—Mom demanded, “We all need to say a prayer to St. Anthony! St. Anthony will help us find it!” When I was younger I imagined St. Anthony was like a superhero with a cape and leotard and X-ray vision to help him do his miraculous “finding” deeds. But now I just picture him as a young, good-looking spiritual prince watching over me.

Though, truth be told, Mom didn't really do her saint homework and made a teeny-tiny unfortunate mistake when she named me Antonia after St. Anthony. There actually
is
a St. Antonia and she is definitely
not
a finder of lost things. In fact, she died tragically as a teenager. At sixteen. A
virgin
. She actually died
protecting
her virginity, and so it's
very
possible, even highly likely, that she is the Patron Saint of Teenage Purity. So, technically, my name saint is famous for her purity. Her untouched-by-boys-ness.

I am also famous for this, by coincidence.

And though I may accidentally be the pseudo Patron Saint of Teenage Purity, I've been aiming to change Antonia's reputation a bit. Give some color to what is currently an unfortunate and not so exciting association for girls who bear my name. Do a little presainthood damage in the debauchery department and maybe work on my getting a bit less pure in the near future.

“Hey, Antonia,” said a voice out of nowhere, startling me.

Michael McGinnis pulled up next to me, driving as slowly as I was walking, hanging out the driver's window of his old, beat-up, hand-me-down Subaru.

“Hi, Michael,” I said, but kept walking. That's Michael as in the archangel, picture of innocence and goodness, and McGinnis as in, he's way Irish.

The angel in question and I were friends. Sort of.

“Can I give you a ride, love?” Out of the corner of my eye I saw a smile widen across Michael's freckled face. I could swear he played up the Irish brogue around me on purpose. He called everyone “love,” so it's not like his calling
me
“love” made me any different from all the other girls he called “love” on a regular basis—and believe me, there were lots of them.