Nun After the Other

by Alice Loweecey

  The misery in those few sentences brought Giulia closer to cursing than she’d ever been. “Guys, your dad was in an accident at work. He’s in the hospital.”

  Salvatore’s middle child shrugged.

  His oldest child said, “Too bad for him.”

  His only daughter said, “Maybe he’ll die and mom can come back.”

  Giulia put on her firm teacher face. “Listen up. I need everybody to pack a suitcase and a backpack. Put all your school supplies in the backpack and enough clothes and toiletries for a few days in the suitcase. Do you still have camping gear, specifically sleeping bags?”

  Three pairs of eyes blinked at her.

  Cecilia recovered first. “We’re staying with you?”

  Pasquale stepped forward and Cecilia shoved him back into a doorway. “Don’t bring grass in here. Dad told me if he comes home one more time and finds anything on the floor I’m grounded.”

  Pasquale laughed as he backed away. “How is being grounded different from any other day?”

  Carlo, free of any potential debris, stepped into Pasquale’s place. “We’re getting out of here?”

  “Yes. You can’t stay here by yourselves.”

  Pasquale said from the doorway, “You’re not messing with us?”

  Giulia ditched plans to break the news gently. “I’m not messing with you. Your father’s in a coma and the hospital isn’t sure when he’ll wake up. You boys haven’t seen me in six years, but I’m your aunt and you’re coming home with me.”

  Cecilia leaped forward and squeezed Giulia. “Awesome!”

  Giulia detached her. “No squeezing the pregnant lady.”

  Her niece’s eyes got big. “We’re going to have a cousin?”

  “In a few months. Right now, everyone go pack.”

  As though they were released from playing a game of freeze tag, all three kids stampeded upstairs. Pasquale shed grass with every step.

  Giulia went through the doorway he’d appeared in earlier. It led into the kitchen. On the counter, a dozen breaded chicken legs lay in two rows on a foil-covered cookie sheet. On a cutting board, half a head of lettuce crowded for space with a beefsteak tomato, a pepper, a can of black olives, and a cucumber. Next to the lettuce, a box of instant mashed potatoes.

  Giulia opened the fridge and tossed the salad fixings in the crisper drawer. She pushed the drumsticks into two tight rows, folded the foil around them, and set the bundle in the freezer.

  The milk and eggs in the fridge wouldn’t expire for another week. She added the bread to the freezer. Everything else would survive a brief absence.

  At least she didn’t have to worry about a pet dog or cat. She shot the deadbolt on the back door and tested all the stove burners to make sure they were off.

  Thumps and shouts filtered down from the second floor. Giulia walked to the foot of the stairs and shouted, “Where’s the ironing board?”

  Cecilia’s voice: “In the cellar.”

  Giulia returned to the kitchen and opened the only other door. A switch illuminated wooden stairs and paneled walls. At the bottom Giulia spotted the iron and ironing board setup next to the dryer. She hoisted herself butt-first onto the dryer and unplugged the iron. Nothing else in the cellar needed unplugging or turning off.

  The kids were still upstairs. She climbed to the second floor and stood in Pasquale and Carlo’s doorway.

  “Did your dressers explode?”

  Both boys jerked around, fear in their eyes. “We’re sorry. We’ll clean it up right now.”

  For the second time in thirty minutes, Giulia experienced an overwhelming desire to return to the hospital and whack her brother on his fractured skull.

  “Only bring what you’ll need for a few days, remember? The weather’s supposed to be in the seventies. Don’t forget your phone chargers.”

  They did a double take worthy of a comedy team.

  “We don’t have phones anymore.”

  “Dad says they’re a source of temptation.”

  They stuffed excess clothes any which way into the drawers and straightened their bedspreads. Giulia pointed to the bulging suitcases.

  “Bag check time. Open up, please.”

  She refolded their white shirts. Carlo pulled his school shoes from under his bed. Pasquale found both their neckties.

  “Nice work. Toothbrushes and deodorant?”

  Carlo ran out of the room. Giulia said to Pasquale, “We only have one bed in our spare room. What about your sleeping bags?”

  “Dad might have given them away. I’ll look in the garage.”

  “I’ll check on Cecilia. Meet you downstairs.”

  Like the boys’ room, Cecilia’s room looked more like a Catholic hotel room than a pre-teen’s bedroom. A crucifix above the bed and a corner shrine to the Blessed Virgin Mary were the only decorations. A homemade rag rug covered a small section of floor in front of a sparse bookshelf. Giulia’s glance took in Bible studies, lives of several saints, and homeschool-type study guides.

  “Bag check.” Giulia refolded Cecilia’s school blouses. “You won’t have to iron them tonight if you use this trick.”

  “I need my toothbrush.”

  “Carlo got them all.”

  “Yeah, right.” She left and returned with a pink toothbrush.

  This small instance of sibling rivalry pleased Giulia. It was the first sign of normal brother-sister interaction she’d seen in this repressed household.

  The boys sat at the foot of the stairs with two suitcases, two backpacks, and two sleeping bags.

  Cecilia rolled her eyes. “Okay, jerks, where’d you hide mine?”

  “It’s gone, Cece.” Pasquale’s frown aged him ten years. “Remember dad’s Bible study last month?”

  She leaned into the living room and took a Bible from a stand, flipping it open. Its cover proclaimed it a study edition. “The proper place of a Catholic woman is in the home or at church. Only the proper Catholic male, girded with the spiritual armor of God, should venture into the wilderness to gain the strength required to lead and protect his family.” She shoved it back into place with enough force to bang the stand against the wall. “He is such a jerkface.”

  Giulia silently agreed but knew better than to lose a micron of her authority. “The decision is made, then. Cecilia gets the bed and you two share the floor. We have rugs, so it’ll be a little better than camping.”

  The kids remained silent.

  “Guys, I checked the stove and put the food away. The iron’s unplugged. What else needs to be turned off?”

  “Our alarms.” Cecilia ran upstairs and returned a minute later.

  “Nothing else technology related?”

  “We don’t have much technology anymore.” Pasquale elbowed Carlo. “We’ll lock the windows.”

  “Did you lock the garage when you put away the lawn mower?”

  “Yes ma’am,” Pasquale called from the living room.

  “Cecilia, where’s a house key?”

  “I’ll show you.” She opened the front door. With her thumbnail she pulled open the side of Christ’s footrest on the massive bronze crucifix. A nickel-plated key fit at an angle in the space.

  “Clever.”

  Cecilia shrugged. “I guess.”

  Giulia gestured to the boys. “Let’s go.”

  Cecilia ran inside and out again with her bags before the boys got theirs. She tossed them in the Nunmobile’s trunk and jumped into the passenger seat. When the boys stowed their bags, Pasquale tried the handle. It didn’t budge. Cecilia stuck out her tongue. Pasquale flipped her off.

  “Hey.”

  Pasquale jerked ramrod-straight at Giulia’s tone of voice.

  “You’re in my territory now. No language, verbal or otherwise. Got it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

 
; “Good. In the car and buckle up. Carlo, please close the trunk.”

  When the odometer ticked past one mile from her brother’s house, the tense atmosphere snapped.

  “We’re really leaving dad’s house.”

  Giulia braked for a red light. “Obviously.”

  “Are you normal?”

  “Do you have cable?”

  “She has a gun, jerks.” Cecilia poured scorn on her brothers. “She’s a detective. She’s normal. We’re the freaks.”

  Eleven

  The kids stood in Giulia’s foyer with their bags, too quiet again. Their burst of excitement in the car had lasted only to the next stoplight. When Salvatore woke up, Giulia was going to take advantage of his obligation to her and flay him alive.

  “Upstairs and turn left, you three. Come on.”

  The spare room was nothing fancy or deserving of a Pinterest spread. Leaf-green curtains, tan and white striped wallpaper, tan carpet, leaf-patterned bedspread.

  “Ooh, pretty.” Cecilia tossed her bags on the bed.

  Pasquale and Carlo unrolled their sleeping bags.

  “I call window,” Pasquale said.

  Carlo therefore spread his bag beneath the window. Pasquale dropped his bag on top of Carlo’s. Carlo picked up the bag and shoved it into his brother’s stomach.

  “Stop behaving like brats, you brats,” Cecilia said, hands on hips.

  Giulia’s hands came down on her nephews’ shoulders. “Hey. My house. My rules. Rule number two: No fighting. I don’t have the time or patience for it.” She released them. “You’ll shoot rock-paper-scissors for the window. Best of three. Go.”

  The boys hesitated.

  “I expect to be obeyed.”

  They shot the fastest three rounds Giulia had ever seen. Pasquale won. Giulia herded them back downstairs, wondering how to get Carlo to talk to her. After that one sentence in the car, he’d shut down.

  “Kitchen facing you. Living room to the right. Game closet is this door on the left, but it’s off limits until Uncle Frank gives the okay. It’s his space. Come into the kitchen with me.”

  They followed like ducks, chose Cokes to drink, and returned to the living room. A minute later they clustered around the TV watching back episodes of Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

  At 6:32 the next morning, Giulia turned on the spare room light, stepped between Carlo’s arm and Pasquale’s head, and opened the curtains.

  “School is in session.”

  Three jacks-in-the-box popped up.

  “Yes, Dad.” Covers fell away before any of them were actually awake.

  Giulia moved away from the window so they could see her face. “You’re at Aunt Giulia’s. We only have one shower. Pasquale, you’re first. You have five minutes each.”

  Giulia waited in the hall. They each made it in less than six minutes. Giulia gave reluctant props to her brother for keeping the kids efficient in the mornings.

  “Do you guys need help with your neckties?”

  “No, ma’am, they’re clip-ons.”

  “Breakfast will be ready in fifteen minutes.”

  Fourteen minutes later, the kids were sitting at the table sipping orange juice. Giulia set plates with English muffins, eggs, and bacon in front of them. Frank slid into the head chair and Giulia set him a plate with twice the amount of food plus a cup of coffee. Instead of his fork, Frank picked up his phone and put it on speaker.

  “Mom? I want you to know I never appreciated you enough growing up.”

  His mother’s voice said, “I wish I had a tape recorder handy.”

  Giulia said from the stove, “I’m the witness.”

  Frank’s mother said, “Why the sudden homage from my youngest son at seven o’clock in the morning?”

  “Giulia’s niece and nephews are staying with us for a few days. They’re thirteen, twelve, and eleven. In the space of half an hour, starting at six thirty, she has everyone in the house sitting at the table eating a home-cooked breakfast.” He winked at Giulia. “I’m not worthy.”

  “You are quite right,” his mother said. “Now hang up and eat your breakfast while it’s hot.”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  Giulia brought her own breakfast to the table, minus bacon. She and little Zlatan needed to talk. First he restricted coffee. Now he was making her regret eating bacon.

  Over the rim of her first allowed pregnancy coffee of the day, she saw three pairs of eyes staring at her and Frank.

  “Is there egg in my hair?”

  Cecilia said to her brothers in a perfect imitation of mansplaining, “You see? This is how normal families interact.”

  “No sh—um, no kidding.” Pasquale became very interested in his eggs.

  In between small bites thanks to Zlatan’s rearranging of her internal organs, Giulia began her prepared speech. “Here’s the way this is going to work. You know your mom and dad have started marriage counseling, right?”

  “Yeah.” Pasquale spoke with muffin in his mouth. Giulia gave him a pointed look. He swallowed, coughed, reached for his orange juice, and chased down the mouthful. “Yes, ma’am. Dad told us before his first appointment.”

  “Get real,” Cecilia said with an empty mouth. “What he did was give us another lecture about the proper state of a true Catholic marriage. Remember when he came home? He used the counseling to try to make us think he should be wearing a halo for even talking to Mom.”

  Pasquale muttered into his orange juice.

  Giulia didn’t ask. “I know your dad told you to keep quiet about your home situation. As much as I hate lying, I want you not to let anyone at school know what’s happening now.”

  “Why?” Cecilia said.

  “Because the school will call CPS and we’ll get separated, dummy.”

  Cecilia stuck out her tongue at Pasquale. “Guess what, dummy, we’re at a relative’s house so they won’t care.”

  Giulia wished she possessed a full-size stop sign. “They will care. They’ll find out about your mom’s problems back in July. When they talk to the hospital about your dad they could very well decide you’d be better off in foster care.”

  Cecilia stopped shoveling in food. “But Aunt Giulia, why wouldn’t they let us keep staying with you?”

  Frank said, “They have rules. They might not think it’s good for all three of you to be squeezed into one small room here. In the end we might get temporary custody, but you’d have to go through the whole Child Protective Services process first.”

  “Bureaucracy sucks.” Pasquale finished his bacon.

  “Whoa.” Frank pointed out the back door. “The chameleon lassoed the biggest black fly I’ve ever seen.”

  Carlo raised his head for the first time. “The what?”

  “Chameleon. Aunt Giulia got it from one of her clients.”

  “Can I see?” Carlo’s chair tilted at a dangerous angle, but he caught it before the crash.

  “Me too?” Cecilia and Pasquale said.

  “I’ll get the dishes.” Frank stacked empty plates.

  Giulia led the way through the central garden path to the three-foot square chameleon cage.

  Cecilia poked her arm. “Uncle Frank does dishes?”

  Giulia wondered how long it would take these kids to unlearn her brother’s indoctrination.

  “What’s his name?” Carlo squatted nose to nose with the chameleon.

  “He’s a she, and it’s Scarlett.” She explained the lizard’s eating and drinking habits. Carlo asked most of the questions, his perpetual frown lightening.

  “It’s seven thirty,” Frank called from the doorway.

  Giulia separated Cecilia from Pasquale and asked how much school lunches cost. When Pasquale gave the same figure, she handed out lunch money. To prevent another fight, she arranged the Nunmobile seating herself.

&
nbsp; “One of us will pick you up. Look for either of these cars as close to the main doors as we can park.”

  Frank kissed her. “I’m buying you a Wonder Woman nightshirt.”

  Twelve

  Giulia rang the convent doorbell at 8:20 instead of her planned eight o’clock because dropping the kids at school involved NASCAR-level driving skills. Every single parent in the queue needed to spend their lunch hour in the confessional. She nearly shouted this advice out the Nunmobile’s window at a mother putting on mascara while cutting off two other cars. Investigating a possibly shady developer would be relaxing.

  The door opened and the little brown and white Chihuahua limped to the threshold.

  Giulia squatted on the stoop. “You poor thing. What happened to you?” She rubbed the pointy ears. The dog licked her hands. She looked up at Sister Olive. “He was fine last night.”

  The nun smirked at her. “You fell for it. Steve, you’re a furry con artist.” She tapped the little dog in its head and he ran into the house on four good legs. “Most dogs can sit up, roll over, and play dead. Steve knows how to fake a limp to get sympathy when he meets new people.”

  Giulia laughed. After all the strain and craziness of the last thirty-six hours, a Chihuahua devious enough to solicit extra attention with a phony injury was the funniest thing she’d ever seen. She laughed until she hiccupped.

  Sister Olive brought her back to the kitchen and poured her a glass of water. “Drink it all without stopping.”

  Giulia complied. She’d used this remedy before. The hiccups gave up after a last half-hearted attempt. “Thank you. Did you teach your dog that trick?”

  Sister Olive affected shock. “What kind of Franciscan would teach an animal to lie? No. He’s a rescue. We discovered his talent when Kathryn brought him home and he pulled it on Matilda. She loved it.” Her lips pinched together and she inhaled sharply. “He was Matilda’s dog from that moment. The rest of us were demoted to stand-ins when he needed extra attention.”

  Steve sat at Sister Olive’s feet and yipped. She scooped him up. “Come on. I’ll take you for a walk.”

  “Wait,” Giulia said. “I’d like to speak to everyone in the house.”