The Saint of Lost Things

by Christopher Castellani

  These were Antonio’s thoughts as he sat in the living room amid the shadows and flickering candlelight. At the other end of the couch, Ida sang songs with the girls, but their voices might just as easily have come from the radio. The darkness put a comfortable distance between everyone, and suddenly the house seemed larger, almost cavernous. He did not need the long walk to the pizzeria, the adventures of Renato and Buzzy and their girls, to distract him. Maybe all he ever needed was to be left alone—a few days, a few hours, even a short drive up the coast—so he could listen to his own voice.

  But the world had become very crowded. Men could not keep to themselves as easily as they used to. Peace and quiet came only at night, when you were too tired to enjoy it, but obligations came at all hours and from all directions. No matter what route home Antonio took, he was bound to run into a coworker, a neighbor, or a face he recognized from the pizzeria. Someone’s cousin from the Old Country was always just arriving, and he’d have to spend the better part of an hour listlessly nodding to the tale of his voyage and his wide-eyed impressions of America. “You’ll come to my house for dinner once you get settled,” Antonio found himself saying, often just for an excuse to walk away. And though he welcomed the boom in population—it would help turn Wilmington into a real city; it would feed his base of customers once he opened the trattoria—he resented the responsibility he felt for every Italian who stepped off the boat. Most of them came from the South anyway—Naples and Sicily and other places that made his people look like a race of illiterate pickpockets—and lacked even the rudimentary education Antonio had received in Santa Cecilia. It occurred to Antonio that having an elegant wife had turned him into a snob. He sometimes forgot he grew up not in Roma or Milano, not even a northern town, but a central Apennine village of three streets, where they’d stopped turning the pages of the calendar in the middle of the last century. The only virtue of the place was its peacefulness. People drove from all the major cities of the country just to sit in the olive groves, breathe the fresh air, and luxuriate in the silence.

  At home on Eighth Street there were his nieces pulling each other’s hair and skittering across the living room like windup toys. There was the newspaper to read. “How to Live with the H-Bomb” was the title of Bill Frank’s editorial, helpfully accompanied by a bull’s-eye map that showed the decimation of much of Delaware if the Big One struck the center of Wilmington. There was Maddalena casting a disapproving eye on his grease-stained fingernails, his mother begging him to take an immediate look at the icebox because it didn’t seem as cold as it did last week. When Antonio did not say much at dinner, there were questions; when he talked more than usual, there were different questions. There were always questions. And little jobs and favors. Requests for advice. Unable to reach his brother, who ate all his meals at Mrs. Stella’s, they all sought Antonio.

  Aloneness. That was what his life lacked. No wonder he took the roundabout route home from the pizzeria. No wonder it seemed as though everyone was in his way. If only he had time to sort and plan, to weigh and negotiate, he would stay out of trouble. He would figure out exactly how to make good on his ideas and dreams.

  The power company restored electricity after five days, just in time for the angry phone call from Renato that Antonio had been expecting. With his wife and mother watching from the stairs, he hung up without saying a word, and mumbled, “Mario needs me” and “no emergency.” Then he grabbed his coat and headed to the pizzeria.

  “You have some nerve,” Renato said, when Antonio walked through the front door. “I didn’t think you’d show your face in here again.”

  He and Buzzy sat smoking cigars at the back table. Cassie was between them, arms folded across her chest, the corners of her mouth turned downward. She shook her head in disgust as Antonio approached. The deck of cards in Buzzy’s hand suggested they were not so angry that they couldn’t play a game or two of briscola. He stopped and held out his palms. “I have a good explanation.”

  Buzzy and Renato stood.

  “Please. Listen to my side.”

  They stared at him. Over the spitting and knocking of the radiators, the phonograph played Mario Lanza.

  “Yes, I did tell my brother about your plan,” Antonio said, holding the men’s stare. “My gut told me you’d try it anyway, no matter how much I warned you. Turns out my gut was right.” He looked at Renato. “If it was your brother, uaglio, you’d have done the same.”

  “Someone’s loyal to me, I’m loyal to them,” he said. “End of story.”

  “I only told Mario so he’d call me if Cassie ever came to the bar by herself. At first he thought I was playing a joke. Then last night, there she was in her little skirt and all that makeup. At midnight the phone rang. I ran out of the house, but by the time I got to Mrs. Stella’s, the taxi was already at the curb. I saw Cassie on the sidewalk and tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen. So I grabbed her arm. She squirmed like an animal and kicked me in the leg. She pulled my fingers back, I lost my grip, and she ran to the taxi. But I caught her in time. ‘Keep moving,’ I told the driver. ‘I’ll take the girl home—’”

  “‘And don’t come back here tonight, no matter who calls you,’” Cassie said, mimicking his voice. “‘If you know what’s good for you.’ He scared him off for good. He ruined everything!”

  “My wife is home by herself in the dark—my three-months pregnant wife,” Antonio said, “and I’m running up and down Union Street with a girl? And then afterwards I have to lie to my family about where I’ve been? I took a big risk.”

  “For no reason,” said Renato. “Why you didn’t mind your own business, get a good night’s sleep next to your wife, and let us do our work is a mystery to me. You care so much about that mulig-nane that you turn your back on us?”

  “I was doing you a favor—”

  “Look at my arm!” said Cassie. She pulled up her left sleeve to reveal finger-shaped bruises. “Is this what you call a favor?” She lifted her leg and showed a gash just above the ankle, a perfect arc of crusted blood.

  “I did not do that,” Antonio said. He turned to Renato and said in Italian: “You know I’d never hurt a girl. Especially yours.”

  “You pushed me into the fire hydrant,” Cassie went on. “I tore my leg up. Then I fell in the gutter. You don’t remember. You were the one like an animal. Drunk as a skunk!” She presented her palms, red and swollen.

  “I was not drunk,” Antonio said. “I was home in my pajamas. She did this to herself. It’s obvious to me.” But it did not seem obvious to Renato or Buzzy. Renato looked through him, as if at a stain on the wall just behind his head. Buzzy kept shuffling the cards.

  “Get the fuck out of my shop,” said Renato calmly, his eyes still fixed on the stain. “From now on, stop by the nero’s house after work. Maybe he’ll cook for you.”

  Cassie giggled.

  “You don’t mean that,” said Antonio. “Come on, pour me a whiskey.” He sat in the empty chair. “We have other things to catch up on. It’s been too long, with all these holidays. And my electricity’s been out. What do you say, Buzzy? You’re quiet tonight.”

  “Indigestion,” he said, and downed his shot. “This isn’t helping.”

  Cassie pushed away from the table and crossed her arms, as if afraid to sit too close to Antonio. What an actress, he thought. Did Renato really not see? Had her fica turned him crazy? It was good enough, Antonio remembered, but nothing special. Their few nights in bed together, he and Cassie had tickled each other for a while before she undid their clothes, climbed on top of him, and straddled his waist. She’d arched her back, and he’d closed his eyes so as not to stare at those bird tracks on her chest.

  “Whatever you do to make those people leave, you have to stay invisible,” Antonio said. “If they see your faces, they can always come after you. They have friends, too, you know. That was the problem with Cassie’s plan. Too much exposure.”

  Renato stood behind her and rubbed her shoulders. Antoni
o continued to think out loud, trying to restore their faith in him: they could plant stolen jewelry in the taxi; they could follow Waters until he broke the law, as he would eventually, and then report him to the police. He talked on and on. Cassie’s eyes fluttered in half sleep. Mario Lanza sang love songs. Renato lit the grill and threw on some eggs.

  “No, forget all that,” Antonio said. “We have to think more simply. Like I told you from the beginning. If you just scare this man enough times, sooner rather than later he won’t want to live there anymore.”

  “It has to be sooner,” said Renato. “My uncle—”

  “Tonight, then,” said Cassie, suddenly awake. “I still have the energy. Nothing else to do on a Wednesday.”

  By this time, Antonio had gone twice to the cabinet to pour himself shots.

  “A brick through the window,” said Renato. “It can’t hurt.”

  “We can wrap the brick with a note,” said Cassie. “It can say ‘Die, niggers, die.’”

  “Gesù Cristo,” said Antonio. “Where’d you find this girl? You can write that if you want. Not me. Go home is good enough. Or maybe you throw some broken glass or dump black paint on the porch, smear dog shit on the windows of the taxi.”

  “They’ll laugh at that,” said Cassie. “They’re used to that. If we don’t try something bigger, they’ll stay fifty years. In”—she closed her eyes for a moment—“in the year twenty-o-four we’ll be the only white people in Wilmington. Then they’ll be throwing stones at us.”

  “Not if you keep at it,” said Antonio. “Once a week, every week, at different times of the night. In the morning even, or in the middle of the day if you can. You’ll wear them down. It won’t take long, I bet you, before they give up.”

  Buzzy held his stomach. “I’m going to sleep,” he said. “First I’m going to throw up, and then I’m going to crawl into my bed and pass out. All by myself. No rocks and dog shit for me tonight. But good luck.”

  “Another chicken,” said Cassie. “Ask me if I’m surprised. Put your coat on, Antonio.” She touched Renato’s sleeve. “Amore, finish your eggs. We should go this minute. It’s time we accomplish something.”

  “What’s this we?” said Antonio, with a smile. “I don’t speak French. There’s just you. No oui.”

  Renato glared at him. “You owe me,” Renato said. “You don’t come tonight, you erase ten years of friendship. Next time I need a restaurant partner, I won’t turn to you. I’ll tell someone else what I heard the other day from my buddy on Lincoln Street. That space we lost on Riverview. The Greek—” He stopped. He scratched his head in mock contemplation. “Oh, shit. I can’t remember now.”

  “Come on,” said Antonio. “What about him?”

  Renato shrugged.

  If he’d been brave enough to refuse Renato then, six days into January, the day of the Epiphany, maybe Antonio would have avoided all that came afterward. Maybe he would have been at home, where he belonged, when his baby was born. But this sort of courage did not come easily. He had less faith in his own principles than in the insurance of long friendships, of keeping on good terms with men who knew him well enough to hurt him. One day, he told himself, he’d call in favors from all the years he played on other men’s teams—not only Renato’s and Buzzy’s, but his father’s, Mario’s, Mr. Hannagan’s. They would reward him handsomely for his allegiance.

  “To keep us warm,” Cassie said, as she downed a shot. “I’m ready.”

  So the three of them, in winter coats and scarves and dark hats, walked to Seventh Street. At the railroad tracks, they stopped to fill an old pillowcase with stones and twisted steel nails. Antonio carried the nearly empty bottle of whiskey he’d opened at the pizzeria. With every swig, he reminded himself to keep calm and play along. He was not guilty if he tried to talk them out of it, if he never threw a single stone. “It might be too early,” he said. “This time of night, people are still out.”

  “Think about it,” Cassie said. “Anyone walking around this neighborhood probably lives here, which means they’re probably an Italian. They’ll look the other way if they see us.”

  “She has an answer for everything,” Renato said, his arm around her waist.

  “You won’t like that so much when you’re married,” Antonio said.

  “No, no,” Cassie said. “I’ll be the perfect Italian wife. The day after Renato marries me, I’ll put on my apron and sew my lips shut, like his mother and sisters. That’s our deal. But until then”—she kicked a tin can into a chain-link fence at the corner of Sixth and Union—“I’m an American girl to the bone.”

  “Let’s try not to talk,” Antonio said, as they turned onto Seventh and slowed their pace. The farther up the hill from Union they walked, the darker it became. There were no streetlamps, and only a few Christmas trees remained lit in the front rooms of the row homes.

  “As soon as we’re done,” Renato reminded them, “we run to St. Anthony’s and hide. I know one door that’s never locked. Go through the park, not down Ninth.” He took a deep breath, dropped the bag on the sidewalk in front of the Waters house, then stared at it a moment. The wind shook the dead plants in the flowerpots, making a hissing sound.

  To his amazement, Antonio had not considered this obvious hazard: if they threw a sharp steel nail at the window, might it not hit the head—or the eye—of one of the kids asleep on the floor? If they blinded one of them, or caused some other serious bodily harm, how could he live with himself?

  Before Antonio could voice this concern, Renato had already crossed the street. At the front steps he turned, faced Antonio and Cassie, undid his belt, pulled his pants down to his knees, and squatted. He moved to the lower step. Then back up to the top step. After he finished, he came toward them with a broad smile, his belt jingling as he relooped it. “Fried eggs,” he said, and covered his mouth to muffle the laughter.

  Antonio’s stomach tightened. “That’s enough for this time, probably,” he said, turning toward the glow of Union Street. “We’ll come back another night.”

  Cassie reached into the bag and pulled out three big rocks. “I’m just getting started,” she said, and ran into the yard.

  “Wait!” Antonio whispered.

  The first rock shattered the storm door. Then she hurled the other two, one after the other, with all her might, at the front windows. The crash was so loud that the three of them instinctively covered their ears, as if watching fireworks. Then they ran, leaving the pillowcase on the sidewalk.

  The next minutes passed in a blur. Antonio saw only his feet, pumping over asphalt, grass, concrete. He heard a door slam, then another. Someone was calling “Abraham!” again and again, and the name echoed across the field. By the time Antonio reached the church, chased by no one, breathing hard, his drunkenness had evaporated. He felt only fear. His ankles throbbed. He pushed through the back door into the room behind the altar, where the priests dressed, and found Renato and Cassie rolling around on the floor in a fit of giggles. They kissed and tickled each other.

  “Do you think he followed us?” Antonio asked.

  No answer from the lovers. Soon their coats were off and the straps of Cassie’s dress pulled down to her elbows. Antonio paced in a wide circle around them, trying not to look, until Renato—nuzzling hungrily at her neck—declared it time for him to go home to his wife.

  ANTONIO’S DAUGHTER, WHO will not have a name until Maddalena wakes, lies just beyond the glass. She is kept warm by four round coils embedded in her see-through crib. She is too fragile to be held by anyone but the doctor and nurses, and it will be weeks, Antonio is told, before they allow him to touch her translucent skin. He can only imagine how it might feel to cup her delicate head in his hands and press his lips to her cheek. They keep her separate from the babies who arrived at the right time, who did not threaten the lives of their mothers. Her chest rises and falls almost imperceptibly, and once in a while her leg or arm spasms. She rarely cries. Her eyes remain closed, two little slits above a nos
e the size of his fingernail, two bluish lips. Cracked skin around her fingers and toes. She seems as much his child as Eisenhower is his president.

  Maddalena has been unconscious for twenty-four hours. She has been given a private room, away from the other new mothers. Ida sits calmly in the chair beside her bed, knitting a blanket for her niece. “I’m not worried,” she says, the needles clacking between her fingers. “God is giving her the rest she needs. When she gets enough, He’ll wake her up and put her to work again. Until then, she’s building her strength.”

  Antonio grows increasingly impatient with Ida. He can’t bear her sunny face, her blind faith. If she weren’t his sister-in-law, he would grab her by the shoulders and shake her. What do you know about anything? he would say. He directs his rage—at Ida, at God, at himself—at the blanket, which Ida has already ruined by using three different colors of yarn of varying thickness. One side curls and twists under itself. He takes the blanket and stretches it as hard as he can, unraveling it from the blue corner. He throws it back in her lap, and she resumes her work as if nothing happened.

  The doctor enters the room, lays his hands on Maddalena’s face like a priest, checks her heartbeat, nods, and leaves. He wears a gray suit, and his hair is an unnatural terra-cotta color, his cheeks freckled. Dr. McMenamin. Irish. Antonio follows him, pleading for an explanation, a clear diagnosis, a timeline. But the doctor’s information is as stubbornly repetitive as Ida’s. “We’re in a wait-and-see period” is his favorite answer. Or: “It’s still too soon to worry.”