The Saint of Lost Things

by Christopher Castellani

“I just helped with the papers,” he replied. He ticked his head toward Cassie. “This lady here is in for fifty percent.”

  For a moment no one said anything. Rosa tensed. “Now I’ve seen it all,” she said, in Italian. “Where’s a girl her age get that kind of money?”

  “My father died,” Cassie said, guessing Rosa’s question by her tone of voice. “Heart attack at fifty-five. Same age as Papà Francesco was. And there’s more money where that came from. First Bank of Bernie Donovan’s Mattress.”

  At Cassie’s use of Papà to refer to her beloved husband, Rosa closed her eyes. Antonio would be amazed if she’d heard a word after that.

  “Condoglianze,” Antonio said, skeptically. “Why didn’t I know? My family would have bought a Mass card.”

  Her father had died two years ago, Cassie explained, and since then her mother had been hoarding all the mattress money, which was hidden not in a mattress but in a collection of old paint cans. While helping her move to a new house, Cassie had discovered her dear father’s will, which stated clearly that Cassie—his only daughter, his princess—receive a large chunk of that cash upon his death. “It was like a movie,” Cassie said. “I started reading the will to her, and her face dropped five feet. She thought she’d never get caught.”

  “Greed,” said Buzzy. “It’s an ugly thing to see up close.”

  Antonio wasn’t buying a word of it. However Cassie got the money, though, didn’t change the fact that she and Renato would run the restaurant—his restaurant—together. Had they brought him here to rub this in his face?

  “We thought you’d want to know,” Renato said. “We didn’t want you to hear it from someone else, then come raging at us some night when we were too drunk to defend ourselves.”

  They laughed.

  “What’s to defend?” Antonio said, with a forced smile. “I was out. I made my choice. I have a baby coming, a family to support.” He bit off the end of the cigar. “I wish you the best of luck. I want a table for me and Maddalena opening night. And I expect a seventy-five percent discount.”

  Buzzy pulled a page of blueprints from his jacket and spread it across the coffee table. He weighted it down with two highball glasses that made rings on the filmy paper. The space was eighteen hundred square feet, enough for fifty seats, with a large kitchen and a deck in the back. It lay there before Antonio like a color photo of a naked woman—irresistible, just within reach, but far out of his league.

  “We see red, white, and green umbrellas on the porch,” Cassie began. She drew on the print with her finger. “Round tables here, booths here, a long banquet on this side. Classy, but fun. Warm is what we’re going for.”

  “And entertainment on the weekends,” said Renato. “A real band—not some sad-sack accordion player with a bald spot. We’ve got thousands of ideas between us. And now, thanks to Cassie, we’ve got thousands of dollars to make them happen.”

  “I’m charging them a fortune to do the books,” said Buzzy. “Young Paolo gets his first chance to run the pizzeria by himself. Everybody wins.”

  “Even you, Antonio,” Cassie said. “No more pressure to give up your money. You can save it all for Maddalena and the baby. The quiet life—that’s what you wanted, right?”

  “You’ll want it, too, sooner or later.”

  Cassie shrugged. “Five years down the road, maybe. Depending. Can you see me with a kid now? I used to think—” She glanced at Rosa, then stopped.

  She’d wanted to be the perfect Italian wife, Antonio remembered, but clearly the old woman would not give her that chance. He wondered how hard Cassie had tried, or if she had any idea how a real Italian wife behaved. Her first night in Rosa Volpe’s house, had she sat on the sofa like this, legs apart, eating cookies and asking for puffs on the cigar? If so, it was no surprise Rosa had begged God to take her.

  “I’m going to bed,” the old woman said, rising. She turned to Antonio. “Visit me again, Signor. It’s nice to have company.” She kissed Buzzy on both cheeks, pressed her lips to Renato’s temple, then drew his head to her bosom. She held him there for a moment before she released him.

  Maddalena had been lucky with Antonio’s mother, who’d always shown her the same affection she showed her sons. Unlike Ida, Maddalena had impressed her from the moment she entered the house. Instead of resting from her long trip, she immediately put on an apron and helped prepare the dinner being thrown in her honor. She plucked and deboned the chicken; she cut, filled, and sealed the ravioli; she dried the flute glasses that minutes before had toasted her arrival. When she’d seen Maddalena’s eyes well up with tears, Mamma had put her arms around her waist and taught her the word destiny. Destiny had brought her here, she said, and Maddalena’s only choice was to welcome it. An hour later, Maddalena vomited into the upstairs toilet, still seasick, her stomach weak from a month of starving herself. She resented her husband. This country terrified her. But she could not resent or fear his loving mother and father, her gentle sister-in-law; they welcomed her with gifts of good china teacups, a silk scarf, and a ring studded with rubies. They told her Antonio had struck gold.

  Cursed with Irish blood, raised her entire life as an American princess, Cassie had no such luck. To keep the peace, she had to buy Rosa’s favor. So far, the plan had not succeeded.

  Buzzy was rolling up the blueprints. Rosa had disappeared into the hallway. “I’ve never been so in love,” Renato said. It seemed to have just occurred to him. “I don’t care about anything anymore. I don’t care what Mamma thinks. I don’t even care if you’re disappointed by the restaurant, Antonio.” He looked straight ahead as he spoke, at no one and nothing in particular. “Nothing sticks to me. All I have to do is think: Miss Cassandra Donovan and I will run a restaurant together. And if it fails, and I lose all my money, all I have to do is think: Cassie and I will still be together.” He reached for her hand. “I never thought I’d go against Mamma for anything. But it’s like she’s already left us.”

  Cassie blushed at the declaration. “You always surprise me,” she said.

  Buzzy raised his glass. “The couple of the year,” he said. “Cent’anni! L’chayim!”

  Antonio did not stay much longer. He sat on Renato’s stoop for a while, smoking. The light was on in Giulio’s living room. He could have stopped by, but he was tired of talking, and besides, who knew what sort of tricks the man would pull once he got Antonio alone.

  The poet, Rosa had called him. Antonio and Maddalena had visited him out of charity at first—at Mamma’s insistence—but now that he’d won Maddalena’s devotion, Antonio was stuck with him. The thought turned his stomach. Giulio was one of those unspeakable men who had a talent for entertaining women, but no interest in them as wives. Antonio had heard all the stories and seen men like this in movies, but, until this year, never in person. Never up close. He supposed he should feel grateful that Maddalena had made a friend, but why couldn’t it have been a young mother from around the block?

  A degenerate—a sad, lonely one at that—had no business acting superior, and yet that’s just the impression Giulio Fabbri gave to people. He was always referring to books no one had read, or countries no one had heard of, and one day Antonio would inform him that some people actually had to work for a living. He, too, would spend all day in the library if he could afford it; better yet, he’d build a bocce court in his backyard or learn photography or help the poor. Yes, Giulio had been orphaned and deserved sympathy, but if he’d been normal he’d have a woman and kids to comfort him—not an accordion and a stack of books and another man’s wife.

  Antonio walked home and, without a word to anyone, took the car up to Riverview Drive. The sign in the window of the restaurant still read FOR SALE. Inside were a few scattered tables, a pile of fabric that must have been the drapes, and a three-legged chair, overturned. The steakhouse, run with such optimism by the Greek, had lasted only two months. It was the same story of every failed business, especially the ones that featured the Grasso name: too much ove
rhead, too few customers. Now the Greek had gone back to the Old Country poorer than when he’d arrived.

  Antonio cupped his hands over the glass to peer at the lovely exposed brick and marble-topped bar. The photos of the Greek Isles had been taken down, but the lion’s-head fountain remained in the wall of the foyer. Water dripped from the lion’s stone lips into a blue-tiled pool. It was tacky, this fountain, which was likely why Renato and Cassie paid extra to keep it; Antonio wanted to take a chisel to its sharp, bared teeth. Soon the two restaurateurs would inflict their bad taste on these naked, innocent rooms, and Antonio would lose his chance to stop them. They’d allow the gleaming hardwood floors to scuff, the stuffing to burst through the leather booths. One thing Antonio had learned is that the least deserving people always stumbled upon the hidden treasure. While they were busy digging in the right places, hardworking men like himself were off saving money for shovels.

  He walked up and down the sidewalk, crossing and recrossing the sign in the window. If only Renato knew his secret: that for ten years he’d had enough money saved to take a smart risk on a place like this. He’d kept telling himself the right time would come, and that he’d know it by a feeling in his bones. Now Antonio had to admit what he’d always suspected: he was not a gambler. Worse, he was no better than the thousands of peasants who’d crossed the ocean to make a life here. He was just a scared immigrant clutching the few pennies thrown at him every Friday afternoon, unwilling to risk opening his hands. There was a good chance that the second half of his life would look much like the first: punching his card for big companies like Ford and Bancroft Mill, answering to American bosses ten years his junior, stuck in the basement while his bosses danced across the floor above him. And when Antonio died, he’d have nothing lasting to show for his life—a child, yes, maybe even children, but no wedge of earth other than the six feet they’d bury him under.

  He had lived frugally. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d bought himself a firsthand shirt or cigarettes or a bottle of whiskey. He’d stolen or borrowed or been given most of what he owned or enjoyed. After many years of this, the pennies added up. Between the bank and the drapes, he had saved enough to cover an initial investment in Riverview Drive and about six months of rent. There was even a little money that no one knew about, hidden in a safety-deposit box downstate. The truth—he had purposefully let it get away from him—was that there had always been enough money for not only a business and a child, but a modest ranch house in New Castle as well. And if he’d pinched even more, he may have even been able to afford Maddalena’s lessons at the Bianca Talent Agency.

  For these savings he had his father to thank. During his first few years in America, he’d given his old man every dime of his salary and lived on a weekly allowance of three dollars, which he rarely spent. After Antonio married, his father took the contribution Antonio and Maddalena made monthly toward the utilities and secretly deposited it in Antonio’s bank account. He saw no reason Antonio and Maddalena should pay an equal—or even close to equal—share as the reckless Mario and Ida. Plus, despite the money he himself was spending on the failed restaurants, Papà had emergency money saved for both sons—a wad of bills hidden in a secret place in the house Mamma told him about. He had taught his sons to live in poverty no matter how large the numbers on the bank statement. But only Antonio had learned this—so well, in fact, that he’d come to believe he had hardly any savings at all. And when he did remember the truth, at moments like this, he reminded himself that life was long, that he had never known a decade without war, and there was no telling what harm twenty years would inflict on his own health and that of his wife and children. What kind of man would squander the only money he might ever earn and put his family’s future in jeopardy? In a heartbeat, he could end up like the Greek, back in his village begging distant cousins for food and shelter. No, Antonio was not a gambler, no matter how sure the bet; he would die with thousands of dollars sewn into his drapes. Then, finally, his wife and family, secure for their remaining years, would appreciate his wisdom, but not until then.

  When Antonio left Riverview Drive that spring night, he did not plan to return until the grand opening. He had plenty of excuses ready for when Renato called to ask him to come to supervise the renovation, offer his opinion on the brands of liquor to stock, or tell Cassie she was wrong about the layout of the tables. Renato seemed to believe him, though he did question why Antonio needed to help his father fix the radiators now that spring had come. “There’s always a shot of grappa waiting for you here, my friend,” said Renato. “This is your trattoria as much as mine, even though you’re too cheap to spend a nickel on it.”

  The first time, Antonio drove quickly past the space, then kept going down New Castle Avenue back toward the city. After doing this two or three nights in a row, he got braver. He made a U-turn and passed the space again, at half the speed, before hitting the gas to make the light. Work had begun inside, but Antonio could not see the results from the road. He did notice Renato’s car, and, once, the silhouette of Cassie sitting on the windowsill with her chin on her knees.

  He returned home from these trips with no feeling of satisfaction, only a resurgent restlessness. He opened the jar of cherries soaked in grappa—a Christmas gift from Ida’s brother in 1950—and ate three at once. He took Maddalena on one of these trips, just to help settle her nerves, but didn’t point out the space when they passed it. They talked not of restaurants, but of names for the child.

  After a while, Antonio found himself parking in the neighborhood across from Renato’s trattoria. It took a few tries before he found a spot hidden enough from the road but offering a clear view of the entrance. He sat here for hours at a time, watching men carry chairs from one end of the room to the other. In the span of a week, the floor plan changed at least three times. Renato liked to stand on a barstool and bark out orders to all corners of the restaurant. Buzzy visited now and then, but only long enough for a shot and a cigar. There was a different girl on his arm each time, always a head taller than him, always left alone at the bar when Buzzy and Renato disappeared into the kitchen.

  Other nights, Antonio would put on his old shoes and sneak around to the muddy field behind the restaurant to examine what the men were putting in the trash bins. It was not rare for him to return to the car and fall asleep in the front seat, then wake to find the restaurant dark, the parking lot empty. He stored a blanket in the trunk for the chillier nights and cracked his window so as not to steam up the car and call attention to himself. Groggy, his neck sore, he’d make his way back home to Eighth Street and promise himself this was the last time he’d play spy. The risk of giving Renato or Buzzy the smug satisfaction of finding him was enough to convince him he would never return. But then, the next night, he’d find himself on his way here again.

  Antonio woke in his car close to one a.m. the morning of May 21. “Goddamn it,” he said, rubbing his eyes. He tossed the blanket in the backseat and sped home to Eighth Street. As he approached the house, he noticed the lights in the front windows, the absence of the Fiuma’s Ford. He saw Ida on the stairs, waving the wooden spoon. Sleepwalking again, he thought.

  MARIO STANDS, ARMS CROSSED, at the window of Maddalena’s room in Wilmington Hospital. “The girl needs a name,” he says. Ida and Mamma stand beside him, Papà paces the other end, Father Moravia half dozes in the one comfortable chair. They’re all thinking it—have been for nearly a week—but Antonio’s opinion is the only one that counts, and he will not change his mind. Until Maddalena wakes, the baby will remain unnamed.

  He sits on the bed beside his wife. He sees little resemblance between her and the baby, despite the nurses’ constant comparisons. “Trust us,” they say. “She’ll be as beautiful as her mother.” Maybe Antonio does not want to see the comparison. It would be easier if the baby’s features were as common as those on Nunzia’s plastic dolls, but they are not. She is a Grasso.

  And yet the baby belongs to the nurses. Accordin
g to them, Dr. McMenamin has handled her only once, the night he brought her into the world. It is the team of nurses who keep her warm, make the formula, feed her, give her oxygen treatments. She mostly lies alone, untouched in her heated cell, as if to trick her into thinking she is still in the womb.

  One of the nurses, whose name is Brenda, has more than once told Antonio that his baby is stronger than the doctors think. She may weigh only three pounds, but her signs and her color are good. She takes food well. She responds. Brenda says that doctors are too cautious, that she herself has personally seen babies smaller than this one leave the hospital healthy as a normal child. Sometimes, Brenda says, she has more faith in the sick than the healers.

  It is Brenda who appears late on the fifth night, after the visitors have left, when the hall is quiet and Antonio is alone in the room with his wife. “Shh,” she says, as she nudges Antonio awake with her elbow. She shuts the door. In her arms she carries his precious daughter, covered head to toe in white blankets. Only her nose and eyelids and lips are visible. Brenda lays her facedown on Maddalena’s chest. “The heartbeats,” she says. “They might spark each other.” The baby squirms for a moment, then settles into the groove of her mother’s bosom, into the familiar rhythm of the blood. Antonio helps to hold her there, his hand on her bottom. Even through the blankets he can feel the life in her.

  He and Brenda wait for a miracle, for Maddalena to open her eyes, to lift her arms and embrace her child for the first time. But there is no miracle. Mother and daughter go on sleeping. After a few minutes, Brenda grows nervous, gathers up the baby again, says, “We’ll do this again,” and rushes out of the room.

  “The human engine’s not like a Chevy’s,” Dr. McMenamin says dismissively the next day, when Antonio asks him whether physical contact with her child might help wake Maddalena. The doctor does not know what Brenda has done and would likely fire her if he did. On the way out he pauses in the doorway, rubbing his chin. “I wouldn’t rule it out, though,” he offers. “It hasn’t been proven, of course, but I believe brains can transmit signals to each other—of distress, of joy, of pain. And I never underestimate the power of the maternal bond. When the girl gets stronger, maybe.” Then, with a wave, he wishes Antonio well.