A little more than a year ago I suggested a Patron Saint of Irons and Ironing, which Maria judged as temporary insanity on my part. Gram had almost burned the whole house down, market and all, by forgetting to unplug the iron, so it seemed like a good idea at the time. But Maria was horrified by the possibility that this might be the idea that would finally get through to the Vatican, and then she would be known as The Best Friend of the new Patron Saint of Irons and Ironing.
“Do you really want pictures of yourself in some dowdy housedress holding an iron in your hand all over the place, Antonia?” Maria said at the time. “I can see it now—Still Life: Girl with Iron in every Catholic church for miles around.”
She’d had a point. Not much glamorous portrait potential in ironing.
The saints each had their own representations—you know, a particular way they were always pictured related to their talent. Like Sebastian’s sexy, muscular bod since he represented athletes.
And figs! Figs were a sexy sort of fruit. Figs had lots of potential for the saint portrait. I could be holding a fig to my lips, for example. With a lusty look in my eyes . . . Or I could be reaching for a fig in a tree. My chin tilted toward heaven, my black hair cascading wildly down my back. A little sliver of midriff showing. Yes. This was good.
Sometimes Maria tried to help me with saint suggestions, but she always came up with ideas that would never work.
Like breast augmentation. Or instant slimness. Not that she needed to worry about those things.
The Vatican People would never go for that anyway.
Things to Remember When Suggesting Saint Specializations
Can’t majorly conflict with nature (i.e., the way God made things)
Has to help make the world a better place, even if in a small way (e.g., providing consolation for sadness, feeding the poor, keeping the breast milk flowing. Yes, there is actually a saint for breast-feeding)
Specializations that help with everyday activities = good
Anything to do with Sex, especially kinky-happy-sexy pleasure = bad
Making boobs bigger and reducing the circumference of thighs fails all four.
“Little boys are monsters,” Maria said once she’d caught up to where I was still moving along, talking over the click-click of everyone’s skates against the ice.
“Is John coming by today?”
“Not until after soccer practice,” Maria answered. She took my arms and we did a little spin so she was skating backward.
“I thought soccer season was over.”
“Well, it is over, but apparently they practice indoors during the winter.”
“So I’m stuck being your only rink buddy?” No sooner was this out of my mouth than a familiar Irish brogue called out from behind me.
“Hello, loves!”
“Um, Antonia, there’s something I’ve been meaning to mention,” Maria whispered, grabbing my arms.
“That Michael is now working Friday afternoons?” I hissed.
“Am I interrupting something?” Michael said, sliding to a stop beside us, sending up a wave of ice from the force. He wore a black jacket and hockey skates like Maria.
“Aren’t you a little late today for your shift?”
“Who are you, my boss now?” Michael asked Maria, skating backward with ease. If I hadn’t known better I’d have thought he was a hockey player. Michael was athletic even if he didn’t play any sports. We were moving faster now and the cold air raised goose bumps on my legs, and for once I wished I was wearing tights.
“Um, yeah, I sort of am your boss,” Maria answered. “Don’t worry, though. I won’t tell my dad.”
“Kind and beautiful. What a combination,” Michael said, his tone sarcastic. “You’re awfully quiet, Antonia. Though I couldn’t help but notice you had plenty to say to Maria before I showed up. Don’t let me stop you from your conversation.” He slowed a bit and skated closer, his stare unnerving as usual.
“Well, you interrupted a private discussion,” I answered, giving him my best don’t-mess-with-me stare when a pint-sized hockey-player-in-training whizzed by. He knocked me off balance and sent me sprawling. I could hear Maria laughing and trying not to laugh all at once.
“Damsel in distress on the ice,” Michael said with mischief. “I’ll handle this one, Maria.”
“Go right ahead.” Maria said as she watched me trying to pull down my uniform skirt, which had flown up virtually around my neck when I fell. Thank God somebody wore boxers today, otherwise I would have flashed half the neighborhood, young and old, not to mention Michael McGinnis.
Michael leaned over, his right hand stretched out to me. “Need some help, love?”
“Sure, I guess, since no one else is offering,” I said, shooting Maria an accusing look. I took Michael’s hand and felt myself pulled up from the ice, my skirt falling back into place. Michael grabbed my waist to steady me, but didn’t show signs of letting go even after I’d regained my balance.
“Thanks,” I said, trying to take my hand back, but his grip was firm. His eyes were intense, staring into mine, and I found I couldn’t move. His hand felt warm against my body. My heart thudded in my chest. “What are you doing?” I finally asked, trying to recover my senses. “Can I have my hand back, please?”
“Your cheeks are as red as your mittens.”
“It’s the cold, don’t flatter yourself,” I lied, wiggling out of his grip and skating over to Maria.
“If you want me to leave you two alone, no worries,” Maria said loud enough for Michael to hear.
“Some best friend you are today,” I said, hooking my arm back into hers, pushing off my left toe pick. “You know I don’t like to be left alone with him.”
“Why is it that I scare you so much, Antonia? You should really give that some thought . . .” Michael called out from behind us.
“You don’t scare me,” I yelled back. “I am not intimidated by my friends.” Whether I was trying to convince myself, Michael, Maria, or all three of us of this was unclear.
“So we’re just friends, eh?” His voice had mock hurt in it.
“Just friends.”
“And stop checking out our legs, Michael,” Maria chimed in.
“I will if you let me in on the conversation.”
“Okay, keep checking them out, then.”
“Maria! Stop encouraging him,” I protested.
“How ’bout you let me give Antonia a ride home later and I won’t bother you anymore for the rest of the free skate.”
“Deal, Michael,” Maria said.
“Maria! You want me to get in his car?” My mouth dropped open in surprise at Maria’s willingness to sacrifice my safety in exchange for peace and quiet now.
“I just did us a favor,” she said, her face all innocence. “He’ll leave us alone now, which is what you wanted anyway. Right?”
“I guess,” I answered, feeling unsure about what I really did and didn’t want when it came to Michael McGinnis.
“Besides, I can’t take you home later because John is supposed to meet me here when soccer gets out.”
“But what if Michael tries something, Maria?” I shivered thinking about it.
“Then maybe you can practice on him,” she said, giving me a playful jab. This was not the answer I expected. “Antonia, if he did try something again, maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing. Maybe it would force you guys to figure out whatever is going on between the two of you.”
“We so have nothing going on, you know that. And there’s no way I’m kissing Michael, practice or no,” I assured Maria.
“I remember a time when you actually wanted to kiss Michael. Dreamed about it. Almost as much as you do now with Andy,” she whispered.
“That was a long time ago, when I was young and foolish and didn’t know what I was getting into with him.”
“And you do now?”
“Well, no. I don’t know. Not exactly, I guess,” I said, picking at the ice with my skate. “Okay, I’ll admit
that sometimes I am not so sure what’s between us—if there’s anything still between us. Which is also why I avoid all Michael-Antonia-alone-time, as you already know, Maria.”
“Nothing is going to happen, Antonia. It’s just a ride home.”
“You saw how he’s acting.”
“He’s just playing around. You said it yourself—you guys are just friends.”
“I hope he agrees with you on that one.”
“Well, I think you have nothing to worry about.”
“That’s not what you said the other day in the parking lot,” I said, remembering the conversation. “Besides, you just didn’t want to get stuck driving me home when you could be alone with John.” I was starting to panic. “Maria, Michael is notorious.”
“Listen,” Maria said, yanking me into a corner of the rink, her hands firm on my shoulders, holding me steady. “I am confident that Michael would never do anything to hurt you or pull any of that crap he pulls on the other girls who fall for him. He respects you too much. Anyone with eyes and ears can figure that out.”
“I just get so nervous around him.”
“You may be worrying over nothing after all. Apparently, he already has his next conquest in sight, if Veronica is to be believed,” Maria said, glancing behind her to make sure Michael wasn’t nearby.
“Veronica? Are you crazy? No way would Michael ever go for her.” I was so taken aback I almost fell again. Maria grabbed my arm, steadying me. “Though that might explain why she’s gone from merely nasty to intolerably awful lately.”
“Well, during free period this morning I was studying in the cafeteria when I heard Veronica, a few tables away, telling Concetta how she is totally into Michael and she’s convinced he has feelings for her. Though nothing has happened yet.”
“She said that loud enough so you could hear?”
“Oh, yeah. I think she wanted me to because she knew I’d report this information to you.”
“Veronica and Michael?” I felt nauseous. The thought of my cousin and Michael together was . . . was . . . inconceivable . . . I just couldn’t imagine it . . . but it wasn’t just that . . . it just didn’t sit right. I couldn’t understand why I felt so upset. It was Michael, not Andy. If it had been Andy she’d been blathering on about, then it would make sense that I’d be angry. And Michael had no allegiance to me and, well, if he could make Veronica happy somehow, then who was I to stand in their way? It would probably be better for all of us if Veronica was in a better mood. Right?
“Are you okay? You look a little green . . .”
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“. . . because that’s not all she said,” Maria went on. “Veronica also mentioned that she thinks Michael is even better looking than Andy.”
“Veronica compared Michael to Andy?” I asked, beginning to wonder if Veronica had somehow found out I liked him. “Why does she have to get in the way of my love life in addition to everything else?”
“Everybody thinks Andy’s hot, you know that. It may have just been a coincidence.”
“I hate Veronica,” I said, my voice faint.
“Antonia, breathe. Let’s switch topics to something less upsetting to you . . . like your quest for sainthood and how the Vatican is totally going to name you the Patron Saint of Figs and Fig Trees any day now,” Maria said, giving my arm a squeeze.
“Okay. Good idea,” I agreed, squeezing back, trying to compose myself, unclear why I was so upset. Maria and I continued circling the rink, each lap moving us closer to the time when the Zamboni would come out to clear the ice and Michael would chauffeur me home.
11
MICHAEL DRIVES ME HOME AND WE SHARE A MOMENT
“I’ll get that,” Michael said, opening the passenger door.
It was five p.m. and already dark. The almost wintry cold was making me shiver. I prayed:
Come on, St. Sebaldus, O Patron Saint Against Cold Weather, can’t you help with the temperature? The last thing I need is Michael trying to warm me up.
“Aren’t you the gentleman today?” I said out loud to Michael as I slipped into the seat, while he stood there, still holding the door. Not only was Michael opening doors but he had offered to carry my backpack. He practically had to rip it out of my arms on our way out of the rink, but still, he managed.
“I know how to treat the ladies.”
“I notice you said ‘ladies’ in the plural.”
“I am a gentleman to all the girls.”
“So I’ve heard,” I said, grabbing my backpack from him. “From just about everyone in my class. And the class above mine. And even some of the seniors.”
“All lies . . .” Michael said while shutting the door, his eyes sparkling with mischief.
I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself down as Michael walked around the front of the car. Something was on the seat and I pulled it out from under my legs. It was The Providence Journal. I smiled when I read the headline: MIRACLE ON ATWELLS AVE.! LOCAL WOMAN WALKS FOR FIRST TIME IN 20 YEARS
In the photograph Mrs. Bevalaqua looked pretty—she was dressed in a ladylike suit, with full makeup and gloves of course, her gray hair pulled up and away from her face. My nervousness about Michael melted away as I skimmed through the article. Mrs. B mentioned me several times. Interesting.
“Girls at your school love to gossip about hooking up with Bishop Francis guys,” Michael said as he got in the driver’s seat.
“Funny how the one they all pick to gossip about is you.”
“You’re wrong about me, Antonia,” Michael countered as he put the car in reverse, but instead of backing out he gave me a long look and then put the car back into park. “Why are you so happy suddenly? Is it something you realized about me? Like maybe the fact that you secretly love all the attention I give you?” His eyes flashed. They looked a deep blue in the darkness. He grinned as he leaned in my direction, waiting for my response.
“You wish, Michael. You are so forward sometimes,” I answered, feeling that familiar nervousness come over me again. I smoothed my skirt so it almost reached my knees. “And I’m smiling because I just saw the story about Mrs. Bevalaqua in the paper.” I shoved the newspaper between us like a shield, so he could see the article.
“It’s incredible,” Michael answered. His voice held a genuineness I wasn’t used to. “They even got the headline right.”
“What do you mean?”
“The part about the miracle.”
“You think so?”
“I do,” he said with confidence. For once I didn’t want to turn away, so we sat there, eyes locked, my brown pouring into his blue and vice versa.
“Do you really think it was a miracle, what happened to Mrs. Bevalaqua?”
“Yeah, I do, Antonia,” he said.
“Really? Really really? Do you believe in them, then? You know, miracles?”
“Well, look at her,” Michael said, grabbing the paper and holding it between us. “She’s walking after twenty years.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said, sighing.
“What about you? Do you believe in miracles?” He threw the paper into the backseat and turned to face me again. His hand lingered at the edge of my seat, not even an inch away from my skirt.
A long moment of silence hung between us. I tried to ignore the thrill I felt with him so close. “I think miracles happen all the time,” I began, then paused. “And some are bigger or, I guess, more noticeable than others.” Somewhere in the back of my mind it registered that Michael and I were beginning to have a real conversation, the kind we always had that first summer when we met. This unexpected intimacy made me bold. “I think it’s the saints, you know. I think they are around us all the time, in our lives, listening to our prayers. Making miracles.”
“Do you think of your father as a saint?” he asked out of the blue, catching me off guard, as if he were somehow inside my mind, poking around, looking through a file of my deepest secrets, or reading my soul. Michael and I had never once spoken
about my father. The look in his eyes was serious, gentle even.
“Not exactly, no,” I began my answer, thinking about how I loved Michael’s question, that he’d even wonder whether I thought of my dad as a saint. “My dad loved the saints, though. He was named after one actually. As was yours truly,” I added.
“He was? You were? Which one? I mean, I don’t know your father’s name, I guess. And there’s a St. Antonia then, I assume . . .”
“I’ll tell you about my dad first,” I said, pressing at the creases in my skirt, my hand brushing Michael’s for one, electric second. “His name was Genesioso,” I explained, pronouncing each vowel carefully, drawing out the long e and o sounds. “Most people called him Gino for short.”
“And he died when you were little, right?” Michael shifted position so he was almost facing me, moving his hand to the passenger-side headrest, his fingers so close to the back of my neck I could feel their warmth. He seemed willing for us to sit there idling in the parking lot all night.
“I had just turned seven when he died.”
“What do you remember about him?”
“Well, he had the perfect saint name for his personality,” I said, smiling, the words coming easier now. “St. Genesius is the Patron Saint of Actors, Drama, Comedians, Clowns, and Dancers, and my dad was quite the clown. A fantastic dancer, too. He and my mother went out dancing a lot when I was little. Gram would stay home to babysit me. They used to have a good time, I think—my mom and dad. My mother hasn’t danced once since he died. They were beautiful to watch . . .”
“She must miss him a lot.”
“Yeah . . . we all do. It’s hard,” I said, looking away. I was afraid I might cry.
Michael changed the subject, as if he could sense that I needed to talk about something else. I turned to face him again and saw that familiar look of mischief return to his eyes. I felt a rush of gratitude.
“Technically I was named after St. Anthony, the Finder of Lost Things,” I began, but Michael chimed in at “Anthony” and finished the sentence without me.
The Possibilities of Sainthood Page 8