The Possibilities of Sainthood

by Donna Freitas

“Of course you do, Antonia. Just last night you were saying how I kiss all the HA girls and I was saying how I hadn’t kissed—”

  “Need some help?” said another voice before Michael could finish, and I couldn’t stop the smile that spread across my face. Finally! Andy Rotellini was standing in the back doorway of the market looking godly in perfect-fitting jeans and a white T-shirt that set off the bronze color of his skin. I suddenly found it impossible to utter another syllable. “Your grandmother said I might be more useful out here than in the market this afternoon.”

  “Hi, Andy,” Maria called out since I wasn’t showing any sign of language skills. “Of course you know Michael because you’re in the same class, or should I make an introduction?” Maria looked amused by the unusual overflow of eligible men in my vicinity.

  “Hey, Mike. What’s up?” Andy and Michael did the requisite guy-nod-hello gesture.

  “Yeah. Hi. Andy,” I managed to croak, the tiny space in the yard that wasn’t occupied by the trees suddenly feeling overcrowded with Michael, Andy, and me all standing there together. The laughter left Michael’s eyes and I found myself wishing Michael would decide to leave. I’d been waiting for a chance to get to know Andy forever and that chance was finally here, but so was Michael. “We’d love your help, Andy,” I said, giving him a belated answer. I wanted to fix this awkward situation. “Which also means you, Michael, are off the hook for fig-tree duty since my mother is actually paying Andy to be here. Today is his first day working at the store. Had I mentioned that he’d be working here?” Michael should understand. We did just have a conversation about the fact that I had a thing for Andy Rotellini.

  “I was just going, actually,” Michael replied. I didn’t have to look to know he was hurt—it was there in his voice. “I told Veronica I’d pay her a visit this afternoon anyway.”

  “You did?” I tried to sound nonchalant. “That’s great, I mean,” I said, crossing the small patch of grass between me and the ladder without looking at Michael. “Why wait? I mean, go see her now so you guys can have lunch. Though, you might want to pick something up from the market on your way since Veronica is not the best cook and neither is her mother.” I grabbed the shears and climbed back up, rung by rung, reminding myself that I didn’t have time to socialize. I began hacking at one of the thicker branches, barely paying attention to what I was doing.

  “Thanks for the advice, Antonia.” I heard Michael behind me. “Maria. Andy.” Michael said his goodbyes. “I’ll be seeing you. Nice chatting.”

  The gate clicked shut and Michael was gone before anyone had the chance to say anything else.

  “So, Antonia? What would you like me to do?” I’d almost forgotten that Andy, the love of my life, was still standing there, awaiting direction.

  “Um. Well.” I tried to say something intelligible.

  “Let me get you a pair of clipping shears and then Antonia will show you how to prune the lower branches,” Maria said, heading over to Andy, rescuing me.

  I stared at Andy, watched him standing there at my house, gorgeous as ever, something I’d wanted for what seemed like forever, and I wanted to believe that in that moment Andy captivated me all over again. But the truth was I couldn’t stop thinking about Michael. And Veronica. The thought of them together didn’t feel right. A knot began growing in my stomach, and I wasn’t at all confident that Andy’s presence could make it disappear.

  15

  I CONFRONT MY MOTHER ABOUT HER NONEXISTENT DATING LIFE AND I EXPERIENCE TRAGIC VATICAN REJECTION

  It was Sunday night. The big weekend was over and I was kneeling before the tiny portrait of St. Walburga that leaned against my vanity mirror. She was standing, eyes facing the ground, holding a scepter in one hand and three ears of corn in the other.

  Dear St. Walburga, O Patron Saint of Harvests, Against Storms and Coughing, even though you technically have nothing to do with figs or fig trees, I thank you for watching over us this weekend in what was a very successful fig-tree burying. Not only are the family trees—which are basically the family treasures—protected for yet another cold Rhode Island winter, but the sun shined on us for two entire days, not only keeping me from coming down with a cold followed by potentially obstructive and unfortunately timed coughing fits (such as when my beloved is about to kiss me, which he will eventually), but also providing a warm weather incentive for the neighbors to come out and help with the burying after Sunday Mass. It was a community effort, not to mention the perfect opportunity for some of the men to flirt with my mother, who is so in need of a date. Thank you, St. Walburga, for your intercession in these matters.

  I struck a match to light the candle I’d placed nearby. I sank into the red, cushioned vanity chair with its old-fashioned, heart-shaped metal back, and watched my reflection flicker in the light.

  I imagined my mother sitting here in this very chair—back when the vanity used to be hers—fixing her hair, putting on jewelry, getting ready to go out with my father for the first time when she was my age. Maybe after Dad died she’d decided she had no more use for it, that her evenings out were in the past. Or maybe she just couldn’t bear to look at it anymore, because of all the memories it brought back. So she gave it to me. I hated to think about how lonely she must be, but she refused to date any of the neighborhood bachelors. I wondered whether she’d loosen up with me if she started going out with someone. I had even brought up the subject at dinner earlier in the evening.

  Mom, Gram, and I were celebrating the fig-burying, clinking glasses of Asti Spumanti, when I decided to pop the question.

  “Mom,” I began, cautious, knowing I was about to dive into forbidden territory. We were sitting around the kitchen table, with its red-checked vinyl tablecloth. Tall candles radiated a soft glow over everything. Gram had thrown together a sauce and we were having it over linguini. Mom had even set out the nice china and crystal. Everyone seemed so happy. “I was wondering if you ever thought of going out with someone from the neighborhood.”

  “What are you talking about, Antonia? I go out with Sister Aideen for breakfast the first and third Tuesdays of every month, and I go to the Italian Women in Business lunch every other week to see the girls.” She rolled linguini onto her fork with the help of a spoon. She avoided eye contact.

  “No, I meant with a man. On a date.”

  “I’m too old to date,” she said, taking a big swig from her wineglass. “Besides, I love your father.”

  “Mom, you are only forty, which is so not too old.” She might drive me crazy, but I couldn’t deny that my mother was still beautiful. “Just because you go out with someone doesn’t mean you don’t love Dad anymore,” I added, nervous that I was pushing too far.

  “I’m not interested in dating,” my mother said. “End of topic.”

  “Mr. D’Agostino was totally flirting with you when he was helping you tie up the canvas.” I’d decided to press my luck since she hadn’t yet yelled or thrown any plates.

  “Antonia’s right, sweetheart, and he’s a cute one, that Giuseppe,” Gram chimed in. “You are my beautiful daughter and I want you to be happy.” She leaned over and gave my mom a kiss on the cheek.

  “Ma,” my mother said, glaring back at Gram. “Leave me alone. Nobody was flirting with anybody and I’m not dating. I love your father,” she said again.

  “I love him, too,” I said in a hush. “And if you are worried about what I’d think, I’m telling you now that I think it’s a great idea. And this isn’t the first time Mr. D’Agostino has acted this way around you,” I forged on. “He stays forever talking to you when he comes into the store. I bet if you stopped wearing black every day, he might ask you out. I think he likes you.” I closed my eyes, hoping for the best. “And I think you might like him too.”

  “Antonia Lucia Labella!” My mother dropped her fork and it clattered noisily against the plate. The steam from the pasta rose around her face in a mist. “Mind your own business!” She downed the last of her Asti Spumanti, and sto
rmed off to her room, slamming the door.

  And that was the happy end to our celebratory family dinner.

  I got up from the vanity and grabbed my Saint Diary off the nightstand. I figured it was time for another saint specialization brainstorming session.

  “Sweetheart?” Gram’s excited voice was outside my door. “Can I come in?”

  “Sure, Gram,” I replied.

  The look on her face was eager.

  “A letter came for you yesterday,” she began, taking out the long, paper-thin envelope that was sticking out of her sweater pocket. “Special delivery. I figured I’d wait until you got through all the hoopla this weekend to give it to you.”

  “Is it from . . .” My voice trailed off when I noticed the airmail stamp.

  “It’s from the Vatican,” she whispered, her voice reverent.

  “Wow,” I said, taking the letter from her hand.

  “I love you, sweetheart.” She leaned over, giving me a squeeze. I could smell the Oil of Olay she always put on her skin. She swore it kept her young.

  Seeing the official Vatican seal across the envelope flap gave me a thrill. But it was soon followed by a wave of anxiety. This could be it. This could be the letter informing me that I, Antonia Lucia Labella, of Providence, Rhode Island, was to be the new Patron Saint of Figs!

  Or, that I wasn’t.

  I cut through the top of the envelope with a letter opener, careful to preserve the seal, and removed the delicate paper inside. I unfolded it and began to read.

  My heart sank. It was a form letter—a short one—dated November 15, which meant my follow-up e-mail from Friday hadn’t mattered one bit.

  Antonia Lucia Labella

  Labella’s Market of Federal Hill

  33 Atwells Avenue

  Providence, RI USA

  November 15

  Dear Miss Labella:

  Thank you very much for your letter regarding the need for a Patron Saint of Figs. We receive many requests and, due to the volume, cannot respond to all of them. If at any point in the future we decide to name a saint for figs or the fig tree, we will be sure to inform you.

  While we welcome your suggestions for possible patron saints, please recall that, though in very rare cases we have fast-tracked a person (e.g., Mother Teresa) to sainthood upon time of death, generally there is a five-year postmortem waiting period before we can start the beatification process.

  Blessings in Christ,

  The Vatican Committee on Sainthood

  Vatican City

  Rome

  ITALY

  I sat down on my bed, blinking back the tears. My years of reaching out about sainthood to Pope Gregory XVII felt suddenly futile, a childish effort carried on too long.

  “Antonia?” Gram was still standing there, waiting, patient. She didn’t even have to ask what the letter said. “It’s okay, sweetheart. There’s always a next time, you know. I believe in you. Your father did, too.”

  I heard her tiptoe out of the room, shutting the door behind her. Tears spilled down my cheeks.

  For the first time ever I took what would normally be a precious correspondence—a letter from the Vatican—crumpled it up, and threw it across the room. It hit the closet door and fell to the floor.

  Usually I didn’t take rejection this hard, but maybe this was one rejection too many. Maybe I wasn’t really cut out for sainthood after all.

  There was a rapping on my bedroom window, which I ignored. I knew it was Michael but I couldn’t talk to him right now, didn’t want to talk to anyone. I felt relieved that I’d pulled the shade down tight earlier. He was probably mad at me about this weekend anyway, and I had no desire to make amends at the moment. I waited, silent, still as a statue, until the rapping stopped, until I heard the faint sounds of Michael climbing back down the fire escape.

  I wiped away the tears from my face, and thought of my father. Thinking of him gave me courage. The thing I loved most about being Catholic was that for Catholics, the dead, the saintly, were all still with us, among us, so present we could talk to them as if they were still here. And miracles happened all the time—the world was full of them. Mom, Dad, and Gram all taught me that. And Mrs. Bevalaqua was living proof.

  A tiny smile crept onto my face.

  One miracle. That’s all it took for beatification. I knew it was possible.

  But how? I sighed, knowing I still wasn’t ready to give up on my quest, knowing that the first step was always the hardest.

  PART 2

  The Patron Saint of People Who Make Pasta

  Vatican Committee on Sainthood

  Vatican City

  Rome, Italy

  December 1

  To Whom It May Concern (ideally the Pope if he’s available):

  As a Catholic in good standing and a frequent venerator of saints, I was shocked to learn that of the over 5,000 (!!) saints named in the last couple millennia, there has yet to be a saint for people who make pasta. I mean, there are patron saints for people ridiculed for piety, people who are unattractive, and even people who fight against communism. (Is that supposed to be for America, by the way? You could be more explicit. We all know who you mean.) I am pretty convinced that if we can have a patron saint for people who fight against communism (i.e., the overzealous U.S. government), we are certainly due a saint for us little people who fight to make pasta on the home front. I mean, if you’re not careful with how much water you add to the dough, let me tell you, you’ll have a battle on your hands when you try to roll it out. And the flour! It gets everywhere. We’re talking all over the house, in your hair, on your clothes. A Patron Saint of People Who Make Pasta would be useful in so many ways: for helping with flour removal (have you ever tried to get flour out of your favorite black T-shirt?), for adding water (you measure in halves of eggshells. Eggshells! At least in my family. Try cracking eggs just the right size. Different every time, I tell you), and for preventing the dough from sticking to the rolling pin (you may as well throw the whole batch out at that point). I am convinced that by naming a Patron Saint of People Who Make Pasta, you could have another St. Anthony on your hands—in other words, this saint would have instant popularity. Wouldn’t that be fantastic?

  Thank you for your attention to this matter.

  Blessings,

  Antonia Lucia Labella

  Labella’s Market of Federal Hill

  33 Atwells Avenue

  Providence, RI USA

  saint2b@live.com

  P.S. To help the process move along smoothly, I’d be happy to offer myself up as this much needed object of devotion for Catholic pasta makers everywhere. (By the way, I meant to ask, were you able to open that JPG file I sent last month? If you need a higher-res version, or a TIF file, let me know.) Hope to hear from you soon!

  16

  MOM, GRAM, AND I PREPARE FOR THE FEAST OF ST. LUCIA, AND I PRAY TO ST. AUGUSTINE, THE SAINT WHO ONCE LOVED SEX, ABOUT ANDY

  I poured the contents of an entire bag of flour onto the wooden counter, worn smooth from years of use. I shaped the silky pile into a mountain of soft, white powder until my hands reached all the way around, as if I were pulling the flour into a strange hug. Tiny specks of white hung in the air. I watched them fall, settling onto the pile, the counter, the floor. My dark hair.

  “What are you waiting for, Antonia? A new pope, Madonna?”

  “I was thinking about how I hope I don’t fall asleep in school today,” I said, not looking up. I knew my mother was watching me from the stove while she gave the sauce a turn. It was early Friday morning, December 9, before school.

  “When I was your age I got up at four a.m. to help with the cooking every day and I got straight A’s,” she said in her let-me-now-lecture-Antonia tone, pausing to take a taste from the wooden spoon. She gave a few loud, scraping turns to the pepper mill and added another leaf of basil. “But then I married your father and didn’t have to worry about school anymore. Just the cooking.”

  “Thanks for the fem
inist words of wisdom, Ma,” I said, sliding my hands around the base of the flour until it became a circular wall. “That’s really helpful advice seeing that I’m planning on getting married next year.”

  “Don’t get smart with me, Antonia, and you’re getting flour everywhere! It’s spilling onto the floor,” my mother yelled as she moved away from the stovetop, stooping to stare into my eyes so that I was forced to look back. She glared at the sticky mass beginning to take shape in front of me, and then returned to the pasta dough she was kneading.

  Gram, Mom, and I had been lined up in a row, spread across the long wooden counter in the center of our kitchen for most of the morning, each working our own pasta-making station. Despite the kitchen chaos, my mother’s apron, sweater, pants, and dark hair were all spotless, as if she hadn’t yet lifted a single spice or even touched a tomato. I, on the other hand, had spatters of red all down my pajama top and flour in my hair.

  There had never been a greater need for a Patron Saint of People Who Make Pasta. I’d wiped all memories of November’s fig failure clear from my mind. It wasn’t smart to be too sentimental in the business of proposing new saint specializations. I concentrated on the sticky dough in my hands.

  It took all the women in the house to get ready for the big celebration that we were hosting that night. Like every other year, we were about to observe the feast of St. Lucia. The entire neighborhood would squeeze into our apartment to enjoy the food we’d been up at four a.m. preparing for nine days straight, especially the pastas.

  Everyone would be there. Including Andy!

  And Michael, too. We were actually trying the friends thing. Though being friends with Michael seemed to require that we spend almost as much time together as I spent with Maria.

  “Antonia! Stop using so much flour or your raviolis are going to sink like rocks, and then we won’t have enough for everybody and it will be a disaster. Madonna!”