The Creeds that Move Men's Hearts

by Melody Veltri

  Pa works across the river at Hubbard Co. It’s a tool manufacturing company. Pa is good with his hands. He’s very talented for a man with no formal education. He even makes his own tools—hammers, cleavers, screwdrivers, knives. I don’t know where he learned it, maybe from his father. Most of what he learns, he teaches himself. That goes for the garden as well. We have tomatoes, garlic, peppers, onions, zucchini, lettuce, carrots, and green beans. Pa even has a fig tree. Of course, we have grapevines, and he makes wine every year.

  “Pa, when will we start to get the ground ready for the garden? I saw Mr. Marchetti looking his over the other day.”

  “What’s that?” Pa is peering over the top of the newspaper at me.

  “I said when we are we going to turn the ground over and clear some of the brush? Shouldn’t we have figs by this year, Pa?”

  The fig tree has been a member of the garden for several years now, but it has failed to produce anything but tiny, immature fruit that drops off before ripening. A fig tree is a fragile creation. Before winter, Pa has to pile leaves around the base of the trunk and cover it with a tall box. In its younger years, he would bend the flexible little tree down and bury it in a trench that he dug. People here in town call him “the fig man” because he has managed to keep the tree alive in a very unnatural climate.

  “That’s a tricky thing,” said Pa. “I’m going to dig around it when the weather is warm enough and fertilize it. I think what we need is a fig wasp.”

  “What’s a fig wasp, Pa?”

  “You know—a little wasp.” He wiggles his pointer finger at me and makes a buzzing sound. “It’s funny. You think something like a wasp is just a pest, but the fig tree needs it for pollination. God makes us all connected to each other. So when a fig wasp finds our tree, then we will have figs.”

  I nod my head in appreciation of this interesting bit of trivia, and then I turn to the features section of the paper. In today’s press is an article by William Lytle, Jr., entitled “Washerwoman’s Fire Start of Blaze Which Swept through Pittsburgh in 1845.” It’s all about the Great Fire of 1845 when one-third of the city went up in flames, and the triangle trading area was destroyed. This is the kind of article I look for—one that’s full of drama.

  Papa is reading the sports page. It’s time for the Pittsburgh Pirates to start playing again. Pa is an avid baseball fan. Giova, Marcello, and Lindo are just as fanatical. From April to October, we will be listening to the baseball games every night on the crystal radio. I don’t imagine that Pa will ever run electricity throughout house. He laid the pipe for natural gas himself, and that was no small chore.

  It seems like minutes go by instead of hours when suddenly Mama is calling me to help with dinner. My lovely Sunday afternoon is over.

  Dear Diary, May 1, 1925

  Another Sunday gone. When I am older, I am going to have three Sundays every week—three days when I do nothing but read and sit in my garden and listen to music. It doesn’t seem right to appreciate life only once every seven days. Who made these rules about work weeks anyway?

  I read about the fire of 1845 in the newspaper today. I got to thinking that if a fire would break out in any of our houses, the whole neighborhood would go up in a matter of seconds. From my window, I can almost touch the house next to us. Mama’s right about me—I’m too much of a worrier. I think I get it from her. Still, I don’t think it would take much to destroy everything that our families have built here. If one falls, we all fall.

  * * *

  Sr. Norbert and I have taken to meeting once a week to discuss anything that I’ve read. Last week, we talked about Leif Ericson and his conversion to Christianity after he sailed to Norway. Now she wants to talk about Christopher Columbus.

  “Columbus desired to find a westward route to Asia. What can you tell me, Carolina, from your history readings, about his success in finding such a route?”

  “Well, I know that he discovered America. I know that he sailed with three ships that were given to him by Ferdinand and Isabella.”

  “Very good. And why was his voyage financed by Spain and not Italy?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Did you finish your reading?”

  “I’m afraid not, Sister.”

  “Am I assigning too much for you, Carolina?”

  “No, Sister, it isn’t that. I don’t have a lot of time for reading, and when I get caught up in something, I tend to forget everything else.”

  “What have you been ‘caught up in’ since I last met with you?”

  “I’ve been reading about the saints.”

  “I guess I will have a hard time reprimanding you for doing that, won’t I?” asks Sister with a smile on her face. Sister Norbert has a broad, plain face. Not really what you would call pretty, but it isn’t unpleasant either. When she smiles like that, her face brightens completely. She has quick blue eyes, a small nose, and very thin lips. I often wonder what color her hair is beneath her habit.

  I am relieved to see the smile because I know now that she isn’t really upset with me.

  “Tell me, Carolina, what saints you have been so interested in?”

  “I suppose I am always interested in the women saints, especially the younger ones. I’ve read about St. Margaret of Scotland, who was really a queen but who loved the poor. St. Gertrude was raised by nuns and became one herself. She loved the Virgin and the Eucharist. I think what is most interesting about her is that she was given a very good education—much better than I will receive—and she lived 700 years ago.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, it occurs to me that Sister might think I am referring to her lessons with me. “I didn’t mean that I don’t appreciate these meetings, Sister. I look forward to them every week.”

  “I didn’t take offense, Carolina. I know what you are trying to say. If I remember correctly, Saint Gertrude was a scholar. That’s quite an accomplishment for a woman of any age.”

  “Last night, I was reading about Blessed Joan. I wanted to ask you a question about her.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “How do you know when you have a calling and when you are just escaping the pressures of the world?”

  “Is that what you think Blessed Joan did?”

  “I know that she used the convent to escape a forced marriage.”

  “Perhaps she did. But I don’t think that anyone would want to stay a nun unless it were written in her heart. At some point, Joan could have left the order. I suppose she could have stayed a nun and performed her duties as a matter of routine. But instead, she is known for being an exceptionally holy woman.”

  “You think that her calling came after joining the order?”

  “I can’t answer that. It may be that she had considered it early on and that the engagement forced her into action. It may be that she ran from a marriage to a man she didn’t love straight into a marriage with one whom she did love—Christ.”

  “How did you know that you were called, Sister?”

  “You ask very hard questions, Carolina!” She takes a breath and pauses for a moment. “I was sent to the convent as a young girl, and my fate was decided for me. I spent so many years crying over it and resenting it that when the opportunity came for me to leave, I was shocked to find that I had no desire to go. I packed my bags, I spoke to my Mother Superior, and I said goodbye to my fellow sisters. There was no one more surprised than I was when my feet wouldn’t budge.”

  “Were you afraid to leave?”

  “I would have had to start my life over—enter the community, find friends, be a single woman on my own. I did, in fact, have some trepidation. But my father had died, and he left me a bit of money—enough to have no financial worries. So I needed to reevaluate my life.”

  “Why did you stay?”

  “For the first time in my life, I began to feel that I was truly where I wanted to be and where Christ intended me to be. I like to think that my faith had grown, that my love for Christ and his Church had grown, and that my underst
anding of myself had grown. Now that I wasn’t being forced to stay in the order, I realized how much I had come to love it. But I don’t think that God would have loved me less had I decided otherwise. Come with me. I’ll show you my favorite place in the convent.”

  Sister walks me down a long corridor, past the dining hall, and through a set of French doors into a courtyard garden. For a moment, I feel like I have stepped into heaven. Color is everywhere—more color than I have ever seen. Sister tells me the names of all of the flowers. There are yellow daffodils, red tulips, pink hyacinths, and purple irises. In the center of the garden is a tall statue of the Blessed Mother set inside a stone grotto. My eyes are drawn to her. I’ve never seen a statue that is so realistic. The Virgin is a young girl with her arms outstretched and her delicate fingers gracefully poised. Her right leg is slightly bent at the knee, and her dress falls around her in folds that reveal—ever so subtly—her slender figure. I have been disappointed before in sculptors’ inability to capture Mary’s beauty, but this time I am transfixed. Her sweet face looks down upon me, and every feature is perfect. There is a stone pathway that leads to the grotto, and it is bordered by little white flowers that Sister calls phlox.

  “I’ll plant impatiens along the edge of the grotto soon, and in another few weeks these little cherry trees will be in full bloom,” says Sister Norbert.

  “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful, Sister. It’s as though I’ve just walked into the pages of a book.” I’m afraid to blink in case it is a mirage. I’m hypnotized by this secret paradise in the middle of the cold, austere convent.

  Sister laughs. “I take that as high praise. When I came here, this was a shabby-looking little courtyard. I try to add a few more bulbs each year. By summer, this will look completely different. By June, the roses will bloom along the wall, and the hostas will return to their full size, but these other flowers will be gone. A garden is a spiritual place. I always think that the miracle of life—death and resurrection—is shown to us in a simple bulb.”

  As I walk home, I am thinking intently on every word that Sister Norbert said and of the look of sincerity on her face. A lot of kids at the school don’t like Sister. She’s very strict, and her classes are difficult. I’ve always liked her, but today I feel something else toward her. Respect? Admiration? I’m not sure what. It’s that feeling you get when you realize that the person you are talking to is so much more than you gave them credit for being. Maybe it’s the realization that the person you are talking to is so much better than you are yourself.

  Dear Diary, May 2, 1925

  Sister Norbert is a very complex person. I wish I knew more about her, and maybe I can get her to tell me more stories about her life and her past. Someday, I would like to be just like her. I don’t know if I can be a nun, but I would like to be someone who is happy with her life and knows that she has made the right choices. For that matter, I would like to have choices—to know that I have a say in my own life. I guess that is unlikely to ever happen. My choice will be to stay here with Mama and Pa and continue this life in this house in this way. Or I can get married someday and watch my daughters cook and clean and look after their brothers who go on to school and jobs and the outside world. I feel torn. There is nothing wrong with what Mama and I do. Who would do all of this if we did not? We need to eat, we need to have clean clothes, we need to look after the boys. None of this is useless, but it feels like a burden to me.

  * * *

  The boys are up to something. I can tell, but Mama can’t. She doesn’t really know half of what they do, and it’s probably a good thing. She worries enough already. They aren’t so good at fooling me, however. They’ve gone in and out of the house six times since school let out today, and they keep taking things from the kitchen. I can see that Marcello is keeping Mama occupied by asking her questions while Lindo slips bowls and food from the cabinets. They once hid a friend in the upstairs closet for two days and fed him nothing but olives and cheese until the boy ran home crying with a stomach ache. Maybe they have another fugitive.

  While Marcello is asking Mama, another series of questions about the prospect of babies in purgatory, I follow Lindo out the back door. He’s rushing through our small yard to the outdoor communal ovens that we share with the neighbors. He doesn’t even hear me because I’m walking slowly and quite a ways behind him. Obviously, he has a mission and is only paying attention to what lies ahead. Now he has disappeared behind the oven, so I’ll have to sneak up on him. It wouldn’t be the first time that the boys have conducted experiments in the yard—usually makeshift rockets—and we have holes all over the ground as a result of their treasure hunts.

  As I approach the first oven, I can hear Lindo talking to someone. “Here you go. Not all at once now. You’re drinking too fast.” Maybe they’ve got a bottle of Pa’s wine back there and raided the kitchen for a snack to go with it.

  Slowly, cautiously, I lean against the oven and just listen.

  “That’s a good boy. Here you go—a nice piece of ham. Ouch! Don’t bite my fingers off!”

  I peer over the side of the oven and am met with the sight of the largest dog I have ever seen. On four legs, he is almost the size of Lindo. Immediately, the dog catches sight and smell of me and barks so loudly and fiercely that I jump back. My eyes are wide as walnuts.

  “Carolina! Why did you have to scare him? Calm down, boy. It’s okay.”

  At this point, I am in an eye lock with the dog and am afraid to move an inch. “Lindo, this dog is dangerous,” I whisper. “We need to get back to the house before he attacks us. Walk backwards, very slowly. Don’t turn your back on him.” I want to holler for Mama and for Giova, but I can’t speak above a whisper. Even if I could yell, I am afraid to startle the dog and irritate him more.

  “Sit,” says Lindo. The dog obeys and waits patiently for Lindo to reward him with another piece of ham.

  “You’re crazy. He could bite your hand off.”

  “He won’t bite my hand off—he’s a good dog. Aren’t you, Bruno?” The dog is no longer paying attention to me and is wagging his tail at Lindo. My moment of terror is over, but I really have never seen a dog this size. He’s a German shepherd with paws the size of Pa’s hands.

  Marcello comes up from behind us. “Lindo, why did you tell her?”

  “He didn’t tell me. I followed him. Not everyone is as easily fooled as Mama—you and your sudden interest in the catechism.”

  “Well, you’ll keep your mouth shut, or I’ll tell Mama that you have a boyfriend.”

  “You’re stupid. I don’t have a boyfriend, Marcello.”

  “Mama doesn’t know that, does she? And I can be very convincing. In fact, I think I saw you meeting him behind the school when you were supposed to be having lessons with Sr. Norbert.”

  “You can forget your silly blackmail. You can’t hide the dog forever, and you know it. As soon as Mama finds out, he’ll be gone just like the pony. So go ahead and keep your dumb secret.” I take a last look at the dog who was now being hugged and petted by Lindo. He has no collar and is furiously hungry and thirsty. He also seems to need a bath. I would guess that he doesn’t belong to anyone, though you never know with strays.

  I return to the house. There is work to be done before dinner, and I can hear Mama calling for me. It’s best that I stay out of this anyway. When Mama sees that dog, there is going to be an uproar, and I don’t want any part of the blame. It would be nice to have a dog, although I can’t deny I’m a bit afraid of that one.

  An hour and a half later, Pa is home from work, and we’re having dinner.

  “Marcello, per che no mangia?” asks Mama.

  “I’m not hungry today, Mama.”

  “Are you sick?”

  “No—I just don’t feel like eating.”

  “Give me your head.” Mama is pulling him by the neck toward her and is feeling his forehead for a fever. There’s a frown on her face. Anyone who doesn’t eat must be sick, and that’s one thing
she lives in constant fear of with us.

  “Hmm. No fever. You—you’re not eating either?” Now she is looking at Lindo.

  “Mama, I don’t like this meat.”

  “That’s lamb—last week you loved it.”

  “Well, I don’t today. It tastes funny.”

  “I’ll make you something else. What do you want?”

  “I don’t want anything. I think I have a stomachache.”

  “A stomachache? Let me see you.”

  Lindo walks over to her chair, and she feels his face and neck. Mama is perplexed and anxious. The boys are always good eaters. They are probably getting an illness.

  “That’s it. You two are going to bed, and you’ll take some castor oil, too.”

  Marcello and Lindo look at each other. I know that they are trying to save the lamb for the dog, but the dog isn’t worth going to bed early and having to drink that horrible stuff.

  “I think I can eat now,” says Marcello.

  “Yes, I feel better, too,” says Lindo.

  Mama is thoroughly confused and looks at Papa who just shrugs, shakes his head and keeps eating.

  “I’m watching you both. If you feel sick again, you let me know. Maybe I should let my sister take a look at you, just to be safe.”

  The boys are wearing a look of horror now because they are terrified of Zia Izzy. A visit from her means that Mama will have her performing spells to ward off illness, and they have no desire to have her hovering over them with her wild eyes and yellow teeth. The yellow probably comes from the little cigars she smokes. There is really nothing conventional about Izzy.

  The rest of the meal is finished in silence except for Giova’s offer to eat both their meals. Mama never worries about his appetite. While Mama is carefully watching the boys, I slip some dinner into my napkin. I’ll pass it to them later. After all, I don’t want the dog to go hungry, either.

  Mama and I are clearing the table and doing the dishes when Pa grabs each of the younger boys around the neck. “How about we take a little walk tonight, huh, boys?”