An Italian Wife by Ann Hood Page B

Carmine that while he was fighting the war, getting shell-shocked, being brave, his girlfriend, Anna Zito, married Nicola Padua and they had a baby on the way.
    â€œHonestly,” Belle said, sitting on the windowsill so she could blow the smoke from her cigarette out the window, “I don’t think he’s going to care about Anna Zito.”
    â€œBut he loves her!” Julie said.
    â€œI don’t think he’s shell-shocked,” Betsy said, promising herself to look the symptoms up in the big science dictionary at school. “I think he’s brain damaged.”
    â€œThe Army said ‘shell-shocked,’” Julie said. “He just needs some rest.”
    But the next morning, when their mother carefully brought up Anna Zito’s name, Carmine laughed.
    â€œYou remember Anna?” their mother said gently.
    â€œThat puttana ,” Carmine spat. “Of course I know her. I put my thing in her all the time.”
    â€œCarmine!” their mother said.
    He shook his head. “Anna Zito is a whore.”
    The mill wouldn’t give him a job, not with the crazy things he said, or the confused look that swept over his face most of the time. But Chiara spoke with Father Leone, and the priest said Carmine could sweep the church, replace the candles and incense, small things like that.
    â€œGood,” their mother said. “He can go on Tuesdays, when Elisabetta studies her Latin with Father Leone.”
    Elisabetta groaned. “Why does he have to come with me? He’s creepy!”
    â€œHe’s your brother and he will go to the church with you,” her mother said.
    On Tuesday evenings, after supper, Elisabetta and Carmine walked together to the church.
    â€œAnna Zito liked me to fuck her like a dog, from behind,” Carmine said.
    Elisabetta covered her ears and conjugated Latin verbs in her mind so she wouldn’t hear him.
    â€œAnna Zito is a puttana ,” Carmine said as they climbed the steps to the church.
    Once inside, he got the broom from the closet and began to sweep. He was extremely methodical, which was also creepy. He dragged the big broom up and down the aisle, beginning against the wall and then up the aisle. Down and up. Elisabetta paused to be sure he was lost in the sweeping before she hurried into Father Leone’s study behind the altar.
    Father Leone was always waiting for her at his desk. He had a glass of red wine and the Latin book opened to their next lesson. Elisabetta loved his mustache. At night sometimes she imagined what it would be like to kiss him. Certainly it would tickle. Her friend Connie at school had kissed a soldier with a mustache and she said she could taste soup in it. Father Leone would taste like wine, Elisabetta thought.
    â€œAlways smiling,” Father Leone said when he saw her standing in the doorway.
    Kiss me , she thought. Let me see what your mustache tastes like . She hoped that if she thought these thoughts hard enough, Father Leone would receive them through mental telepathy. She had read in a science magazine in the school library about a man who could bend spoons by staring at them.
    â€œWhat is going on in your pretty head, Betsy?” the priest said. He leaned back in his chair and she saw that he was dressed like a normal man: black pants, white shirt. No collar or crucifixes in sight.
    â€œDo you know about mental telepathy?” she said, taking her seat across from him.
    â€œYes,” he said slowly. “You mean communicating through thoughts?”
    She nodded. “There is a man in England who can bend silver spoons just by staring at them.”
    â€œAh!” he said. “Shall we try it?”
    â€œBending spoons?”
    â€œNo, mental telepathy. Send me a message and let me see if I can get it.”
    â€œOh, no,” Elisabetta said, embarrassed. But then she looked at the priest and with all of her might thought: Kiss me! Kiss me!
    Father Leone shrugged.