“Nine a.m. How are you feeling, Matelda?”
“Better. I’d like to go home.”
“I don’t advise that.”
“I knew you wouldn’t. But I’m not trying to get well, because I can’t get well. You and I both know I’m at the end.”
“We don’t know that, Matelda.”
“It’s harder for me to breathe. I can’t walk. Sometimes I can hear my heartbeat in my ear, and I know that’s not good. So let’s make a deal. I’ll wear my oxygen tank and I’ll do my exercises and anything else you ask of me at home. Please let me go. I have lots of help, meals, and so forth. Dottore, I have a terrace that looks out over the sea. It’s so blue this time of year—there’s no jewel plucked from the earth as spectacular. I don’t want the last thing I taste to be your broth, the last thing I see to be this pressboard ceiling, and the last thing I hear to be the beeps of these machines. I want to see the waves and the sky. I want to hear the birds and feel the breeze from the ocean, and I want to take a shot of whiskey whenever I please.”
“How are you doing today?” Olimpio said from the doorway. Anina followed him into the room.
“I feel grand. Tell him the good news, Dottore.” Matelda looked up at the doctor.
“Matelda can go home.” He smiled down at his patient, took her hand, and gave it an affectionate squeeze.
* * *
“Aren’t you glad I put the elevator in?” Olimpio wheeled Matelda off the lift into their apartment.
“I’m so happy.” The sun split the apartment with stripes of white light illuminating the place and things she loved most. “But I’m thrilled you convinced me to take the penthouse. I love the light.”
Anina emerged from the kitchen. “I juiced some kale for you, Nonna.”
“Oh, bella, you enjoy. Pour Nonna a Campari and soda.”
“Coming up.” Anina brought Matelda’s bag to her room.
“I’d better call Nicolina and tell her we’re home,” Olimpio said.
“Before you do, leave me outside in the sun.”
* * *
Anina brought Matelda’s cocktail and an oil pretzel on the terrace. She pulled a chair over to sit next to her grandmother. “It’s early for alcohol.”
“Not when you’re over eighty. It’s never too late,” Matelda said.
Anina tore the oil pretzel in two. The spongy center was buttery and fresh, while the outer shell was glossy and hard. She handed half to her grandmother.
“I’m going to miss oil pretzels.” Matelda dunked a piece into her drink to soften it. She tasted it. “The nuns in Dumbarton used to make the Scottish version. They called them popovers. I miss those too.”
“We could try to make them for you,” Anina offered.
“Sometimes the memory is sweeter,” Matelda said. “At least for me.”
“Italians never forget what they eat if it’s good.”
Matelda nodded. Her granddaughter had just summarized her entire life in an oil pretzel.
PART THREE
LET WHOEVER LONGS TO ATTAIN ETERNAL LIFE IN HEAVEN HEED THESE WARNINGS:
When considering the future, contemplate these things:
Death, than which nothing is more certain
Judgment, than which nothing is more strict
Hell, than which nothing is more terrible
Paradise, than which nothing is more delightful
CHAPTER 34
Glasgow
JULY 3, 1940
Domenica moved quickly through the crowded streets before stopping at a newsstand. She bought the morning newspaper and unfurled it, searching for a mention of her husband. The news of the fate of the prisoners and crew on the Arandora Star had spread through Ireland and Scotland, though few facts were available. Sister Matelda had shared the news that McVicars died with the captain and most of the crew, but Domenica refused to believe it. Her husband would have found a way to return to her.
Her search for McVicars had become more desperate as the hours passed. Finally, the newspaper printed a list （though incomplete） of the passengers and crew. The photographs were not clear: she did not find her husband’s face among the survivors. She winced as she read the spotty details of the attack. The story as reported seemed fanciful; the facts were vague. Domenica turned the page. Victims of Attack. She traced her finger down the list. She found her husband’s name. She felt her heart shatter inside her body as all hope was lost. Droplets fell onto the newspaper. She looked up, but it wasn’t raining. She put her hand to her face. Domenica was drenched in a feverish sweat.