“That’s excellent practice.”
“I know. Papa was brave and that made it easy. It’s a lot like sewing a hem. The stitches have to be tight and straight,” she explained. “I’m really good at it.”
“No, Domenica,” Silvio roared. “I want the doctor to do it.” It was the only demand the boy had made since he arrived. The doctor smiled.
“So I will finish the job.”
Domenica was not pleased.
“You already helped me a great deal,” Pretucci assured her.
The compliment did not make up for not being allowed to close the wound. “Grazie,” Domenica grumbled, remembering her manners.
The work light swayed on its wire. Outside, a crackle of lightning was followed by thunder. A hard rain soon danced off the windowpane. Domenica kept her eyes on the doctor as he worked.
* * *
Pietro Cabrelli was slim and moved quickly through the world, as though time wasted were a sin. He wore a fashionable thin mustache and a three-piece brown serge suit, the only one he owned. He escaped from the rain into the doctor’s office, followed by his twelve-year-old son, Aldo.
Cabrelli removed his hat and set it on the chair. The boy tossed his wet head, shaking off the rain, which flew in every direction. Domenica glared at him. Her brother had terrible manners.
“Why did you bring him, Papa? He doesn’t know how to behave.”
“Don’t bother with your brother. This is about you. Domenica, I warned you. Not another fight.” Cabrelli was weary of meeting with the nuns, who begged him to get control of his daughter, who roamed through the school seeking justice for those children unable to defend themselves.
“It wasn’t a fight this time, Papa. We were chased.”
Cabrelli pointed to the floor, which meant she was in for it. It was almost impossible to make her father angry, but somehow she managed to do it. Domenica slid off the stool and went to her father. She stood before him like a defendant before a judge. “I’m sorry, but there has been a misunderstanding,” Domenica said diplomatically. “Let me explain.” She dusted a few raindrops off the lapel of her father’s suit.
“There is always a misunderstanding. There is always an excuse. I told you, no more fighting.”
Aldo smiled wickedly as he poked his fingers between the ribs of the model of a skeleton hanging on the wall. “Are you going to beat her?”
“No!” Silvio tried to sit up on the table.
“Lie down and don’t move again,” the doctor ordered. Without looking up, he directed a comment to Cabrelli. “I have work to do here, Signore.”
“Forgive me, Dottore. I’m here to take my daughter home.”
“Forgive me too, Signore, but I need her to stay,” Pretucci countered.
“I don’t understand.”
“Of all people, you should understand. She sewed up your hand, didn’t she?”
Cabrelli was confused.
“They got him good.” Aldo had wandered over to the examining table and was watching the doctor as he sewed the stitches.
“You were on the beach this afternoon.” Domenica’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You were chasing us with the rest of them!”
“Your brother followed the boys to try to protect you. He tried to outrun the others to help you.”
“Is that what you told Papa? That’s a joke. I don’t need his help.” Domenica put her hands on her hips with authority. “Besides, I can run faster than Aldo any day.”
“No, you can’t!” Aldo’s face turned red with fury.
“When I’m done here, I’ll prove it.”
“You’re skinny,” Aldo charged.
“You’re fat.”
“Children.”
“Papa, you see how she is. She is mean.”
A woman, small and dark, with a black cotton kerchief tied over her hair, soaked from the downpour, pushed through the door and looked around the room furtively.
“Signora Vietro!” Domenica motioned to her. “Silvio is over here.”
The doctor stepped aside to reveal her son on the examining table. Signora Vietro moved toward Silvio swiftly without a sound, finding a spot on the far side of the examining table. She squeezed between the table and the wall into a space barely wide enough to fit a broom. Signora surveyed her son’s face. As she took in the severity of the wound, her expression shattered from one of concern to one of despair. Her eyes filled with silent tears, but not one fell down her face. She slid her hand under her son’s shoulder, placing the other on his chest, where she could feel his heart pounding in fear.