Cabrelli sat next to his wife. “You took away her supper and the library. That’s all she has. Domenica does her chores, doesn’t she?”
Netta nodded.
“She studies hard. She says her prayers. She is obedient.”
Netta cut her husband a look.
“She has a problem with obedience,” he admitted. “But she always has a good reason to start a ruckus. She is moral.”
“In her fashion. But this incident shows she lacks judgment.” Netta was bereft.
“I’ll talk to her.”
“Tonight.”
“Why the urgency, Netta?”
“That rock was not meant for the Birtolini boy.”
CHAPTER 7
Behind Chiesa San Paolino, down a stone path, before the new barn was built and next to the garden shed, was the stable, used to keep the priest’s carriage and horse. Once the new priest acquired the first motorcar in Viareggio, the horse and carriage were sold, and the stable was left vacant.
Signora Vera Vietro was the church and rectory housekeeper. She exchanged half her wages for rent of the stable. She moved in before Silvio was born and, with the help of the gardener, made it habitable. The stable had a rustic charm. Trumpet vines, with orange blossoms shaped like horns set among thick green leaves, climbed up the side wall and over the tile roof, drenching the weathered wood in color. The windows were wooden shutters with hooks and no slats. The floor was notched pine, left over from the wood used when new floors were installed in the rectory.
The tack wall had iron hooks that once held the reins, headpieces, nosebands, and saddles of the parish horses. Signora Vietro used those same hooks to hold watering cans, garden tools, and buckets. The gardener installed leftover materials from the church renovation, including tiles and wood planks, to shore up the structure. The walls of the stable were painted the same butter yellow as the sacristy of San Paolino, because there were a few cans of leftover paint when the church renovation was completed. It was an eclectic room, but it was warm and dry, the only home the Birtolini boy ever knew.
The stable doors were propped open, letting the clean scent of the earth after the rain waft through the room. His mother had done the laundry. Silvio’s pants and shirt, along with his mother’s work dress, were pinned to a rope, hooked between two beams.
Silvio swept the floor, knowing his mother would appreciate his efforts. He also felt guilty for taking her away from her work at the church that afternoon. The priest didn’t like it when she was called to the school on Silvio’s behalf, or when she stayed home to care for him when he was sick. His mother never made him feel like a bother, but no matter her intention, he felt like one.
Silvio always needed an escape route and a place to hide. He had managed to keep the place where he and his mother lived a secret, which did not keep the children from school from inventing wild tales about them.
Some children gossiped that Silvio lived in the woods with the wild boars; others spread a story that he lived in the sepulcher of the church, sleeping upright next to the tombs. Silvio had heard Beatrice Bibba tell a group of girls at school that his mother was forced to clean the church because she carried a mortal stain that could only be diminished by servitude. In truth, his mother cleaned the church because she needed to put food on the table and a roof over their heads. There was no man to rely upon, no father to protect them. The children made up stories that were the stuff of serial adventure stories in the newspapers. The stories were an effective way to keep Silvio Birtolini in his place as il bastardo.
“Don’t sweep, Silvio. Rest,” his mother said when she arrived home carrying a small parcel. “Here.” She opened the cloth wrapper and placed a hot bomboloni on a small plate. She gave it to her son. “Your favorite.”
“I’m not hungry, Mama.”
“Eat, Silvio. They’re fresh. I got them at the festa.”
“I know. But it’s not the same when you bring them home. They taste better at the stand after I play games.”
His mother placed the bombolone back into the cloth and wrapped them tightly. “It won’t taste sweet as long as you have bitter thoughts.”
“Most of my thoughts are bitter, Mama. It’s a miracle I can taste anything sweet at all.”
“I don’t blame you.” She pressed her palm to his forehead and gently touched the bandage over his eye. “How do you feel?”
Silvio waved her hand away. “It’s sore.”
“It will heal. You’ll see. Tomorrow morning, it will feel better. In a few days, you’ll forget about it.”