Chapter 9

“Gemma, stay on Mama’s lap.” Sitting in a back pew of the old stone church, Tazia enfolds the squirming two-year-old in her arms. “Here, have a biscuit.” She fetches a biscotti from her bag. Gemma tries instead to feed it to her, and when it falls, goes after it headfirst. Tazia grabs her around the waist to keep her from crashing onto the floor. This child dives after things. Veronika calls her a “daredevil.” Gemma is indeed daring, but too sweet-tempered to be a devil. Restless and full of energy, like Ayal, Tazia thinks. Also naughty as an imp, and good at getting her way.

Tazia is grateful for Sundays, not only because it is her day off, but because it is a comfort to be in a sanctuary, observing familiar rituals. Veronika goes to a Polish church near their house, while Tazia takes Gemma an hour each way on the elevated train to Holy Guardian Angel, the Italian church on Arthington Street, far from Packingtown. The organ and stained-glass windows are fancier than the village church of her childhood, but the music and liturgy remind her of home.

“Dòminus vobìscum. The Lord be with you,” Father Xavier says now, bringing Tazia back from wistful memories of Loro Piceno to the harsh reality of Chicago.

“Et cum spìritu tuo. And also with you,” Tazia chants. The communion service is ending, and the hymns that come next will quiet Gemma down. Sometimes, when her daughter is too worked up to nap, Tazia sings her snatches of Elvan’s spirituals. Two years on, she occasionally misses him, but she no longer sees him since Mucha demoted him to the lowest position on the opposite side of the Yards. Meanwhile, Gemma is growing up happy in the family she and Veronika have created. The women are exquisitely attuned to each another. Except for Gemma’s occasional tantrums, home is peaceful. Having seen the brutality of men, neither regrets their absence. Elvan was the lone exception, but Tazia dares not speak his name in front of Veronika. It is best that she forget it herself.

“Ite, missa est. The Mass is ended, go in peace.” Father Xavier finally dismisses them.

“Deo gràtias. Thanks be to God.” The congregation files out.

Tazia tugs Gemma toward the El station, anxious to begin the long ride home. Gemma wrests her hand free and runs back up the church steps. Tazia hurries after her.

“Mrs Gatti, un minuto.” Father Xavier beckons Tazia and grabs hold of Gemma. When she bites his thumb to get away, he raises his arm. Tazia flinches, afraid he’ll strike her daughter, but the priest pulls back and glares at Tazia instead. “The child needs a firm hand.”

“She’s really a good little girl, Father.” Tazia smiles, embarrassed. “Just restless after the service.” Gemma continues to climb up and down but doesn’t seem in danger of running off. She checks in every few steps with Tazia, content to play while her mother talks with the priest.

“All the same, she’d do well to have a guiding male presence at home. A growing number of suitable young men are joining our church. Perhaps you would allow me to make the proper introductions?” Father Xavier nods toward a cluster of men whom Tazia judges to be in their twenties, with slicked-back hair, clean-shaven cheeks, and stiff collars irritating their pink necks.

“That’s very kind of you, Father.” Tazia averts her eyes. “But I’m not ready yet.”

“Ah, you must have loved Mr Gatti very much,” the priest says. Tazia lets him think what he wants. He beckons Gemma, who approaches cautiously. “Would you like to have a daddy?” he asks. Confused, she looks toward her mother.

“We don’t want to be late for lunch with Auntie Veronika,” Tazia says and pulls Gemma toward her. “Auntie Vonka,” the child shouts, suddenly eager to leave. Tazia shakes the priest’s hand. “If we don’t move along, we’ll miss our train. They run so infrequently on Sunday.”

As Tazia instructs, Gemma waves goodbye and takes Tazia’s hand. “What’s inquently?”

“It means that if we miss our train, we’ll have to wait a long time for the next one.”

Gemma lets go and skips ahead. “Can I feed the pigeons?”

“Sorry, I didn’t bring any peanuts today.”

Gemma runs back. “Can I have a daddy?”

Tazia halts. She’s been waiting for this question, yet she’s never rehearsed an answer. Half a block behind her, the train approaches. If they hurry, they’ll make it. Gemma hears the rumbling too. She tugs her mother’s skirt. “Inquently,” she reminds her, but Tazia cannot move.

***

Back home, Gemma flops down in the middle of the kitchen, crying and flailing her arms. Felix escapes to the back room. Tazia wishes she could follow. How nice it would be to crawl under the covers with the cat purring alongside her. But Felix snuggles only with Veronika.

Veronika covers the stew and plunks herself down beside Gemma, stroking the child’s trembling back. “Is something wrong?”

“She’s cranky because she’s tired and hungry.”

Veronika rises, hands Gemma a piece of bread, and settles her in a chair. “I still don’t understand why you don’t come with me to St. Nicholas,” she says, bringing the food to the table. “It’s a few blocks away and you wouldn’t have to drag her on the train. I’d even go to late Mass and stay home with her while you went to the early one. Or the other way around. You could sleep later.”

“I don’t feel comfortable going to a Polish church.” Tazia reaches for Veronika’s hand. She doesn’t want to hurt her feelings.

“It’s the same Mass,” Veronika protests, but squeezes Tazia’s fingers and jokes. “Latin. Your old tongue.” Tazia smiles, but she can’t explain that being surrounded by her own kind connects her to her spiritual roots, like returning home.

“You could join one of the new Italian churches closer to here,” Veronika suggests.

“Too small.” Tazia wipes the front of Gemma’s dress. She’s getting good with a spoon, but when money is short and meals are diluted, she can’t scoop up the watery liquid without dribbling.

“No! Me do!” Gemma pushes away her mother’s hand, spilling more. She rubs her bread in the puddle, then mashes and smears it on the table. She looks at the two women with defiance.

Tazia sets her on the floor with Elvan’s rattle and the rag doll Veronika made for her. “I want a big church where I’ll fade into the crowd and people won’t pry. I don’t want to be found.”

“Then join a big Polish church. It’s the last place Gemma’s father would look for you.”

“I wouldn’t feel connected to God there,” Tazia says. She doesn’t want to imply Poles are second-class Catholics, but her faith grew on Italian soil, as surely as her family’s olive trees.

Veronika shoves back from the table. Felix curls around her legs, mewing for scraps, but she ignores him and dumps what’s left of the stew into the sink. “Gemma’s father hasn’t turned up in two years. He’s given up by now. If he ever tried to find you in the first place.”

“Just because he hasn’t found me doesn’t mean he isn’t looking.” Tazia knows Veronika is lashing out from hurt, but the words sting. By now, the idea that she’s fleeing from Ayal sounds ridiculous to her own ears, yet she can’t bear to think he wanted to be rid of her as much as the baby. “He loved me.”

Veronika returns to the table. “Cara, you are worth pursuing across an entire continent.” The women embrace and join Gemma on the floor. Tazia makes the doll dance and sings “Plynie Wisla,” a Polish folk tune Veronika taught them about a river near the town where she grew up. “Pinee Wissa,” Gemma warbles. Veronika, with a look of distaste, lifts the rattle with a thumb and forefinger and shakes it to the music. Tazia gently takes it from her. “Gemma’s growing. There’s no need for this anymore.” She slips the rattle into her pocket. “Dziękuję,” Veronika murmurs.

Taking Gemma’s hands, Tazia and Veronika together lift her to her feet and circle slowly, trading songs from their homelands. As the late afternoon sun sinks, Gemma’s eyelids droop too. She leans towards Veronika, then slumps against her mother. Veronika kisses her on the forehead and Tazia carries her to bed. Before closing the door to rejoin Veronika, Tazia puts the rattle beneath Gemma’s baby clothes, where Ayal’s note is also hidden. “Out of sight, out of mind,” she thinks, hoping Gemma will not ask for her old toy.

If only her own mind worked like a child’s.