THE NEXT DAY, ON top of a ragged hill in the Passaic dump, a place Terelli Lombardi told Bella was very special to him, a private place where he could get away from all the horrible bullshit in the world, a place where he wasn’t a fucking faggot but the king of everything, Bella sat next to her best friend.
“This is one of my favorite spots,” Terelli told her. “I often sit here by myself. Sometimes for hours. Hatching grand escape plans and delicious schemes.”
“What kind of plans and schemes?”
“Hollywood, for one thing. Maybe I’ll go to Tinseltown and break into the movies someday. I can make the stars look even more beautiful, don’t you think?”
“Well, you’re a real whiz with makeup, that’s for sure.”
“Or maybe I’ll open an antique shop somewhere fun. Like Coney Island. I was made for that Sin City. Or maybe I’ll go to Miami. Florida seems so warm and inviting.”
Bits of coal and broken glass winked in the surrounding ash heaps.
“I’ll take you with me wherever I go. All you have to do is ask.”
“Thank you,” Bella said as she grabbed his hand and held it.
For a while neither of them said anything more. Then Terelli spoke. “I have a present for you.” He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small, meticulously wrapped package, and handed it to Bella. “The apricot paper is from Rowe~Manse Emporium, imported from Paris, France. The satin ribbon too. But I made the gift. Just for you.”
Bella slowly untied the bow and opened the paper to reveal the jewel-topped box from Alice’s vanity.
“Open it,” Terelli said.
Bella lifted the lid. Bundled neatly inside was a knitted pair of butter-yellow baby booties and a matching hat no bigger than Lulu’s baby doll’s cap. Bella wanted to retch.
“The color is called duckling fuzz,” Terelli said. “It’s 100 percent cashmere. I had a hell of a time stealing it by myself.”
Bella’s face puckered, but she wouldn’t let herself cry. “How did you know?” The tears started popping out of her eyes.
Terelli grabbed her hand. “Let’s get married,” he said. “I’ll take care of you and your baby. We can live with my grandmother in Brooklyn until we decide where we want to go. She smells like rotten crab meat. But it’s nothing we can’t fix. Her house is in a magical neighborhood called Prospect Park South. It’s loaded with the most delicious antiques. Compared to Grandmother’s house, my house is nothing.”
Bella kept her eyes trained on a garbage truck as it trundled into the dump. “I can’t marry you,” she quietly said.
“Why not?”
They both knew why.
Terelli linked his arm through hers. “Are you going to marry the father?”
“I can’t.”
“Is the father a Negro?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s something to be thankful for, at least. Who is it?”
The garbage truck squealed to an idling stop. Bella took a deep breath. “Francis Anthony Mozzarelli,” she said.
The truck dumped its trash. The crashing sounds of rattling tin cans and shattering glass.
Terelli sprang to his feet. “Liar!” he yelled. “You’re lying to me!”
Bella laughed at the absurdity of everything. “Why would I lie?”
“Francis Anthony Mozzarelli is MINE!” Terelli hollered. “I’m his little bird! He loves ME! Not you! ME!”
Bella’s eyes narrowed. She sucked in her cheeks. “How could he love you?”
Terelli’s eyes narrowed too. “What do you mean?”
“You’re an invert! A pervert! A queer! A pansy!”
Terelli’s face turned as red as a summer beat. His ears blew steam. For a moment Bella thought he was going to slap her. “You’re a despicable person, Belladonna Marie Donato!” he screamed. “You’re nothing but a two-bit whore and a goddamned thief. And I never want to see you again! You or your goddamned bastard baby!” He turned on his heels and tripped halfway down the hill until he stopped and whipped around. “AND BY THE WAY, YOUR MEATBALLS ARE FUCKING DISGUSTING!” he hollered. Then he stumbled down the rest of the hill and ran across the dump, kicking up dirt and debris.
“MY MEATBALLS ARE FUCKING DELICIOUS!” Bella yelled as he disappeared. Then she collapsed. In a fit of rage and anger she started digging. She dug like a hound dog after a bone until her fingers were raw and bleeding, until she couldn’t see. She dug until there was a hole big enough to bury the baby cap and booties.
“Fuck you, Terelli Lombardi! Fuck everybody!”
She slammed the knitted things into the jewel-topped box, jammed it into the hole, and clawed the dirt back over it. Then she rose to her feet, stumbled down the hill, and ran all the way to Saint Anthony’s.
After a quick prayer in front of the Christ painting, she crossed herself and slipped into a confessional.
“Bless me Father, for I have sinned.”
The voice on the other side of the grill was not Monsignor Teschio, thank God. It was young and new.
“The Lord be in your heart and upon your lips. What are your sins?”
“I’m gonna have a baby, Father.”
There was a pause.
“How old are you, my child?”
“I’m fifteen.”
There was another pause.
“Who’s the papa?”
“The boy in the crucifixion painting.”
There was another, longer pause.
“How far along are you?”
“Pretty far, I think.”
“Have you told your family?”
“Only my silent mamma. I’m afraid when my papa finds out he’s gonna kill me.”