“WE LOST OUR GARDENER last week,” Father Michael said as he led Bella through the rectory’s ragged yard. Uneven banks of overgrown grass waved away from the two of them as they walked past the crooked birdbath. “He had a heart attack while mowing down the weeds. We just hired a new one. His left leg is lame. He was born with it, but he’s as young and as strong as a high school football player.”
Bella farted. Lately, she had started regurgitating and burping and passing gas like an old jalopy. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Her head throbbed. Her mouth raged. She still tasted blood when she tongued the inside of her cheek.
Father Michael took her hand and led her into the rectory. In the musty vestibule mahogany angels vaulted in high corners.
Jezebel! Bathsheba! Salome!
“I’ve got to say noon mass soon,” he said as he rubbed his bruised chin. “Not many parishioners during the week, I’m afraid.” He lowered his voice and glanced sideways. “Nothing but a bunch of gossipy old ladies. I’m not sure how long we can keep you here,” he whispered as their footsteps echoed up a winding set of narrow stone steps. “It will be up to Monsignor Teschio, and I don’t know what he’ll say. He thinks all young women are streghe malvagie. Evil witches. If he had his way, you’d all be burned at the stake.”
Bella remembered the creepy old padre from when she had battled her way through grammar school. He voted against her during the carnival pageant. The old pervert had called her revolting. Now he wandered around the parish like a ghost, always with an altar boy or two or three tethered to his magenta cassock.
On the third floor, in a room the size of a small horse stall, Bella faced a weak-looking cot. It rested under an open window the size of a gravestone.
Father Michael cleared a few cobwebs away and pushed the cracked casement open. “I’ll find you some fresh linens and see about procuring you some donated clothes. You’ll find the water closet at the end of the hall. Wash up and get some rest. After mass I’ll bring you down to the kitchen and introduce you to the old woman who cooks here.” He lowered his voice again and made a sour face. “She’s Irish. She boils the flavor out of everything.”
Bella laughed despite the pain in her cheek.
Father Michael laughed, too, despite the pain in his own kisser. “Can you cook?” he asked.
“Yes. It’s what I do best.”
“Good. We’ll put you to work to earn your keep.”
“Okay, Father. Thank you,” Bella said.
After Father Michael left, Bella sat on the edge of the cot. At first the silence was deafening. Then she heard voices ringing in the small room. They flew in through the cracked window and started singing,
You’re a despicable person, Belladonna Marie Donato!
You’re nothing but a two-bit whore and a goddamned thief!
You’re just like your mamma! A pain in my ass! A good-for-nothing!
Bellamamma! Why did you leave me?
They sang like a riot of church bells clanging.
Like angels screaming.
To try and drown them out, Bella curled up and wailed until her throat felt like it was shredding. Then she did what she always did when her feelings proved too loud and too furious. She closed her eyes and imagined she was in the garden behind the house at Robertson Scale factory in the heat of tomato season, when the plants rose tall and green, when the ground was soft and warm, when the fruit was ripe and sweet. She imagined Francis standing among the plants, wearing nothing but a crown of thorns. She imagined him kissing and fucking her.
Al tuo servizio, mia regina!
She worked her hands between her legs, massaging herself until she was drenched in sweat, until tomatoes appeared in the air above her bed.
Moiras.
Romas.
Plums.
Beefsteaks.
I will love you forever, Belladonna Marie!
She kept at it, pressing and pushing and panting, until the tomatoes twirled and whirled into a tomato tornado that spun out of control and she screamed, “Saint Anthony, save me!”