BEHIND SAINT ANTHONY’S ALTAR, the portrait of Francis still hung. The votives below still flickered. The crown of thorns embedded around his head still glowed. His wounds still bled.
“Francis,” Bella whispered. “Francis Anthony Mozzarelli, I had our baby. A boy I named William Francis Anthony. But I call him Billy.”
Was that a small smile on the painting’s face?
A sly Gioconda smile.
“He’s beautiful, just like you,” Bella continued. “He’s a perfect little angel and he eats like a fiend, just like me.”
The small smile intensified.
“Some nuns are taking care of him. For a little while. In a terrible place with your name on it. I haven’t been to visit him yet,” she said. She adjusted her throbbing tits. “I’ll bet he’s starving.”
The pain in Bella’s engorged breasts was excruciating. She had to milk herself every day for relief. She usually did it in a warm bath, but sometimes she did it while standing in front of the kitchen sink. She applied hot rags and massaged her bosoms (like she did her papa’s stinking feet) until she was able to squirt into the drain. Blessed relief.
Luigi caught her once.
Once she caught her papa watching (both of their scars twitching).
“Francis …” Bella prayed in front of the massive portrait. “Oh, Francis Anthony Mozzarelli, save me.”
After Bella crossed herself, she slipped into one of the confessionals.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been so long since my last confession.”
“Bella!” Father Michael’s voice charged through the grill. “Is it really you?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been so worried about you!”
“I had my baby, Father. They pulled him out of me. At first, I didn’t want to see him. But then I held him and fed him. He’s the most beautiful baby I have ever seen. Even more beautiful than Little Luigi when my mamma gave him to me. I named him William Francis Anthony. I fed him and sang to him. But then the nuns took him away. They told me they would keep him safe. Until I was able be a good mamma. But, Father, I don’t know if I can be. I’m afraid. I do too many bad things.” After taking a deep breath, she confessed how on her second day back home she went to the five-and-dime and stole nail polish. And lipstick. And a bottle of lilac perfume. “I stole a pair of rhinestone clip-on earrings too.” She confessed she sat at the lunch counter and ate two hot fudge sundaes and a slice of peach pie. “Then I let the soda jerk jerk himself while sucking the milk out of my tits in the employee water closet. He let me leave without paying.” She confessed she snuck into the Jewel Box Theater and sat through Big Brown Eyes three times. She confessed a man who looked “exactly like Cary Grant” sat next to her during the afternoon matinee. She confessed she let him slide his hands between her legs. She confessed she loved it. She confessed she loved it so much she went back and did it again and again.
“I’m a good-for-nothing whore, Father. Just like my papa says.”
The votives at the base of the Francis Christ flickered, sending long shadows across the church. They reached for the confessional but couldn’t get in.
There was a long moment of complete silence. Then Father Michael finally spoke.
“Bella, be strong for yourself and be strong for your son. Be brave. Pray and God will help you find your way.”
“I don’t think I believe in God anymore.”
There was another moment of silence. Then …
“Bella, can I confess something to you?”
“Yes. Please.”
“Sometimes I lose faith in God myself.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“What about Jesus?”
“I think Jesus was an ordinary man, Bella. Just like me. And His mamma was an extraordinary girl. Just like you.”
Bella had a hard time imagining Mary, the mother of Christ, sitting in the balcony of the Jewel Box Theater with a man that looked like Cary Grant. She couldn’t imagine Mary on a kitchen floor fucking Francis. She wondered if Mary’s papa was mean. If Mary’s mamma never said anything. “I think God hates me,” she whispered.
“God doesn’t hate you. We are all God’s children. No matter who we are. No matter what we do. God loves each and every one of us. God loves your son and God loves you.”
“I’m glad it wasn’t the monsignor in here, Father. I’m glad it was you.”
“The monsignor’s gone, Bella. He died the night you had your baby.”
“I killed him!”
“You did no such thing. God called him home. The monsignor’s at peace.”
“Where’s Angelo?”
“Angelo’s gone too. I think he’s somewhere in South Jersey.”
“Is Mrs. Concannon still here?”
Bella found the old woman standing in the kitchen in front of bubbling pot of tomato gravy, wooden spoon in hand. A fresh batch of gnocchi was spread across floured towels on the butcher block. “Bella!” she cried when she saw her young friend.
As they hugged, Bella felt something she hadn’t felt since she had held her son.
A deep, abiding love.
“Look what I’m making!” Mrs. Concannon proudly proclaimed. “Gnocchi alla Bolognese! Are you hungry?”
“I’m starving!”
The old woman gathered a towel full of the little dumplings and dropped them into a pot of water that was boiling next to the simmering gravy. The two of them prayed until the pasta popped to the top.
“Tell me,” Mrs. Concannon said as they ate, “where’s your baby?”
Bella told her the whole story. Meeting and fucking Francis Anthony Mozzarelli. The pain of birth. Her papa. The nuns. Everything. She told the old woman she named her son William. “After your boy. And sometimes I call him Billy. Just like you.”
“Listen to me, child!” Mrs. Concannon said. “Don’t let them do to you what they did to me. You go find your baby’s father. Tell him he has a son. Then the two of you go and get your boy. Get William before it’s too late! Before something terrible happens and you never see him again! Run!”