Voices Carry (13 page)

John took Genna’s elbow as they walked up the steps.

“Johnny, you’re late,” his aunt scolded as a way of greeting. “Your mother is having heart failure in there; she sent me out here to keep watch.”

John winked at Genna even as he leaned down to kiss the woman who, in her early sixties and dressed
in yellow and purple, reminded Genna of a large Easter egg.

“My mother started having heart failure last week, just thinking about the possibility that I might be late. Aunt Josie, you remember my friend Genna, don’t you?”

“Of course, of course. The lady FBI agent that you work with.” Aunt Josie’s eyes narrowed. “Such a strange job for such a pretty girl. . .”

John laughed and led both women into the cool, dim interior of the church.

To one side, a gathering of familiar faces turned at his arrival.

“Thank God.” John’s mother Rita fanned herself with a folded sheet of paper and all but sprinted toward them. “You’re giving me a seizure, Johnny. You should have been here thirty minutes ago.”

“Is Father Dellisi here?” John bent to kiss his mother.

“No, but if he had been, they couldn’t have started till you got here.” She folded the one-page church bulletin and smacked him with it. “I told you not to be late.”

“And I’m not, Mom. We have another fifteen minutes yet.” A smile played at the corner of his mouth. “Now, say hello to Genna.”

“Hello, Genna.” Rita Mancini offered a hand bejeweled on several fingers. “Forgive my bad manners. My son is always late and always holds up the family.”

“Mom, I feel compelled to point out that Angie’s not even here with the baby and that the priest hasn’t arrived yet.”

His mother dismissed the facts with a wave of her hand.

“Technicalities. There could’a been traffic, you could’a been stuck on Broad Street for an hour. You should’a been early.” Movement near the door drew her attention. “There’s your sister. Thank God. We can get started.”

Grabbing John’s arm, she steered him toward the doorway, where Angie stood proudly, gently holding a white bundle in her arms.

“Angie, your brother’s here. We can start.”

“Hi, John,” Angie DelVecchio smiled and blew a kiss. “And Genna! I’m glad you came. We’ll talk later. Where’s Mary Anne? Carmen, where’s your sister? She’s the godmother. There’s Father Dellisi. Carmen, is your mother here? How can we have the christening without the baby’s grandmother here? Is she late? Who has a cell phone to call Carmen’s mother?”

“I’ll just sit here and watch,” an amused Genna whispered to John as she slid into a pew at the rear of the church. “You go ahead and do whatever it is the godfather is supposed to do.”

John touched her shoulder. “This doesn’t usually take too long.”

“Whatever,” she smiled. “I’m in no hurry.”

The immediate families and the prospective godparents, all present and accounted for, grouped together near the baptismal font, and Genna sat back in the pew surveying the interior of the church that was rich in well-polished woods, cool marble, and colorful stained glass. The priest’s voice became a distant murmur as Genna studied the main altar. Fresh flowers were everywhere. The members of the parish obviously took great pride in their church.

John’s sister, Tess, arrived quietly with her son,
Jeff, a tall lanky boy who had yet to grow into his hands and feet. Genna watched as they slipped into their seats, Tess turning once and glancing over her shoulder to wink at Genna before settling in to the ceremony at hand.

The last time Genna had been in this church had marked the only other time she’d ever been in a Catholic church. As the child of a country preacher who had railed against graven images and idolatry, she’d never been permitted to set foot inside such a place. Even today, she’d chosen a seat in the far back of the church, as if hiding from watchful eyes.

She sat very still, as if waiting for a bolt of lightning to pierce the domed ceiling and strike her dead, as her father had promised one might do should she ever venture into a church such as this. When none did, she leaned forward in her pew, just a bit, to focus on the baptism.

Then, from the corner of one eye, Genna caught a small dark figure quietly shuffle up the side aisle and kneel before one of the cool, ethereal marble statues at the front of the church. The woman was tiny and wore a black kerchief over her head and a long dark coat, even though it was midday on a hot summer Sunday. After a few minutes, she rose slowly and lit two small white candles, then knelt again, unaware that from the back of the church, Genna watched, wondering what it was that the old woman prayed for.

Without warning, a whispered plea, fervent and frantic, uttered so long ago in a faraway courtroom, rang inside Genna’s head, shattering her with all the fury of that bolt of lightning she had begun to think she need not fear.

Please, God, make my momma and daddy come back for me. Please don’t let them leave me here. Please, God, I’ll be so good forever. I’ll never be willful or stubborn again, I promise. I’ll never make Momma unhappy and I’ll never make Daddy mad. Please make them come back for me. Please, God. Please let me go home. I just want to go home. . .

The voice—her voice—had been so clear, so impassioned, that Genna sat up with a jolt and looked around, mortified by the certainty that she’d cried aloud. But no one had turned to give her sidelong looks or to hush her. Her face flushed, her heart pounding wildly, she tilted her head down, biting her lip to keep from screaming out at the pain that ripped through her as the words, so long forgotten, echoed inside her head in a frenzied rush.

Momma, please, come back. Please take me with you. Momma, please. Please don’t leave me. I’ll never be bad again, I promise. Please, Momma. . .

Sweat beaded on her lip and her hands began to shake. She closed her eyes and could see it so clearly. . .

The courtroom, crowded and chaotic once the trial had ended and the verdict had been announced. Genna sat between two social workers in the first row, behind the long wooden table where the prosecuting attorney and two of his associates sat. The one sitting closest to her, a young woman with long stringy dark hair and long thin fingers, had held Genna’s hand as the judge had pounded his gavel, demanding that order be restored. Turning in her seat, Genna had seen her parents rise, their silence wrapped around them like dark cloaks. She stood up and called to her mother, who, at the sound of Genna’s
voice, had turned away. Her father had met Genna’s gaze with turbulent eyes and an air of finality as he firmly took his wife’s arm and led her to the door, and through it. Bewildered, Genna scrambled to stand on her chair and called above the crowd to her mother, who gave no sign of having heard her child’s cries.

And just like that, Genna had been dismissed with the same detachment with which some might tie a dog to a fence and walk away, leaving it to its fate.

Even now, so many years later, waves of nausea spread through her, stunning her, and she fought it back, praying that it would not overcome her completely. Oblivious to what was going on around her, Genna rose on trembling legs and all but ran from the church. Once outside, she leaned against the cool stone of the building and willed her legs to hold her up, her hands from shaking, and her lip from trembling. As she took in deep gulps of hot city air, the old woman who had been kneeling at the altar emerged from the church and stood on the top step, adjusting her kerchief. Grasping the railing, she took the steps with studied caution, then tottered about halfway down and seemed about to fall. Without thinking, Genna rushed to her and took her right arm gently to steady her.

“Grazie.”
The woman looked up at Genna without smiling.

At the foot of the steps, Genna released her, and started back to the cool shadows outside the doorway, but surprisingly strong fingers gripped her forearm. The old woman held her with one hand, while the other searched a pocket of the old coat. A near smile on her lips, she withdrew something from her pocket
and pressed it into the palm of Genna’s hand, nodded to Genna, then turned and walked away.

It wasn’t until Genna returned to the shade that she opened her hand and looked at the offering. It was a small medal of some sort, engraved with a face that had been partially worn off over the years. She wasn’t sure whose face it was, but she figured since the unexpected gift had been intended as a thank you, the person on the medal must have been important to the giver. Genna slipped her hand into her pocket, the tiny medal still between her thumb and index finger, and returned to the cool of the church.

The ceremony had ended, and the guests had just begun to gather in the aisles. Walking toward Genna with a purposeful stride and a worried look on his face, John took her hands in his and asked, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” Genna tried to smile convincingly.

Declining to comment, John took her arm and walked with her to the back of the church, where they greeted his cousins and neighbors and old family friends and waited their turn to congratulate the beaming parents and admire the now sleeping child. It wasn’t until they were back in the Mercedes that John said, “So, are you going to tell me why you ran out of the church?”

“I just needed a little air.”

“It’s ninety-two muggy degrees outside and the air is so dense with truck exhaust from I-95, you can slice it.”

“I just needed some space.”

“Who was crowding you?”

“Memories,” she replied softly, unaware that in her pocket, her fingers fiddled with the medal.

Without further comment, John drove slowly through narrow streets where cars parked on either side made the passage narrower still. Through neighborhoods where sagging awnings sheltered the front windows of the red or yellow brick row houses from the afternoon sun, where old men sat in clusters on folding chairs and old women swept imagined dust from their front steps.

John had parked the car without her realizing it, and it was another long minute before Genna was aware that he was staring at her.

“What?” she asked, clearing her throat.

He took her hands into his and pressed back the fingers that shielded the medal in her palm.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, lifting it to get a better look.

“While I was outside, there was an elderly woman. She’d been in the church. I had watched her praying up near the altar.”

“Mrs. Romanelli.” John told her.

“She seemed to be having trouble getting down the steps outside the church, so I gave her a hand. She gave me the medal.”

John turned the medal over once or twice.

“Do you know whose face that is, on the medal?” Genna asked.

“No. But someone in there,” he motioned toward the house with his head, “will probably know.” He handed the medal back to her. “If you’re all right, we’ll go in. And maybe later you’ll feel up to telling me what spooked you back there.”

The child that I once was spooked me,
she ached to tell him. Over the years she’d shared bits and pieces, but never the whole picture. The thought that she might
be able to share it all with someone, with him, both frightened and comforted her.

The small row home of Angela and Carmen DelVecchio was marked from the outside by an enormous bouquet of blue and silver balloons that were tied to the wrought iron railing that separated their front steps from those of their next-door neighbor. Already the crowd had begun to spill from the living room onto the open porch in the front and down the steps onto the sidewalk. Rooms never intended to hold so many seemed to visibly expand as more and more guests joined the festivities. The men had shed their jackets and ties, the women their high heels, and all at some point converged into the dining room where an impressive buffet was already being assembled. The rooms were at once noisy with chatter and laughter and music from the CD player one of Carmen’s brothers had placed on an open window ledge.

“Are you hungry?” John asked over the chorus of Jim Croce’s “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.”

“A little,” Genna admitted. “Do you see either of your sisters? I was hoping to get a chance to chat with both of them.”

“Tess and Angie are just going up the stairs with the guest of honor. Poor little guy must be pretty tuckered out right now. But I guarantee that my mother and my aunts are all in the kitchen.” John took her hand, saying, “Here, let me help you get through this crowd.”

John led her toward the back of the house, through an endless sea of cousins and aunts and uncles who conversed with him in both English and Italian. Small children squeezed around the adults,
some balancing plastic plates holding all manner of delicacies. It took ten minutes to make their way into the kitchen, where Rita Mancini was arguing with her sister Anna about which fabric shop on Fourth Street had the best inventory.

“Goldberg’s. No question.” John’s mother’s firm pronouncement, met with a nodding of heads and a chorus of affirmatives, appeared to be accepted as the last word on the subject. Turning toward the doorway, she called over the heads of her nieces, “Genna, did you have something to eat? John, did you feed her yet? She’s a rail. Here, Genna. . .”

Reaching behind her, Rita grabbed a dark blue plastic plate and in one motion, served lasagne from a pan on the stove, sausage and peppers from a still-bubbling pot, and scooped salad from a wooden bowl that had been set on the counter.

“Johnny, you serve yourself. . . no, not from the dining room, from my pots, here in the kitchen.” She handed Genna the plate, piled now with food and said in a low voice, “Mary Giordani made the lasagne that’s in the dining room. Two words, Genna.
Canned tomatoes.
You want mine. I make my own, everything from scratch. It’s much better. Johnny, grab a fork for Genna—she doesn’t need a knife to cut my sausage. And put down that salt shaker. I put salt in. Now, go on outside and eat.”

She held the back door open and Genna followed John down the back steps.

“Mary Giordani uses canned tomatoes in her sauce?” She whispered out of the side of her mouth.

“It’s the talk of the neighborhood.” John shook his head solemnly.