The Possibilities of Sainthood (16 page)

There I was last Sunday, minding my own business in the family pew, leafing through the hymnal while Father Bernardino droned on with his homily about what, I had no idea. I decided to do a little pre-Communion-line people watching. That was the best part about going to Mass: looking around to see who else was there, especially during Communion, when everyone was filing up to the front. I always made sure to sit by the aisle for optimal viewing.

I was ever-so-inconspicuously glancing around the church to see who was there—Maria and family:
check
; Michael McGinnis and family:
check
—when I noticed Andy just a few rows back. ANDY ROTELLINI AND
FAMILY:
CHECK!
That's when I also noticed that
he
was gazing
lovingly
back at
me
! At least, that was how I saw it. And before I turned away,
he smiled
.

ANDY ROTELLINI SMILED AT ME in a house of God!

Unfortunately, Gram, Veronica, and Concetta, who, like me, were also looking around, noticed this miraculous event, too. And so did Michael. When I noticed Michael noticing me noticing Andy, there was—I don't know—jealousy on his face? He'd been coming by my window almost every other night, but all we'd talk about was whether or not he should go out with my stupid cousin or he would listen to my analysis of every glance and one-syllable word Andy had given me since we'd last talked about Andy's previous glances and one-syllable words.

Anyway, I sat there, blushing but trying to look cool, glancing through the
Glory and Praise to Our God
songbook, while at the same time I wanted to shout, “TAKE ME NOW, ANDY! I don't care if Father Bernardino is transubstantiating the bread and the wine!” That was when Veronica leaned toward me.

“So you like Andy Rotellini, do you?” she whispered in my ear, so close I could feel the crunch of her moussed-up hair against my cheek. “Too bad your mother won't let you out of the house at night.”

Veronica slid back in the pew. I could hear her and Concetta laughing.

Then Gram leaned over from my other side and whispered,
“He's a nice Italian Catholic boy, Antonia. Good for you.”

Which made me go red in the face.

There were three types of Catholics who lived in Providence: the Italian, the Irish, and the Portuguese. We Italians lived on Federal Hill, the Irish congregated in South Providence, and the Portuguese were scattered everywhere in between. In my mother's era it would have been scandalous for, let's say, an Italian-Catholic to marry a Portuguese-Catholic. It wasn't enough that both were Catholic, they had to be from the same “people,” too. Not so much with my generation. Though, if one day I came home with a non-Italian boy, my mother would definitely get the rosary out. Maybe she'd even say a novena—a nine-day prayer ritual you performed only when you needed some
serious
Trinitarian intervention.

The Italians, the Portuguese, and the Irish—we all came together for Mass at Our Lady of Loreto though, where, I should mention in yet another act of painful self-revelation, my family had donated the statue of
The
Virgin (you know—
that
Virgin) in
my name
in honor of my birth. It was unveiled at my baptism. Mom and Dad had brought over the stone from Italy. Spared no expense. We were always pinching pennies but somehow could afford to ship a block of marble over from the homeland. Ever since I was old enough to “appreciate” this gesture I'd worried that having my name immortalized under the Immaculate One had done permanent damage to my chances of ever becoming
un-immaculate. Between my name saint and my Virgin statue, I seemed destined for eternal purity.

Though, it was very possible that Andy Rotellini's LUSTFUL STARES were breaking down the stronghold that Mother Mary and St. Antonia—the virgin-until-death—had on me.

“Stop adding so much flour, Antonia,” my mother barked again, yanking me out of my happy last-Sunday memories.

“Sure, Mom.” I sighed, closing my eyes while working what had become a pillowy ball of pasta dough, back and forth, from hand to hand, on my section of the counter, while still conjuring up images of Andy in my mind: Andy's tall, muscular figure, reaching to place cans of tomato paste high up on one of the market shelves; Andy coming through the front door to start his shift, walking up to me as I sat, transfixed, at the front counter watching; Andy turning to me, staring with those gorgeous dark eyes, to ask whether he should put out the new bulbs of garlic that just arrived . . . Any day now he was going to move beyond one-word greetings and inquiries about garlic displays to professing his undying love for me, explaining how he could not go even another second without KISSING ME PASSIONATELY!

I decided to petition St. Augustine for the second time that morning and the tenth time that month with what was now a familiar prayer on my and Andy's behalf. Of
all
the saints, I'd decided that St. Augustine would know how to
respond, like no other virginal saint before or after him, to one of my Andy requests. After all, St. Augustine was famous for praying, “Lord, make me chaste, but not just yet!” because he loved loving women so much he wasn't quite ready to give up his favorite activity for fame, power, and his future life of celibacy. He eventually had to, of course, in order to become the bishop people remember him as and make his mother happy by being a good Christian boy after her, like, thirty-year record of praying for his conversion—but he did so
begrudgingly
.

 

O St. Augustine, I know you are really the Patron Saint of Brewers; Printers; Kalamazoo, Michigan; and Sore Eyes, and not even close to anything resembling the Patron Saint of Love, Matchmaking, or Kissing (among other possible sexy activities). This is despite the fact that you loved all that stuff at one point in your life (I mean, you waited until you were thirty-two to give up women, and even then you were pretty sorrowful about it all), which is why I am putting all my hope and trust that you of all saints will understand that it will indeed be a SIGHT FOR SORE EYES (mine, that is) to see Andy Rotellini standing before me, above me, or anywhere in my near vicinity, ready to pounce on yours truly, Antonia Lucia Labella, in an act of amorous attention! And speaking of eyes, which is your specialty, mine are practically falling out at this point from all the strain of mustering lust-filled looks for Andy Rotellini's benefit anytime he happens to glance in my direction. I suggest you hark back to your wayward youth,
pick out a fondly remembered encounter—you know what I'm talking about—and relive vicariously through me! Isn't that a great idea? Thank you, St. Augustine, for your attention to this matter.

“Antonia! What are you doing?” My mother interrupted my sexy request, pulling me out of my trance. A thick white cloud rose from the floor. “O
Madonna
, what a mess! Pay attention to what you are doing!”

The big bag of flour sitting on the counter where I'd been working the dough was no longer there. I must have knocked it over.

“Um, sorry. I don't know what happened,” I said, staring at the mountainous powdery mess.

“Don't give me you don't know what happened. You weren't careful is what happened.”

“I'll clean it up,” I said, setting the dough aside to wash my hands and deal with the spill, thinking that this was definitely not the best way to start off the feast day of St. Lucia.

“I'll help you, sweetheart,” Gram offered.

“No, Gram. I can do it. I don't want you bending down on the floor.”

“You're right,
you'll
clean it up. What a waste! I just opened that bag of flour, too,” my mother muttered. “Watch where you step!
Madonna!
What's wrong with you this morning?”

Another cloud puffed up around me. I'd walked right into the slippery white pile on my way to the sink. Sighing,
I turned on the faucet to scrape away the dough caked to my fingers, and made one last plea to St. Augustine:

 

St. Augustine, of all days, today would be the day to come through for me here on the Andy matter. It's the feast of St. Lucia in our house after all! I need something to look forward to right now and I
really
don't want to go down in history as St. Antonia, the girl who not only died making pasta but did so a virgin without so much as a kiss!

O
Madonna.

After what seemed like forever, the floor was spotless. I was covered in sweat and flour, and the curls that escaped my ponytail were plastered against the side of my face.

“Antonia,” my mother snapped. “I need you to go down to the storeroom and get another bag of flour. One of the big ones. As big as the one you
spilled
.”

“Yes, Mom,” I said, looking up at the old grandfather clock hanging on the wall. It was barely a quarter past six. This morning was never going to end. I still had almost two full hours before I left for school. I did my best to clean my flour-covered arms and legs with a dry dish towel.

“Antonia! What are you waiting for? The guests to arrive tonight?”

“Calm down, Ma,” I said. “I'm going.”

I slipped my feet into my sparkly red flip-flops and
trudged down the stairs, shoving the heavy wooden door to the market at the bottom with my hip. A wedge of light grew wider as it swung open. Someone was either in the market or had left the lights on last night. I stepped onto the black concrete floor and stopped. The aisles were dark. Only the lights by the front counter and from inside the storeroom were on.

“Hello . . .” I called out.

What if we're being robbed?
I felt a surge of panic and called on Nicholas of Myra, Patron Saint Against Robberies and Robbers, for his protection should there be a burglar in the storeroom, stocking up on imported olive oil, garlic salt, and amaretto extract, waiting to attack the next unsuspecting virgin who happened along. I grabbed a bottle of balsamic vinegar from a nearby shelf and prepared to break it over his head.

“Hello?” I shouted, louder now, moving toward the door to the storeroom, feeling the protection from St. Nicholas surging through my pajama-clad self.

“Hey,” said a voice that was music to my ears, that washed all burglar-induced fears away with a surge of adrenaline and made my heart race in an altogether different way. Andy Rotellini appeared, bathed in the heavenly glow of the light behind him. His baggy jeans hung low against his waist and his T-shirt fit his body perfectly, just enough to show off his muscular baseball-pitcher arms.

“Hi, Andy,” I said, trying to maintain my composure, though I was screaming inside, Take me! TAKE ME
NOW! You know you want me! Three cheers for St. Augustine!

“Antonia?”

HE SAID MY NAME!

“Yes,” I said, attempting a breathy come-hither tone.

“Why the giant bottle of balsamic vinegar raised above your head?”

“Oh. Um.” I lowered the bottle, placing it on a nearby shelf packed with cans of minestrone. “I wasn't sure if . . . I mean . . . the light was on . . . I wasn't expecting anybody . . . What
are
you doing here now anyway?”

“Your mother asked me to come in before school so I could double-check the stuff for tonight.”

“Yes. Of course.” As usual, I'd lost the power of intelligent speech.

He leaned against the door frame, all casual, his eyes boring into me. “I was going to come upstairs when I finished. You know, to tell your mom everything was all set. Maybe see if you were around.”

HE LOVES ME! He was going to SEE IF I WAS AROUND!

I attempted a nonchalant this-is-so-no-big-deal pose and instead ended up sending several cans of navy beans crashing to the floor. “Whatever. I'll get those later.” I tried to act like I wasn't embarrassed by my lack of coordination.

“Yeah. Sure,” he said, returning to his one-word self.

“Does my mother know you're here?” I asked, thinking,
PLEASE, NO. Please don't let her know the love of my life is alone and conversing with me in the market.

“She didn't give me a specific time—just that I should get everything done before school,” Andy said. “I just let myself in.” He looked as if he were waiting for me to do something. “You want to keep me company awhile?” He gestured behind him into the storeroom.

“I can't stay,” I said, but I was thinking, YES! YES! I am finally having a moment alone with Andy Rotellini! Who cares that it is only six-thirty in the morning, that I have a total bed-head and am unshowered, dusted from top to bottom in flour, and wearing my pajamas? Originally I'd pictured something more romantic: We'd meet up by the swing set one evening, like with Maria and John. He'd push me really high. We'd laugh. He'd declare his undying love. But I wasn't picky. I ducked past him into the storeroom, almost fainting from his nearness, and took refuge by a case of instant polenta. “My mother expects me back up in the kitchen soon,” I added, managing a smile.

Andy faced me and gave me THE STARE, the same lusty I'm-a-man-of-few-words-but-who-needs-words stare, that I'd come to love lately. A look that turned my legs into TOMATO PASTE.

Without another word he walked toward me and stopped. We had never been this close and I felt small next to his tall frame. He leaned toward me, placing one hand against the wall for balance and running the other down the length of my bare arm. My skin tingled. His fingers lingered on the back of my hand.

I had to remember to breathe.

Andy Rotellini was TOUCHING ME. I was BEING TOUCHED BY A BOY.

I stared into his eyes, not knowing what to say or do.

And I waited. I waited for him to say any one of the following things:

 

I've dreamed so long about this moment.