When she woke up puking with the fifth baby, Josephine broke into tears. Throwing up into the chamber pot while she nursed Giulia and Elisabetta, who was only three months old, she caught sight of Vincenzo standing in the doorway grinning down at her.
“Remember this,” she told him. “You will never touch me again.”
But when that fifth baby, another girl, was stillborn, Josephine was so heartbroken and guilty that she went back on her threat and soon had two more babies, Chiara and Isabella, whom they called Bella. In her mind, whenever Josephine looked at that seventh baby, she didn’t think Bella; she thought basta. Enough.
UP THE HILL, in a rundown house in the woods, lived a strega, a witch. Josephine had heard stories about the things this woman could do. She could make a man fall in love with a woman. She could bring financial ruin to a family. She could cure sciatica and migraine headaches. She could even, it was rumored, see into the future. She had told Magdalena down the hill that her baby would be born with feet like a fish, and it came to pass. She had seen early death for Giorgio the barber, and hadn’t he been trampled by his own horse before he reached thirty? And his wife pregnant with twins at the time.
Josephine wondered if the strega could keep her from getting pregnant again. Ever since that fifth baby had been born dead, Josephine believed she was to blame. She had told her husband he could not touch her again, but she knew that it was his right to have her anytime he wanted. Hadn’t her own mother told her that on her wedding day? It was her duty, even if it meant looking like a cow and smelling of spoiled milk and baby spit-up all the time.
One afternoon, after she lit a candle wax on the altar, she saw Father Leone emerging from the confessional. Josephine rushed to catch up with him.
“Josephine,” he said, obviously pleased to see her. He pointed to her flat stomach. “No new babies for the Rimaldis this year?”
Josephine took a step back. It was as if he had read her mind. “Father,” she managed. The smell of incense and melting wax was making her dizzy and she actually swayed slightly.
“Whoa,” Father Leone said, catching her by the elbows and holding her up.
Josephine looked into his dark eyes. He had very long lashes that curled up, like a girl’s.
“I have a question,” she said, her throat too dry to continue.
“Sit here,” he said. “I’ll get you some water.” Gently, he led her into the front pew and ran to bring her a glass of water.
When he sat beside her, Josephine foolishly thought his eyes lingered on her breasts, which were filling with milk, which meant it was time for her to go home to feed her babies. What was wrong with her? she wondered as she gulped down the water. Here was a man so holy, the pope wrote him letters of admiration. Having babies made women act crazy; this was a fact. Marianna next door had tried to drown herself in the river after her third baby. Catalina from Sicily ran naked through the streets when she was nine months pregnant. Women knew this. Babies did something to them.
“I’m so tired,” Josephine said at last.
“Babies,” the priest said, nodding, “they take your strength.”
“Yes!” Josephine said. “And Vincenzo . . .” She didn’t know how to say what she wanted to say. Father Leone was sitting so close she could smell his cologne, a spicy scent that filled her mouth. Her nipples were starting to tingle. She had to go. Her breasts were growing hard with milk and soon it would leak out, embarrassing her.
“Vincenzo insists on you continuing to be his wife,” the priest said, nodding again.
Was he reprimanding her? Josephine wondered.
“This is your job, of course. Didn’t Jesus order us to be fruitful and multiply?” His Tuscan accent made it difficult for her to understand him exactly. He pronounced each vowel at the end of his words with a great and confusing flourish.
Josephine dropped her head. “I suppose so,” she said. Now her breasts were hot and aching.
Father Leone cupped her chin in his soft hand and lifted her face so that he could look right at her. “How could Vincenzo, or any mortal, keep away from you? You, Josephine, are so beautiful, and so womanly. Look. Look at your breasts even now, flowing with life.”
Josephine couldn’t really move her head because he held on to her like that, but she glanced down to see a wet stain spreading across the front of her dress. Her cheeks turned red with shame.
“What’s this?” Father Leone said. “You should never be ashamed of being fruitful and multiplying. Of nourishing God’s children.”
“But Father,” she said, “look at me. Like a cow.”
The same hand that had so gently cupped her chin now reached back and gave her a quick, hard slap. Josephine’s hand shot to her face.
“You are a woman,” Father Leone said sharply. He frowned at her, his dark eyes flashing. “How can I convince you that your body is a gift to your husband and to all of God’s children?”
Even with her breasts leaking milk, the ache in them got worse. “Thank you, Father,” she said. “But I have to go now.”