Once, so long ago now that she could not even remember when, between babies, she was washing herself in the big silver tub they kept outside, and her soapy hands gently scrubbed her thighs, then her inner thighs. Small charges, like electricity, shot through her. Tentatively, she washed where her babies came out. Usually, she did this hurriedly and with great efficiency. But this day, because she was alone in her yard and the touch of her own soapy hands had sent these small jolts through her, she washed herself there more carefully. Slowly, she rubbed herself, keeping her hand soapy and slippery. Yes. It felt good to be touched there. But also silly. And wrong. Josephine got out of the tub quickly and went and confessed this to Father Leone, who made her say a rosary for trying to find pleasure in such a sinful way.
But it wasn’t pleasure she had been after, Josephine thought as she made her way to the strega’s house, which had come into view. It was tenderness. How tenderly Father Leone had taken her milk. Tenderness like this was a holy experience, wasn’t it?
Josephine realized that the witch was standing outside the house, hands on her hips, watching Josephine approach. To Josephine’s surprise, the strega was beautiful. Her hair was in a thick black braid down her back, and her skin was smooth and clear. She had surprising violet eyes, and she wore pants, like a man. She was smiling at Josephine.
“Don’t worry,” the witch said, “you will find that tenderness. But not for ten more years.”
Josephine stopped in her tracks. The woman was most definitely a strega, to know what was in Josephine’s heart.
“That’s why you came, isn’t it?”
“No,” Josephine said slowly. But even as she said it, she wondered if perhaps it was why she had come.
The witch looked down at Bella, still sleeping, and something crossed her face, then passed.
“What?” Josephine said.
The witch’s violet eyes rested on Josephine’s face. “Why did you come then?”
Unsettled by the way she had looked at the baby, Josephine struggled for the words. “This is my seventh baby in ten years,” she began.
“Too many, eh?”
“No. But enough.”
The witch laughed. She told Josephine to wait and she disappeared into the house. When she returned, she held a brown bag filled with sticks and twigs and dried flowers. “After you and your husband have intercourse, make tea with this. It will get rid of any babies you make.”
“Oh, I don’t want to get rid of them!” Josephine explained. “I don’t want any more at all.”
The witch laughed again. “Then tell your husband to leave you alone,” she said. “That’s the only way to prevent babies for certain.”
“But the priest says I have to be with Vincenzo. Jesus ordered it.”
The witch laughed, a sharp, rough sound.
Then, unexpectedly, she drew Josephine into her arms, and soothed her, like a mother comforts a child. Her embrace, so strong and tender, brought tears to Josephine’s eyes. She thought of her own mother, back home—for Josephine always thought of that tiny village as home. Josephine could picture her rough, red hands, the line of dirt beneath her fingernails, the coffee-colored mark on her cheek. She could picture her mother the day Josephine left. She had stood straight and tall and dry-eyed. This is what we do for our children, her mother had whispered. We let them go, even as our heart breaks in two.
But as soon as the strega released Josephine, she turned and walked away.
Josephine called out to her, but the woman went inside the house without even looking back. Her mother had not waited for her either. Josephine had turned around once on that road that eventually led to Naples, expecting her mother to be standing there, only to find her gone. Now, unsettled, Josephine made her slow way toward home.
ON THE FRIDAY in June that the ice man did not come, Josephine had not been a wife to Vincenzo in a long time. Although there had been a night here and there over those years when he had managed to make her open her legs to him, she always got up and made a cup of that tea from the bag the strega had given her. The children were no longer babies, and Josephine’s body had remarkably returned to its former slender self. Her breasts still sagged more than she would have liked, but the blue veins had vanished, and she noticed men admiring her when she leaned forward or wore certain dresses that showed off her full bosom.
Vincenzo had grown so fat that he waddled when he walked. His hair had thinned, and he’d bought himself a black toupee that sat on top of his head like a crow. At night, he put the toupee on the lamp by the bed, and more than once Josephine had woken to think a cat had gotten into their room. Every once in a while, Josephine tried to talk to her husband. But he never seemed very interested. After dinner, he burped loud and long, sending giggles through the children, then shoved himself away from the table, heaving his large body up. He straightened his toupee and went to play cards and drink grappa down the street.
No ice for a week in June meant meat went bad, drinks grew warm, everything had to be eaten right away. There were rumors that Alfredo Petrocelli had the Spanish Influenza and surely would die. But Josephine chose not to believe this. She thought of his cool hands, his muscles straining as he hoisted blocks of ice, his clean clear face. If anyone got the Spanish Influenza, surely it would be the filthy coal man. Or that Jacques LaSalle with his thing hanging out all the time.