Signora Vera Vietro was the church and rectory housekeeper. She exchanged half her wages for rent of the stable. She moved in before Silvio was born and, with the help of the gardener, made it habitable. The stable had a rustic charm. Trumpet vines, with orange blossoms shaped like horns set among thick green leaves, climbed up the side wall and over the tile roof, drenching the weathered wood in color. The windows were wooden shutters with hooks and no slats. The floor was notched pine, left over from the wood used when new floors were installed in the rectory.
The tack wall had iron hooks that once held the reins, headpieces, nosebands, and saddles of the parish horses. Signora Vietro used those same hooks to hold watering cans, garden tools, and buckets. The gardener installed leftover materials from the church renovation, including tiles and wood planks, to shore up the structure. The walls of the stable were painted the same butter yellow as the sacristy of San Paolino, because there were a few cans of leftover paint when the church renovation was completed. It was an eclectic room, but it was warm and dry, the only home the Birtolini boy ever knew.
The stable doors were propped open, letting the clean scent of the earth after the rain waft through the room. His mother had done the laundry. Silvio’s pants and shirt, along with his mother’s work dress, were pinned to a rope, hooked between two beams.
Silvio swept the floor, knowing his mother would appreciate his efforts. He also felt guilty for taking her away from her work at the church that afternoon. The priest didn’t like it when she was called to the school on Silvio’s behalf, or when she stayed home to care for him when he was sick. His mother never made him feel like a bother, but no matter her intention, he felt like one.
Silvio always needed an escape route and a place to hide. He had managed to keep the place where he and his mother lived a secret, which did not keep the children from school from inventing wild tales about them.
Some children gossiped that Silvio lived in the woods with the wild boars; others spread a story that he lived in the sepulcher of the church, sleeping upright next to the tombs. Silvio had heard Beatrice Bibba tell a group of girls at school that his mother was forced to clean the church because she carried a mortal stain that could only be diminished by servitude. In truth, his mother cleaned the church because she needed to put food on the table and a roof over their heads. There was no man to rely upon, no father to protect them. The children made up stories that were the stuff of serial adventure stories in the newspapers. The stories were an effective way to keep Silvio Birtolini in his place as il bastardo.
“Don’t sweep, Silvio. Rest,” his mother said when she arrived home carrying a small parcel. “Here.” She opened the cloth wrapper and placed a hot bomboloni on a small plate. She gave it to her son. “Your favorite.”
“I’m not hungry, Mama.”
“Eat, Silvio. They’re fresh. I got them at the festa.”
“I know. But it’s not the same when you bring them home. They taste better at the stand after I play games.”
His mother placed the bombolone back into the cloth and wrapped them tightly. “It won’t taste sweet as long as you have bitter thoughts.”
“Most of my thoughts are bitter, Mama. It’s a miracle I can taste anything sweet at all.”
“I don’t blame you.” She pressed her palm to his forehead and gently touched the bandage over his eye. “How do you feel?”
Silvio waved her hand away. “It’s sore.”
“It will heal. You’ll see. Tomorrow morning, it will feel better. In a few days, you’ll forget about it.”
“I don’t forget.”
“We must forgive.”
“I can’t.”
“Even if I promise you it won’t happen again?”
“It will happen until I’m old enough to make it stop. And then I’ll have to build my own army. Right now, I have nobody. There’s only me.” He tried to smile, but it pulled the stitches.
“Shame on them for chasing you and the Cabrelli girl like animals. They should be punished for what they did.”
“They won’t be.” Silvio patted the bandage.
“Domenica told me to put olive oil on the stitches and you won’t have a scar.”
Silvio rolled his eyes. “She thinks she’s a doctor.”
“She’s a good friend.”
Silvio didn’t want to say it aloud because he knew it would hurt his mother, but Domenica was, in fact, his only friend.
“It will be so hard to leave here,” his mother said quietly, looking around the room.
“Does the priest want the stable back?”
“You know the church, they always need more space.”
“Mama, do you ever notice that the village priest lives in a big house all alone? Why does one man need so many rooms?”
“Because he’s important.”
“I like our home. I want to stay.”
“What we want doesn’t matter. I’ve made a decision. We have to leave Viareggio.”
“Why?”
“Because you still have both your eyes. They won’t rest until they hurt you so badly you cannot recover. I know how this goes. It just gets worse until they drive you out entirely. Then they find another child to pick on. It’s always the way.”
“Where will we go?”
“Zia Leonora will take us in.”
“No, Mama.”
“She’s not that bad. We just have to listen to her carp about her aches and pains and make her rum balls. She’s all right.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow, before the sun is up. Don Xavier arranged a driver to take us to the train to Parma. He provided the fare and a letter for me to secure a position at Chiesa di Sant’Agostino.”
Silvio wanted to argue to stay, but he felt so bad for his mother, he dropped the cause. “There are lots of things I will miss about Viareggio.”
“After all this? You are a good boy.” Vera embraced her son and held him for as long as he would allow. “Let’s get some rest. We have a big day tomorrow.”