12
THE PUPPET VERSION of the story of Noah’s ark went better than Father Gaetano could have hoped. While he provided the voice of God and manipulated the strings of the Noah puppet and his wife, Sebastiano managed several animals and even one of Noah’s sons. Most of the girls, and even several of the boys, responded with light applause when Father Gaetano closed the curtain, and he encouraged Sebastiano to take a bow, which the boy did with a flourish and a grin. A light seemed to radiate from within the child, and Father Gaetano thought that the shadow of his life’s tragedy had been drawn back like a curtain. Like a curtain, it might close in upon him again, but now they both knew that it could be opened, and a bright enough light might dispel it forever.
Father Gaetano had reached him, or the stories had, or the puppets had. The priest was not vain enough that he needed to be the reason for the boy’s happiness. He only wished he could give the rest of the children the same hope that Sebastiano had found, a belief that their sorrow would abate and that they could feel real joy again someday.
He wanted them to find that joy through God. He knew from his own experience that if they would only put their faith in the Lord, their burdens would be lessened. His mother had only ever envisioned one future for him—the priesthood. She had instilled in him a love and respect for the clergy and an ambition so powerful that it was not until he had already taken the vows and donned the collar that he truly understood that the ambition had not been his, but hers. By then, of course, it was too late for him to move in any direction but forward, into his life in the Church. His mother had lived long enough to see him ordained before cancer took her, and his father—a stonemason who had wanted his son to take after him—was a quiet man whose only loves were work, wine, and his wife. In the absence of one, he immersed himself in the remaining two. In a rare moment of wine-soaked candor, he had even admitted that he felt no connection to his son, that with Gaetano’s mother dead, the bond that had connected them had broken.
And what father can compete with Our Father? Aldo Noe had asked. For a stonemason with little love of words, he could be quite clever when he wished to be, but almost always in the service of some bit of gentle cruelty.
Father Gaetano did not miss his father, who still lived as far as he knew, but he missed his mother horribly. He believed he had become the man she so hoped he would be, and the knowledge that she had not lived to see him fulfill her dreams for him rankled in his heart. There were days and nights—especially nights, alone in his bed—when a profound regret seized him. Perhaps they would meet again in the afterlife, as his faith promised, and there she would embrace him and kiss his forehead and tell him she was proud of him. But on those long nights alone, he wondered what his life would have been if he had felt free to choose his own path. Would he have found love? Would he have fathered children of his own? Would he have been happy?
They were questions without answers. He wore the collar now. He had taken the vows. His bed was cold even on the warmest nights, and he often felt alone. God was with him, of course, but there were comforts God could not provide.
This morning, as he surveyed the smiling faces of his students, from the shy youngest to the jaded oldest, he felt a fullness of spirit that usually eluded him. He would have no children of his own, but here was an opportunity to be a guiding hand in the lives of so many. When he counseled members of his church community, troubled husbands and fretful wives, grieving parents and children, hearts full of regret, there would ever and always be a distance between himself and others. But here at the newly christened Orphanage of San Domenico, he had found that children did not treat him as something more than a man. They expected no miracles from him, and it set him at ease.
So, too, with the sisters from the convent. To them, a priest was no mystery, but a brother. And if there were times when the glimpse of Sister Teresa’s smile or the soft lilt of her laughter made him wish to be more than her brother, more than the Father of her parish, he knew such things were impossible. And it was all right. Somehow—Father, children, sisters—they made a family. God had brought them together to heal one another’s wounds and to fill the empty places in one another’s hearts.
He had faith.
But when, still brimming with the pleasure of a job well done, he noticed that one of his students was not smiling, the flame of his faith flickered just a bit. Marcello wore his hair too long and had traces of stubble on his chin, such that he would soon need to learn to shave. His skin was a rich olive, dark even by Sicilian standards, and he had thin features and high cheekbones that lent a tragic air to his features. Father Gaetano felt sure he would soon have the girls pining for his attention, if they weren’t already.
While Sebastiano was taking his bow and Father Gaetano was privately celebrating the success of his plan to use the puppets to get the children to pay attention, he had not noticed that Marcello was not smiling. Really, he ought to have taken note immediately of the boy’s downcast gaze, considering the fear he had seen on Marcello’s face after the first of the puppet shows, but in his excitement he had managed to forget all about this one boy. Averting his eyes, refusing to even look at the puppet show, Marcello had attempted a casual air.
Now, though, as Sebastiano put the puppets away and Father Gaetano cleared his throat, the boy faced front. His lips were thin lines, his eyes wide and glassy, as if he were attempting to cork a scream with a smile, and on the verge of failing.
“Marcello?” Father Gaetano said. “Are you all right?”
Every one of the children turned to look at him. Father Gaetano hadn’t meant to draw attention to the boy; it might have been the worst thing he could do. But the tension that radiated from Marcello had prompted him to speak before he could stop himself.
“I don’t feel well, Father. That’s all.” Marcello tried to make his smile more believable now that all eyes were upon him. He failed terribly.
“If you’d like, you can go and see Sister Veronica. I suspect you’ll find her in the kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee. If not there, try the chapel.”
Marcello backed up from his desk so quickly that the feet of his chair scraped the floor with a shriek. That thin smile broke into an expression of desperate gratitude.
“Thank you, Father,” the boy said, and then he fled the room without the promise or, Father Gaetano felt sure, the intention to return.
He would have to speak with Marcello, and soon. Whatever this fear was, it would have to be dealt with. Now that he had found a way to get the other children to focus on their catechism lessons—to awaken them to the presence of God in their lives—it would be a terrible shame to abandon the puppet theatre because of one boy’s inexplicable fear. If that meant he had to teach Marcello his catechism in a more orthodox fashion, separate from the other students, he would do so. But that would be a decision he would only make after discussing the problem with Sister Teresa and Sister Veronica.
“Now, then,” he said, turning back to the students and fixing a smile on his face that he hoped would not be as transparently false as Marcello’s. “There will be other Bible stories to come. I am particularly looking forward to teaching you about the lives of the saints. Some of them are very tragic stories, but they will also inspire you.”
He would have to see to Marcello, but for now he was happy to be able to focus on his lessons, and the puppet theatre. It might have been unkind of him to push off his worries for Marcello, but he forgave himself, and thought that God would also forgive him. There were other students to be cared for.
“The challenge I put to you, children, is to examine these stories and try to understand what they can teach you about God’s love for man—”
“Father?” little Maria asked, raising her hand.
“Yes, Maria?”
“God made so much rain fall that everyone drowned. How is that love?”
Father Gaetano nodded, making sure to keep his expression serious, as the question warranted, though he had a smile in his heart. They were thinking. It was the best gift he could have asked for.
“Yes, He destroyed so much of the human race,” Father Gaetano agreed. “But He warned Noah, made sure that Noah and his family would escape, and that all of the animals in the world would survive and have babies and spread across the Earth again. We can see that God loves us in how much hope He has invested in us. He wants us to thrive, to make good lives for ourselves. He gave us free will not only so that we would make our own mistakes and learn from them, but also so that when we have our successes and victories, they are truly ours, and we can rejoice in them.”
Thirteen-year-old Enrico raised his hand. Father Gaetano pointed to him and nodded.
“If we are free to make our own mistakes, how is it right for God to have killed so many people … to drown them all? If they did wrong, it’s only because He gave them free will to begin with.”
Father Gaetano shook his head. “Without free will, we would be no better than animals. Beasts. It is a gift. The flood was a terrible thing, but also a second chance for all mankind.”
“And God promised never to do anything like that again,” Maria reminded them all in her little-girl voice. “He was sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t make it okay,” Enrico said.
“Hello, Sister Teresa!” eleven-year-old Stefania piped up.
Father Gaetano glanced over to see Sister Teresa standing in the open doorway. She wore a familiar smile, the one that hinted at wisdom and amusement and a jaded sort of confidence that nothing any of them might do would surprise her. It was that sage aura of authority that made her an excellent leader for the sisters of San Domenico.
“All right, children,” he said, clapping his hands together. “That’s all for our class today. We’ll continue this discussion tomorrow. I want you to think about the story of Noah and what it means for our relationship with God, and the faith that He must have in us that He believed we deserved a second chance. In a few months, when we start learning about the life of Jesus, this will be very important.”
Maria held her hand up again, but Father Gaetano went to her and quietly reassured her that she could ask whatever questions she might have tomorrow. He ushered them all out of the room while Sister Teresa waited patiently. When the last of the children had left, he turned to find her standing behind the puppet theatre, the promising veil of the miniature curtain drawn so that it hid her lower torso from view. A stray inappropriate thought raced fleetingly across his mind. He pushed it away, and yet somehow relished it all the same. Priest he might be, and priest he would stay, but it hadn’t been his ambition for himself, and somehow that allowed him to feel blameless for the fascination she aroused in him.
“What can I do for you this morning, Sister?”
Investigating the puppet theatre, she bent and poked her fingers through the curtain from behind, drawing them open a moment before closing them again. He found the action distracting, but then she glanced up at him and smiled, forcing him to focus.
Don’t be a fool, he thought.
Though that was easier said than done, even for a man of the cloth.
“I was in the kitchen with Sister Veronica when Marcello came in,” Sister Teresa said. “He said he didn’t feel well, but he seemed…”
“Frightened,” Father Gaetano said.
Her eyes lit up and she nodded. “Yes. So it wasn’t my imagination?”
“No. Marcello is afraid of the puppets, though he won’t speak of it. The other children either don’t know why, or they won’t say.”
“I’ve known other people who have had … unreasonable fears,” Sister Teresa said. “It’s quite common in children. I, myself, was deathly afraid of dogs as a little girl, though no dog has ever bitten or attacked me. To be honest, my fear remains.”
Father Gaetano went to the puppet box and shifted the lid; Sebastiano had not closed it properly.
“It might be necessary for me to teach Marcello his catechism privately,” he said.
“Separate him from the others?” Sister Teresa said, biting her lower lip.
Father Gaetano pulled his gaze from her mouth. Despite her intelligence and wisdom, there was such innocence about her, such goodness. When he had first met her, the day he had arrived at the village of Tringale, he had been taken by her beauty, as any man would have been. But he had felt no threat to the purity of his devotion, content to be her friend and enjoy her company as their vows and missions allowed. Now, for the first time, he found himself distracted by her presence. This would not do at all, he knew. As soon as he had the opportunity, he would need a day away from the orphanage and from the church … a day of solemn prayer, of conversation with God, so that he could rededicate himself to the occupations his Lord and his Church had set out for him.
“I would only keep him out of class on the days when I am using the puppet theatre,” Father Gaetano said. “On other days, from now on, I will cover the theatre and the puppet box so that Marcello does not have to look at it during catechism lessons.”
Sister Teresa nodded.
“All right. In the meantime, I will speak with him and see if I can discover the origin of his fear. If we can learn that, perhaps we will be able to cure him of it.”
“Thank you,” Father Gaetano said. If the boy will share his fears with anyone, he thought, it would be you. What man would not share his deepest secrets, if you were to ask him?
Sister Teresa asked if he wanted to accompany her to the kitchen. Sister Veronica had made a large pot of coffee, and she was sure there would be some left. He declined, citing a litany of responsibilities unfulfilled, and if she noted any awkwardness about his behavior, she showed no sign of it—only gave him that same wise, knowing smile that led him to suspect she understood perfectly well the thoughts that were going through his mind, and considered him just as much a fool as he considered himself.