6
MORE THAN TWO WEEKS PASSED before an idea finally occurred to him. Father Gaetano had worked his way through most of Genesis, taught the orphans about Adam and Eve and the serpent in the Garden, about the Fall of Lucifer, about Noah and the Flood, and the promise that God had made to mankind after the waters receded. In each case there were parallels he could draw, ways to address the children’s pain and the fractured nature of their relationship with God, but still their eyes were mostly dull, their gazes distant. If he made them laugh, the laughter would quickly fade.
This failing troubled him, taking up residence in the back of his mind so that he was never free of it. Even as he counseled a young wife frustrated with her husband’s caprice, said mass for the village, or performed sacraments for those too old and infirm to make it to the church, he tried to imagine some way to get through to the children in his care.
Late on a Wednesday morning, he accompanied Sister Teresa while she inspected the repair work being done on the convent by men from the village. He had called for volunteers from the altar during Sunday mass, and several had stopped him afterward to offer their services, clearly prompted by their wives.
By the time Father Gaetano and Sister Teresa returned to the orphanage, the children were filing into the dining room for lunch. Delicious aromas filled the room and Father Gaetano relaxed with the knowledge that Sister Maria had not prepared the midday meal. Nothing she made could have smelled so delicious. He paused to speak with Sister Rosalia about Agata, who had just turned fourteen and wanted to become a novice in the order. Sister Rosalia believed the girl was sincere, but Father Gaetano felt that Agata was too young, and her embracing of her faith too fervent. After working so hard to attempt to restore the faith of the orphans, he hated to have to cast doubt on Agata’s love for God, but he feared she was clinging to the idea of the order because she feared the uncertainty of her future.
“Give her a year, Sister,” he said quietly. “You and Agata must both learn patience.”
Sister Rosalia nodded. “Yes, Father.”
He turned and glanced about the room for his seat. The priest had made it a habit to eat with a different group of orphans at each meal, except for Friday, when he dined with the sisters. Marcello raised a hand and Father Gaetano saw that a spot had been saved for him at the table. It surprised him. The boy had made strides in managing his anger and offering respect to those around him, but he was still struggling. Father Gaetano thought it a good sign.
“Good afternoon, Father!” piped Concetta, a wide-eyed twelve-year-old girl who never spoke during catechism but was always first to greet him outside of the classroom.
“It’s still morning, Concettina,” he said as he passed the table where she sat with four other girls. “So, good morning to you.”
Concetta giggled. It pleased him every time one of the orphans laughed.
When he slid into the open seat beside Marcello, he saw that the boys were eating braciole, along with chunks of cheese and freshly baked bread. Even before his stomach could rumble with hunger, Sister Lucia appeared with a plate and set it down before him. He thanked her and reached for a knife and fork, but as he began to cut into the braciole, he was distracted by another soft giggle from Concetta’s table. He glanced over to see that little Sebastiano had moved from his own table to sit with the girls. The way the boy sat, slightly hunched and protective, it was impossible to see what mischief was causing the girls’ amusement.
Father Gaetano watched Sebastiano’s animated expressions, saw the way the boy’s arms moved back and forth, and even before he got a glimpse of the tiny, painted face of the clown, he knew Sebastiano was telling a story. Then he spotted the red nose, the bright colors, and he remembered the nine-year-old’s favorite toy, the puppet. What did he call it again?
Pagliaccio.
The little boy was furtive, using the puppet to put on a kind of show meant only for the girls at the table, but Father Gaetano caught glimpses of it. The girls seemed entranced, and Sebastiano lit up with enthusiasm as he entertained them, a moment of joy unencumbered by grief. Such moments were so rare for the orphans that the priest felt a happy relief washing over him, a satisfaction he knew would be temporary but relished just the same.
When Sister Veronica appeared beside the table where Sebastiano worked his small bit of magic, Father Gaetano blinked in surprise, the happy spell shattered. The nun looked formidable and ominous, but must have seemed nearly a monster to Sebastiano, judging by the boy’s reaction to her arrival. The moment he noticed her he froze, then flinched as if she’d raised a hand to strike him. He turned from her, attempting to vanish the puppet inside his threadbare sweater, but Sister Veronica reached down and plucked it from his grasp.
Sebastiano let out a strangled cry, the wail of a wounded animal, and reached for the soft fabric of the clown. Sister Veronica snapped a single word—the boy’s name—and he froze once more. His expression contained such utter sadness, such terrible understanding, that Father Gaetano had begun to slide his chair back before he even realized he intended to rise.
The nun spoke curtly, but too quietly for the priest to make out her words.
“No, Sister, please!” Sebastiano begged.
Some of the girls at the table looked on with horror or sympathy, but others turned away as if wishing they were anywhere else. Father Gaetano forced a smile onto his own face and strode toward the table, leaving his lunch behind with Marcello. Others at nearby tables had begun to stare, their attention drawn by Sebastiano’s plaintive tone. Near the door into the back kitchen, Sister Lucia looked on, lips pressed into a sour twist, tutting her disapproval, though of the boy or of Sister Veronica, the priest could not be sure.
“What did I tell you would happen the next time you brought your toy to the dining room?” Sister Veronica was saying as Father Gaetano arrived beside her.
Sebastiano, lip quivering, dropped his gaze. His hands fussed together in his lap as tears began to well in his eyes. He whispered some reply, too quietly to hear.
“What’s that?” Sister Veronica demanded, cutting a sidelong glance at Father Gaetano, as if troubled by his presence.
“You said you’d … you’d take him away forever!” Sebastiano said, voice crumbling on the last word.
Sister Veronica held the clown puppet hostage in her hand. Father Gaetano saw her grip on Pagliaccio loosen a bit, perhaps with regret. He studied the nun’s eyes and she glanced at him expectantly, as if she thought he ought to explain his intrusion.
“Pardon me, Sister,” he said. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a few words with Sebastiano in my office.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Right now, Father?”
“As I said, if you don’t mind.”
He tried to read her expression, saw curiosity and uncertainty and a bit of irritation, and then she exhaled, much of the tension going out of her. Sister Veronica could be strict with the orphans at times, but she was not cruel, and now he wondered if the look she’d given him before had been a plea for him to interfere, to find her a way out of having to enforce her threat of taking the puppet away forever. He felt sure the threat had been made out of frustration, but going through with it would be unnecessarily cruel.
“Of course, Father,” Sister Veronica said, bowing her head slightly before turning to the boy. “Sebastiano, we will discuss this later.”
Wiping at his tears, glancing around at the children who were watching in fascination—just glad it wasn’t them in trouble—the boy stood reluctantly, but he had eyes only for Pagliaccio. The clown hung limply in Sister Veronica’s grasp.
“I’ll need that as well,” Father Gaetano said, indicating the puppet.
Sister Veronica pursed her lips in hesitation, then held it out to him. As Father Gaetano took it from her, he saw a spark of hope ignite in Sebastiano’s eyes.
“Come along, boy,” the priest said, turning to stride from the dining room, his lunch forgotten.
Sebastiano followed as if he were a dog, and the puppet his favorite bone.
* * *
FATHER GAETANO SAT in his wickedly uncomfortable office chair, elbows on the desk in front of him, turning the clown puppet over in his hands, studying it. Pagliaccio was a strange creation, with space for the boy’s fingers to work the head and arms, but also with legs like a marionette. Snags in the fabric showed where strings had once been attached.
He looked up at the boy. In the large, wooden, slat-backed chair opposite the desk, Sebastiano looked tiny and pitiful.
“Where did Pagliaccio come from?” Father Gaetano asked. “Did your mother make him?”
The boy frowned. “Oh, no, Father. I didn’t have him before I came here. When Mrs. Costa … she was our neighbor, before … when she brought me here, I wouldn’t talk to anyone. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to. More like I couldn’t, the way you can’t talk in a dream, except inside your head. Do you know what I mean? You can think the words, but in a dream it never feels like you’re actually saying them out loud.”
Father Gaetano regarded him with fascination, and then nodded. Smart boy, he thought.
“One of the sisters gave him to you?”
Sebastiano shook his head. “No, Father. It was Luciano. One day he just came up and showed me Pagliaccio. He made him dance and I laughed, and then I could talk again.”
“This Luciano. I don’t remember him among the boys. Surely I can’t have missed him. Did he have family come to claim him?”
The little boy smiled softly, his sadness slipping away. “Luciano wasn’t an orphan, Father. He was the caretaker.” Sebastiano’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “He had a whole puppet theatre and a box full of puppets. When we first arrived he would give us a show every night and make us laugh. Sometimes the shows were a little scary and I would hide my eyes and the big boys would tease me, but that was okay. I didn’t mind, because Luciano’s shows were so much fun, and the puppets didn’t like the older children anyway. They would visit us little ones after the lights went out when we were supposed to be asleep, and they would dance and tell us stories and teach us songs. I would be so tired those mornings that it was hard to open my eyes and Sister Teresa would think I had been up all night crying, but I wasn’t, and—”
“Just a moment,” Father Gaetano said, holding up a hand to halt the boy’s rapid-fire recollections. “The puppets would visit you after lights out? Luciano would come and do another show when you were meant to be sleeping?”
Sebastiano rolled his eyes, but out of amusement rather than disrespect. “No, Father. The puppets would come.”
Father Gaetano smiled. The caretaker had been a clever man. The puppets had visited the younger children at night, but not the older ones, obviously because the older ones would not have been taken in by whatever sleight of hand the man had used to make the puppets’ “visits” seem real. He nearly revealed the truth, but then thought better of it. The memory was such a cherished one that he did not want to steal it from the boy, or even to challenge it. Where was the harm in letting him believe the fantasy?
“What became of Luciano?” the priest asked. “Was he lost in the battle?”
Sebastiano frowned and shook his head. “No. He was old, Father. Old enough that his wife was already dead, but he had a grown-up daughter, who had a husband and a baby. Giacomo said he heard Sister Teresa telling some of the other sisters that Luciano’s daughter’s house was wrecked by a bomb and her husband died and she and her baby were going to live in Messina with the baby’s other grandparents. Luciano didn’t want to stay here if his daughter was leaving, so…”
The boy shrugged.
“And he gave you Pagliaccio before he left?” Father Gaetano asked.
“I always liked Pagliaccio best,” Sebastiano said. “The morning after Luciano left, I woke up and Pagliaccio was sitting on my pillow. He said Luciano had meant for me to have him, and he wanted us to be friends. Of course I told him we were already friends,” the boy finished proudly.
“Of course,” Father Gaetano said, offering an indulgent smile.
He was thinking about the way Luciano had made the children laugh, made them forget their grief for a time, and the way that the girls at lunch had been so entranced by the small show that Sebastiano had put on for them.
“Sebastiano, do you know what became of the puppet theatre after Luciano left?”
The boy frowned, nodding grimly. “Yes. Father Colisanti never liked the puppets. I don’t think he liked Luciano much, really. He told Sister Veronica to throw it out or give it away, but she told us kids that it was too beautiful to throw away and she was going to store it in the basement instead. I guess it’s still there.”
“Excellent,” Father Gaetano said.
His thoughts were racing ahead, so that it took him a moment to realize that, his story told, Sebastiano had remembered that he was in trouble and was staring longingly at the clown puppet that now lay on the priest’s desk.
Father Gaetano slid the puppet over to the boy, and Sebastiano’s eyes widened.
“Really?” he said with a grin. “I can have him back?”
“Better than that,” Father Gaetano said. “I have a plan, Sebastiano, and I’m going to need you and Pagliaccio to help me with it.”
The boy sat up straighter, chest filling with pride, and held the puppet in front of him as though they were both at attention.
“You can count on us, Father.”