“Tom, stop! Stop!” I scream, tugging at the back of his uniform, but it’s like he can’t hear or feel anything other than his rage. He takes Trombello’s head in his hands and slams it on the hard floor, and my stomach turns. With or without a knife, he’s going to kill him.
I spot the bat on the floor a few feet away next to the open switchblade. I slide across the tile and confiscate the knife to keep Tom from grabbing it again. I can’t figure out how to close the blade, so I hold it in my injured hand and then pick up the bat.
I’m not strong and the bat is heavy, but if I don’t act now, Trombello won’t stand a chance. I swing as hard as I can with my one good arm, and the solid wood bat lands with a heavy thunk against the back of Tom’s head and shoulders. It’s not hard enough to cause damage, but he definitely feels it.
“What the . . . ?” He glares at me over his shoulder, touching the place where the wood met his skull. “Are you kidding me? Did you just hit me with that?”
Tom drops Trombello like a cat dropping a dead mouse. The priest’s chest rises and falls regularly enough that I know he’s still alive, but there’s blood on tile, and that can’t be good. I hold the bat up in front of me like a shield.
“That was stupid, Vivian. Really, really stupid.” He takes the bat from me with one yank and tosses it against the lockers with a crash. Trombello moans in the background. I switch the knife into my right hand and hold it defensively.
“Leave us alone.”
“Us? You and that dirty fascist are an ‘us’ now? I should’ve known when I met your father that you were nothing more than immigrant trash.” I want to bite back at his insults, but I’m too scared to speak; my hand is trembling, and if I had anything of substance in my stomach, I’d likely vomit. He lunges for the knife, and I slash at his hand, making contact.
“Ow! Oh shit, Vivian. Damn it. What the hell?” he yells. I’m instantly immersed in guilt. Did I overreact? Did I hurt him seriously? Am I in the wrong here?
“I’m sorry, Tom. I’m sorry,” I say, crying now. But I keep holding the knife up. I’m shaking so hard that I’m not sure how I’m keeping a grip on the handle.
“You’re not sorry. You’re a crazy woman just like your mother, aren’t you? Damn it.” He cradles his hand and then pulls a handkerchief out of his inner uniform pocket.
“I . . . I’m not crazy,” I say, sniffing, watching him bandage the wound.
At least I think I’m not crazy. Is this what crazy feels like? Is this how my mom felt when she lost her mind? I’m sure my eyes are glowing wildly like hers used to—like a trapped animal. He might be right. Maybe I’m losing my mind. My head swims with the possibility. I want to wipe the tears from my eyes, but my left hand is throbbing and the other still clutches the knife. I can’t put it down. Whether I’m crazy or sane, the one thing I’m definitely not is safe.
I back away. He pursues me with slow, methodical steps until I back into a row of lockers, the brackets poking into my back through my dress. I consider thrusting the knife at him, sinking it into his chest, but I’ve never intentionally hurt someone before. This man is my husband—I don’t want to hurt him. I love him.
As soon as he senses my resignation, he moves in swiftly and pins the knife to my side and wraps his uninjured hand around my neck, squeezing.
“They’ll put you in the loony bin after this.”
I try to shake my head, but he clamps down harder, my breath wheezing loudly through the shrinking airway.
“Or I could squeeze a little tighter, crush your windpipe, finish off your priest over there, and blame the whole thing on your illicit love affair.” He crushes my neck against the metal cabinets, bringing up his bandaged hand to increase the pressure. The edges of my vision turn gray and then black. I’m going to die.
With the darkness closing in, my other senses pick up. I hear the scratching of tables being folded and put away under the stage in the gymnasium. I taste the blood in my mouth as my airway closes off. I smell the scent of Tom’s fancy cologne mixed with the whiskey on his breath. And I feel the handle of the knife still in my hand.
I grasp it as tight as I can and drag one last miniscule breath past his crushing pressure, and then, with all my might, I shove the blade outward and upward, not stopping when I meet resistance.
All at once his hands drop, and I collapse to the floor, my hair catching in the metal latches on the row of light blue lockers. When I come to, my breathing is ragged, and the lights are dim. The copper taste of blood sours on my tongue. But my hand is empty. That I can tell.
A calm touch gets my attention. Trombello checks my breathing, my eyes, my pulse. I breathe in and out deliberately, and soon the scene comes into focus. Slumped on the floor in front of me is my husband, the dirty knife in his hand and a pool of blood around the seat of his pants as though he’s messed himself.
“Tom,” I say, my voice deep and raspy like an old man’s.
“He’s gone, little one,” Trombello says in our shared language.
“What?” I ask, but I know he’s right. The only person I’ve ever seen dead up close is Tony, but whether it be a baby or a grown man, I recognize death immediately. Tom is dead.
“You need to leave. Now.” He helps me up. With the volume of blood on the floor, I’m shocked none is on my dress. The room starts to spin as soon as I get to my feet.
“I can’t. Tom.” I gesture to my lifeless husband. “And you.”
“Go, mia figlia. Go.” He walks me to the door that leads to the middle school’s hallway. Gravano takes me by the waist and half carries me through the corridor. Gradually, I realize I’ve been unconscious longer than it seems. Trombello and the crew have a plan, and they’re sparing me the details.
By the time Gravano gets me to the end of the hall, I can walk steadily. He shepherds me out the door where a car idles next to the curb with Father Theodore in the driver’s seat.
“It’s not safe to walk alone,” my priest says as I climb into the back seat. When I try to speak, he puts his finger over his lips. “We’ll speak soon. But not now. Not now.”
I want to tell him everything, ask if I’m mad like my mother, if I’m all the things Tom said I am. But I can tell he doesn’t want to know what happened inside that locker room, and I understand why. The only way he can help me is if he doesn’t know the truth. I can tell him in the confessional later when he can’t be seen as complicit. Only then can I tell him everything—and ask him everything—including if I’m a murderer and if I can ever be forgiven for my sin.
CHAPTER 33
Elise
Present Day
Holy Trinity Catholic Church