The two women got off at the 117th Street station and walked south and eastward to 115th Street, just by Pleasant Avenue. The landscape of faces had changed to mostly Italian immigrants like Lucy, with pale-skinned Europeans and more dark complexions than she was used to seeing. This was Lucy’s home, Allene thought. Not the Cutter house. Not with me.
They finally reached the gray-bricked church nestled between apartment buildings, its simple bell tower on the side. “Our Lady of Mt. Carmel” was carved into the stone above the double doors. Allene felt small and mortal beneath it.
There was a very small crowd of people in front of the iron church gates, all dressed in black under a constellation of felt and woolen hats. Most wore gauze masks. Allene felt completely out of place, an invader. If only she had a mask to hide behind, but she had dropped it somewhere along the way.
Esther noticed her reticence and gently led her inside. There was a schedule of services written on a placard inside the vestibule. Too many for a single day, Allene thought. Thousands were succumbing every day, she’d heard. They were just in time for the mass for Lucy and three others. There were so many dying that the services had to be grouped together.
The priest stood tall and unbreakable and began the mass. He spoke a few kind words about Lucy and the three other women who had died. Soon, he switched to Latin and Italian, shutting her out completely. Allene stole a glance around at the community and wondered who the strangers were. The priest spoke on, his voice creaking from tiredness. He must have been speaking all day about the dead, and such work couldn’t be kind on his voice box. They stood and kneeled and stood again, and Allene, who was Presbyterian, lagged behind, lost amongst the Catholic rituals. Finally, the priest switched back to English.
“And as Mary loved her child, so did our good sister Lucy. Never was there a more devoted mother to her children.” He went on, but Allene was lost again.
“Children!” Allene said aloud. It sounded like a sneeze in the dark.
Several faces turned and stared at her rudeness. Allene knew her face went crimson, and her heart ran like rain on a dry roof. She clutched at Esther’s arm, feeling faint.
“Are you well, Miss Allene?” Esther whispered. “What is the matter?
“Oh, I forgot. I forgot! How many children does she have? Oh, how old are they?”
“Shhh!”
She didn’t know who shushed her, but she deserved it. Allene bent her head, her forehead swimming in new perspiration that began to trickle down her neck. What on earth was happening? Everything she knew to be true was tilting and sliding off, crashing into the chaos of her painfully inaccurate memory. After Birdie and her mother left her home, Lucy had always been there for her. She’d tended to her every need, listened to every complaint, reassured her when she wasn’t fully sure of her own brilliance. Lucy’s life had been Allene’s to order about. The comfort and care had always been given in a single direction, and arrow-like, it thrust into Allene’s center. Her very lungs ached.
Her Lucy was dead. And Lucy had children, and Allene hadn’t ever bothered to ask about them all these years. She remembered hearing about them once in a while—Lucy had been absent when one had the measles—but outside of those inconveniences, Allene knew nothing. Lucy never volunteered information about birthdays or celebrations or those little proud things mothers might say about their children. It wasn’t her place.
And there was Holly. Oh God. Had Lucy known who Holly’s father was all this time? If only she could ask her now. Had she pitied Allene for her idiotic stupidity in not seeing the obvious? Perhaps everyone had known except her.
The mourners began to leak out of the aisles and the church. Allene stood up dizzily. Her chest felt heavy, and her breath came with effort. The darkened apse with its painted walls and statues and staring saints and gods suffocated her. Esther nodded with apology to the others in the church as they filed out of their pew.
As they entered the dimming afternoon light outside, Allene stumbled slightly against Esther. Allene’s feet felt heavier than ice blocks.
“Miss Allene? Are you well?”
“I’m fine. I’m just . . . oh, Esther. What’s become of her children?”
“Well, they are twins, you know. I went to their last birthday party. They just turned ten.” She paused to study Allene’s face, which was moist with perspiration.
“I didn’t even know how old they were,” Allene murmured. She knotted her hands, wishing she had worn gloves to absorb the dampness. She didn’t know where to put her eyes or her hands. “I didn’t know. She never said anything.”
And the worst was—oh God. Allene had never asked. Not once.
Esther patted her back awkwardly. A man in a suit approached her with two children, each holding one of his hands. He was in his forties, with a dusting of curly gray hair at his temples, large eyes like Lucy’s, but a thinner smile with a mustache. The two children had dry, wary eyes. One wore a crisp sailor dress and the other a neat brown suit that nearly matched the man’s. Someone loved them enough to iron the garments into painful stiffness. The children stared at Allene with bland curiosity, from her dusty shoes to her face, which was surely melting her makeup onto her dress collar. They held that same expression she’d seen so many times on Lucy—patient, thoughtful, slightly exasperated. It said they knew the truth behind it all but were too wise to say so aloud. Allene wanted, simultaneously, to embrace them and bolt away.
“You are Miss Allene Cutter, yes?” the man asked. His Italian accent was thick, much thicker than Lucy’s.
Allene nodded. She searched for a handkerchief in her reticule, but all it had was a powder compact and jangling coins.
“Prego.” He offered a folded handkerchief, and Allene took it gratefully. He smiled. “I lose many to women these days.”
“I’m sorry,” Allene said. She wished she could expand the words to mean more. They were woefully inadequate.
“I am Alessandro Rossi, the brother of Lucia.” His voice was warm and rich, like good brandy. “We hear so much of you, Miss Allene. She know you so long, since you were . . .” He held his hand at the height of the two children next to him. “Piccola ragazza. She say you are good at, what do they call it? Chimica?”
Allene smiled in spite of herself. “Chemistry. Did Lucy . . . Lucia say that?”
“Sì. She was proud. Very proud. But she is afraid you going to set house on fire!” He chuckled, before sobering. “Miss Allene. Her family and I . . . we thank you for being her nurse.” He put his hands together as if in prayer. “La ringrazio tanto.”
“I wish I could have done more,” Allene said, rushing her words. “I wish . . . I wish . . .” She stopped and burst into tears. Everything that came from her mouth was empty and useless. Esther flushed ruddily with embarrassment, and Allene released her arm, which she’d been leaning on. “I have to go. I’m so sorry.”