For the first time, Ben found himself sorry for Francesca. She had done everything in her power to fight what her father was doing to her, including wasting away. He remembered how gaunt Francesca had looked toward the end, especially after Connie had died, but even before. Here he was, thinking this was a simple crush. He felt anger stir deep, the kind he felt for Mr. Cillo, the kind that might turn into a new hate for Mr. Falso, and for his own father, for trying to drug him to keep him impotent. He wondered if he was always going to hate old men.
Ben stepped out of the shed and looked up at the night sky. It wasn’t black; night skies were never black in Bismuth. The all-night artificial lights from the gas stations and the strip malls and the high-rises washed out the starlight. So much light flooded the sky that the electrical was constantly going out, superfluorescence jamming the power grid. In that moment, he knew Mira was not there, not in a heaven where she could look down and judge him for action or inaction. She was fire and heat, too volatile and angry to be exiled in some peaceful cloudy otherworld. Mira was beside him, in his ears and mouth and inhalations and exhalations, down his shirt collar and under his skin. Urging him to do something. Those notes were written to make him hold Mr. Cillo accountable. He breathed deeply, smelling a sweet thread of woodsmoke, and for him it was the smell of Mira, and he let it fill him. He closed his eyes and searched for something brave inside.
When Ben opened his eyes, he was staring into the dark holes of the Cillos’ windows, and he knew where he needed to go.
FEBRUARY 2016
If Mr. Falso had leaked Francesca’s news to Father Ernesto, he didn’t let on.
The near-deaf priest was happy to visit the girls, Francesca especially. The oldest daughter of Frank Cillo was his favorite: smart, levelheaded, and actually interested in Christian doctrine. She had so many questions he hardly knew where to begin. A good place seemed to be the pan of lasagna she set down in front of him.
The elderly priest tucked a napkin into his shirt. “Why don’t you slice into that delicious-looking dish and I’ll do my best to answer your questions.”
“Ragù, béchamel, and Parmigiano-Reggiano,” Francesca said, elbow sawing as she sliced the lasagna into a grid. “You won’t find any ricotta in here.” She set a plate down in front of him.
He raised a jelly glass of port wine. “To your mother, then.”
Francesca’s pride bristled. She played with her food, biting back the urge to tell him she’d taught herself to make authentic bolognese lasagna. There would have been no reason to invite the old priest over if Donata hadn’t died. The old napkin-folder hadn’t shown up at the food pantry for three days before her downstairs neighbor smelled her. Francesca had an actual healing right in the palm of her hand, to show Mr. Falso, and to make him love her. Now she was stuck pumping an old priest for strategy.
She raised a glass of water. “To my mother. Who taught us to cook at an early age. The right way.”
“She had priorities. The right ones.” Father Ernesto lowered his head and shoveled the lasagna into his mouth. “I’ve said it for years, and I’ll say it again. You girls are a testament to your mother and your father.” Smacking noises were followed by grunts. “When did you say your father was coming home?”
Francesca stole a look at Mira, who placed a carafe of sweet wine in front of the priest and sat. There was no answer to his question, since Thursday was the night Daddy stopped at Big Steven’s Gentlemen’s Club. The latest routine involved him checking in by phone every hour. He’d say he was working late in his office, but his office didn’t have men shouting and cheesy pop music in the background. The girls knew for sure after Francesca followed him one night. For Francesca, it was a puzzle that she needed to put together: how could her father, who never left them alone, suddenly leave them alone? After Francesca reported back to her sister, they never discussed it again. Sometimes, his hourly calls were handled in rotation, with one sister lying about the whereabouts of the other. Other times, it gave them reason to behave even more piously, superior and secure in the knowledge that they were the ones being good.
What Francesca did not know was that Mira shadowed their father. The compulsion was no different from her other unacceptable urges—to pinch the nose of a newborn baby, scream the C-word in silent study hall, flash her breasts at the priest across the table. Watching her beloved father degrade himself by paying for a lap dance was just another impulse that grew in the crowded corners of Mira’s brain. More and more, Mira gave in. More and more, she heard her mother’s voice telling her to silence them.
Francesca raised her voice, and Mira jumped.
“Don’t you remember, Father Ernesto?” Francesca overenunciated. “I said our father won’t be home tonight at all.”
“In the fall?”
“Not in the fall. At all. Daddy’s working late.”
The priest dragged a napkin over his lips. At eighty-five, with his health declining, he seemed to fear every meal might be his last. He smiled mildly at the girls, having given up on the question, or having lost the thought entirely. Sometimes, he called them by each other’s names.
The phone trilled. The girls stared out over their plates. Mira snapped to first, smiling sweetly as she pushed her chair from the table. In the kitchen, she forced a cheery voice, loud enough to drown out Father Ernesto’s voice, whose volume increased in proportion to his difficulty hearing. On the phone, their father was quick, ending his verbal bed check before the girls heard too much background noise and deduced Thursday nights at the office involved Manhattans and using a lint roller in the car to remove stripper dust from his suit jacket.
Father Ernesto pointed a shaky fork at the ruffled ridge of Francesca’s lasagna. “Remarkable! I wish you’d eat something.”
Francesca cleared her throat. “About the saints, Father. The path to sainthood?”
“Hmm?”
“The path to proving someone is a Catholic saint.”
“Oh yes.” He pointed the fork at her. “Canonization.”
Francesca considered the word. It sounded regal, like coronation.
He jammed a forkful of lasagna into his mouth and felt around his lap. Francesca handed him her napkin.
“Canonization?”
“Oh yes. A lengthy process. Can take decades, sometimes centuries to complete. Doesn’t happen overnight.”
Mira returned to the dining room and slipped into her seat. “What did I miss?”
Father Ernesto dabbed pearls of perspiration from his forehead with the napkin. “You girls are very slender. And you’ve hardly touched your plates! Are you trying to tell me your father’s going to eat that leftover lasagna by himself? How is your father?”
Francesca set her glass down hard. The priest’s head bobbed, startled. His eyes glittered, wet and wary, as he looked sideways at Francesca, who said, “You were about to tell us about the process of canonization.”