Mr. Falso sat on the edge of a padded chair and moved his folded hands in front of his groin, crossing his legs in a feminine pose, as if to hide all the parts of him that made him male. Francesca paced the pink braided rug, swearing every time the heel of her shoe got caught on the weave.
She stopped and stared at him. “That’s right, Nick. I actually say curse words. Just another reason for you to make the case that I am not, in fact, saint material.”
Hours before, Francesca had envisioned this very scenario, the two of them alone. Herself crying on Mr. Falso’s shoulder, and there’s where it would get difficult for them both, her frail loveliness pressing against him, tears smearing her mascara. He would allow her to soak the breast of his button-down shirt, wear it downstairs like a badge. Tip her jaw with thumb and forefinger and look deeply into her eyes, and say, “Your cousin is safe with God,” and then, “And you are safe with me.”
She hadn’t gone to her father for help when the rest of the town turned only to Frank Cillo to solve their problems. She hadn’t gone to a priest, or one of the myriad uncles, genetic and in name, that their father positioned around the town like grizzled watchdogs to monitor his daughters. She came to him, Nick Falso, Friend of Teens. She trusted him. He could be trusted.
“I’m not making a case one way or another. You’re in pain, Francesca. You’ve lost someone you loved deeply. This is a confusing time. Don’t begin to think that I don’t care.”
Francesca’s eyes jittered. She grabbed her elbows and rubbed them. “I haven’t been in this room since I was twelve. Connie practically lived at our house.” She stalked over to a knickknack shelf and raised a photograph in a cheap brass frame that said Sisters in curlicue letters: Connie, across the laps of the two Cillo girls, their feet stretched toward the camera, animal slipper heads cocked in different directions. They wore ponytails and pajamas, and their faces were coated with green pasty masks like Day-Glo mimes.
Mr. Falso smiled. “She was like a sister to you, wasn’t she?”
“But she wasn’t our sister. She wasn’t actually our sister.”
“I’m sure you treated her like a sister.”
Francesca twisted the side of her mouth into a crooked smile. “I treated her like blood. You do anything for blood. Connie understood that.”
“Connie was an extraordinary girl. She never allowed her physical limitations to keep her from leading a good life, filled with love.”
Francesca laughed then, a gruff noise, and placed the frame back on the shelf. “Connie loved to be loved.”
“And now she lives with God.”
“It must be nice to know where you stand with Him.”
Mr. Falso coughed. “We should be getting back downstairs. Your aunt will wonder where I am.”
“You need to hear me.” Francesca rushed to the chair and fell to her knees on the braided rug. Mr. Falso’s head snapped toward the door; there were only the same distant murmurings of middle-aged parents, tired and thick-waisted, searching for the space between mourning and sociability. His gaze fell to Francesca’s hollowed cheeks and perfectly carved jaw, and he seized Francesca’s hands and tried to raise her, but she pulled him down and he was drawn forward, closer to her face, on his knees.
“You don’t understand,” Francesca pleaded, her eyes bright and wet. “Satan came to me in my dreams. Last night, and the night before that! It was awful: he looked like he does in pictures, only he was little, a little demon, with an awful mouth and sharp teeth, and his mouth was filled with light, but not good light, a hot, rank light, like fire, a fire caused by something awful burning, like … skin. He speaks, and his voice is terrible; I’m saying ‘he’ but the voice could have been a man or a woman. He taunts me, tells me I should give up wanting to be a saint, because I’m not good enough!”
“Francesca…”
“But here’s the thing: I was protected. There was a light around me, a different sort of light than the one coming from his mouth. And I had the sense”—Francesca’s eyes ran over Mr. Falso’s face—“I had the sense the light was protecting me from him.”
“That’s good. That’s very, very good, Francesca. That’s your faith protecting you.” Mr. Falso shifted, his wrists still caught by her slender, strong hands. “Protecting you from a bad dream.”
Francesca’s mouth fell open as she dropped his wrists. “A bad dream?”
Mr. Falso rubbed his wrists, settling back in the chair. “Yes. And if I were going to interpret it, I would say that Connie’s death tested your faith. This is common: when bad things happen to good people, we ask, Why, God, why her? Why me? That’s what the whole book of Job is about: God testing people with terrible trials. You’re like Job, Francesca. You won’t stop believing in God because your beautiful, vibrant young cousin died! Your faith will win out.”
Mr. Falso sat back in his chair, satisfied. As if he could have had a cigarette.
Francesca set her jaw hard.
“If you know so much about Job, how about Saint Teresa of Avila? She had visions of the devil—visions, not dreams—on a regular basis. On a regular basis, Satan taunted and tempted her, tried to get her to give up being a saint. She describes them exactly as what I saw!” Francesca stabbed the rug with her finger. “Exactly! The light pouring out of his mouth, the light around her! It’s exactly the same, you can google it…”
Mr. Falso leaned forward, his voice soft. “And did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Google it?”
“Well, yeah! But that was after I had the first dream! What are you saying?”
“Francesca.” Mr. Falso reached out and stroked her hair with the back of his hand. “I’m saying nothing, except that you are exhausted. You’ve experienced things that are confusing to you, and then had a terrible tragedy. You’re looking for answers.”
“I’m looking for someone who believes me.” Francesca grabbed his hand in midstroke and pressed it to her cheek. “You have to believe me, Nick.”
His name hung there in the room as the sun dropped behind a cloud, or below the horizon. Francesca had lost track of time. In her mind’s eye, she knew she had made herself ugly to him, her cheeks like onionskin, thin, with veins showing underneath, her dark eyebrows drawn in crayon strokes.
Gently, he slipped his hand from underneath hers and rested it in his lap. “You are not a saint.”
Francesca blinked heavily, then gazed down sharply to her right as though struck.
“I have to go downstairs. Why don’t you take a few minutes here alone? I’ll let your family know you’re lying down. Your sister will bring you a glass of punch, okay?”
Francesca was silent.
“Okaaay, maybe not.” Mr. Falso edged from the room, looking around as though the objects might save him, something interesting and upbeat to note, some capper that might make light of their circumstances. At the window, a dried bud fell to the floor.
Kneeling, head torqued as though she’d been slapped, Francesca remained still.