Annie’s gold cross caught the light. Sean looked at it, thinking that it was impossible to guess what meaning circumstances might give to random things. It just so happened that, inside his as-yet unpacked suitcase, lay an object that, until this moment, he had foreseen no use for. But now, as the tiny cross glinted, his mind linked image to image, and he saw in the air before him the index finger of Saint Augustine.
It was his only souvenir of Rome. On his last day there, exploring the neighborhood around his hotel, Sean had come across a shop filled with religious statuary and artifacts. The proprietor, perhaps sensing from Sean’s clothes that he had some money, had led him to a glass case to show him a thin, dusty piece of bonelike material that he insisted was the finger of the author of the “Confessions.” Sean didn’t believe him, but he had bought the relic anyway, because it amused him.
He led Annie farther back in the garden, away from Maria and Malcolm, who still hadn’t ventured onto the dirt. He turned his back to them and asked, “Your friend isn’t Catholic, is she?” “Episcopalian,” Annie whispered. “Not good enough,” said Sean. He frowned. “And Malcolm’s an Anglican, I’m afraid.” He put a finger to his lips as if he were deep in thought. “Why do you want to know?” Annie asked. Sean’s attention returned to her. He gave her a sly look. But when he spoke it was to all of them: “We need to organize work details. Malcolm, perhaps you’d be good enough to pick these artichokes while we get the water boiling.”
Malcolm looked disconsolate. “They have thorns,” he said.
“Just prickles,” said Sean, and with that he left the garden and started back toward the house.
*
Annie assumed that Sean meant all three of them would get the water boiling. She followed him into the kitchen, glancing back and smiling once at Maria, who hurried along after them, swinging her short arms. When they got inside, however, Sean looked at Maria and said, “If I remember correctly, my wife keeps the good silver upstairs in the hall chest. The red chest. In the bottom drawer, rolled up in a sheet. Could you get it, Maria? It would be nice at least to have good silverware.” Maria hesitated before saying anything. Then she turned and asked Annie to come help her.
Annie didn’t want to. She was fond of Maria but had found lately that Maria tended to smother her. Everywhere Annie went, Maria followed. On trains Maria sat squashed against her side. Yesterday, pressed between the metal compartment wall and Maria’s stiff shoulder, Annie had finally gotten annoyed. She wanted to push Maria away and shout, “Let me breathe, will you!” She felt uncomfortably hot and was just about to nudge her when suddenly her annoyance subsided, replaced by a feeling of guilt. How could she get mad at Maria for simply sitting close to her? How could she return affection with peevishness? Annie felt ashamed, and though she was still uncomfortable pressed against Maria, she tried to ignore that. Instead, she leaned over and gave Maria a friendly peck on the lips.
Now Annie wanted to stay downstairs and help cook the meal. Sean interested her. He had the perfect life, didn’t have to work, took trips to Rome whenever he wanted, and always came back to a beautiful country house. Annie had never met a person like Sean before, and what she most wanted out of life, at her age, was just that: newness, adventure. That was why she was glad when Sean said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to go up by yourself, Maria. I need Annie’s help here in the kitchen.”
*
Gently, blindly, Malcolm picked the artichokes. It had grown dark in the garden; the sun had set behind the stone wall, and the only light came now from inside the house, illuminating a patch of lawn not far from where Malcolm knelt. There had been a time when he would never have done this sort of thing, get down on his knees and pick his own dinner, muddying his trousers, but such considerations seemed alien to him now. For weeks he hadn’t been able to look himself in the mirror whereas usually his sophisticated appearance filled him with pride.
He ran his hands up the thick stems of the artichokes, snapping off the bulbs. This way he avoided the prickles. He worked slowly. The smell of the earth rose to his nostrils, damp and mineral. It was the first smell he had noticed in weeks, and there was something intoxicating about it. He could feel the coldness of the ground against his kneecaps.
In the dark the artichokes seemed to go on forever. As he picked them, and moved farther in, he kept encountering new stalks. He began to work a little faster, and after a time became completely absorbed in his work. He liked picking the artichokes. He slowed down. He didn’t want the picking to end.
*
The front staircase was long and grand, and as soon as she began climbing it Maria ceased to mind her lonely errand. She felt free, far from home and all the disappointments of home. She liked her clothes, which were thick and baggy; she liked her short hair; she liked the fact that she and Annie were in a place where they couldn’t be found, a place where they could act toward each other as they wished and not as society dictated. An old tapestry hung on the wall, a stag being torn by two threadbare dogs.
She came to the top of the stairs and went down the hallway looking for the red chest. There were chests all along the hall, most of them dark mahogany. Finally she found one somewhat redder than the others and knelt before it. She opened the bottom drawer. A roll of sheet lay inside, and, taking it out, she was surprised at how heavy it was. She laid the sheet on the floor and began to unroll it. She flipped it over and over again, the metal inside clinking together. Finally the last wrap came undone and there they were—knives, forks, spoons—all laid out in the same direction, glittering up at her.
*
Once he was alone with Annie, Sean took his time getting the water on the stove. He removed a metal pot from its hook on the wall. He brought it to the sink. He began filling it with water.
Through all this he was extremely aware of his actions and of the fact that Annie was watching him. When he reached up to unhook the pot from the wall he tried to make his movements as fluid as possible. He set the pot on the stove (gracefully) and turned to face her.
She was leaning back against the sink, her hands planted on either side of her, her body stretching in a delicate arc. She looked even more appealing than she had by the side of the road. “Since we’re alone now, Annie,” Sean said, “I can tell you a secret.”
“I’m ready,” she said.
“Do you promise to keep this quiet?”
“I promise.”
He looked into her eyes. “How much do you know about Church history?”
“I went to catechism until I was thirteen.”
“Then you’re familiar with Saint Augustine?”
She nodded. Sean looked around the room as if to see if anyone were listening. Then he took a long pause, winked, and said: “I have his finger.”
*