“He is ailing, yes,” Mrs. Agnelli admitted, eyes downcast. “But the prayers of our community will lift him up.”
Anders nodded and appeared to contemplate this in silence. Margot, too, considered the service. In the Philippines, the natives had also practiced Catholicism, but a very specific version of it: riotous and colorful and brutally hierarchical, its practices closer to voodoo sometimes than Christianity. On some of the smaller islands, men fought each other for the honor of being nailed to a cross and paraded through the village streets on Good Friday. Here, however, there was none of that. The bread was not quite flesh, the wine was not quite blood. The same was true of the church’s immediate surroundings. The homes of the boat and cannery owners could have been large and showy, but they weren’t. Instead, they were modest and well maintained: stucco beachheads with red-tiled roofs that looked sturdy and immortal against the white sky. Children played calmly on the porches. Street vendors made their rounds. Big, iron cauldrons bubbled in the backyards atop flaming beds of pine, the intestinal lengths of sardine nets tanning within.
“We had hoped to offer up a blessing for your imminent venture,” Mrs. Agnelli continued. “But I’m afraid it slipped Father Paraino’s mind.”
“No matter,” Anders replied. “I’m not superstitious in the least.”
Mrs. Agnelli’s face flickered with distaste before returning to its previous serenity. She was in her prime today: surrounded by her own kind, proud and at ease, her face absent of perspiration, her breathing unlabored. As for Tino, he looked exactly as sharp and fragile as before, especially in comparison to his brothers. All five were just as burly and bulletproof as he had implied, standing open-mouthed behind their mother in order of descending height like an unpacked set of giant Russian nesting dolls.
“Shall we, then? Our girl has cooked a wonderful roast.”
The brothers turned and began to clomp uphill.
“I’ll be glad to accept your hospitality. Margot, however, will be staying behind. She has business with your son. The small one.”
And there it was again: a shadow of distaste. “In that case, I’d like to speak with her first.”
The brothers froze in place and closed ranks around Tino.
“By all means,” Anders replied.
Mrs. Agnelli reentered the church. With a glance in Anders’s direction, Margot followed. Inside, it was quiet and cool, the walls white and bare. Father Paraino was fiddling with something on the lectern. The candles on the altar had just recently been extinguished, wicks still smoking. She remembered the séance in the lab. The broken circle.
Mrs. Agnelli sat heavily on the nearest edge of the rearmost pew. At the noise, Father Paraino looked up, bowed to her, and scuttled out of sight.
“There’s been some trouble,” Mrs. Agnelli began, her voice even kinder than before, even softer.
“I’m sorry about that.”
“Oh, I don’t want you to be sorry. I just want you to help.”
Margot shifted her weight to one foot and then the other, noticing how the dress swished timidly across her knees in response. In a situation like this, it was important to equalize the balance of power. She should be sitting next to the older woman, side by side as equals. But, on account of the space Mrs. Agnelli had chosen to occupy, this was nearly impossible. To join her on the pew, Margot would have to climb right over her or walk all the way around to the other side of the nave and slide down to meet her, both of which were too awkward to even contemplate. So she remained standing and took a small step forward, which ensured that, when Mrs. Agnelli began to speak again, it would be to Margot’s back and not her face.
Mrs. Agnelli giggled as if in understanding, and then continued.
“At first, you see, I thought your father was to blame, but then I realized it was most likely a shortcoming of my own. The truth is, I’m unaccustomed to the company of men. They’re always out on the boats, often for weeks on end, which means they have a different way of seeing the world than we do. A different way of finding satisfaction.”
A rogue sunbeam shot through the stained glass window above the altar, the effect identical to what it looked like when light shone among the leaves and blossoms of the bougainvillea.
“You have six sons,” Margot countered. “All of whom work with you.”
“Yes, but working with someone and feeling bettered by their company are two different things entirely. I’m sure you understand.”
Margot resisted the impulse to look behind her. Mrs. Agnelli produced a short, crackling cough and then resumed.