Elizabeth Street - Laurie Fabiano [135]
“See, Zia, I told you not to get up! I’ll make you tea.”
“No, no. I want to sleep. Do your schoolwork.”
On the bed with her back facing the kitchen, she quietly opened the envelope.
It was when she put the letter back that she saw a dark brown lock of Angelina’s hair at the bottom of the envelope.
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 24, 1909
“Zia, I can’t find my hat!”
“Look under your coat, Mary.”
Rocco had gone for his morning coffee, and Clement was still asleep, giving Giovanna the little bit of privacy that she needed. Opening her bottom drawer, she grabbed the gun, but also a knife—a kitchen knife that she had spent the better part of Saturday sharpening. It had occurred to her that it was probably foolish to sharpen a knife that she had no intention of using, but she wanted it to gleam.
She placed the knife into a makeshift sheath and attached it to her waistband next to where she tucked the gun. “Scusa, bambino.” Giovanna wondered for a quick second what Zia Antoinette would have said about the future of a baby that had spent its last months in utero cuddled up to a knife and gun. Saying a quick prayer to Zia Antoinette to reverse its effect, she headed to the door.
Earlier that morning, she had told Lorenzo that she needed Domenico’s help moving the piano. It was nearly true—she had sold the piano, but it wouldn’t be moved until that evening. Giovanna had already taken Domenico for coffee and explained her plan. His eyes widened, and he sat straighter than Giovanna had ever seen him. She made him promise to stick to her scheme, which would not put him in touch with the kidnappers, but she thought herself insane to be involving her nephew and added this to her list of sins.
“Let’s go, girls.” Giovanna grabbed a purse and dropped in the envelope marked FOR THE BABY JESUS. With the sale of the piano it held $224.
Frances and Mary noticed that their stepmother was on edge, but that had become normal. They tried to keep pace with her as she walked north on Elizabeth Street to Our Lady of Loreto. They were early and stood aside to watch the parishioners from the nine o’clock mass exit. Mary mimicked her stepmother by scrutinizing every face. When they entered the church, Giovanna walked down three rows and nudged the girls into the pew.
“Zia, we always sit up front!” exclaimed Mary, tugging at her hand.
“I don’t want to walk that far. Sit, Mary.”
The church was cool, but Giovanna was already sweating and fanning herself with the pages of the missal.
“Are you okay, Zia?” asked Frances, looking at her. “You sure you don’t want to go home?”
“No, no. Just pray. Pray to Saint Anthony.” Frances knew what praying to Saint Anthony meant.
Little bits of the priest’s sermon on the paganism of the American holiday Halloween drifted in and out of Giovanna’s consciousness. His voice rallied when he warned parents not to let their children dress in costume on next week’s Sabbath. His admonishments interrupted Giovanna’s calculation of the number of minutes until the first collection of offerings.
Finally, four ushers, one on each side aisle and two in the center, walked from the back of the church to the altar. They waited there, hands crossed over the stick of their rattan baskets, for the priest to announce the first offering. Giovanna studied their faces. They were all good family men she recognized from the neighborhood, but with a stab to her heart she remembered Limonata’s deceit, and once again they became suspects.
The ushers began to weave the baskets in and out of the pews collecting contributions. After the last row, the ushers would walk to the vestry room off the church foyer, empty the money and envelopes, lock the door, and then walk back down to the altar for the second collection.
The ushers were now only five rows in front of her; a hymn drowned out the beating of her heart. Her face was completely flushed, and she saw Frances staring at her—it would work in her favor.
When they reached her row, Giovanna lifted her arm noticeably and dropped the envelope in the basket. Without looking, she