Chapter Text
It was a Saturday evening like any other, that summer of 1934. In a well-loved apartment just on the edge of the bad side of town, a young woman was doing dishes while an old recording of Cavalleria Rusticana played. She was singing along under her breath, as the peasant girl Santuzza sang about her seduction by the man who has now abandoned her, when the phone rang.
“I got it, Papa,” she called out, wiping her damp hands on her apron.
Catarina picked up the phone’s receiver as she did her best to dodge her cat Trilli’s attempts to trip her.
“Moretti residence, this is Catarina.”
“Cat,” came the plaintive wail of Fede over the line. In the background she could hear the clink of plates and loud conversation. “I need your help!”
Catarina sighed. Fede had been her downstairs neighbor all her life, a hapless little boy who’d only just started his new job, courtesy of a call her father had made. He was the new busboy at that fancy place on the far side of Little Italy that she’d never been to.
Clicking off the record player, she listened as Fede told her all about the stray cat and her kittens he’d found in the alley way, and he couldn’t leave them there, and the cook would kill him if tried to to hide them in the back and the dinner rush was starting and-
“I’m coming,” Catarina said, cutting Fede off. “Give me twenty minutes. Don’t do anything stupid.” Grumbling, she untied her apron, and did her best to get her wild hair back in order. Nothing she ever did could coax her curly hair into the neat waves or tight ringlets that all the movie stars were wearing. The summer humidity only made it worse.
Pulling her shoes on, she called out to Papa, to let him know she’d be back and not to worry about the dishes. “Fede needs my help with a cat or something,” she told him in Italian, in the Lombard dialect they always spoke at home.
“I’ll do the dishes, coccinella. Just be home before eight!”
“I won’t even be an hour, Papa.”
She shooed Trilli out of the way before she opened the door. He was a strictly inside cat only.
It was only half past six, and the sun wasn’t even close to setting yet. She and her father ate early, American style. A habit from when he used to work all over town and had to wake up far too early in the morning. It was just after the height of summer, when the streets of Arlington City shimmer in the heat.
Stopping to tie her shoe in the doorstep, she noticed the same black car had been parked on the street corner since this morning. Catarina didn’t recognize it, and she peered in as she walked by on the way to the bus stop. A man was asleep in there, hat pulled low over his face, grease stains all over his suit lapels. Poor thing. There were more and more homeless and almost-homeless since Black Tuesday, people living out of cars, in tents, in door steps.
The bus was stifling, and she was forced to stand the whole way, her red-gold hair turning dark with sweat and sticking to her face. Hand stuck in her purse, her fingers clutched around the one decade rosary she always kept in there. She pretended not to notice the middle-aged man staring at her chest. Even though she’d buttoned her shirt all the way up past her collarbones.
It was so hot, she thought, unable to contemplate the Joyful Mysteries, as she slid the beads back and forth through her fingers, not really praying at all.
A cool evening breeze swept though her skirt as she stepped off the bus onto the curve. She’d never actually been in to eat at La Casetta. Papa had a decent retirement saved up, but money was tight. Money was tight everywhere these days. And La Casetta was a fancy place, to be sure, with overpriced food and even more overpriced wine. It was the type of place they might have gone before Mama died, before the Crash, with Papa in a pressed suit, and Mama in her black mink stole and opera length pearls.
Catarina stood across the street from the glowing windows, full of people who somehow still had money, in her scuffed Mary Janes, her shirt stiff with dishwater and sweat. Somewhere, someone was playing music.
Taking a deep breath, she walked across the street, skirting into the back alley to the service entrance.
Fede was waiting for her, fidgeting with his bow tie as Catarina side stepped some suspicious looking puddles.
“Cat,” he said helplessly, with his big brown eyes, the same ones that asked to stay up an hour later when she watched him and his passel of sisters and brothers.
It made her sigh. Fede wasn’t quite a little kid anymore. He was fifteen and the man of the house with his dad off at work in the shipping lanes, but he was still the little brat Catarina used to babysit, now and forever.
The kid crouched down, and lifted a brick off the top of a cardboard box, and Catarina was greeted with a hiss.
“Fede…” she trailed off, looking down at the mangy alleycat and her babies. They were new kittens, with their eyes closed and their ears still folded over. “What am I going to do with five new cats, Fede?”
He turned his big eyes back on her. “Frank said he’d drown them if I didn’t do something about them. He said he’d be doing them all a favour with a quick end.” Catarina could see tears begin to well up in Fede’s eyes. “Please, you’re the only one I could count on.”
She melted.
“Alright, we need something to catch them with.”
He handed her a great big fluffy towel, and hovered over her shoulder as she did her best to fish the kittens into the box. The mother cat went clawing and howling, and Catarina really did need to protection of the towel for all that.
Up on the fire escape, a door creaked open.
“Are you trying to skin a cat-“ came a deep voice, and then the stranger laughed when he looked down at them, Fede holding the box, and Catarina using the towel to hold the stray in place.
He was a tall man, lean with dark curls and a long hooked nose, dressed in shirtsleeves he’d rolled up to the elbows.
“Was that why you commandeered the phone, Federico?” The man leaned over the railing, one dark brow arching up.
“Yessir!” It all came out in one breath, Fede shooting up to attention.
“Who’s the accomplice?” The newcomer, began to walk down the spindly metal stairs, well polished shoes gleaming.
“This is my upstairs neighbor, Catarina Moretti”
“Moretti?” The man stood on the very last step, towering over the both of them. His eyes were very dark, beautifully so. Like the dark roast coffee her Mama always took black first thing in the morning, steaming and without any sugar at all. Dark with just a hint of warm brown.
“Any relation to Tomaso Moretti?” He asked.
“My father.”
“Thought so. You look like him. Only much prettier.” He smiled at her, those dark eyes gleaming, and she blushed.
Catarina had her mother’s coloring, but she had her papa’s nose, long and pointier than she would have liked. She used to wish she had a nose like the actress Clara Bow’s, cute and round, but all of a sudden in that moment, she was happy with her nose.
Fede’s the one holding the box still, so both her hands are free, and she blushed right up to the roots of her hair when that man stepped off the stairs, took her hand and kissed it. Like something out of a Georgette Heyer novel.
“Ignazio Bellomo. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Moretti.”
“Likewise,” she said, softly. She just knew her face was as red as a tomato, and Mama always said the color clashed terribly with her hair, but he kept on holding her hand, and looking up at her with those beautiful eyes.
Catarina thought she might melt right into the pavement, like an ice cream cone left out into the afternoon. And that was before he’d said his name.
The Bellomos had money. They’d had it before the Crash, and they still had it after. They owned half the land in the Little Italy these days.
And he was so handsome. Older too, she was never good at ages, but in his mid-thirties at least, maybe even forty. A handsome forty, with fine lines around his eyes, that she could see up close like this.
He let go of her hand and turned to Fede, leaving her all a syrupy mess. It was like her ears were stuffed up with cotton, and it was only when she heard the irritation in Mr. Bellomo’s voice that she snapped back into her head.
“-not even a week, Federico. No personal calls on the telephone, no- Is that my towel?” Mr. Bellomo titled his head, as he started down into the box.
It was a very nice towel, too nice, Catarina realized now, with a sinking heart.
“Did you go upstairs, without my permission, Federico?” Fede’s boss asked very quietly.
He was not as tall as Catarina thought, she realized distantly, as Fede began to splutter. He just seemed bigger when he was moving, taking up space with his elbows out, his eyes moving around. He was still now, and she’d put him under six feet for sure.
“You know the rules.” Mr. Bellomo’s voice cut through Fed’s hasty explanations. The frown on his face was slight, but his eyes were even darker.
Mouth gaping open and close like a fish left to flounder on the bottom, Fede looked frightened. He couldn’t afford to lose this job.
Stepping forward, Catarina grasped Fede by the shoulders, and stood as straight as she could. “He’s very sorry, Mr. Bellomo. I’m sure he didn’t mean to trespass. He can be very thoughtless, sometimes. Say you’re sorry, Fede,” Catarina commanded in her best big sister voice.
“I am very sorry, sir, Mr. Bellomo, sir. I wasn’t thinking. Sir.”
Catarina gave Fede an encouraging squeeze and then looked right up at Mr. Bellomo. Maybe he wasn’t as tall as she’d initially thought, but he was still taller than her.
“I am very sorry as well, sir, on his behalf. I promise you, we brought him up with better manners.”
Fede’s boss didn’t look so angry now. His lips twitched, and Catarina would have laid on money on him fighting back a smile.
“I didn’t know you had such a beautiful mother, Federico. What a lucky boy you are.”
Catarina did not roll her eyes, though she was sorely tempted to.
Fede mumbled something about Catarina not being his mother and when Mr. Bellomo broke and let one side of his mouth quirk up into a smile, she couldn’t help it. She rolled her eyes.
“My apologies, Fede. A beautiful upstairs neighbor.” He smiled at her, only showing a hint of teeth.
Her mouth suddenly felt very dry, and she struggled to swallow.
“I’ll have the towel cleaned and brought back, sir.” Her voice came out soft and raspy, and she tried to swallow again, to wet her tongue. This is what people meant by tongue tied.
“Alright,” Mr. Bellomo nodded. “Thank your upstairs angel, Federico. Not all of us have someone so lovely looking after us.”
“Thanks, Cat,” Fede said, shoving the box of cats into her arms. She tucked it under one arm, and used the other to squish his head and smack a kiss on the side of his temple, making him squeal in disgust. He managed to wiggle free, bounding to the back door, to all the noise of the kitchen and the soft light creeping out from under the door.
“Federico.”
Fede turned back, fear rushing into his eyes all over again.
Mr. Bellomo gave him a little half smile. “Get back to work.”
The boy nodded and slipped through the door.
Then the man was turning back to Catarina, taking a step towards her, and she fussed with the towel, the mother cat already buried beneath it.
He turned those dark eyes on her and asked her how she was getting home.
She looked up, and then darted her eyes back down to the box. “Same way I got here. The bus.”
She checked her wristwatch and frowned. Catarina had a strict curfew, even on weekends. Especially on weekends. She’d be cutting it close, and the next bus home was due in two minutes.
“It’ll be dark soon.” He glanced over his shoulder, into the light of the setting sun. It set his curls ablaze, so dark and gleaming. It made Catarina’s heart thud in her chest over and over, harder than when she’d snuck out to watch The Sheik with Bibiana, to watch Rudolph Valentino ride through the desert.
Mr. Bellomo looked bit like Rudolph Valentino, she thought dreamily, they have the same mouth, and then he was telling her that “I can’t let you go out alone. I’ll me drive you.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” she began, but he’d placed a hand on the small of her back and was pushing her inside.
Inside the kitchen, men shouted at each other as bow-tied clad waiters slid in and out, balancing massive trays on their fingertips. One of the chefs looked up to stare at her, cleaver raised in mid-air. Fede had an armful of dishes and waved as Mr. Bellomo pushed her deeper in.
And then he was guiding her through the restaurant itself, past the bar which practically gleamed with newness, along the side of the dining room. She was sweaty and under dressed, and she did her best not to look at the crisp, starch-white table clothes, to the bucket of champagne on ice that lay within arm’s reach of her, to all the women with diamonds at their throats and men with silk ties and shoes made from real Italian leather.
Catarina knew she looked a mess, with her frizzy red-yellow hair and wide blue eyes, all wrapped up in an old checked skirt and the same Mary Janes she’d worn since she was thirteen. Her heels dug in ever so slightly to the carpet, but Mr. Bellomo kept her moving to the vestibule.
“Send Marco to bring the car around,” he told the man who stood over the reservation book, pen poised over an entry. The fellow nodded, and opened the front door to bark out an order at someone.
Mr. Bellomo still had his hand on Catarina’s back, his palm lying idly on the center of her spine. She opened her mouth to say something about it, when he snapped his fingers. “And now that I think of it, grab something nice from the cellar. Miss Catarina here is a friend of the family. Tommaso Moretti’s daughter. See if we have any Franciacorta.”
“Of course, sir.” The man, who Catarina guessed had to be the headwaiter, looked over her, recognition lighting in his eyes when her father’s name was mentioned.
Mustering a small smile, she then nearly jumped out of her skin as Mr. Bellomo’s thumb rubbed across the column of her spine. But then he stepped away from her, opening the door to La Casetta and catching a set of keys.
“After you, Miss Moretti,” he said, gesturing for her to make her way out.
A heavy-built man stood beside the car, a wicked cut running down the side of his face to his neck. Catarina’s stomach flip-flopped when she realized he was missing an ear. She tried to avert her eyes without being too obvious about it, but the man gave her a grim smile.
“Thank you, Marco. I’ll be back shortly.”
“No problem, boss.” Marco stepped back to let Mr. Bellomo open the passenger side for Catarina. Trying to be graceful, she slid in and rearranged her skirt so that as much of her legs as possible were covered, and placed the box on top of her lap.
“Who’s the little lady?” He had an American accent, and he gave her a little two-finger wave. “Hello, little lady.”
Catrina wasn’t sure what to do, so she raised her hand in small wave. Blessedly, Mr. Bellomo firmly said, “Don’t scare her, Marco. This is Tommaso Moretti’s daughter. I’m taking her home.”
“Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a few years,” Marco mused, the scar tissue on the side of his face stretching as he smiled through the window at Catarina.
Mr. Bellomo ignored this comment as he walked around the front, and then he rested his hands on the car roof, waiting for the headwaiter.
Silence sat heavy on her, and Catarina did her best to moisten her dry mouth. She wasn’t sure she could talk even if she had to right now. Both arms rested firmly over the top of the box full of cats, she kept her ankles and knees rigidly together. Finally, the bottle of wine arrived, and Mr. Bellomo passed it to her to hold.
When the car finally rumbled to life, and they took off, Catarina couldn’t help the little sigh that escaped her lips.
Mr. Bellomo gave a little chuckle. “He’s a bit much to look at, I know, but I promise that he won’t touch you. Likes to give people a scare from time to time. Lost the ear to a Kraut at Belleau Wood. I think he was more mad about being sent away from the frontlines than being cut up like that.” He glanced over at her, and must have seen the flush in her cheeks rising.
“Sorry, I didn’t know,” she said softly. She’d been born at the very start of the Great War, and she barely remembered any of it. And her Papa had been too old to fight, really. That might have been different if they had still been in Italy, but America had entered late, and Papa had been over forty.
“I know,” He said pleasantly. “I don’t mark ignorance as a crime. He won’t bother you.”
Catarina nodded. She hadn’t really thought he would, not in front of his boss and plain view of all the nice people dining at La Casetta. But lot’s of men came back with shell shock she knew. Forgot where they were, things like that.
“Now, I know Fede told me where he lives, but you’ll have to remind me.”
“Oh, gosh, sorry, yes,” Catarina stumbled over her words as she told him her address.
Without missing a beat, Mr. Bellomo made the correct turn and asked, “Are you in school, Miss Moretti.”
How old did she look to him? He must think her a kid if he was asking that. Her heart sank even as she told herself it was for the best. No need to embarrass herself.
“Not anymore,” she said. “Graduated early, even. That was three years ago. I’m twenty.” She smiled brightly, and then wished she could kick herself. Bibiana said she smiled like a kid, all teeth and nothing sexy about it. “You know my father,” she said, trying to change the subject away from her age.
“A bit. He used to work for my father.”
Catarina nodded. Her father used to work with a lot of wealthy people before he retired, handling their money for him. She vaguely recalled that he’d worked for Andrea Bellomo years ago.
“How’s retirement suiting him?”
“Well. He spends a lot of time reading. Writing letters to the editors, that sort of thing.”
“And you? Do you work?”
She laughed. “I’ve tried, but my Papa’s a bit old-fashioned. I got about half-way through a secretarial course before he put a stop to it. I help out at the parish kitchen, and since they don’t pay me, it’s not work, so he can’t complain.”
“A wise man,” Mr. Bellomo said. They glanced at each other at the same time, and Catarina cleared her throat, and fanned herself.
“It’s awful hot in here,” she said. “I can’t wait until summer is over.” She could just feel how red her face was.
Mr. Bellomo asked her for the address again.
“Oh, we’re real close,” she told him, leaning forward to see out his window. “It’s just another left and you’ll see it!”
It really was nicer traveling by car than the bus. She got to sit down without any strangers breathing hot air down her neck, the seconds inching painfully along at each stop. And it went by much faster.
“Thanks so much, although you really didn’t have to,” she gushed.
“It was my pleasure.” His smile reached all the way up to his eyes, made them crinkle at the corners. The car slowed to a stop, as Catarina riffled with a fraying corner of the cardboard box.
He leaned over, and her breath caught all at once
Was he- was he going to kiss her?
He was only reaching over for the glove box. Flipping it open, he pulled out a note pad and pen, and dashed off a quick note. His long fingers folded it up neatly, sliding his pinched index finger and thumb along the crease.
Her face burned. What a stupid little kid she was, thinking this. She steamed in her own mortification as he stepped out of the car so he could open her door.
“Give my regards to your father, Miss Moretti,” Mr. Bellomo tipped his hat at her as she climbed out.
Prohibition had ended last year, so it wasn’t a crime for her to be holding a bottle of wine. But it still felt strange. Nervously, she looked over her shoulder as she opened the front door to her apartment building with her elbow. He was still standing by the car, watching her.
Again, he tipped his hat, and she bobbed her head, unable to wave with her arms completely full.
Safely inside, she set everything down on the stairs and pressed her hands to her face. Only when her cheeks stopped burning did she finally climb back up to the apartment.
“Papa, I’m home.”
She placed the wine on the kitchen table, the folded up note beside it, and walked to the sitting room.
Papa was a slight man, his brown hair gone completely white years ago, and hazel eyes were hidden under some wire rimmed spectacles. He’d turned sixty two years ago, almost an old man. Mama and Papa had not had Catarina until late in life, their only child coming when they were both in their forties. Mama had always called Catarina her miracle because of that.
Papa was leaning back, reading an issue of Il Progresso. His forehead was scrunched up in frustration.
“Anything interesting in there, Papa?”
“They are too fond of Mussolini if you ask me.” He looked up from the paper. “I’ll never understand why he wanted Libya. And now it looks like he’s going to make war on Ethiopia.”
“What do they even have in Ethiopia?” Catarina asked offhandedly. “Coffee?”
Papa shook his head, and sighed. Folding up the paper, he looked over at her and raised an eyebrow. “What have you got there, coccinella?”
“Look,” she said, showing him the box.
A smile bloomed across Papa’s face. “Ah, what darlings.”
The mother cat let out a long nasty hiss.
Papa only chuckled. “What feral darlings! How did you get these things back home on the bus?”
“Actually, Fede’s boss gave me a ride. Mr. Bellomo? He said to give you his regards.”
Papa went very still and quiet. His eyes slowly closed and opened, as was his way when he was thinking very hard.
Something twisted in Catarina’s stomach.
“That was kind of him,” Papa said slowly.
“He asked me to pass this along to you.” She picked up the wine bottle and note and handed it to him.
Papa read the note quickly, his face expressionless. “How nice,” he said tonelessly, tucking the note into one of his pockets. He stood and walked over to the kitchen bottle in hand.
Catarina followed him, and opened a cabinet to pull some glasses out. The kitchen was spotless. Papa had finished the dishes, as promised.
“Catarina.”
She looked around the cabinet door, two wine glasses in hand.
“Don’t make a habit of this.”
He uncorked the wine, and then poured the entire bottle down the sink. Catarina could only stare as the wine glugged out, going completely untasted down the drain.
“What did you do that for?” she asked, completely confused.
“Beware Greeks bearing gifts,” her father said, solemnly, in English. Then he rolled his shoulders back and asked how they were going to deal with their new guests.
…
She walked with her bike to Mass, burning with the desire to talk to Bibiana, her best friend.
The new cat and her kittens had slept in Catarina’s room, in her closet. She’d set up a nice little bed for them, but they had preferred to hide under her bed with all the dust. Trilli had been locked away in the other bedroom, which was not too hard. He liked to sleep on top of Papa, usually trying to smother him in the middle of the night.
Papa had been delighted that the little plate of canned tuna they had set out last night had been licked clean, and had gleefully been opening another one as Catarina made breakfast.
“I wonder if Bibiana might want one,” She speculated as they walked up to the cathedral. “She likes cats.”
“Maybe,” Papa said, noncommittally. He didn’t mention that Bibiana’s house was too crowded, her family too poor to really be interested in a pet.
“I’ll ask her,” Catarina told him. Really, she wanted to talk about twenty other things with Bibiana, their plans for next Saturday, Bibiana’s not-boyfriend, Mr. Bellomo.
Their eyes met as Bibiana and her family slid into the pews just moments before Mass began. Catarina’s best friend was the third out of nine, and they never seemed to be on time anywhere.
Catarina fiddled the edge of her lacy veil through much of the service, her thoughts buzzing through her head. Usually Sunday was the most peaceful day of the week for her. The day where she cleaned out her mind, made it all spick-and-span for the coming days, the day of rest.
When Mass was over, Papa kissed her on the cheek, and told her was going to go get a coffee with some friends. She nodded. They had a well-worn routine, she’d talk with Father Jean-Marie and then spend the afternoon with Bibiana.
As she idled by the shrine to the Virgin Mary, t he words of the Magnificat swelled up in her. Magnificat anima mea Dominum
My soul doth magnify the lord.
She’d always loved that canticle. My soul magnifies the lord, and the lord magnifies my soul. When she was a girl, she’d imagine a light shining through a magnifying lens set in the middle of her chest
Pray for me, Catarina asked inside her head, making the sign of the cross as she knelt to ask for the Virgin’s intercession. Please, please, please.
When she rose, Father Jean-Marie was waiting for her, staring up at the statue of Mary with her arms spread wide, his face filled with quiet contemplation.
Catarina had known the old man all her life, he’d christened her, given her First Communion. He always reminded Catarina of an old hound dog, with dropping jowls and eyes. And his voice was also kind, as they talked about her choice
“It’s a big step,” he told her, with his sad doggy eyes.
“I know,” she replied, holding the note with the address of the Cincinnati convent of the Sisters of Notre Dame de Namurs and the name of the mother superior.
“I’ve already written to Mother Mary Swithin about you, she’ll be expecting your letter soon.”
“An aspiring aspirant,” she quipped.
He laughed a little, and smiled warmly. “I think it will be a good fit for you,” he told her sincerely.
“I think so too.”
Father Jean-Marie had been the first person she’d ever talked to about becoming a nun. She’d been twelve and nervous, but he’d always been kind to her about it. And now, eight whole years later, she was soon to become an aspirant, if everything went to plan.
Carefully, she folded up his note with the address and placed it inside her pocketbook. Before she left, she decided to light a candle, slipping a penny into the devotion box before she struck lit the small taper from a candle that already burning. She was slipping her own candle into the tiered rack of votive candles when a voice came over her shoulder.
“The upstairs angel.”
Mr. Bellomo was standing a little ways behind her, leaning up against one of the soaring white columns. His dark eyes took in her white veil draped over her long red-gold curls, her sea -green dress that fell mid-calf and showed plenty of her white stockings.
Her heart thumped so loudly, she was sure it was echoing throughout the whole cathedral.
“How are the kittens?”
Her face broke out in a wide grin. “Really well! We’re already down two cans of tuna. Do you want one? They can’t all stay with me.”
“I could see myself wanting to take a cat home.” He pushed off the column, and walked close over to her. In the late-morning light, she could see the contrast of his dark brown irises against his black pupils. Made her think of bitter dark chocolate, imported all the way from Europe.
“I’d like to take you out for dinner, Miss Moretti,” he told her in a low tone, his voice warming her chest right up.
Her heart somersaulted. Yes, said the breathy voice in her head that sighed when hero the kissed the heroine in the pictures.
She hesitated. Her pocketbook felt heavy, the note weighing the whole thing down like a rock.
Pray for us sinners now and in the hour of our death.
“I don’t think so,” she said, as apologetically as she could. “My father doesn’t like me stepping out with boys.”
“How about stepping out with a man.”
She couldn’t help her smile at the line.“Even less.”
Hands in his pockets, he took another step towards her. Her heart lurched to a stop and she held her breath. Her palms were sweaty as she rolled the still lit taper absentmindedly between her fingers.
He reached past her and plunked a coin into the donation box.
“I don’t think he likes Sicilians very much either,” she said breathlessly, as a sort of explanation. “He wasn’t happy you drove me home.”
“That must be it.” He took the taper from her, his fingertips just brushing hers. “You are a good girl, aren’t you.”
“I try to be.” She did try. She just didn’t always succeed.
She stared at his profile as he lit this candle, his proud nose jutting out above a well-made mouth, his lashes so long a girl would be jealous of them, but there was nothing feminine about his face, not with that square jaw.
Her heart restarted as he stepped back, his eyes drinking in her face.
“I think I’ll be seeing you around, Miss Moretti.”
Her hands were still shaking as she and Bibiana raced on their bicycles, but she could pretend that it was from how fast they were going, weaving up and down the sidewalks of Arlington City, legs pumping as fast Catarina could manage.
They bought ice-cream, Catarina paying for the cones as Bibiana went on about the boy she wasn’t seeing, who worked at the shirt factory with her.
“I know he likes me, I just know he does. He cuts extra pieces out for me so I don’t have to ask anyone else, I just know he likes me!”
Hands clutching the cones and the handlebars, they set off towards the bridge that crossed over the prettiest part of the canal. There, they propped up their bikes as Catarina climbed up onto the railing. It was wide-enough for her to place her two feet side-by-side, and flat as board. She’d never once worried about falling.
Bibiana was still licking the melted ice cream off her fingers when she asked. “You still set on being a nun?”
“Yeah. I’m going to be an aspirant next year, hopefully.” Catarina walked along the bridge railing, her arms out stretched for balance. The lowering sun made a halo of her hair.
“Ignazio Bellomo asked me to step out with him.”
Bibiana laughed. And then stopped when Catarina turned and gave a small little smile, tucking her hands behind her back.
“You’re serious? I heard he’s a bootlegger. And he’s old!”
“Half the city are bootleggers. And Prohibition is over. At any rate, I said no.”
Clapping both her hands to the top of her head, Bibiana groaned. “Why? You should have let him take you out. And make him buy you steak and champagne and, I dunno, some fancy French desert.”
“Yeah, and then there will be expectations,” Catarina said, more than a little somberly. “It’s never just a dinner.”
“Yeah, I know. And your dad would be mad. It just doesn’t seem fair that it’s marriage or nothing. Three dates, and then the ring, or you’re some kind of slut. Who evens knows anyone after three dates! And what if you just want to go out.” Bibiana tossed her long black hair over her shoulder. She only ever got to wear it down on Sunday afternoons, her only day off from the factory and her family. “You still on for next Saturday?”
Catarina swept her leg out above the water, her skirt floating out in arc. “Of course. The dresses are almost done, it would be a waste not to.”
Bibiana did a little dance on the spot, her own personal rendition of the Charleston.
It was only when she was almost home, skirting around the black car still parked at the corner of her street, did Catarina realize she’d totally forgot to ask Bibiana if she wanted a kitten.
..
Kneeling down beside her bed that night, she scrunched her eyes closed as she did her best to say her evening prayers.
When she opened them, she felt anything but at peace.
“I don’t know what I want,” she whispered aloud to her room. Christ on the cross looked down on her, tears painted on his face.
“O my Jesus, what do you want me to do?” She whispered. “Some days, I wish to be your bride with all my heart. But sometimes-“ her voice cracked. She swallowed, her throat dry as she thought of a man’s hand against her back and beautiful dark eyes. “Sometimes I want to stay in the world.”
She bowed her head again, her stomach twisting up inside her as she tried to feel a calling inside her heart, to one direction or another.