Mary Dominic considered for a moment. “In that case, your penance is to refrain from mentioning the weeping statue to the community. I would like to wait and pray before speaking of it to anyone.”
When Vincent replied, “Of course, mother,” humbly as a child and quite unlike her usual argumentative self, Mary Dominic was half inclined to believe a miracle had indeed taken place.
Over the days and weeks that followed, Vincent continued to be responsible, soft-spoken, and obedient. Mary Dominic marveled at the change, even as she wondered how long it would last.
Some months later, a retreatant asked to see Sister Vincent for spiritual direction. A buzz went through the community. Vincent, being asked for? It was unheard of.
When Vincent arrived at the parlor to meet her retreatant, she found the shorter of the two thugs who had held her captive. This time instead of a gun he held a black hat in fingers that nervously worked their way around the brim.
“Rocco DiPietro,” he said, holding out one stubby hand. “Maybe you don’t want to shake, considering.”
“You asked to see me?”
He nodded and mangled his hat some more. “Was you scared in the crypt when you was tied up with a gun at your head?”
“Not in the least.” About to blurt she was more surprised than anyone at her unshakable calm, Vincent bit back the words. Least said, soonest mended.
“Yeah. You didn’t act scared. Got God in your corner, huh?”
She smiled. “Something like that.”
He looked at the floor. Vincent maintained a tranquil silence. When he finally glanced at her, she was struck by the beauty of his eyes, soft and brown, totally out of keeping with the rest of his battered features.
“My brother Sal’s been killed. My kid won’t talk to me. I have HIV.”
Vincent, realizing he wanted something from her but not knowing what it could be, said softly, “I will pray for you.”
“That ain’t enough.” He looked at her steadily. She found his attention unnerving, but didn’t know what more she could do for him.
“Everything’s changed,” he said. “I mean, like, I never been afraid to die. But knowing you’re gonna die some far-off day ain’t the same as knowing you’re dying right now. And Sal — Sal was my kid brother. He wasn’t supposed to die before me. It ain’t right. Nothin’s right. You get what I mean?”
Suddenly Vincent did. A beatific smile lighted her long, plain face. He wanted her to help him make sense of his world. She could do that, for the world made perfect sense to her.
She gestured towards a straight-backed chair. “Please be seated, Mr. DiPietro.”
She sat close by, feeling as tender towards him as if he were her own infant son. Gently, softly, speaking in the most loving tones, she began to tell him of God.
The Witch and the Fishmonger’s Wife
by Angela Zeman
“You seem to be the only person I ever run into at this infant hour,” the witch murmured, not disguising the sharp edge of her opinion of that fact. “Except your husband, of course.” She examined the young woman standing two stories above her through eyes that only appeared sleepy and slowly added, “And the milkman.”
The draperies of the witch’s garments lifted in a sudden breeze. Her dark figure appeared doom-laden on the pale boardwalk already shimmering with heat.
The woman up on the flat roof of her house looked sourly down upon her fellow villager. The same breeze that disturbed the witch’s clothing was the breeze the young woman had come to her roof seeking this morning, hoping to catch it for a few blissful minutes before descending into the heat and work of the day. The wind stroked one strap of her tattered nightgown from her shoulder, and she left it hanging. With a raw hand, she pushed back from her face a mass of black hair marred with dull patches. As soon as she took her hand away, the heavy hair fell back to where it had formerly hung. It was as if all the world held contempt for this woman this morning, including her own hair.
She perched her hands on wide hips and arched her ripe body up towards the strengthening sun as if her back ached, as well it might. The milkman had dashed from her back door seconds before the witch had arrived.
“Well, Ike has to get up early, no help for that,” she merely said. Her expression was a dam behind which lurked many other things she preferred to say and the witch knew it.
Mrs. Elias’s husband was one of the village’s hardest workers, daily leaving his house before dawn to bargain with the fishermen for their catch as their boats first touched shore.
The sun moved higher, and the witch turned to keep from squinting, positioning herself for a clearer view of the woman on top of the house. Her mouth twitched into a semblance of a smile. “More credit to you for getting up with him, my dear. A devoted wife...”
“He likes a hot breakfast,” she said dismissively. She turned her head towards the open sea and lifted a hand to shield her eyes. The young woman sighed when she glanced down again and found the witch still there.
“Your roses, they’re doing well,” the witch said.
“Well, thanks to your gardening advice,” said the younger woman. She shifted restlessly in the growing heat.
The older woman’s shoulder could be seen to shrug beneath the several folds of black gauze she liked to wear in public, however hot the day. Nobody knew if the material made up a robe, a dress, or was merely several yards of stuff wound around her tall, gaunt body. Nobody had the nerve to ask.
“You didn’t need it. You seem to have acquired a touch for growing things. Your garden thrives, even now when everyone else abandons all effort in this heat. And I see you’ve added some things. Henbane? How enterprising. Did you know the hellebores you have there were used in old times to counteract witchcraft?” The witch gave Mrs. Elias a slow smile before resuming her inventory. “And lily-of-the-valley, I see... monkshood and the Christmas rose... you are attempting something not quite the usual. You’ll give these lazy cottagers something to strive for.” She eyed the younger woman with an interest that disconcerted Mrs. Elias.
“I put some foxglove for height against that wall, where the roses had been before you advised me to move them into the sun.” Mrs. Elias wafted a lethargic hand at the narrow garden below. “I couldn’t do those herbs and things you suggested, though. You know, to attract ladybugs to eat the aphids and the other pests. My husband complained that doing it that way was too time-consuming. So I have to kill the bugs with the canned stuff.”
The witch sighed, for she loved the natural ways of doing things. “That’s a shame. But it’s understandable.”
The fishmonger’s house was a two story box, the living quarters arranged above the fishmarket, which took up all of the first story of the building. The garden made a bright barrier between the fishmarket and the boardwalk built above the burning sand. No tall trees shaded the miniature rooms on the top floor, and so they were uninhabitable during the day. Only the market at street level had an air conditioner and fans and wide shaded windows. It was as if the fish had to be comfortable but the people had been given no thought.
“Yes, roses grow bored with too much tender handling. They become lazy and begin to lose interest in blooming.” The witch watched the heavy blossoms thoughtfully. “When they have to struggle a bit, it’s good for their character... as you see.” She looked questioningly at the young woman, who didn’t look as if her own struggles had benefited her in any way.
“I just... early mornings don’t agree with me, I guess,” Mrs. Elias said, as if reading the witch’s mind.