The Shoemaker's Wife(27)

Spruzzo sat on the edge of the open grave and watched his new master make steady progress, the mound of dirt next to the headstone growing higher and higher. Earlier, after final rites were performed at the graveside, the casket had been lowered into the shallow grave and covered with greenery. As soon as the last mourners left, Ciro removed the spray, lifted the casket out of the grave, and commenced digging seven feet into the earth. After two hours of digging, the shale gave way to dry earth, and Ciro dug the last two feet into the pit in no time at all.

Ciro climbed out of the grave to retrieve the casket.

Years ago, the Ravanelli family had purchased a small plot and marked it with a delicate sculpted angel of blue marble. Ciro preferred the Ravanellis’ plot, elegant in its simplicity, to the fancy mausoleums.

Ciro lifted the small casket and set it down beside the pit. He placed it gently on the ground and jumped into the grave.

“Here. Let me help,” a girl said.

Ciro peeked up from the ragged hem of the grave to see the eldest Ravanelli daughter standing over him. In this light, she seemed ethereal, like an angel herself. Her long black hair was loose, and her eyes pierced through the mist, black as jet beads. She wore a starched white apron over her paisley dress. Wiping her tears away with her handkerchief, she stuffed it into her sleeve before kneeling.

Ciro could see that the girl needed to help, that the finality of burying the casket would give her some peace. “Okay,” he said. “You lift one end, and I’ll take the other.”

Carefully, they lifted Stella’s casket together. Ciro placed it gently in the grave and positioned it in the earth firmly before climbing out. Enza knelt on the ground and bowed her head. Ciro waited for her to finish her prayer.

“You might want to go now,” Ciro said softly.

“I want to be here.”

Ciro looked around. “But I have to cover the casket now,” he said gently, as he leaned against the shovel.

“I know.”

“Are you sure?”

Enza nodded that she was sure. “I don’t want to leave my sister.”

Spruzzo whined. Enza extended her hand, and the dog trotted over to her.

“There’s some food in my knapsack,” Ciro told her.

Enza opened the burlap sack and found the end of the sausage Sister Teresa had packed for him.

“If you’re hungry, help yourself,” he offered.

“Grazie.” She smiled at him.

Enza’s smile filled Ciro with a feeling of warmth as he stood next to the mound of cold earth. He smiled back at her.

Enza fed Spruzzo bits of sausage as Ciro shoveled. He layered the ground evenly, until the surface on top was smooth and level with the other graves. When he was done, Enza helped him move the limestone rocks off to the side.

When they were done, Enza replaced the spray over the fresh grave until barely any earth showed through the quilt of green juniper and pine that the ladies of the church had gathered. Enza lifted long, fresh green branches of myrtle from a stack she had gathered that morning and made an edge around the grave, framing the grave in deepest green. She stood back; it looked lovely, she thought.

Ciro gathered the shovel and pick as Enza folded the holy cloth carefully.

“I have to return that to the priest,” Ciro said.

“I know.” Enza tucked it under her arm. “They use it at every funeral.”

“Do you press the linens?” Ciro asked.

“Sometimes. The ladies of the village alternate between the linens and tending to meals for the priest.”

“No nuns in Schilpario?”

“Just the one who runs the orphanage. And she’s too busy to do extra chores.”

Enza led Ciro out of the cemetery. Spruzzo followed behind, wagging his tail as he went.

“I can take it from here,” Ciro said to her. “Unless . . . you want to show me the way.” He smiled to invite her along.

“The rectory is behind the church,” Enza said. “Like it is in every village in every province in Italy.”

“You don’t have to tell me about churches.”

“Are you studying to be a priest?” Enza assumed he might be because he wore the clothes of the poor, and many entered the religious life because it was a good alternative to a life in the mines, or other hard-labor jobs on the mountain like stonecutting.

“Do I look like a priest?” Ciro asked her.

“I don’t know. Priests look like everyone else.”

“Well, let’s just say I will never be a priest.”

“So you’re a grave digger?”

“This is my first, and hopefully my last, time.” He realized how that sounded, so he said, “I’m sorry.”

“I understand. It’s not a pleasant job.” Enza smiled. “I’m Enza.”

“I’m Ciro.”

“Where are you from?”

“Vilminore.”

“We go there during the feast. Do you live in the village or on a farm?”

“I live in the convent.” It surprised him that he so readily admitted where he lived. Usually, when talking to girls, he was reluctant to tell them about San Nicola and how he had grown up.

“Are you an orphan?” Enza asked.

“My mother left us there.”

“Us? You have brothers and sisters?”