The Shoemaker's Wife(28)

“One brother, Eduardo,” he said. “Not like you. What’s that like, to be from a big family?” he asked.

“Noisy.” She smiled.

“Like the convent.”

“I thought the nuns were quiet.”

“Me too. Until I lived with them.”

“So none of the piety rubbed off on you?”

“Not much.” Ciro smiled. “But that’s not their fault. It’s just that I don’t think prayers are answered very often, if at all.”

“But that’s why you need faith.”

“The nuns keep telling me I need it, but where am I supposed to find it?”

“In your heart, I guess.”

“There are other things in my heart.”

“Like what?” Enza asked.

“Maybe you’ll find out someday,” Ciro said shyly. Enza picked up a stick and tossed it up the road, and Spruzzo ran to fetch it.

They walked up the road and into town. Enza noticed that their strides were similar as they walked together. She didn’t find herself skipping to keep up with him, even though he was bigger and taller than she.

“Was your mother ill?” Enza asked.

“No. My father died, and she couldn’t take care of us anymore.”

“How sad for her,” Enza said.

In all these years, Ciro had never thought about his mother’s feelings. Enza’s observation opened up his heart to think about what his mother had gone through. Maybe she missed her sons as much as they longed for her.

“How did you come to dig my sister’s grave?” Enza asked.

“Iggy Farino sent me. He’s the caretaker at San Nicola. I work for him.” Throughout the long day, Ciro had wondered what had caused Stella’s death. Even though he overheard conversations, little was said when it came to the death of children. “I don’t mean to cause you any further sadness. But I’d like to know what happened to your sister.”

“A fever. And she had terrible bruises. It happened so fast. By the time I carried her from the waterfall back to our house, the fever had consumed her. I kept hoping the doctor could help,” Enza said. “But he couldn’t. We’ll never know.”

“Maybe that’s for the best,” Ciro said gently.

“There are two kinds of people in this world. Those who want to know the facts, and those who want to make up a nice story to feel better. I wish I was the kind who made up stories,” Enza admitted. “I was taking care of Stella the day before she died.”

“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” Ciro said. “Maybe you shouldn’t blame anyone, but accept that this is your sister’s story, and the ending belongs to her.”

“I wish I believed that.”

“If you look around to find meaning in everything that happens, you will end up disappointed. Sometimes there aren’t reasons behind the terrible things that go on. I ask myself, If I knew all the answers, would it help? I lie awake and wonder why I don’t have parents and wonder what will become of my brother and me. But when the morning comes, I realize that there’s nothing to be done about what has already happened. I can only get up and do my chores and push through the day and find the good in it.”

“Stella was a big part of our happiness.” Enza’s voice broke. “I never want to forget her.” Enza stifled her tears.

“You won’t. I know a little about that. When you lose someone, they take a bigger place in your heart, not a smaller one. Every day it grows, because you don’t stop loving them. You wish you could talk to them. You need their advice. But life doesn’t always give us what we need, and it’s difficult. It is for me, anyway.”

“Me too,” Enza said.

As they walked in the twilight, Ciro decided that Enza was more beautiful than Concetta Martocci. Enza was dark, like an inky lake in the moonlight, whereas Concetta was lacy and airy, like columbine in the spring. Ciro decided he preferred the mystery.

Enza had slender limbs and lovely hands. She moved gracefully and was well-spoken. Her cheekbones, straight nose, and strong chin were typically northern Italian. But she had something that Ciro had not seen in any girl before—she was curious. Enza was alert; she drank in the details of the world around her, sensitive to the feelings of others and quick to respond to them. He saw this in church that morning, and now, in conversation. In contrast, Concetta Martocci poured her energy into the cultivation of her beauty and the power it brought her.

Ciro had met Enza at her most vulnerable, and he wanted to help her. He felt compelled to do whatever he could for her. He had used his physical power when he worked, but now he wanted to share his emotional strength. There were no awkward moments with Enza; they seemed to have an immediate and comfortable connection. He hoped the walk back to the rectory took longer than he remembered; he wanted more time with this beautiful girl.

“Are you in school?” he asked.

“I’m fifteen. I finished school last year.”

He noted happily that they were the same age. “You help your mother with the house?”

“I help my father in the stable.”

“But you’re a girl.”

Enza shrugged. “I’ve always helped my father.”

“Is your father a blacksmith?”