The Good Left Undone(14)

By the time Domenica had collected the fresh water from the fountain in the street, gathered the gauze, and found a tin cup to give Silvio a drink, the doctor had assembled the instruments to close the wound with stitches. The boy lay still on the table with his eyes closed and his hands folded across his waist. He appeared brave, but a steady flow of tears fell silently from the corners of his eyes, cutting clean rivulets through the sand and blood caked on his face.

“Don’t cry, Silvio.”

“It’s better if he cries. It flushes out any debris. Cry all you want, son.” Pretucci patted the boy on the shoulder.

Domenica dipped a strip of cotton in the cool water and gently removed the dirt from Silvio’s face, starting with his jawline, the area farthest from the gash, and working her way toward his eye. Pretucci monitored her technique. Domenica stippled the dampened cotton strip against Silvio’s skin, pulling the sand out of the wound. She rinsed the cotton in the bowl of water and repeated the procedure until the area was clean. Silvio winced when she dabbed near his eye.

“Does that hurt?” Domenica asked him.

“A little,” Silvio whispered.

“I’ll try not to hurt you. They really got you.”

“Use more water on the gauze to flush the wound,” Pretucci advised her. He measured the surgical thread against the light and snipped off a long piece of it. He threaded the needle with a small loop, knotting it. He placed the flannel over Silvio’s eyes and pulled the lamp close. “Good job, Signorina.”

“Grazie, Dottore. Do you mind if I give the patient a drink? Fear makes a boy thirsty.”

“They didn’t teach me that in medical school.”

“My mother told me that.” Domenica knelt on the stool. “She’s strict but kind too.” Domenica placed one hand behind Silvio’s neck and lifted it slightly so he might take a drink. She held the cup to his mouth. He sipped the cool water slowly.

“Grazie,” Silvio whispered when he had enough.

“You may want to hold your friend’s hand. Sometimes this part stings a bit.”

Domenica hadn’t held Silvio’s hand since they were little. They were eleven, that strange hammock of time stretched between child and teenager when they knew the world was about to change but did not have the words for it. Domenica took Silvio’s hand. He gripped it hard.

The doctor leaned over the patient and gently pressed the open wound together at the farthest point of the gash. Silvio’s smooth skin was the texture of gold velvet.

“Do you want me to do it?” Domenica offered.

Pretucci was amused. With a steady hand, he began to sew the wound closed with stitches so small the thread was barely visible. “You know how to sew surgical stitches?”

“Yes, Dottore.”

“Who taught you?”

“I sewed my father’s hand in the shop when he cut it on a blade. The injury was on his right hand, so he couldn’t sew it himself, so I had to do it. I do needlepoint too.”

“That’s excellent practice.”

“I know. Papa was brave and that made it easy. It’s a lot like sewing a hem. The stitches have to be tight and straight,” she explained. “I’m really good at it.”

“No, Domenica,” Silvio roared. “I want the doctor to do it.” It was the only demand the boy had made since he arrived. The doctor smiled.

“So I will finish the job.”

Domenica was not pleased.

“You already helped me a great deal,” Pretucci assured her.

The compliment did not make up for not being allowed to close the wound. “Grazie,” Domenica grumbled, remembering her manners.

The work light swayed on its wire. Outside, a crackle of lightning was followed by thunder. A hard rain soon danced off the windowpane. Domenica kept her eyes on the doctor as he worked.



* * *





Pietro Cabrelli was slim and moved quickly through the world, as though time wasted were a sin. He wore a fashionable thin mustache and a three-piece brown serge suit, the only one he owned. He escaped from the rain into the doctor’s office, followed by his twelve-year-old son, Aldo.

Cabrelli removed his hat and set it on the chair. The boy tossed his wet head, shaking off the rain, which flew in every direction. Domenica glared at him. Her brother had terrible manners.

“Why did you bring him, Papa? He doesn’t know how to behave.”

“Don’t bother with your brother. This is about you. Domenica, I warned you. Not another fight.” Cabrelli was weary of meeting with the nuns, who begged him to get control of his daughter, who roamed through the school seeking justice for those children unable to defend themselves.

“It wasn’t a fight this time, Papa. We were chased.”

Cabrelli pointed to the floor, which meant she was in for it. It was almost impossible to make her father angry, but somehow she managed to do it. Domenica slid off the stool and went to her father. She stood before him like a defendant before a judge. “I’m sorry, but there has been a misunderstanding,” Domenica said diplomatically. “Let me explain.” She dusted a few raindrops off the lapel of her father’s suit.

“There is always a misunderstanding. There is always an excuse. I told you, no more fighting.”

Aldo smiled wickedly as he poked his fingers between the ribs of the model of a skeleton hanging on the wall. “Are you going to beat her?”