The Good Left Undone(15)

“No!” Silvio tried to sit up on the table.

“Lie down and don’t move again,” the doctor ordered. Without looking up, he directed a comment to Cabrelli. “I have work to do here, Signore.”

“Forgive me, Dottore. I’m here to take my daughter home.”

“Forgive me too, Signore, but I need her to stay,” Pretucci countered.

“I don’t understand.”

“Of all people, you should understand. She sewed up your hand, didn’t she?”

Cabrelli was confused.

“They got him good.” Aldo had wandered over to the examining table and was watching the doctor as he sewed the stitches.

“You were on the beach this afternoon.” Domenica’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You were chasing us with the rest of them!”

“Your brother followed the boys to try to protect you. He tried to outrun the others to help you.”

“Is that what you told Papa? That’s a joke. I don’t need his help.” Domenica put her hands on her hips with authority. “Besides, I can run faster than Aldo any day.”

“No, you can’t!” Aldo’s face turned red with fury.

“When I’m done here, I’ll prove it.”

“You’re skinny,” Aldo charged.

“You’re fat.”

“Children.”

“Papa, you see how she is. She is mean.”

A woman, small and dark, with a black cotton kerchief tied over her hair, soaked from the downpour, pushed through the door and looked around the room furtively.

“Signora Vietro!” Domenica motioned to her. “Silvio is over here.”

The doctor stepped aside to reveal her son on the examining table. Signora Vietro moved toward Silvio swiftly without a sound, finding a spot on the far side of the examining table. She squeezed between the table and the wall into a space barely wide enough to fit a broom. Signora surveyed her son’s face. As she took in the severity of the wound, her expression shattered from one of concern to one of despair. Her eyes filled with silent tears, but not one fell down her face. She slid her hand under her son’s shoulder, placing the other on his chest, where she could feel his heart pounding in fear.

“I’m here, Silvio,” she said softly.

Pretucci continued his work.

“I am his mother. His eye?”

Pretucci continued to sew. “His eye was spared. He’s a lucky boy.”

Her son was anything but lucky. Signora Vietro surveyed Silvio for further injuries. He lay obedient and still as the doctor worked on the wound. Silvio’s eyes were masked in flannel, so she could not see the terror in them, but she knew her son. Silvio’s hands were formed in tight fists. His forehead was slick with sweat. She covered his hands with her own. They were ice cold. “You’re brave. It’s almost over.”

“Signora, the rock hit him just above his eyebrow. It will leave a scar.”

His mother whispered in Silvio’s ear, “I’m sorry.”

Silvio squeezed her hand.

“Signora, it’s my fault.” Domenica made a fist and tapped her chest as the nuns had instructed when seeking forgiveness. “My grievous fault. Forgive me. I asked Silvio to borrow the map for me. Signore Aniballi sent a mob to get it back. They chased us down Viareggio Beach.”

“No. Tell the truth,” Aldo said, interrupting his sister. “He stole the map!”

“He did not steal it. He borrowed it.”

“We will talk about this later,” Signora Vietro said quietly to her son.

“Signora, I needed the map. I asked Silvio to bring it to me. I wanted to find the pirate treasure from Capri.”

“I can’t believe this.” Cabrelli threw his hands in the air.

“Papa, I heard tell of it in our home. Mama had a visitor, and she told the story. Anyone who finds the treasure gets to keep it. It’s been years since they hid it. A pirate treasure would do a lot of good around here. We need it. I wouldn’t give any of it to the church either.”

“Domenica,” her father warned.

“They have enough. We could use a horse and carriage. We have to walk wherever we go. Do you have one, Dottore?”

“I don’t.”

“See? You could borrow it too.”

Netta Cabrelli peered inside the doctor’s office through the window. The storm was getting worse as charcoal clouds moved in from the sea. She held on to her straw hat as she pushed through the door. “Mama!” Aldo ran to her.

“I came as soon as I heard,” Netta said to her husband. Signora Cabrelli’s deep blue eyes were red from weeping. Domenica felt bad that she had made her mother cry again. Netta possessed a simple, unadorned beauty, like the statue of the Madonna at San Paolino, but her expression was one of an angry mother.

“Mama. Believe me.” Aldo pointed at the examining table. “Silvio stole the map!”

The sight of the boy on the table made Netta shudder. “Quiet, Aldo. Domenica, I want you to take your brother home. Now.”

“Yes, Mama.”

When it came to punishments, Domenica was more afraid of her mother than she was of her father. Mama knew how to top any assigned penance levied by the priest after confession with the kind of deprivation that could make a young girl change her bad ways for good. A few Hail Marys weren’t enough for Netta Cabrelli. She made a punishment sting. No supper. No reading. No playing on the beach or hiking the trails in the woods. And the worst: Domenica’s chores would increase. She would be fetching water for the neighbors until her arms fell off. Her mother would make her bundle kindling and deliver it until there were no more trees left in the forest. The punishment could end up being far worse than Lent. Yet, despite her daughter’s behavior, Netta embraced her.