Death 3 Bludgeoning （Education） #2
The most upsetting thing was, if Cettina had gone this year, she would have had her own white dress to wear in church. Instead, next year she would have to wear the white dress Stella had already worn. But that’s just the way it is, being the second sister.
“CHI TUTTO VO’, TUTTO PERDI,” Assunta reminded her daughters. A favorite of her many proverbs: whoever wants everything loses everything. Assunta’s enemy was still the invidia; she did what she could to teach her daughters not to be jealous, especially of each other.
Stella had a new white dress; Cettina did not. “But look what you have.” Assunta gave Cettina a lemon, the sour kind with the thick skin. Other citrus wouldn’t grow this high up the mountain. “You have a lemon, and if you want, you can have a lemon tree.”
Cettina loved plants, and she wanted to love a lemon tree. Stella had a white Communion dress, but Cettina had a future lemon tree, maybe.
Spring passed into summer, and the little sprout grew. In July Assunta helped Cettina transfer it to the garden. She made a special spot for it right by the house, where Cettina could see it from bed if the window was open.
AFTER SHE HAD MADE HER FIRST COMMUNION, Stella stood up with her mother to get the Eucharist at mass; meanwhile Cettina had to sit in the pew and hold Giuseppe so he wouldn’t climb down into the aisle. Stella also now went to confession with Assunta each Thursday.
It was at confession the last Sunday of July that Father Giacomo mentioned the Verginelle to Assunta. Stella was just within earshot, outside the confession vestibule, where she was sitting, absolved, and saying her rosary.
“I want to invite Mariastella to join the Verginelle procession this year,” the priest said to Assunta. “Would you let her?”
“Of course,” Assunta said immediately. She felt proud heat in her chest and her eyes had already filled with tears.
On the eve of the Assumption, thirteen little girls between the ages of nine and twelve would lead the annual pilgrimage down into the valley and through olive groves to the ancient shrine to the Virgin at Dipodi, which had been built in the year 314 by the Emperor Constantine.
The Verginelle, dressed in white, would kneel and pray by candlelight all night, offering their sweet virgin prayers to the Madonna.
The faithful would file into the wooden benches behind them and together they would pass the whole night chanting the liturgy.
At dawn, they would begin the journey back to the mountain villages, where upon arrival the women would immediately start cooking because the feast itself would commence at midday, everyone in a euphoric sore-footed delirium.
The Verginelle was especially close to Assunta’s heart, as she was herself dedicated to the Madonna’s Assumption by her name.
She had never missed a pilgrimage except that one year she was seven months pregnant with Cettina and had been in such a horrible state.
Assunta herself had been selected for the Verginelle when she was eleven years old.
She cherished the memory—she had felt like an angel for those holy hours.
Now she pictured her pretty little daughter Stella with a crown of white flowers on her head.
No doubt this delightful image had also occurred to Father Giacomo.
AT DINNER, WHEN ASSUNTA MADE the announcement of Stella’s selection for the Verginelle, Stella let her aunt and grandmother’s cooing die down before saying, “Mamma, I can’t be in the Verginelle.
” She put her arm around her sister, whose eyes were darkly shining with misery.
“Not if Cettina can’t be in it, too. Please tell Father Giacomo. ”
“Stella!” Assunta laughed. “Cettina is little. She’ll be picked some other year.”
“No, Mamma,” Stella replied. “We are sisters. We’re supposed to be together.”
Stella had been turning this idea over since she’d been in church and was extremely pleased with herself for thinking of it. By taking this stance, she would look like a martyr of selflessness, which would be even better than just being selected for the Verginelle. She would be a hero—a saint.
Assunta was worried about offending both the priest and the Madonna by heading back to negotiate for her daughters’ participation in the pilgrimage.
On the other hand, she was overwhelmed with pleasure at the way Stella took care of her sister.
She would figure out a way to convince the priest, a special offering of some kind, although she had no money this summer.
She had not heard from her husband in six years. But she could probably spare a chicken.
Stella was glad her mother didn’t seem to realize how conniving this plan was. If she could convince her mother of her good intentions, she didn’t need to convince anyone else.
ON AUGUST 14, 1929, leading the pilgrimage to the shrine of the Madonna for the feast of her Assumption were fourteen, not thirteen, little girls in white dresses, with crowns of white paper flowers.
One of them was too young, not even eight years old.
She fell asleep during the all-night prayer vigil and snored in her sister’s lap. Everyone was very happy.
MAYBE THE MADONNA KNEW THE TRUTH of Stella’s dark little heart, because it was the day after the Assumption that Stella almost died for the third time.
It was an oven-hot August afternoon, and the chiazza between the church and the school was full of children.
Stella and Cettina joined the fray after they had finished their lunch, keeping an eye open for their favorite all-black street cat.
They played a hopping game across the courtyard with Giulietta, a sallow, birdlike girl who also had no father.
She was five years older than Stella, too old to be playing in the chiazza, really, and a bit simple, but she was about Stella’s size and she was fast, and Stella liked to race her along the forest paths.
The hopping game was adequate at first. But the joy of physical exertion passed, and Stella began to feel listless. She stopped and stood aside with her arms crossed over her scarred abdomen. After Stella had missed a rotation, Cettina paused by her sister. “What’s wrong, Stella?”
“It’s too hot to play here anymore,” Stella said. She felt bored and itchy. The smell of cook-fire woodsmoke mingled with the sweat soaking her dress. “Let’s go into the schoolhouse,” she said. “It will be cool.”
The school was supposed to be closed up, because it was vacation.
But everyone knew the back door wouldn’t lock, since the bolt connecting the top and bottom halves was broken.
If you gave the bottom a good shove, it would swing in, and you could stoop in under it.
Mothers told their children not to play inside the schoolhouse because older boys went into the deserted classrooms to do bad things.
But the ceilings were so tall that the air inside was cold and moist even in August, and the village children often played there until Maestra Giuseppina scattered them.
Cettina, always the goody-goody, didn’t want to break the rules. “That’s naughty, Stella. What will Mamma say?”
“Nothing. Why would she say anything?” Stella now had a satisfying idea in her head of lying on the cool stone floor of the boys’ classroom, where she wasn’t allowed.
Cettina didn’t like it, but she followed Stella, the way she always followed Stella.
Stella leaned hard against the thick wooden door and nudged it open.
Giulietta stopped hopping and trailed them in.
Giggling, they pushed the bottom half of the door closed behind them and padded on their dirty bare feet into the silence of the dark chambers.
They passed an hour in the schoolhouse, rooting through the boys’ facilities, trying to find what masculine secrets were hidden there.
They lay on the classroom floor, just as Stella had imagined doing, feeling the cold stones absorb their body heat until they drifted off, napping in the dim afternoon light.
When Stella woke up, her skin was chilled, goose bumps standing on the side of her arms. Cettina was dozing beside her, Giulietta singing thinly to herself.
The sun was descending into the olive valley, and as the grogginess cleared from Stella’s eyes her vision fixed on a dark splotch on the wall, a disconcerting blemish in the thin lemony light.
She felt a cold tickle race up her arms, and she tried to figure out what about the splotch was wrong.
Then it moved, and she shrieked—it was one of those thick-bodied long-legged brown spiders that hide in stacks of firewood.
Stella did not like spiders at all. She was on her feet, and gave her sister a kick in the ribs, although Stella’s scream had already woken Cettina.
“It’s just a spider, Stella,” Giulietta was saying, but she scrambled to her feet, too. They had all had enough of this adventure.
The three girls dashed out of the boys’ classroom and through the main hall. Stella fumbled for the door’s broken latch; the sun had sunk enough that no light fell along the doorframe.
She located the latch and gave it a tug, but the door didn’t move.
Stella felt an irate frustration mounting, a weird discomfort in her stomach and that creeping cold along her arms. She pulled again, adding all her body weight.
This door had swung open easily earlier.
Why was it so stubborn with her now? There was a flash in Stella’s mind, an image that flared like a bonfire, of another hand on the other side of the door, its supernatural aura burning through the wood, holding it so that Stella couldn’t wrench it open.
Stella, taken aback by the image, released the latch and stared at her hands.
She realized, as she blinked, that it had been her own hand she’d seen, the way silvery spots appear when you rub your eyes too hard.
“What’s the matter, Stella?”