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Donald F. Mulcahy, editor

Michael Mirolla, general editor

David Moratto, cover and interior design

Cover image: Photo by Donald F. Mulcahy

Guernica Editions Inc.

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Distributors:

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First edition.

Legal Deposit — Third Quarter

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2016938891

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

A second coming : Canadian migration fiction [electronic resource] / compiled and edited by

Donald F. Mulcahy. -- First edition.

(Essential anthologies ; 9)

Issued in print and electronic formats.

ISBN 978-1-77183-120-8 (paperback).--ISBN 978-1-77183-121-5 (epub).--

ISBN 978-1-77183-125-3 (mobi)

1. Emigration and immigration in literature. 2. Short stories, Canadian

(English)--21st century. I. Mulcahy, Don, editor II. Series: Essential

anthologies series (Toronto, Ont.) ; 9

PS8323.E46S33 2016 C813’.01083526912 C2016-902170-X C2016-902171-8

Introduction

The book you see here is really only half a book. The original migration anthology consisted of a mix of fact and fiction, a choice my dear wife had warned me might turn out to be an awkward formula. Later, acting on the advice of the publishers, I separated fact from fiction and created two books — a factual anthology of essays, memoirs and creative non-fiction, and this fictional one. Although the initial intention was to create a literary anthology of works by established immigrant writers, the project’s mandate soon morphed from strictly literary to all-inclusive, an outcome that was dictated not only by the collection’s ongoing need for more writers, but also by the assorted variety of writers who showed an interest in participating. I eventually concluded that a more diverse roster of writers might well be seen as reflecting the diversity in Canadian society; might even be considered a metaphor of sorts for our complex multicultural population and its varied voices. Canadians are, after all, as varied as pebbles on a beach.

I had not wanted to destroy the original 60-writer format, but it ultimately became a publishing necessity. Then, later, I suspected that perhaps the most interesting, most creative, and perhaps the most appealing works to readers might well be those of writers who chose to fictionalize the emigration/immigration experience. After all, isn’t it easier to recall and relate real events than to have to create them, from scratch so to speak, in one’s imagination? As someone familiar with both genres, I happen to believe that it is.

Providing Canada and the emigration/immigration themes were dominant, the actual subject matter in these stories was left to the author. The fact that there will always be plenty of stories related to the act of relocating to another country is a given. The journey is never easy; no guarantees are offered. But to get such a promising new start as Canada offers can be much like being born all over again, a little like experiencing a second coming perhaps — hence the title of this book.

If you’re anything like me, you probably hate long introductions. Books are meant to be read and enjoyed, not to be pontificated over, endlessly. So, let’s get this intro over with.

I am immensely and everlastingly grateful to all the participants herein who submitted their creations to this anthology. Writing, to them, as to me, must surely be a labour of love. This is their book.

And I will be forever indebted to Michael Mirolla and Connie McParland, and to Guernica’s editors and staff, who made a book of quality out of a somewhat raw manuscript. And I must thank Susan Ouriou for her invaluable translations from French.

I am grateful, as always, to my patient and loving wife Iris, not only for her primary editing of the text, and all my writing in fact, but for her unflinching forbearance in light of becoming, not so much a golf widow, as a virtual ‘literary widow’.

My immeasurable thanks to all involved for making this book possible.

— Don Mulcahy

This Too Shall Pass

Rosanna Battigelli

1972: BY THE time Angelo Leone pulled into his parents’ driveway the snow was coming down thick and wet, bringing with it the promise of freezing rain. During the few months he had been away at the University of Toronto, the memory of winter in his northern Ontario hometown of Copper Cliff had dimmed. Pulling up the collar of his less than adequate leather jacket, he grabbed his holdall from the trunk of the 1970 Volkswagen and hurried toward the back entrance of his house, cursing the weather as he slipped on the walkway. His family was expecting his arrival, although he knew that the delay caused by the snow squalls would have caused his parents, his mother especially, no end of worry.

“Christ, it’s good to be home,” Angelo exclaimed, closing the door quickly behind him and brushing the snow off his hair.

“Enough with your parolacce!” Caterina Leone admonished, rushing out of the kitchen to greet him with a slap on the arm followed by an affectionate hug and kiss. “No more respect for your religione?”

“Come on, Ma. I’m not in the house two minutes and you’re already hitting me. How ya doing Dad?” He held out his hand to his father, who pushed it away and embraced him as well, bestowing on him the traditional kiss on either cheek. Behind his father was his diminutive grandmother.

“Thou shall not use the Lord’s name in vain,” she shouted in Italian, and promptly slapped his other arm.

“Nice to see you again too, Nonna,” Angelo replied, grinning as he bent forward to hug her. She was reputedly hard of hearing, hence the shouting, but she still managed to hear, whenever she had a vested interest in the conversation. And any matter pertaining to religion had her interest.

A familiar aroma wafted past Angelo as he hung up his jacket in the vestibule. “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” he declared, spotting a pot bubbling with tomato sauce. “Tell me we’re having gnocchi!”

“We’re having gnocchi,” Caterina Leone said, smiling. “Now go and wash your hands.”

Angelo shook his head, but complied. Here he was, 19 years old and his mother still felt she needed to remind him to wash his hands. When he returned to the kitchen, his father and Nonna were already sitting down, and his mother was filling the plates. Angelo set his plate down on the table, and with a sigh of contentment, dug in.

“Are you gonna come up for air?” Nonna asked when half his mound was gone. “Take your time, Angelo. Is no gonna run away.”

Taking a deep breath, Angelo said, “You’re right, Nonna. But if you had spent the last few months eating the shi . . . I mean the stuff they call food, you’d be eating like this, too.” He took the glass of homemade red wine his father offered him and raised it. “Salute!”

Angelo sprinkled more cheese and pepper on his food and, with more than a little gusto, he finished his gnocchi. A salad and a generous wedge of amaretto cake later, he leaned back in his chair, patting his slightly protruding belly and sipping contentedly on a cup of espresso. “This meal,” he declared, “makes up for the last four months of my life. Grazie, Mamma.”

“Come va la scuola?” Giancarlo Leone looked at him pointedly.

During the meal, there had been little discussion, Angelo realized. Now his father expected a report on his progress at university. He cleared his throat nervously and proceeded to casually inform his family about his studies, deliberately not mentioning that he was failing one course. All they needed to know was that he was fulfilling a dream they had never realized for themselves in the old country, the dream of getting a university education, made possible after years of restrained spending and personal sacrifices.

Angelo finished his coffee and then rose. “I wish I could stay and talk longer,” he said, “but there’s something I have to do . . .”

“What do you mean?” Caterina’s voice rose in alarm. “You’re not going out in this weather?”

“I am going out, but I’m not driving, so don’t worry, Ma.”

* * *

Angelo showered quickly, alternating between singing the Stones’ “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction” and contemplating the evening ahead. Dabbing the razor nick on his chin, he went downstairs to say good-bye.

“Angelo!” His mother appeared in the hall. She motioned toward the living room. “Come and say hello to our visitor.”

Angelo grimaced, but she nudged him forward. He complied reluctantly, mentally setting a two-minute timer to do his filial duty and preservation of the family’s buona figura. As he entered the living room his peripheral vision took in the opened bottle of Vecchia Romagna and several glasses on the coffee table, and his father and Nonna engaged in a lively discussion with the guest.

When his eyes focused on the latter, Angelo froze. The man he despised most in the world was sitting in his father’s favourite chair, meeting Angelo’s eyes unblinkingly, as if he had every right to be there: Father Joel, his high school math teacher and basketball coach.

Angelo wanted to spit in his face. He heard his mother’s voice again, but the words didn’t register. He stood rooted to the spot, feeling the same churning in his stomach that he had felt every time Father Joel had crossed his path in high school.

What the hell was he doing here? Angelo wanted to confront him, expose him for what he was, let his parents know that this outwardly pious, Bible-spewing representative of Christ was the lowest form of humanity around. Correction . . . Father Joel was less than human.

Angelo stared at him boldly. There was nothing this bastard could do to him any more. He saw the priest’s slate grey eyes flicker and narrow slightly, a trait Angelo had come to know well. If he had learned anything in high school, it was how to read Father Joel.

“Aren’t you going to say hello?” his mother murmured to him in their native dialect, obviously embarrassed at his lack of manners.

This time the words registered. Without breaking his gaze from Father Joel’s, he smiled coldly and said, “Our time will come, Father Joel.” Impervious to the puzzled looks of his parents and Nonna, he turned away.

“I’ll be back later, Ma,” Angelo said, trying to make his voice reassuring as he swept past her. “There’s something I have to do.”

“And that’s getting away from that bastard,” he muttered when he was outside. He noticed his mother glancing out the living room window, no doubt worried that he might be driving.

Angelo headed toward one of his favourite hangouts, a bar called Duster’s. Nothing about it reflected a western theme. Duster was simply the name of the owner.

In the twenty minutes it took him to reach the bar, Angelo tried without success to get Father Joel off his mind. He scanned the dimly lit interior. Practically empty. Not too many people ventured out in this kind of weather — unless they were hard up for alcohol, like the guy slumped at the end of the bar, nursing a bottle.

In a way, Angelo felt relieved. He didn’t want to see or talk to anyone he knew until he had a handle on his feelings.

“Give me a draft on tap,” he instructed the waiter, and slapping some coins on the counter, he moved to the other end of the bar and sat down, rubbing his hands together to warm them. He glanced at his watch. There was no venturing home until he was certain that prick had gone.

He took a gulp of his beer, wondering what would have happened if he had stayed. Could he have stayed, maintaining his composure and not allowing the events of the past to shatter the pleasant tête-à-tête between the reverend and honoured parishioners? Never.

Angelo could usually exercise self-control when he put his mind to it, but on his home turf, in front of his unsuspecting, blindly faithful family, he couldn’t wear the mask of hypocrisy and be civil to their guest.

So he chose to leave, at the risk of angering his family at such an obvious display of indifference to a man of the cloth. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea massima culpa, Angelo thought mockingly of his years as a devoted altar boy.

He waved the waiter over and ordered another draft. As his fingers drummed a silent tune on the polished counter, his eyes wandered to the television set in one corner. A hockey game: Ken Dryden of the Montreal Canadiens blocking a shot by Boston’s Bobby Orr. Something to keep his mind off Father Joel.

* * *

Angelo’s eyes narrowed to better focus, but as the ice play resumed, the figures on the screen became blurry and morphed into high school basketball players. The St. Dominic Dinosaurs, whose players were mockingly referred to as ‘ankle biters’ by opponents, were participating in a much needed practice.

The first string was running their near perfect left hand lay-up drills. The second string, of which Angelo was a member, was trying to get a handle on a zone defense. The coach was asking them to switch hands as they passed off from one guard to the next.

The whistle shrieked and the play stopped. Father Joel’s faded grey shirt was sweat-stained and smelly. His face glistened with perspiration under white hair that was cropped short. Ominous grey eyes focused on Angelo and his partner David.

“No, no, no! You guards have been told too often. When you exchange the ball, the guards switch hands. You dribble with the outside hand. Do you know what that means, Leone?”

“Yes, Father,” Angelo replied in a genuinely repentant tone.

“Then come up here and demonstrate to the rest of these ladies how it’s done.”

Angelo felt his face flaming as he proceeded to carry out Father Joel’s instructions.

The whistle blew. Angelo’s stomach churned. Father Joel could reduce the toughest jock to holy ashes. His unforgiving eyes were pinned on Angelo again.

“Take your right hand and stick it into your jockstrap.”

“Wh . . . what do you mean, Father?”

Father Joel closed the distance between them, his thick brows furrowing. “Are you trying to be a smart-ass, Leone? Didn’t your good Italian parents teach you to do as you’re told?” He grabbed Angelo’s hand and covered it with his own before sliding it down Angelo’s shorts to his crotch. “Now leave this hand here and dribble with your other hand.” And letting go of Angelo’s hand, he gave Angelo’s testicles a squeeze before pulling his own hand out.

His steely gray eyes were riveted on Angelo. “Did you get all of that, or do I have to show you again?”

Stunned and humiliated, Angelo fought back tears. He wanted to simultaneously hide and vindicate himself by punching out the bastard. Somehow his feet shuffled away from the priest, his shoulders sagging in temporary defeat.

“That’s why you’re second string. You’re a loser. A quitter. No guts, no glory.” Father Joel’s words struck him like flint arrows.

At least I don’t fondle boys and pretend to be something I’m not, Angelo wanted to shout back. Aware of the nervous whispers of some of the other guys, Angelo willed himself to walk across the gym, feigning aloofness. He wouldn’t give Father Joel the satisfaction of knowing how weak-kneed he felt. He reached the locker room and immediately had a hot shower, anxious to rid himself of the feeling of Father Joel’s touch. One of the senior players came in to get a basketball out of a closet and shouted to Angelo, “How does it feel to be one of Jolly’s boys?” before returning to the gym, laughing.

Angelo cringed. It was a grapevine fact that Father Joel had his favourite ‘boys,’ and endowed them with special privileges, like sailing in his boat. These were nicknamed “Jolly’s Sailors.” Some were ridiculed covertly, some were pitied, especially the greenhorns in Grade Nine.

Angelo had never felt comfortable with Father Joel’s presence in the shower room after a game or practice. He would stand there, arms crossed, watching the boys with the pretence of dishing out praise. “Attaboy, MacLean! You really ran that zone defence well!” Or: “Good stuff, Diego! I’m convinced you’re going to be my high post! You’ve got the size and the technique to be the number one rebounder in this league!” Sometimes he even asked if the guys wanted their backs rubbed down with soap.

When Angelo heard the rumours about the real reason Father Joel frequented the shower room, he had been filled with revulsion. His mind had initially negated the possibility that the rumours could be true. After all, Father Joel was a priest. A respected icon. A spiritual representative of Christ. Yet, as time passed, he noticed disturbing signs that gave credence to the rumours: Father Joel’s gaze fixed on the sleek, naked buttocks of Tim Shilling in the shower; his hand brushing against Marty Costantino’s muscled thigh; or even the more deliberate embraces with which he endowed his star players.

Secretly fearful that Father Joel would single him out, Angelo had either showered very quickly or made some excuse to leave early after a practice or game. Even in math class, he had a difficult time concentrating, with the priest’s eyes scanning the room like a hungry predator.

Today’s attack in the gym had been swift and merciless. Not bothering to dry his hair, Angelo grabbed his gym bag and sprinted down the hall. Glancing back, he caught sight of Father Joel through the window of the gym door. Goddamned pervert. Outside the high school, Angelo broke into a run.

Still seething with pent-up anger, Angelo thought of ways to explain to his Italian immigrant parents what had happened. He had heard about one guy by the name of Joe Maldini telling his dad about Father Joel touching him in the shower. Joe’s dad freaked, accusing Joe of being a protestant — never going to church — and a pervert, concocting sick stories about a man of religion. Father and son had almost come to blows.

Angelo didn’t know how his parents would react if he told them about Father Joel. One thing he knew for sure: his basketball days were over. He would never, could never, take a step on the same court with Father Joel. Unless it was to kill the bastard.

* * *

Angelo realized he was slurping the last of the beer froth. He raised a hand. “Bring me another beer, please. No, never mind. Make it a double scotch.”

He woke up on Christmas morning feeling empty and restless. He spent a few minutes pacing around his room, and then, with a sigh of resignation, went downstairs to give his parents and Nonna the official holiday greeting and their presents.

“Buon Natale!” Nonna shouted, painfully close to his ear. “Now let’s open the regali.”

“Can the presents wait until after my first coffee, Nonna? I’ll be able to appreciate them better.”

“Va, va!” She gave him a less than gentle push toward the kitchen. Afterwards, Angelo had to credit the coffee his father had spiked with brandy for giving him the strength to keep a straight face when he opened the gifts from his grandmother: an enormous bottle of Brut, a two-piece set of thermal underwear and two pairs of thick woollen socks she had knitted herself.

After accompanying his family to St. Paul’s Church for the early mass, during which Angelo’s head felt as if it would burst from the unusually zealous choir outpourings, he spent the afternoon dozing on and off in his room until he was called down for the evening meal. Two days into the New Year, he headed back to the university. He decided that there was no point staying home when he could be doing something useful on campus, like trying to get a handle on the philosophy course he was failing.

* * *

The second semester seemed anticlimactic to Angelo. He found his interest in his courses waning. History and philosophy seemed to fade in importance when compared to the immediacy of everyday problems on campus and, on a larger scale, in the country and the world.

His thoughts fluctuated between the clear path his parents wanted and expected him to take — a university education — and the other path, the nebulous one, which he couldn’t even define.

“I feel like I’m at a crossroads in my life,” he told his room-mate. “I’m not sure where I’m going, but I know I have to make some kind of a decision.”

Norm, who was enrolled in math and sciences, soared above Angelo academically, so Angelo was surprised when he admitted that he was struggling with the decision to return the following year. “I’m not convinced I want to do two or three more years of this,” he said, pacing their room like a caged animal. “But then again,” he reflected glumly as he stopped to look out the window at the bleak sky, “I don’t want to go back home.”

He told Angelo that since his father’s death four years earlier, his mother had gone out with a few guys, mostly losers in his eyes. None perhaps as bad as his father, but still losers.

He wasn’t any happier about his mother’s current boyfriend Ken, a real-estate agent ‘with a heart of gold.’

“A pathetic gambler,” he said, “who’s got my mother convinced they’re riding the rainbow to the pot of gold. The only pot he’s got to show is the one attached to his belly button.”

* * *

Norm burst into their room a few weeks before the spring break, waving a paper in the air. Angelo saw that it was a torn section of the university newspaper, the Campus Circle Press.

“Come on, Ange, let’s scrap the meal plan tonight and eat in the pub instead. I’m in the mood for one of their meatball sandwiches. We can talk there about making plans for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

Angelo read the article while eating his sandwich. The ‘once-in-a-lifetime opportunity’ was an invitation to university students interested in global issues to become involved in a relief mission stationed in southern Italy, where an earthquake had devastated a cluster of mountain communities six months earlier. Aid had begun both locally and world-wide, thanks to the International Crisis Relief Mission, whose central base was in Rome, and volunteers were needed on an ongoing basis in the rebuilding of homes and community buildings. Because the jobs were unpaid, with only food and shelter provided, the Mission had suffered a high turnover rate; volunteers came and went, in varying spurts of time. The only prerequisites were basic carpentry skills and a desire to be a part of an international support system.

“Hey, Angelo,” Norm said, with a smile, “are you dreaming about all the Italian girls we’re going to meet?” Without waiting for a reply, he added, “Maybe you should teach me a few Italian words. They might come in handy. The only words I know are fettuccine, spaghetti, ravioli, linguine . . .”

Angelo laughed at Norm’s attempt to pronounce the words. He ordered a second meatball sandwich, and while he waited he looked at Norm with mock seriousness. “Welcome to Italian for Beginners, Normie. Are you ready to begin Lesson One?”

* * *

A few days before the spring break, Angelo and Norm still hadn’t received application forms. “I’m not going to worry about it,” Angelo said. “If it happens, it happens, and if not we’ll have to look at our options again for next year.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Hey, how would you like to spend February study break at my place?”

“Are you serious, man? I wasn’t looking forward to going home.”

“I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”

“Your parents wouldn’t mind?”

Angelo laughed. “My mother loves feeding people. Be prepared to gain ten pounds while you’re there.”

* * *

To Angelo’s surprise, his mother and father were not home when he and Norm arrived.

They sniffed appreciatively at what Angelo promptly identified as spezzatino, veal stew with wine and mushrooms, that he knew would be accompanied by polenta, a hot cornmeal dish. A muffled exclamation came from another room, followed by quickly approaching footsteps.

“Angelo mio!” Nonna shouted as she entered the foyer. “Thank God you arrive sano e salvo. I recite an extra rosary for your safe arrival.” Beaming that her prayers had been answered yet again, she squeezed Angelo’s cheeks firmly with her fingers, before kissing them soundly. Angelo returned the kiss and, rubbing his cheeks from the impact of the pinches, he introduced Norm.

“Norm Bailey? What kind of name is this?” she asked Angelo in their dialect before turning to their visitor. “Nice to meet you,” she said, smiling, and shaking his hand with a grip that Angelo could tell surprised Norm. “I hope you no mind if I call you Normano,” she said, her hands gesturing in front of her. “It — come si dice? — it jump out my mouth more easy.”

“It rolls off her tongue easier,” Angelo interjected at the sight of Norm’s confused look. Nonna’s accent was still pretty strong, even after living in Canada for ten years. Some of her grammar still needed a little polishing.

“Uh . . . not at all,” Norm replied.

“Where’s Ma and Dad?” Angelo asked.

Nonna’s welcoming smile faded, and she made the sign of the cross with the black rosary she kept in the pocket of her black sweater, mumbling Latin words that Angelo remembered from his altar boy days.

“What’s the matter, Nonna? Where did they go?”

Nonna motioned for Angelo and Norm to follow her into the kitchen and sit at the table. They complied, Angelo waiting patiently for Nonna’s inevitable, long-winded answer. Even the simplest question drew a convoluted response from Nonna, with a flourish of gestures and often ear-splitting exclamations.

“They go to the funeral home,” she said. “I stay home so you no worry when you get back. We go after, Angelo, when Mamma e Papà come back. Or maybe first we eat, and then we go. O Dio buono.” She scurried to the stove to check the stew’s progress. She lifted the lid and stirred the contents with a wooden spoon, turned down the heat and put the lid back, leaving a space for the steam to escape.

“Who died, Nonna?” Angelo asked, wondering if it was the parent or grandparent of any of his friends from the neighbourhood.

Nonna returned and sat down, picking up her beads. She was so small her feet barely touched the yellow linoleum floor. “You never believe it, Angelo! Such a good man, with big heart. Every year he collect lots of money to give to the poor people, and help the missionari in those countries you see on the televisione, you know, those poor black people with no clothes and starving bambini with big bellies.” She shook her head sadly. “Another buon cristiano gone.”

“Nonna, who died?” Angelo urged. Nonna could ramble on indefinitely.

Nonna stood up and walked over to Angelo. “You know that priest, Angelo, at San Domenico high school. We always give when he come to our house,” she said. “We no have too much, but he always appreciate everything. ‘Even a dollar will help feed the village,’ he used to say. You know, Angelo, he teach you at San Domenico.”

“There were quite a few priests who taught me there, Nonna. Do you remember his name?” Angelo’s mind filed through the older priests from high school. There were only two that he recalled getting involved in charity work for third world countries: Father Sebastian, a kind, elderly priest who taught religion and coached the debating team; and Father James, a more crotchety old priest who taught biology and always seemed to smell of formaldehyde.

Nonna’s face, wrinkled further in concentration, relaxed as the name came to her. “It’s Father Joe, Angelo, Father Joe!”

Angelo felt his stomach churn. He stood up and stared at her in disbelief. “Are . . . are you sure, Nonna?” he asked, his voice unsteady. “He couldn’t have been more than forty.”

“Sì, sì, I’m sure,” she replied, nodding her head emphatically. “I tell you, is true, is in the newspaper. I go find for you.” She hurried off, murmuring, “Such a young man to die of a heart attack. The poor studenti who found him.”

Angelo turned away and looked out the window at the bleak, grey sky. A strange feeling hammered in his chest, and he inhaled deeply. Nonna had never been able to pronounce the ‘l’ in Father Joel’s name.

* * *

Caterina and Giancarlo came home minutes later. After the embraces and introductions, they sat down and enjoyed the savoury stew and polenta slices with a bottle of homemade wine, followed by a salad and torta di frutta that Caterina had made at Christmas time.

Angelo’s appetite had waned once Nonna dropped her bombshell. His mother was so busy catering to a beaming Norm that she had failed to notice Angelo emptying half his serving of stew back into the pot right after she had filled his plate.

His thoughts shifted disturbingly to the traumatic scene between him and Father Joel in the gym. He found it a struggle to stay impassive as he ate, while his feelings alternated from a red-hot anger to a deep, gnawing regret.

Father Joel had done an excellent job, he thought bitterly, of keeping the seedy part of his life a secret. There was a chain of silence among his students, and even Angelo could understand how shame and fear of the consequences could prevent a boy from telling his parents or anyone else the truth about the priest. Hadn’t he himself kept silent? How many others had kept silent as well? How many immigrant Italians would have believed a story about a deviant priest?

Angelo’s coffee tasted as bitter as the resentment brewing inside him. He was glad at least that superstition had prevented his family from talking about the dead priest during supper. When Giancarlo rose from his chair, signalling the end of supper, he brought up the question Angelo had dreaded. “You take Nonna to the funeral home?”

Angelo knew he had no choice. He nodded curtly and, excusing himself, went upstairs to show Norm the spare room in which he would be staying. Norm knew nothing about Father Joel, and Angelo had no time or desire to tell him about it. At least not at the moment. “It’ll be an early night for me,” Norm told Angelo. “The long ride here and all that delicious food have done me in. I’m beat.” He looked at Angelo. “Looks like you could use a good rest yourself. I don’t envy you having to go to the funeral home.”

“I won’t be long,” Angelo muttered as he walked away.

* * *

Cars were streaming in and out of the funeral home parking lot. Angelo guided his Nonna protectively through the crowded foyer, and followed the stream of people shuffling toward the parlour.

While his Nonna recited a rosary with an old-country patience he couldn’t fathom, he chewed gum and tried to ignore the lady behind him, whose cloying perfume was bringing on the same reaction he had to ragweed. And she was so bloody loud, extolling the virtues of the good Father with timely sobs and sniffles. The man beside her kept saying, “This too shall pass, my dear. This too shall pass.”

When the casket finally came into view, Angelo deliberately avoided looking at it. It was only when he and Nonna had reached the kneeling pew in front of it that he knew he could no longer avert his gaze. He waited until Nonna had said a prayer for the deceased, his eyes remaining focused on the rich mahogany casket with the gleaming brass handles until she rose and moved toward the line of mourners related to the priest.

Still kneeling, Angelo’s eyes finally rested on the waxen face of the priest, flushed with more colour in death than it ever had in life. He stared at the closed eyelids, and the thin lips that could no longer sting. Angelo’s eyes travelled slowly down from the white collar of the priest’s black cassock to the waxen, overlapped hands gripping a rosary. The memory of those hands had filled Angelo with revulsion many times in the past.

Angelo noticed that the people behind him were watching him expectantly as they waited their turn. He slowly turned back to the corpse and focused on the closed eyelids while making the sign of the cross. “May you roast in hell, Father Joel,” he murmured, “for all of eternity.”

Feeling suddenly as if the walls were closing in around him, Angelo rose from his kneeling position. Bypassing the line of family mourners at the end of the casket, he caught up to his Nonna. Suddenly he felt someone clasp his arm. He turned and met the gaze of his old biology teacher from St. Domenic High School, Father James, his face etched with wrinkles, his eyes black and impenetrable. “I recognized you, son, but I’m afraid I can’t remember your name. You’re . . . ?”

Angelo stared at him for a moment. “One of Jolly’s boys,” he said without flinching. Pulling his arm away, he guided his Nonna out of the funeral home and into the crisp, fresh February air.

ESSENTIAL ANTHOLOGIES SERIES 9

Contents

Introduction

This Too Shall Pass

Rosanna Battigelli