“Keep him out,” Palmeri says to her as he brings me into the exam room and closes the door.
I know this room. I know the table with the staffa where I put my feet so that I could be exposed and proven a virgin. Giovanni Agosti inspected me so closely his breath made my vulva want to turn in on itself.
“It smells like fucking florist down here.”
It was meant as a compliment. I turn away from the memory.
“Sit.” The doctor leads me to a chair and straddles a stool in front of me. “How are you holding up?”
“As well as can be expected.”
He doesn’t really listen, turning my jaw up so he can see under it.
“Hm.” Dr. Palmeri lets out a displeased sound as he examines my throat. “These will bruise.”
“It’s fine.” I say what we all say to prove how strong and pliant we are.
“Hm.” His hms are famously versatile. This one is doubt, and rightfully so.
“I’ve been through worse these past few months.”
“I bet you have. Dario Lucari stole my daughter, Rosemarie, when she was fourteen. She was promised to a very prominent gentleman, which was bad enough. But she was our world. When she was lost, her mother died of grief.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
He takes his hand off my throat. I pull up my collar to cover the darkening bruises.
“Having him here is my only hope of getting her back.”
“Hm,” I say in lieu of an answer.
“Those are finger marks.” He puts his stethoscope to my chest. “They didn’t let you into the cell to see Lucari, did they?”
“No.”
“Hm.”
“Doctor. I’ve never been down there. Those cells? What are they for?”
“You don’t have to concern yourself with that.” He removes the stethoscope from my chest, then his ears. “My concern is that these marks are fresh. Massimo is the only man with the right to punish you, and he’s been in your father’s office for hours.”
He must mean the office in the rectory, not the one in the apartment.
“It’s his office now.”
“True, true. Who took you down there?”
His eyes go over my head as the door opens. I turn in my seat to see Sergio in the doorway.
“What’s the hold up, doc?”
I’m on my feet before he’s even done. Dr. Palmeri clears his throat, ending in a hm that one might utter if they correctly predicted the weather. He gets off his stool and crosses to stand between Sergio and me.
“Mr. Agosti,” the doctor says.
“Doc.”
“Was it you who took Sarah down to see him?”
“Yeah. Massimo and I agreed on it. There some kind of problem?” Sergio further veils a veiled threat in casual humor.
“You’re not one of us.”
“That’s what you all keep telling me.” He brushes his hair back. “Give it time.”
The doctor lets out a quiet hm and removes his stethoscope before speaking.
“This woman is Sarah Colonia. She is the first daughter. She is untouchable. You handle her like that again and I swear by the Holy Mother of God, everyone will know it. I won’t have to kill you myself. You’ll be dead where you stand.”
Dr. Palmeri has never stood between a woman and the source of her injury. It’s shocking.
Sergio seems as caught by surprise as I am, huffing and looking at me, then the doctor. “So the Colonias never rough up their wives? That’s not what I hear. Just saying.”
“She’s not your wife. You’d do well to remember that the next time you think about laying a hand on her.”
Now I understand why the doctor is speaking so forcefully about something he’s been silent on before. Agosti isn’t one of us—not by birth or marriage. Either one would give him the right to do whatever he wanted.
Sergio smirks, then slaps the doctor on the bicep. “Got you loud and clear, doc. Loud and clear.” He turns to me. “Sugarcakepop? Let’s roll. You’re late.”
“I’ll escort her,” the doctor says.
“Honestly?” I try to stay meek and compliant while defending my competence. “You gentlemen are busy. I’ve been going to sewing circle since I was four. I can get there myself.”
I don’t wait for them to agree.
I’m passing the church kitchen when I hear my name.
“Sarah!”
I’m attacked by one hundred and twenty pounds of flesh and bone traveling at the speed of friendship.
“Denise.” I put my arms around her. She’s wearing a mourning dress for my father.
“I’m so happy you’re back.” She doesn’t let go, rocking me back and forth.
“Me too.” It’s hard to say those words when there’s not an ounce of truth in them.
“Come on.” She takes my arm. Once she and I are alone in the kitchen, I remember I’m wearing a black lace veil and pull it up. Denise puts on a pair of oven mitts, reaches into a shopping bag, and removes a stock pot, but the bag sticks. “Can you pull?”
I slide it off and fold it. She puts the pot on a back burner and takes off the mitts, exposing the scars of being cut into marriage, then turns on the flame.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Lentil soup.”
“Oh, your specialty!” I stand next to her.
She stirs and snorts back a lump of allergies. “It’s for you-know-who. I’m not putting any salt this time because he doesn’t deserve any.”
Dario. She’s cooking for him.
“Ah.” I fight saying more. I told her he rescued women just like her from the violence of the life she’s living, but she doesn’t seem to see that as a virtue.
She bangs the spoon on the rim and covers it, then leans her back on the counter and crosses her arms.
“I’m so sorry, Sarah.”
“For what?”
“In the bathroom. The last time I saw you, I was so mean. You shocked me. Not you. He did. That terrible monster just standing there like… gahh.” She sticks out her tongue and makes her hands into sharp, attack claws. “Can you forgive me?”
“Always.” I take her claws and wait for her to mention what she saw on the video, but she does not.
“Let’s go next door. We’re making dresses from scratch for the poor.”
“Great!” I wish I could shove it in Sergio’s face that we can be charitable. I’ve already forgotten that I don’t have to defend this community.
We leave the kitchen for the adjacent room, where we’ll face the dangers of needle and thread.
I’ve been here a hundred times. I know the wall of old sash windows, the iron radiators under them with water-stained gray industrial rug cut around their feet. This was a room of comfort and laughter where I learned how to do something useful.
The four women around the table also wear mourning dresses. My father’s death will be commemorated by yards and yards of black fabric for a month. Only blood relatives get the privilege of the veil.
Lili and Amara Travera sit at the two sewing machines. Ginny Franco cuts a piece of gray fabric.