Household Saints Read Online Free PDF Page B

Catherine was glad when it watered her eyes, priming them for a good cry. Crying helped relieve the tension, and she let the tears fall until, she imagined, they had salted and further thinned the runny zabaglione. So she gave up on a sweet dessert and resigned herself to serving the Gorgonzola and pears.
    At six, when Joseph and his mother arrived, Catherine was on her knees by the oven, mourning over the underdone roast. She missed their knock on the door and the spectacle of Lino greeting them with the somber formality of a mortician.
    “Good evening,” said Mrs. Santangelo, in an appropriately funereal tone. Then, looking stricken, she sniffed the air.
    “Mister Falconetti, is something burning?”
    Catherine emerged from the kitchen just in time to see Mrs. Santangelo’s face fall like a stalk of overcooked broccoli.
    “Mrs. Santangelo,” said Lino. “My daughter Catherine.”
    “I know your daughter,” said Mrs. Santangelo.
    Somehow Catherine got the first course onto the table. Somehow they found their places.
    “Great antipasto,” said Joseph. “Delicious.”
    “Thanks,” mumbled Catherine, so grateful that she couldn’t look at him and stared into her plate.
    God is merciful, she thought. People understand. Even Mrs. Santangelo—she was a woman, she knew. If the celery was a little limp, she’d realize that it was the crispest Frank Manzone had. If the roasted peppers were a shade too black, she’d know that there were days when everything went wrong in the kitchen. Besides, why worry so about a meal for two strangers she didn’t particularly like?
    “Not much you can do to ruin cold antipasto,” said Mrs. Santangelo. Then, as if to prove herself wrong, she picked a dark hair off a tomato and gingerly rubbed her fingertips till the hair dropped to the floor.
    Catherine jumped up to clear the dishes and bring on the next course.
    Though Lino and Joseph had arranged this meal to discuss the wedding, they each took one bite of the eels, looked at each other and silently agreed that this was no time to talk of marriage. With this subject excluded, there was little else to say.
    “Thank God the hot weather’s over,” said Joseph.
    “Thank God is right,” said Catherine. Then, with a pleading look at Mrs. Santangelo, she added, “You couldn’t cook a decent meal with the stuff they had in the stores—”
    Mrs. Santangelo cut her off: “When I first came over from the old country, me and Zio were so poor, I had to pick shells out of the garbage can by Umberto’s Clam House. And believe me, I made a delicious soup.”
    “When?” said Joseph. “When did you cook clam shells out of the garbage?”
    The meal continued in silence, punctuated by the noise of silverware picked up and put down, food being scraped to the sides of plates, forks chasing recalcitrant strings of cheese, knives grating against china—all to a background of chewing and chewing and chewing.
    No second helpings were offered, none requested. No one asked anyone to pass anything. No one looked up from their plates when a chunk of gristle flew out from under Nicky’s knife and landed by Mrs. Santangelo’s forearm. The men attacked their portions bravely enough, but their courage deserted them after one taste. Mrs. Santangelo sampled everything served her, then very deliberately pushed back her chair, folded her hands in her lap and stared into space. After each course, Catherine cleared the table, her work compounded by the extra clumsiness of stacking full plates.
    At last Mrs. Santangelo nibbled at a crunchy pear, then stood, extended one regal hand to her son and said, “Thank you kindly, Mister Falconetti, Catherine, Nicky. Joseph, let’s go. I got sausage to make for tomorrow.”
    On the way out, Joseph shook Lino’s hand.
    “Falconetti,” he said. “We’ll talk.” Then he turned to Catherine, smiled, and said, “Thanks. The food was great.”
    Catherine listened for sarcasm in his voice, heard