Lorena Rizzo is not like her younger sister Florenca, who thinks of reasons not to attend mass. At church, Lorena is reassured by the far-off chords of the organ, a backdrop to her thoughts. Together, the congregation sings the responses and Lorena, who knows the pitch of her voice today is flat, chooses to chant. She keeps her eyes slightly closed, as if to protect herself from the gaze of others. 

They’re staring at me, aren’t they? Staring in pity. Better not to look. 

She is the one who usually pities others. She pities them their shortcomings: impiety, greed, vanity, selfishness. All the money wasted on nail polish, big TVs, the latest washing machine—does one need such things? Lorena fills her week with good deeds: delivering Meals on Wheels to seniors older than herself in foil wrapped trays and giving free piano lessons at the Rec Center. Heaven is her destiny. If everyone in town keeps repeating that Lorena Rizzo is a good woman, it will be so. It will confirm her goodness. She attends mass as often as she can, which is why she is here on a Saturday evening. And that is why she will return tomorrow to pray for her nephew.

She thinks again of her sister’s phone call. The wheedling tone of Florenca’s voice. “Lorena—you going to Mass?” 

“Yes,” Lorena said.

 The command. “Stop over here afterwards.”

 “Yes.”

Had there ever been a time she said “No”? She can’t think of a single instance. What does it matter? Florenca’s husband, children and grandchildren are the only close family she has left. Their brothers are all dead and their children moved away, gone.

Peter Medeiros offers his arm when she stumbles on the steps leaving the church. Oh, to be young again and surefooted. He might have been her husband if he hadn’t fallen in love with someone else. The thought embarrasses her. Now she almost doesn’t recognize him because his silver hair isn’t hidden by a baseball cap. 

“Thank you.” Intentionally she inflects her voice upwards. It is an old lady’s voice. She can hear the slight tremble. “I need to watch where I’m going.” She glances down towards her sturdy black oxfords, to check that the laces are still tied. “How’s that new granddaughter?”

“She’s not so new,” he chuckles. “Celebrated her third birthday last month.”

She pushes away her envy and searches for something to say. She is a childless widow. She lives alone. But she does have family. Her favorite nephew, Diogo, and his wife and their two little boys. They live upstairs. Only now Diogo is in the hospital.

Peter Medeiros puts his hand on her shoulder. “The missus and I, we’re praying for Diogo. Hope he comes home soon.”

“Thank you,” she says, struggling to speak the words because she might start choking. Her vision is clouded by tears. 

What will she do if Diogo dies? She’ll have to ask her other nephew Manny, if the furnace goes out or the walk needs shoveling in winter. 

On her drive from St. Peter’s to her sister’s house, she thinks about Diogo. Each time in church she prays to Saint Jude for a miracle and remembers her nephew’s sweetness when he was a boy and how he used to bring her flowers. Flowers he’d take from other people’s gardens, but he was just a child, didn’t know about boundaries, about rules. 

All those beautiful flowers on the altar display, sprays and sprays of white and pink roses, he would be able to admire if by God’s grace he was here with her in church this evening. So many flowers in bloom all over Provincetown, in verdant gardens. She inhales their scent each time she steps out of the car. 

Her friend Betty, who lives on Franklin Street, brought her a lovely bouquet and she’d given the flowers to her nephew’s wife. “Put them in his room,” she’d told Rebecca. “Your husband will love them.” 

The girl appeared humbled by the gesture, holding the phlox and roses close to her heart. 

The flowers’ scent was strong and sweet, a blessing from Mary herself, letting the family know there may yet be a miracle. 

She tries to push away her thoughts of her husband, how she brought him fresh flowers in a vase every morning when she nursed him at home. Crisp ironed sheets. Warm broth. His struggle to breath. Enough. This is why she cannot visit Diogo. 

 Better to let Rebecca worry with filling and refilling the vase with water. Trimming the stems. Coaxing the blooms to last just a little longer, before the petals fade and fall to the ground. 

“He’ll enjoy them,” she’d told her nephew’s wife, the strange girl, the infidel. Born Jewish. Not an active congregant in any religion, perhaps if Rebecca started to believe, attended Catholic mass, it would restore Diogo’s faith. 

She remembers the time Diogo ran away from home. The memory is vivid, as if it was yesterday even though it was 40 years ago, 1948, the year Father Silvio started the Blessing of the Fishing Fleet.  She was doing her spring cleaning, had already scrubbed down the floor, beaten the carpets, and was painting the upstairs hall, just to freshen things up a bit, because of all those fingerprints. Thinking, it’s a wonder what a little fresh paint can do for things, when she heard a timid knock at the front door. And who was standing outside but young Diogo, with a little satchel tied to a stick, just like the hobos they’d see by the railroad tracks during The Depression. Only he was a little fellow, and it wasn’t Halloween. No, he stood there all by himself, looking up at her with those big brown eyes. “I’ve run away,” he’d said. “Left home Aunt Lou. Can I live with you?”

His cheeks were flushed. He’d probably been walking fast, maybe running, not wanting to get caught, and she’d wondered how he managed to get out of the house with no one seeing him, but he could have been playing in the backyard. No, there must have been a fight, some sort of punishment and he was angry.

“I want to live with you and uncle Luigi,” he’d said, “You should be my mother.”

Tears had formed in her eyes. She was too old then, by the time she married Luigi, who was even older, to have children. How she’d wanted a little boy of her own and they’d even talked about adopting, but Luigi said, “You got two nephews and a niece you help take care of, isn’t that enough?”

“Can I live with you?” Diogo had said and all these years later his wish has come true. For close to ten years, he’s lived under her roof in the upstairs apartment with his wife and his two little boys, and she can’t bear to think of him being anywhere else. 

She’d told him to sit down in her kitchen and she’d get him a glass of milk and some cookies. While he ate, she went upstairs and called Florenca.

“Do you know who I have sitting here” she’d said.

“What? I thought I’d sent him to his room.”

She should have waited, to make the call. Let her sister worry. But that would have been cruel, unkind. Not that Flor didn’t deserve to suffer a little. She’d been the prettier daughter. Never had to work hard at anything.  Had her pick of suitors. Lorena had been lucky to find Luigi, a widower.

Hard to believe Flor didn’t even know Diogo was gone. How do you lose track of a seven-year-old? But that was the year her sister had a lot on her mind. Her eldest son, Manny, was always getting into trouble at school. Then there was the problem with little Maria who had fallen out of a tree. How did she get up on that branch? Poor little thing, always crying.

Florenca should have been desperately calling the police, “Where is my little boy?” Would have served her right, the judgmental voice inside Lorena’s head repeated. She’s not worthy to be his mother. It was the voice of kindness and forgiveness that reminded her, God decides who is worthy.

She was being too hard on her sister, when there were all those rumors. Imagine, her brother-in-law seeing some floozy. People love that stuff. Did he really have a mistress? They went for counseling with the priest. Lorena was certain he’d straightened them out, told her brother-in-law what was what, but it was not something the two sisters talked about. Better not to know.

When Flor arrived to fetch her runaway son, Lorena was playing Candy Land with Diogo in the parlor, the two of them side by side on the couch and the game board and their cards on the coffee table. She’ll never forget the look on her nephew’s face when he saw his mother enter the room. He’d looked at her with those eyes, pleading.  “I thought you wanted me?” he’d said. 

She’d turned her face away. What is right is right. 

The sun is close to setting when Lorena parks her car near her sister’s house. She feels lucky in summer to have found a space. So much traffic. 

Inside, Maria is on hands and knees wiping down the hallway floor with a damp rag. “Hello Auntie,” she says, “The Red Sox won last night. The Red Sox beat the Yankees.” Bent over her work, the tilt to one side of her posture and the drag of her foot is hidden. Never quite right after she fell out of that tree, she is dressed in pink sweatpants and pastel T-shirt, her usual outfit.

“Yes,” says Lorena, “I read it in the paper this morning. Yes, great news!” Lorena knows little about sports, but knows the Red Sox are their home team and this must make her niece excited. “I see you are hard at work,” she says. “Dusting?” 

Florenca enters the room and gives Lorena a light kiss on the cheek. Dressed in a tan linen skirt and matching knit pullover, she appears to have lost some weight. Her shoulder length hair is tucked behind her ears and she’s wearing make-up. Too much. Does she think she’s a glamour queen? 

“Come into the kitchen. Let me get you some coffee,” Flor says. She’s got one of those new electric coffeemakers, with the built-in hotplate, Lorena welcomes the thought of something warm in her throat but she worries about Maria. Why is she on her hands and knees? 

“Maybe a vacuum would be better,” Lorena says. “She could do it standing and it would reach into the crevices.”

“Just picking up the dust,” Flor says. “She’s not good with machinery. Good to keep her busy.” She taps Maria on the shoulder, “Don’t forget the top of the baseboard.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“You’re doing a great job,” Lorena tells her niece. “Always helpful.” She looks at her sister, “Is it decaf?”

“Of course. It’s after 5:00. Who’s with the boys? Is Rebecca back?”

“She was but she returned to the hospital. She’s visiting Diogo with that friend of hers, her houseguest. So Clara—that little salesclerk who works at the shop—she’s with the boys til one of us gets back. Wanted to help. Sweet thing.”

Florenca shrugs. “That’s nice. Then you can stay to dinner. I’m heating up some lasagna.”

The offer of dinner means Flor wants a favor. Lorena follows her sister into the kitchen. She can’t say no. But reheated lasagna? “I thought your husband wouldn’t eat leftovers.”

“It’s not my lasagna. Milly Francis made it, brought it over.”

“Oh.”

“People have been leaving things. Their way of saying they’re praying for Diogo.”

Pity offerings. They feel guilty, everyone in their household is well. Grateful. In payment they leave covered dishes. That’s why she received those flowers. 

Florenca pushes aside the blue and white pottery sugar bowl and matching creamer. “Need some milk don’t you?” She opens the refrigerator and hands Lorena the rectangular carton. She pours the coffee into two mugs and the sisters sit. 

Flor stirs some sugar into her own mug. The spoon clanks against the pottery as she places it on the table. “I wanted you to hear it from me first. We’re selling out. Selling it all, Gaspar’s market and Sandpiper Gifts,” she says. “Manny found a good buyer, found him before all this with Diogo.”

Lorena’s throat feels dry and she starts to choke. She struggles for air and reaches for her mug to swallow more coffee.”

“Don’t have a conniption,” Florenca says. “It will be for the best. We have to be realistic.”

“Water,” Lorena says.

Flor hands her a glass and watches Lorena take three long sips. 

“We’ve been talking about selling for a long time.”

“You never talked to me about selling.” Lorena hears her voice grow loud. “Not our old shop.”

“Now don’t you get excited.”

Lorena puts her hand on her chest. She’d forgotten about the heart murmur, diagnosed so long ago, after the rheumatic fever as a child. “I’m fine.” Her doctor had given her little pink pills, but she rarely took them. Her sister took pills every day for the blood pressure that flared up when she got upset. That was another difference between them.

 “It’s just, I don’t like change,” Lorena says, “And your selling the gift shop is a shock. You never mentioned anything about putting it on the market. I understand about Gaspar’s Market, but Sandpiper Gifts, it’s still going—run by young Diogo and Rebecca. Don’t they pay rent? You can’t just kick them out.”

“The rent they pay is so low, it barely pays the utilities. You should see our property tax bill. With the money we could clear all our debts.”

“But where will they go? Couldn’t you just raise their rent? See if they’ll pay the increase?”

“Oh we can’t do that. It would be blood money,” she says. “Easier to just sell the building.” She drums her fingers on the table. “I want all my children to be treated equal. Poor Manny. With his divorce, he got nothing. If we sell that building, in addition to Gaspar’s Market, and divide the proceeds, everyone can get a slice of the pudding.”

Lorena puts her hand on top of Florenca’s. “But what about Diogo? I’m still praying for a miracle.”

Florenca stares down at the table. “Don’t think I’m not praying too. It’s tearing me apart. If my boy recovers, they can buy another shop. But if he has to go into a nursing home—they’ll need money.”

Lorena gets up and walks to the sink to rinse her mug. “I just don’t feel good about it. Couldn’t they work together, Rebecca and Manny, run the shop while Diogo recovers?” Her stomach feels tender and her knees are shaky. “Manny said the nurses had him sitting. Maybe—”

Florenca narrows her eyes and slams her down her fist. “Are you kidding? She won’t even give him the checkbooks. I’ve tried. Tried to open my heart because she’s the mother of my grandchildren. No.” She shakes her head. “We must face the facts. She’s not part of our family. Did you actually meet that friend of hers? That strange girl from New Orleans?”

“Her houseguest Haley? She seems nice enough.” Lorena shrugged. “One of those craftspeople.”

“A subversive, if you ask me. Had the audacity to talk back to me in my own store—I don’t even want to remember what she said. Just want to remind you, family is family and we need to protect ourselves. If something happens to Diogo, if he doesn’t make it, Rebecca will be out for everything she can get. Why she’ll probably claim she owns half your house because she lives upstairs.”

“What?”

“That’s the sort of thing her kind do.”

Lorena stares at her sister I disbelief. “What?”

“You heard me. Don’t be so gullible. We have to stand our ground.”

Lorena feels her face grow warm and her heart flutter in her chest. Palpitations. She takes a deep breath and leans against the counter, takes another breath and the flutter stops. “Would you like me to set the table?” she says. “In the kitchen?” She’s not hungry but it’s too soon to leave. There must be some way to compromise.

“I prefer the kitchen. But my husband, being old fashioned, will probably want the dining room.”

“Okay. How is he feeling? Is he okay with all this? “

Florenca shrugs. “If he thinks about anything, it’s about Diogo and a miracle. Diogo fully recovered, speaking and walking again.”

“So why are you telling me all this?”

“Because I know you’re close to her.”

“Close to Rebecca?”

“Well, you’re watching those children for her, all the time. She has you to dinner.”

“The girl tries. Bakes me bread in the wintertime.  Picks up groceries.” She remembers the framed portrait of her grandnephews Rebecca gave her on her birthday. A nice gesture. She’d hung it in her bedroom. Their handsome smiles. 

“I love those little boys,” Lorena says.

“My only grandsons… I love them too. But mark my words, she’ll make trouble if she decides to interfere and slow these sales. She’ll hire a lawyer. Cost us a whole lot of money.”

 “But suppose she moves away, takes the boys and leaves. We’ll never see them.”

“She won’t do that. We give her too much. She has that nice waterfront apartment in your house. We do all that babysitting. Where is she going to go? I don’t think she wants to move in with her mother. We just need to get things squared away for ourselves and set things right.”

“Mama?” Maria pushes open the swinging door and enters the kitchen carrying a casserole wrapped with blue and yellow dishtowels.

“Set it down on the stove,” Florenca says, “Before you drop it.”

“Mrs. Medeiros says it’s hot. I think it’s meatloaf.” Maria stumbles. She shakily sets it on a burner top. “Ouch. I think I got a burn.”

“Run your hand under cold water. I’ll get some ice.” Florenca looks at Lorena. “This is what I have to deal with.”

To calm herself, Lorena thinks of church music. The comforting tones of the hymn, “O Salutarius Hostia.”  The simplicity of the words chanted in Latin at the early morning mass. She knows what she must do—choose family. Honor the bonds of blood. Together, they will all be joined in heaven. There, her cowardice will be forgiven and her niece and nephew healed. 

Automatically she helps guide Maria’s hands under the cold tap. “Now about Rebecca— what is it you’d like me to say?” 

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