Chapter 10: Advent

Holy Rosary smelled of candle wax and wet wool, and every head in the Castaldi pews turned when I sat down.

It was the first Sunday of Advent.

Lucio had come to the Dobrzyn porch at nine in a black overcoat.

He had told my father he would be honored to have his daughter in his family's pew.

My father had said, "Then wear a better scarf."

Now I sat between Lucio and his sister, with the old men of the family ranged in the pews ahead of us in black coats.

Nunzio sat at the front, silver head bowed, in a gray suit.

He had given me a small nod when I came in.

The priest began the Mass.

Lucio did not open the missalette.

He held it closed on his knee and sang every hymn from memory, verse after verse.

His baritone made the woman in front of us glance back.

He knew the responses, in English and in Latin, and he knew the order of the readings, and he never once looked at a page.

I watched him do it, and I thought, a man who is raised in a church knows it by heart.

I thought nothing else.

Halfway through the service the priest came to the ambo and stopped.

"I'm told our lector is ill this morning," he said. "Is there someone from the family who would read the prayers of the faithful?"

There was a short silence.

Nunzio began to rise in the front pew, one hand on the rail.

Lucio leaned toward me.

"Go," he said.

"What?"

"Go and read them."

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