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“Yes, good! What else, what’s number three?”
“You and my friends.”
“We love you!” Concetta said, and the other women chimed in, “Push, push!” “I see the baby’s head!” “You’re almost there!”
Mafalda yelled in pain. She pushed and pushed.
“One last time, Mafalda!”
Mafalda pushed once more, grunting, then heard the wail of a baby.
“It’s a girl!” Concetta cried out, and Mafalda’s heart filled with happiness, since she had prayed for one.
Silence fell in the bedroom, filled with the salty scent of blood and tears.
“But...” Concetta began to say.
“What?” Mafalda asked, alarmed. She couldn’t see the baby because everyone was in the way. “Concetta, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing, really. She’s just a little... different.” Concetta handed over the baby.
Mafalda accepted the baby, taken aback at her appearance. The infant was beautiful, but her skin was as white as flour. Her scalp was so transparent it revealed delicate blue veins underneath, and her fuzzy head was as pale as the moon. Mafalda had never seen such a baby in her entire life. Like most Sicilians, Mafalda was olive-skinned, and Turi was brown as a walnut from the sun.
Mafalda ran her fingertip along the infant’s arm, smearing a red line of her own blood, as vivid on the baby’s skin as red ink on white paper. Her gaze followed the red line to the purplish cord of blood that connected her to her baby, their God-given bond made flesh. In that moment, she fell in love with her daughter.
“I’ll call you Lucia,” Mafalda whispered to the baby. “You’re pure light, from God.”
Concetta beamed. “Yes, she’s an angel.”
The others joined in. “She’s been touched by God.” “She’s a perfect little angel.” “What a blessing!”
Mafalda hoped Turi would be happy, too. Her gaze went to the window, brightening. She realized that Turi should have been back already, since the men fished at night. “Where are they? What time is it?”
Concetta frowned. “Oh my, they’re late.”
“Madonna, they’re an hour late!” The women burst into nervous chatter. “They should have been back!” “I lost track of time!”
Then they heard a shout, echoing from the harbor below.
Mafalda stood on the dockwith the other distraught wives, cradling her swaddled infant and trying not to panic. She was still in pain from the delivery and she’d wadded cloth in her underwear to catch the blood. Turi and the other men hadn’t returned from the sea, and it was already nine o’clock in the morning. They’d never been this late before.
Villagers crowded the harbor, clustered on the docks, and overwhelmed the pebbled shore. Every able-bodied man in the village fished for a living, and now their wives, mothers, fathers, and children huddled together, clutching each other, weeping, praying, and calling for them.
“Giuseppe, Giuseppe!” Concetta shouted, alongside Liliana, Letizia, Mariana, Nicolina, and the other frantic wives.
Mafalda searched the horizon, but there was no sign of anything. The absence tore at her because the view was otherwise beautiful. Verdant mountains ringed a harbor shaped like a mother’s outstretched arms, and the sky was the serene blue of Mary’s cloak. The water glimmered like polished aquamarines in the sun, darkening to sapphire and lapis lazuli, like nature’s own jewels. The waves rolled into shore, bubbling and frothy.
Every wife knew the dangers of the sea, and Mafalda’s mind racedwith the terrible things that could’ve happened. Storms could whip up quickly on account of the winds, as Sicily was at their mercy: from the north came the chillytramontana; from the south, theostro; from the east,levante; and from the west,ponente. A Rose of the Winds compass hung in every home, and even children knew thegrecale, a dangerous wind from Greece that could take their fathers.
“Look, I see something!” Concetta shouted, pointing to the sea.
“What?” Mafalda gasped, horrified to spot a dark hump floating toward the dock, like a man’s back. “No! No!”
The crowd erupted in chaos. Wives screamed their husbands’ names. Villagers raced into the water and started swimming. A group of old men reached the floating hump and shouted what everybody feared. It was a dead body.
Mafalda prayed it wasn’t Turi. Concetta prayed next to her, and so did the other wives. Everyone was in an uproar, screaming, wailing, and weeping on the dock, on the shoreline, in the water.
The old men swam the body closer, and villagers craned to see who had drowned. Then Mafalda spotted a bald head and she knew it wasn’t Turi. She felt relieved even as she learned which of her friends had just become a widow.
