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Because St. Venetia allows people to open childcare businesses in their homes so long as the providers are licensed and the business registered with the state. Mrs. Agnello had been running one in her home, only to be shut down when two parents got into a fistfight on her doorstep, calling 911 and leading to the discovery that she was an unlicensed provider. Who knew what the fight was about? Just kid-crazy parents again, determined to help their child get ahead no matter the cost. But regardless, my client had been forced to shut her doors that very day, her income drying up, she and her disabled husband living off a small emergency loan provided by Roma Outreach.
“Don’t be sorry, love,” she huffed as she seated herself, her plump form warm and motherly. I could see why parents trusted her with their children immediately. “Licenses, schmicenses, I’ll get what I need in good time,” she said with a smile.
I nodded encouragingly, but my heart sank. The licensing process was relatively simple, so long as you were literate. It consisted of fifty multiple choice questions administered on-line, and the questions were pretty straightforward, concerning the basics of child health, safety, and environmental awareness.
But Mrs. Agnello couldn’t read, had dropped out of school in third grade and could barely decipher street signs, much less a multiple-choice test. And so she’d failed the quiz three times already, with little hope of passing in the near future.
“Have you been going to your language classes?” I asked gently. I was hoping that with adult-learner language classes, she’d improve quickly and we’d be that much closer to re-opening her childcare operation.
“Oh yes!” she chortled. “Every day. And honey, can you help me apply for food stamps again this month? My allotment ran out, and you know Mr. Agnello and me, we depend on them.”
I nodded. It’s part of my job at Roma Outreach to assist with access to government services. Even though our focus is microfinance, the non-profit sector is complex and varied, and we often find ourselves going above and beyond our core competencies, advising on workforce development, immigration status, any number of things that might help our clients succeed not in just business, but in life.
“Of course,” I nodded, “no problem. Let’s just talk about the childcare licensing for a second though,” I said busily, riffling around on my desk, looking distractedly around for the proper paperwork.
But Mrs. Agnello’s hand descended on mine, stilling the nervous activity.
“What about you?” she asked. “What about your coming baby? Tell me about that first.”
And I flushed because I hadn’t told anyone, purposefully wearing loose clothes, hiding the tiny bend of my stomach that pooched just a bit.
“How do you know?” I said nervously. “What are you talking about?” I asked belatedly.
But Mrs. Agnello’s eyes merely twinkled at me.
“Honey, I’m gypsy, we have a way with these things. I could tell as soon as I came in, you have a new mother’s glow,” she said encouragingly. “Tell me, are you happy?”
I considered talking around the truth, making up something PC and fake, putting a smile on my face. This was work after all, no place to reveal my emotions unnecessarily. But before I could say anything, Mrs. Agnello smiled again and said, “I have four children, all grown now but the light of my lives still. A baby is a blessing, isn’t it?”
And before I could stop myself, the tears came pouring out and I started babbling my entire story. About Kristian, Karl and Kato, their relation to the King, how the monarchy could be unraveling at this very moment, how they had left me alone and pregnant. And I blubbered, I cried, I wailed, my sobs making my shoulders heave, my broken heart unburdening itself even as my baby’s heart beat steadily below.
And Mrs. Agnello listened quietly, clucking at the right moments, handing me a handkerchief to stanch the flow of tears, non-judgmental and kind.
“Now that doesn’t sound so bad, does it?” she asked after I was done, trying to mop up the mess I’d made, my tear-stained cheeks, the runny nose.
“No-not so bad?” I said wryly through my hiccups and sniffing, the Kleenex balled in my fist now. “I don’t know how it could be worse.”
And the older woman chuckled, her face rosy.
“Miss Tina,” she said with a smile, “You are a young woman with a baby on the way. It’s a time of beginnings, not ends.”
“But Mrs. Agnello, there’s no father for my child. Isn’t that crazy? It could be one of three men, and yet none of them are anywhere to be found. Two are probably in war zones and the other has disappeared in a poof, behind a shield of royal secrecy. How could things be worse?” I said in a broken voice.
Mrs. Agnello paused for a moment.
“Gypsies have been in Europe for two thousand years now,” she said slowly, ruminating, “and we still don’t understand the European way of thought. A healthy baby is a healthy baby, hands down, no questions asked.”
I shook my head. What did that mean? But Mrs. Agnello answered before I could say anything.
“We gypsies are not always, what do you call it?” she said, eyes to the ceiling, thinking. “Yes that’s right, monogamous. Our culture, our society, is different from yours. Often we have passing liaisons, when the lightning strikes, when your blood boils, when the haze is here, you cannot control yourself, no? And so we embrace it, we take what it offers, what comes. And a baby is often the result, after the haze clears and the heart stills once more.”
I shook my head.
“But even if that is Roma culture, it’s from a long time ago,” I said, slightly exasperated. “When your ancestors traveled in caravans, selling goods and peddling wares, nomads really, they lived a different lifestyle and now your people are monogamous.” I wasn’t sure where this was going. After all, Mrs. Agnello had been married to Mr. Agnello for decades, so the proof was in the pudding.
But Mrs. Agnello shook her head, eyes twinkling.
“You know I have four children, all grown now, right?” she asked.
