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“Why else would He send you such an unnatural child?” Petra made the sign of the cross. “Why else would He send you this demon? Why else would He deliver us this horror?”
“She’s not! We love her and—”
“Turi!” Petra whirled around to face Turi. “Your wife has ruined you.Everyone’s saying it. This woman birthed a sacrilege, and you’re paying the price. The village is paying the price. Mendiedbecause of her.”
Turi edged away. “Mamma, I tried to save them, I tried—”
“Of course you did, but this evil is too dark a power. There was nothing you could do. It’s her fault.” Petra grabbed Turi’s arm. “Itoldyou not to marry her. She didn’t even have a dowry. She was beneath you, beneathus, and now look. Disgrace!Infamia!” Petra raised her voice, red in the face. “The village hates you, Turi! It’s only a matter of time until theykill all threeof you! Don’t you see you’re in danger because ofher?”
Turi answered, “Mamma, this will blow over—”
“No, it won’t!” Petra pointed at Mafalda. “Yougo! Mafalda!Go!”
“What?” Mafalda reeled, stunned. “We’re married. If we go, we go together.”
Turi’s eyes brimmed. “Mamma, she’s my wife. I won’t put her on the street.”
“Put meon the street?” Mafalda felt dumbfounded he would consider such a thing. But it sounded as if he had, before now.
“Throw her out, son!” Petra wagged her knobby finger. “It’s the only way to save yourself! They’llkillyou, Turi!”
Turi sobbed, dropping his face in his hands.
“Turi?” Mafalda took his arm, but Petra pushed her away.
“Get out, you bitch! Right this minute!”
Turi staggered to the table, collapsing into his chair.
Petra pointed to the door. “Mafalda, go or I’ll kill that babymyself!”
“What?She’s your grandchild!”
“I’ll twist her head off like a chicken’s!” Petra flew at Mafalda, reaching for the baby.
Mafalda ran to the door with Lucia and escaped into the night.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Alfredo walked with Beatrice and her cart, traveling a ridge in the mountainside. The footing was rocky, but the donkey didn’t take a wrong step, as this was her favorite errand. They were going to the hay dealer’s, and Alfredo felt as happy as a father taking his daughter for a cherrygranita.
His cap shaded his eyes, and he scanned the vista of hills rolling to the horizon. Shadow and light chased each other across the hillsides, as clouds passed under the sun and the wind whisked them away. Slabs of gray, brown, and tan rock veined with copper, orange, and gold studded a landscape gray-green with prickly pear cactus, olive trees, and hardy vegetation.
Beatrice lifted her head, catching the scent of hay. They reached the dealer, whom everyone called Pietro Hay to distinguish him from Pietro Cobbler and Pietro Baker. Nicknames were customary because so many men in town shared the same first names, there being only so many saints and apostles.
They entered Pietro Hay’s farmyard, which contained an old donkey and a mule with a swayback. The animals didn’t expect to be acknowledged, so they stayed inside themselves. Alfredo felt a pang, having learned long ago that not everybody saw animals for who they truly were, and all lives were poorer as a result.
He headed for the hay shed, which had an open front, three stone walls, and a slanted roof of gray metal with blankets covering rusty holes. Pietro Hay was pulling down the last bale of Alfredo’s order, since he had seen him coming.
Pietro was Alfredo’s age, and to Alfredo, the two men looked alike. Both were short, their faces wide and weathered, and their eyes crinkled at the corners. They both wore rough shirts and pants older than most people.
“Ciao, Alfredo.” Pietro Hay straightened, the metal hook in his hand. “I have your order ready.”
“Ciao.” Alfredo stopped the cart, and Beatrice began nibbling hay on the ground. “But today I want the good hay, not the moldy.”
“What?” Pietro Hay eased his cap back, blinking. “The good is too expensive for you.”
“Not this time. I can pay.” Alfredo’s chest filled with pride. He could feed his girls the best because he had sold all his cheese. Ducats jingled like music in his pocket. “I want the good hay.”
