The ball leaps but Mario has it. He flings it away as though he cannot bear to touch it. That is why he is so good, Antonio says.

I like to hit the ball, Mario says. I like to hit the son bitch and watch it fly away.

Mama sends the reliquary to me. She saves the money to buy it. I carry it in from the wagon. “Now God is in the house,” I tell Luigi. Mario throws the baseball to Carmello. It skips across the rocks. The pieta is inside the reliquary, behind the purple glass. The holy water is inside, and the candles. The priest gives me Christ’s body to live with us. Mario comes in with my babies. We eat pasta and butter. I put on my brocade vest. I light the candles and tell my beads.

Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.

The candlelight dances on the glass. Mario sits in the corner. He says nothing. He holds the baseball, strokes it with his fingers. The candlelight flows over his trousers like water.

Eight

RONDAL LLOYD

SOMETIMES I WISH I COULD GO BACK TO AGE SEVENTEEN AND start all over again. I’d study medicine, wear a tie, and go around tapping people on the chest and saying, “Mm-hmmm.” Would C.J. have been satisfied then? I doubt it.

From as early as I can remember he preached two things to me—medicine and the United Mineworkers. He never understood that I couldn’t have both, that I had to choose. Whichever I picked, C.J. was bound to be disappointed.

Isom was drunk the night C.J. and I had the argument over whether I would study medicine or go down in the mines. I had been drinking too, as much as Isom, but I was never so cold sober in my life. I walked straight to the house from the Alhambra without a stumble, and took Isom right into the setting room with me. C.J. and Violet were making fudge with the girls. C.J. stood up, angry.

“Aint I told you never to come in like this when you been drinking?”

“I aint drunk,” I protested.

“I am,” Isom said, “but I’ll be quiet as a mouse.”

“Violet,” C.J. said coldly, “put the younguns to bed and go make some coffee.”

Isom snatched off his hat as the girls left. “’Night, Gladys.”

Gladys, who was five, giggled and waved at him. He was a great favorite of hers, always teasing her and bringing her candy. She often proclaimed she would marry him some day, and he would clasp his hands to his chest and cry, “I’m a-pining for ye, Gladys.”

When they had gone, C.J. stirred the coal fire with a poker.

“We got to talk,” I said.

“You know I’m ready any time. But wouldn’t you rather be sober?”