“Little cat, you have to let go of me.” She patted Annie’s arm. “I’m tired today.”

“Mom, Seamus said he’s in a madhouse.”

“Is for disturbed children, this place.”

“Do you think he’s better now?”

“I don’t know, darling.”

She didn’t let go. Her mom always seemed to Annie to be dreaming of being elsewhere, staring out the kitchen window or sitting on the back stoop with her cigarette. Her mom abruptly drew in a deep breath. Sometimes it seemed to Annie that her mom only smoked so she would remember to breathe. Like Papa, she was, as people would say with a whisper, a Cath-o-lik, though all that showed of this was the big silver crucifix around her neck—as disturbing to some of the folks in town as a shrunken head might have been. She also had a painted wooden crucifix in her bedroom, blood leaking from Christ’s head, side, hands, and feet. Much better, Annie thought, than that statue of Jesus in church, which made Him look (she crossed herself as she thought it) simple-minded. She loved His wonderful agony, His eyes looking up to heaven as His body, all bone and sinew, was drawn to the earth. Her mom said He was dead and alive at the same time, that of all the gods only Christ was ever dead and alive at the same time. She seemed personally proud of this, like Papa when he was talking about some Italian baseball player. This Christ seemed so much a part of her mom’s sadness: She was here and not here, between this kitchen and whatever place she saw through the window. One day she simply wouldn’t remember to take that breath. A part of her was already long gone, but most men and women in this town couldn’t keep their eyes off the part that was still here.

“Do you reckon we can have him in the house, Mom?”

“I don’t think so, darling.”

Gently, her mom unhooked Annie’s arms, lit a cigarette, and looked out the open back door into the yard, which was littered with tools and car parts beneath the branches of the magnolia, which would soon be in bloom. “Heavens.” She clucked. “We say only if he keeps tidy the yard, he can use it.”

Her papa came in. “Where’s Frankie?”

“Darn, my crystal ball,” her mom said. “I leave it upstairs.”

“He’s in his room.” Annie hated it when her mom provoked him.

“Don’t you get damn clever with me, woman. You say I know; you say I don’t know. None of this damn funny garbage. You hear me?” His chin trembled with fury. “Don’t bother to get out of your sleeping clothes. Look at you. Sei una puttanaccia. You never clean anything in this damn house. Va’ al inferno!”

Taking her papa’s hand, Annie led him back to his armchair in the living room and sat on the ottoman opposite, calming him, as she did at least three times a month when he woke her in the middle of the night because he was having a nightmare. She let him spit out his last few curses at the kitchen doorway. It always pained her, the way he would act up. Around men, especially, he had a silly exaggerated manner. Frank hated it, said Papa acted like a runt puppy, did everything but roll over and show his belly. Her papa seemed even to get sick of himself at times, and for a few days he would storm around in a foul mood, finding fault, calling all his friends testa di merda and figlio di puttana. Only Annie would listen to him as he raged, recalling all his perfect comebacks for some somaro or finocchio, and when that wasn’t enough he would have to beat them, paff, paff! He’d fling out his wiry arms, spit flying from his gritted teeth, his face going red. Finally he would calm, calling her his bambina, saying he was going to run away with her. Still angry, her papa stroked his little mustache, the still point of his incredibly changeable face. This scowling rage, Annie knew, might vanish in moments.