Lamb

Any other day Savina wouldn’t have answered the door. She would have checked the peephole, seen who it was, and hidden. But the lack of sleep was addling her brain. So when the doorbell rang, she got out of bed, as blurry as a sleepwalker, with Luca clasped to her shoulder, her only concern that please, God, don’t let this child wake up. He had nursed most of the night. Her nipples were raw. There was bottled breast milk for Judith to help, but she had worked late again preparing for a trial and then had left at dawn. The house felt empty, terrifying, Luca a kamikaze of demand that Savina couldn’t satisfy.

More ringing. If she put him down, he’d cry till she fed him. Clutching the baby, she stumbled down the hallway and opened the front door. On the porch stood her mother with two large suitcases. Her lips were tensed in a half-pucker, as if poised to give a kiss she sensed would be unwelcome.

‘‘You don’t look like you just had a baby,’’ she said in a gravelly voice, different from the way Savina remembered it. Too dumbfounded to protest, she stepped aside as her mother picked up the suitcases and brushed past. Not a word in two years, yet there she was with enough luggage to last a month.

‘‘Where’s Pop?’’ A safe question. Why are you here could too easily turn into How dare you come here.

‘‘Home. Someone has to run the deli.’’ The trim, sturdy figure, the fitted serge dress, impenetrable as a coat of mail—much the same. But her neck was wattled and her careful beehive more salt than pepper. The suitcases thumped against her dress as she put them down. The bigger one left a damp splotch. She walked to the grand piano in the living room. ‘‘Fancy-schmancy,’’ she said and tapped a key.

‘‘Judith plays.’’

‘‘Ah.’’ The slightest wince, but it was there. She closed the lid and sat on the couch, where she scrutinized Savina. ‘‘Skinny after six weeks,’’ she said. ‘‘Just like my family. Once we have the baby, poof, it’s like we were never pregnant. Your father’s side, they blow up like balloons and never deflate.’’ She lifted her chin. ‘‘This must be my grandson.’’

‘‘His name is Luca,’’ Savina said. Her mother looked so small, her hands clasped like a child waiting for confession. The Rose DiCorscia that Savina knew would have taken the baby already. This still, stilted woman must be an imposter, eager to be unmasked at any hint of acceptance. ‘‘What are you doing here, Ma?’’

Her mother drew herself up. ‘‘It’s my only grandchild’s first Easter.’’

‘‘He still confuses night and day.’’

‘‘Start them early with tradition, they’ll carry it with them always. Besides, you can’t ignore the holiest day of the year.’’ She stood and walked to the bigger suitcase. A puddle had formed underneath. ‘‘Ach,’’ her mother clucked. She swiped the floor with a handkerchief pulled from her sleeve. ‘‘I told the butcher, it’s a long flight, use extra plastic wrap. We’ll need a pail and some bags of ice. The meat will get tough if we defrost it too fast.’’

Already she was listing demands. What could possibly need defrosting? Savina clutched Luca tighter. His eyelids fluttered. He frowned, as if deciding whether he knew her, and wailed. It seemed like he’d just fallen asleep. She glanced at the mantle, where a clock lay face down, then at the shadowed circle on the entry wallpaper. That one was in the closet. She’d hidden all the clocks. Better not to count the minutes that Luca refused to sleep. He screamed louder. Judith could get him to stop just by nuzzling him.

‘‘Don’t look so panicked, Savina.’’ Her mother was beside her, prodding Luca’s diaper. ‘‘Wet,’’ she announced and took him.

Savina stopped herself from snatching him back. He wasn’t a wishbone, to be tugged until he broke. Her mother touched his nose and murmured. His wails faded.

‘‘He knows his nonna,’’ her mother said. She tucked him into the crook of her arm. ‘‘I’ll change him. You rest. The lamb I’ll take care of later.’’

‘‘Lamb?’’ Savina trailed her into the hallway.

‘‘In the big suitcase.’’ Her mother opened a door, peered inside, shut it again, all the while expertly jiggling the baby. Another door, opened and closed. ‘‘For Easter dinner.’’ She found the nursery and disappeared inside.

Savina was known for her powers of concentration. Pinpoint, they called her at the DA’s office, for her ability to hone in on her work to the exclusion of everything else. The district attorney himself once had stood outside her office—a cramped, meticulous space without a single clock—and called her name three times before tossing a dictionary on the desk to get her attention. She’d barely glanced up.

Thank God no one from work had seen her since Luca. These days she couldn’t focus long enough to read the newspaper. Sometimes it took her ages to realize someone was talking to her. Like now. Across the kitchen, Judith crouched beside an ice-filled garbage pail and was muttering something that probably needed answering. If only Savina could make herself listen. It was late, nine o’clock maybe. Too late for talking. She gazed at the pail, where the lamb’s muzzle was barely visible beneath a veneer of crushed ice. It was smaller than Luca’s downy skull.

‘‘Savvy, you haven’t heard anything I’ve said.’’

Judith was grinning at her. No point in lying.

‘‘Not a word.’’

‘‘This thing weighs at least fifteen pounds. She must have checked it to get through airport security. I can’t believe it stayed frozen.’’ Judith sniffed the pail. Her face nearly touched the ice chips. Wrinkling her nose, she stepped back. Typical, her interest in how this had happened instead of why, the inner forces that had pulled Savina’s mother relentlessly toward their new family, which was still tenuous and untested. The frozen lamb might be a peace offering, a gesture of acceptance, even. Sinning against nature, that’s what you’re doing. More likely a decoy.

‘‘All those ice packs did their job,’’ Savina said. The little blue pouches—thirty all together—lay sweating in the sink. Earlier, after settling into the guest room, her mother had unpacked them matter-of-factly, tsking at the ones that had melted completely. As if carting a carcass from Newark to Los Angeles should have been trouble free, nothing that couldn’t be conquered by the likes of Rose DiCorscia. Savina walked to the pail and swept away some ice. The muzzle stuck out an inch or so, the eyes clearly visible. They looked reproachful. Get me out, I’m freezing.

‘‘She really thinks we’re going to eat this.’’ Judith crossed her arms over her rumpled suit jacket.

‘‘We had a whole lamb every Easter. A bigger one without the head.’’

‘‘Ah, Easter. The day we Jews killed the Christ child so we could use his blood to make the matzo.’’

‘‘Very funny. Even my mother’s not that extreme. And Easter is about the resurrection, not the crucifixion.’’

‘‘A fine-line distinction for someone who hasn’t gone to church since high school. Is this thing’’—she gestured at the pail—‘‘going to stay here?’’

‘‘Meat belongs in the kitchen.’’

‘‘Savvy, we don’t celebrate Easter, remember? You can’t let her walk all over you. All over us.’’

Static, like a burst from a walkie-talkie. Her mother stood by the door holding the baby monitor. Her beehive was wrapped in netting. Spit-up stained her bathrobe shoulder.

‘‘Ma. Judith’s home.’’

‘‘I have eyes. I can see.’’

Judith extended her hand. ‘‘Nice to meet you again, Mrs. Di-Corscia.’’

Her mother stayed put. Judith kept her hand outstretched. She would stand there until Christ rose again. So would the old Rose DiCorscia. All day she had behaved. She’d played with the baby while Savina pumped breast milk; she’d changed him, rocked him to sleep, refrained from correcting Savina about anything. And she hadn’t mentioned Judith. Not once had she warned Savina about going straight to Hell. God’s not going to pretend He doesn’t notice just because you’ve got a good track record. Vatican II is a lot of horse manure. He can still be merciless when He needs to be.

Her mother touched Judith’s hand—‘‘Yes, hello,’’ she said—and strode to the pail. She dug in up to her elbow. ‘‘A little give to the flesh. Good. Tomorrow we’ll take out some ice, the next day some more and so on.’’ When she stood, her sleeve was damp. ‘‘I made a grocery list. You don’t have so much as a cellar of salt. I guess you haven’t been cooking, Savina, what with a new baby and no help. We’ll need wood for the fire pit, a spit, some support forks. You must know a good butcher who can thread the lamb. Although I’m not above doing it myself. Your great-grandmother used to butcher her own lamb, did I ever tell you that? She raised it in our barn with the cows. When it was time to kill it, I used to hide under my mother’s bed, but I could still hear the poor thing bleating. Such a ruckus, all the other animals joining in. And then silence, like the cows and chickens were afraid they were next. I thought I was, I can tell you that. After she skinned and gutted it, she’d skewer it, push through the skull like it was an eggshell.’’ She looked at Judith, whose face wore something between a grimace and a smile.

‘‘We don’t have a fire pit,’’ Judith said.

‘‘The gardener can dig one. Although I’m not above doing it myself.’’

‘‘No gardener either, Mrs. DiCorscia. Anyway, an open fire isn’t a good idea. Too many low-hanging trees.’’

Her mother drew herself up. ‘‘It’s tradition.’’

‘‘Yours, not ours.’’

‘‘It’s Savina’s tradition.’’ Savina stepped between them. ‘‘We’ll cut it up and cook it in the oven,’’ she said.

Judith and her mother scowled.

‘‘It won’t taste the same,’’ her mother said.

‘‘Ma, stop.’’

That stare, measuring how much further she could push. ‘‘Fine.

I’ll check your pans tomorrow. By the way, your Luca is sleeping like an angel.’’

Emphasis on your. The clench to Judith’s shoulders was imperceptible to anyone but Savina.

‘‘I gave him a bottle around eight, I think,’’ her mother continued. ‘‘I couldn’t find a clock.’’ She picked up one overturned on the counter. ‘‘Still with this habit, Savina. I’ve told you, time doesn’t stop just because you can’t see it passing.’’

A surprised laugh from Judith. ‘‘That’s what I say.’’

‘‘Whenever she had a paper due, she’d hide all our clocks in the basement.’’

‘‘We can’t program the coffeemaker because she won’t set the clocks on the appliances.’’

Both women were smiling. Savina made herself smile too.

‘‘Enough.’’ Judith kissed her. ‘‘We’re joking.’’

Her mother frowned and re-piled the ice packs in the sink.

‘‘I’ve got some research to finish up.’’ Judith picked up her

briefcase. ‘‘A transfer motion Monday morning.’’

‘‘The juvi?’’ asked Savina. Each day she questioned Judith about work, hungry for details despite a resentful twinge. For three weeks after Luca’s birth, Judith had rushed home to help. Then she landed a juvi double homicide defense, a thirteen-year old honors student who dismembered his grandparents while his mother honeymooned in Mexico. Afterward he called her and announced, ‘‘Honeymoon’s over.’’ The state wanted him tried as an adult.

Judith nodded. ‘‘My expert says Zeke’s brain wasn’t developed enough to understand his actions had consequences.’’

‘‘That’s right, you’re a lawyer, too,’’ Savina’s mother said. She

dried her hands on a dishtowel. ‘‘You defend guilty people. My daughter puts them in jail.’’ Before Savina could object, her mother glanced over and gave a little laugh. ‘‘Now’s not the time for a moral debate. I’ll say goodnight.’’ Stiff-backed, she marched out.

Judith turned to Savina. ‘‘How long’s she staying?’’

‘‘I didn’t ask.’’ Then, at Judith’s deadpan gaze: ‘‘Probably only until Easter. That’s what, a week?’’

‘‘Nine days.’’

‘‘Try to get along with her.’’

Judith hugged her. ‘‘You’ll barely know I’m here.’’

Savina rested her cheek on Judith’s shoulder. You’re never here, she wanted to say. As they walked down the hall, she avoided looking at the guest room door.

The bris had been Savina’s idea, but when the time came, eight days after the birth, she had been too sore to help much. Judith suppressed her inner slob and meticulously executed Savina’s instructions. A hot buffet, a gift table in the entry, programs with Lior: My light, I see printed on the cover—Luca’s Hebrew name and its meaning. The mohel came early with supplies, including the razor-sharp izmel and two ornate chairs that he placed by the piano facing the bay window, for the spirit of Elijah and the Sandek, who held the baby during the circumcision. Judith hurried around arranging and rearranging (and still leaving things slightly disarrayed) while Savina watched from the couch, Luca fussing in her arms. ‘‘Can I at least fold napkins?’’ she asked, but Judith waved her off. ‘‘Enjoy the baby.’’

Savina forced a smile.

As guests arrived and Judith brought them over to coo at Luca, Savina couldn’t resist excusing herself to make adjustments (antipasti drizzled with olive oil, a threadbare throw pillow hidden away). Judith kept calling, ‘‘Savvy, come say hi,’’ but Savina just gestured at some small thing that needed doing. She meant to go back and check Luca, but even he wouldn’t be hungry so soon. The luxury of empty arms, of bending and stretching without him affixed to her hip.

Finally, light-headed, she stopped to survey the crowded room. By the piano Judith cradled the baby as she talked with the mohel and the rabbi, a lesbian wearing a yarmulke on her platinum crew cut. Their temple was beyond progressive. Joining had been Savina’s idea, too. At first Judith had been leery—she wasn’t raised with religion. Now she was even studying Hebrew. So like her to embrace a differing mindset once convinced of its merit. And Savina had been convincing. With two mothers and a data file for a father, Luca would need to believe in something. Sinning against nature.

Catholicism wasn’t an option.

Judith spotted Savina and hurried over with the baby. ‘‘It’s time. You’re sure you don’t want to be up there?’’

‘‘I’m too sore to stand that long.’’ Even to her, it sounded like an excuse. Luca would be fine with Judith. Better than fine.

‘‘Okay,’’ Judith said. ‘‘Remember, when he’s about to do it—’’

‘‘I know, I know, don’t look.’’

The mohel beckoned everyone to the piano. ‘‘Blessed is the one arriving,’’ he began once Judith reached him.

Savina drifted to a seat. Up front, the baby burped as loud as a man, probably leaving spit-up on his chin. She shifted, vaguely nauseated. Everyone else laughed.

‘‘I taught him that,’’ Judith said and beamed down at him, completely, effortlessly in love.

It hit Savina then: the wrongness of her choice. Bearing Luca and staying home with him—another of her own ideas. Pinpoint. Those powers of concentration. She was built for success, her mother used to brag. The highest conviction rate since starting in Homicides two years ago; before, in Manhattan, the most billable hours in the firm for five years running. But her body had protested with ulcers, IBS, shingles. And the exhaustion. She could catnap standing in an elevator. Parenthood had offered a graceful exit and seemed easy by comparison. Bliss, to focus on something so sweet and oblivious to achievement. No nanny required.

But when Luca cried, she cringed; when he spit up, she had to put her head between her knees. And that immediate adoration mothers supposedly felt—she didn’t. A distant affection, yes, and fear, that she couldn’t soothe him, that she’d rather be anywhere else. But the surety of love she’d felt with him inside her—that, she didn’t feel.

Judith sat in the Sandek’s chair. Savina glimpsed the mohel slipping a wine-soaked handkerchief into Luca’s mouth. She closed her eyes. When she opened them, she was slumped, Judith crouched next to her. ‘‘He barely cried,’’ Judith said. ‘‘Sit up, love, we have to do the naming. Please, come hold the baby.’’

Lior, our son. My light, I see.

Her mother stayed the perfect mother the entire weekend. At night she fed Luca and let Savina sleep. The freezer bulged with marinara and homemade gnocchi. The lamb thawed, its eyes bluish and dilated. Tight-lipped, her mother surveyed their dented roasting pans before buying a new one. When she returned from mass on Palm Sunday, she didn’t lament Savina’s absence, only the traffic and the twisting city streets. ‘‘I got lost three times,’’ she said as she placed a jar of palm frond crosses on the kitchen table. Judith ignored the crosses but dragged the lamb into the laundry room. Savina’s mother watched silently.

Savina slept uninterrupted one night and then another. The sky seemed crisper, the baby more alert and cuddly. No more crying every time he caught her scent. He even managed a crooked smile, his first.

‘‘Gas,’’ Judith said.

‘‘Definitely a smile,’’ said her mother. Savina had smiled at two weeks, she said, the earliest of all three children. ‘‘Always my overachiever.’’ She had hiccupped when she cried, the way Luca did. His long, thin thumbs were Dommy’s and the fuzz on his ears just like Connie’s. Savina welcomed the ghostly presences of her brother, her sister, her own baby self. Luca had a history. His habits could be predicted. ‘‘Watch how easy,’’ her mother said and sprinkled his bottom with cornstarch. His diaper rash improved by evening. Savina put back the clocks and didn’t ask when her mother was leaving.

All weekend Judith holed up in the study. Whenever she emerged, Savina tensed. Someone might lash out or try to prove who knew Luca best. Worse, they both might notice how he preferred them to her.

Sunday evening Judith settled on the couch where Savina was burping Luca. Her mother sat nearby, folding laundry. Quiet mewling but no burps. Her mother and Judith shook their heads. That panicked feeling. What to do? Judith took him and draped him face-first over her knees, then firmly patted his back. A huge burp; the baby cooed.

‘‘Works every time,’’ said Judith.

‘‘Good trick,’’ her mother conceded.

Neither mentioned Savina’s own failed attempts. And they were being civil, better than she’d hoped. Her panic faded.

Early Monday morning her mother found some rusty pruning shears and started on the backyard, a postage stamp of ragged sod framed by tangled vines and weeds. Already she had pruned the date palm, leaving only a fan on top. The cypress was a perfect triangle. From a lounge chair Savina watched her chop at the bougainvillea on the back fence with precise, ferocious swoops.

Judith stepped outside with her briefcase. Her hair was neatly combed. Her twill pants, the only ones that didn’t bag at the ankles, bore faint scorch marks.

Savina shaded her eyes. ‘‘What’s the occasion?’’

‘‘I told you Friday. My last shot to get Zeke into juvi, where he belongs.’’

‘‘The kid’s a sociopath. You’ll never win.’’

‘‘No history of violence, and he looks like a cherub. He doesn’t even have hair on his balls yet. I’ve got a shot.’’

‘‘I’d make sure he rotted.’’

‘‘Glad it’s not your case.’’

They watched her mother sift weeds from dirt clods.

‘‘She’s been at it since dawn,’’ Savina said. ‘‘Obsessed.’’

‘‘Reminds me of someone.’’ Judith grinned and called, ‘‘Fast

work, Mrs. DiCorscia. You shouldn’t bother, though.’’

Her mother savaged another weed. ‘‘Gardening relaxes me. And I’ve cleared a spot for the fire pit. A neighborhood boy can dig it in no time. Although I’m not above doing it myself.’’

Judith’s smile stiffened. ‘‘Tell her no,’’ she muttered to Savina. ‘‘Or I will. Again.’’

‘‘A fireplace could be nice.’’ Then, when Judith frowned, ‘‘I’ll talk to her. Will you be late?’’

‘‘Depends on what happens with Zeke.’’

‘‘Why should it depend on anything?’’ Her voice carried; she could tell by the way her mother’s hoe paused.

‘‘I’ll try to be earlier.’’ Judith spoke more quietly. ‘‘Let’s not make a scene, okay?’’

She leaned over for a kiss. The weight of her mother’s gaze prickled Savina’s skin. She turned so that Judith’s lips grazed her cheek. Judith sighed. ‘‘Have you asked yet when she’s leaving?’’

Savina glanced at her mother, who was staring hard at the dirt. ‘‘No. Soon.’’

With a brisk wave, Judith trotted out the gate. Savina’s mother watched her go, her hoe raised as if poised for attack.

Later that morning while she napped, Savina dreamed of the bris, Judith sitting at the piano holding Luca, the mohel helping her undo the baby’s diaper, the flashing izmel, and then Judith turned and in her arms was a bigger boy with his face hidden against her chest and his pants stained red. She held him close as she whispered through a confessional grate that appeared beside her. Suddenly she looked at Savina. You wanted him to believe in something, she said. A lot of good that did.

And then Savina was awake, her pulse racing. She kicked off the covers and went searching for her mother and Luca. They were in the garden, her mother digging in the far bed, Luca sleeping in his Moses basket. Savina crouched beside him. His soft spot pulsed beneath her cupped palm. A swell of emotion—something like love.

Her mother walked over and knelt. ‘‘He stops your heart, he’s so beautiful.’’

‘‘I shouldn’t have slept so long.’’

‘‘That’s why I’m here, so you can rest.’’ She brushed back Savina’s hair. ‘‘Judith left early.’’

That underlying disapproval. Days ago it had rankled. Now it seemed fair. Luca was only six weeks old. Things could continue this way, Judith home to kiss him goodnight, for a few hours on weekends, most of her time spent strategizing defenses; Savina relearning the alphabet, arguing about undone homework, her own knowledge of courtroom tactics stale and outdated. How appealing that all had seemed when she had assumed she could excel at anything. What if Luca sensed her resentment, reflected it back on her like sun off a puddle until his rage exploded like that boy Judith was so staunchly defending? His image came into focus: floppy bangs, an uncertain smile, his eyes buggish behind thick glasses. He could be anyone’s son.

‘‘Judith hasn’t been much help,’’ she found herself conceding.

‘‘You can’t expect her to have the same maternal feelings. He’s our blood.’’

‘‘She loves him as much as I do.’’ Her face felt hot. She’d responded too vehemently, almost as if she didn’t believe herself.

Her mother regarded her, then stood. ‘‘I’ll stay as long you need me. My ticket’s open-ended. Come. Some exercise will do you good.’’

She led Savina to a rectangular clearing centered by a shallow hole.

‘‘This better not be what I think it is,’’ Savina said.

‘‘You used to love my Easter lamb. It won’t be the same.’’ She held out a shovel.

Savina hesitated. Her mother had cut all the overhanging branches. The hot coals, the scent of roasting meat, palm frond crosses tucked around the platter. Heads lowered over folded hands. Bless us, Father, for these thy gifts.

She took the shovel and started digging.

Once the pit was dug, wider than it was deep, they bundled Luca into his car seat and the lamb (marbled and bloody in its oversized cooler) into the trunk. First to Home Depot for a skewer, iron support forks, stones to line the pit. Then to a butcher shop her mother had noticed on her way to church. Bouncing Luca on her hip, her mother persuaded the owner to gut the carcass, sever its head and hooves, and skewer it by Good Friday, four days away, all for free.

At home, they worked into the afternoon, stopping for Luca to nurse. A sweet ache in her breasts as he squinted up at her, his fist batting her chest. Almost easy, almost natural. Then back to digging, hauling, digging some more, positioning the supports, steadying the u-shaped cardboard wall covered in tinfoil, until the fire pit looked almost like her memory of the one from childhood.

When Judith walked through the gate, Savina and her mother were making a teepee of wood.

‘‘We’re almost done,’’ her mother called. ‘‘Come look.’’

Judith paused, then walked into the house. The door slammed. Her mother sat back on her haunches. ‘‘Someone’s in a bad mood.’’

Savina could feel her mother staring as she followed Judith inside. She stopped to peek at Luca, who slept in his Moses basket with his fists against his cheeks.

Judith was sorting mail in the kitchen.

‘‘How did the motion go?’’

An envelope slapped the countertop. ‘‘We lost.’’

‘‘I’m sorry.’’ But she wasn’t. He deserved to be catapulted into adulthood, a boy who could do such a thing just to spite his mother. ‘‘You shouldn’t have won.’’

‘‘He’s a child, for God’s sake. They could lock him up for life. Every time I see him I think, what if that were Luca? Would we want everyone to give up on him?’’

‘‘How can you mention Luca in the same sentence as that monster? Who, by the way, you see more than our son.’’ So tempting, to say my instead of our.

‘‘So that’s what outside is about.’’

Fraying her consciousness, a thin cry. A heaviness in her breasts, a letting go. ‘‘Why does it matter where we make the damned lamb?’’

‘‘What matters is that we’re celebrating at all.’’ Judith shook the jar of palm frond crosses, which rustled like whispered threats. ‘‘We agreed. No Christmas trees, no Easter egg hunts.’’

‘‘Your family had a tree.’’

‘‘That’s not the point, and you know it. We decided together how to raise him. You can’t unilaterally renege.’’

‘‘What about my being stuck alone with him? Doesn’t that go against our agreement?’’

‘‘It’s this case. When it’s over—’’

‘‘There’ll be another.’’

‘‘I’m doing the best I can!’’

‘‘If this is your best—’’ we’re screwed was her finish, but she stopped. Judith should be helping more, but at least the baby loved her. Savina was the one who couldn’t cope. ‘‘How could I be such a bad mother so fast?’’ she said. Her face was wet. When had she started crying?

Judith hugged her. ‘‘That’s what you think? Savvy, it’s not true—’’

‘‘Savina, what’s this about no Christmas trees?’’

Her mother stood by the counter with Luca fussing in his basket. Savina stepped away so quickly that Judith staggered. She looked between Savina and her mother.

‘‘We’re raising Luca Jewish,’’ Judith said. ‘‘Savvy didn’t tell you?’’

‘‘What? You can’t.’’

‘‘It’s our decision, Rose.’’ Each word a terse missile.

‘‘How dare you—’’ Her mother stopped herself. ‘‘Savina, you’re his mother. Of course you’ll raise him Catholic. Savina?’’

Outside a breeze fluttered the weeds piled near the fire pit. The anger, the disappointment certain to be on her mother’s face. Finally, she heard rustling behind her—her mother setting down Luca’s basket. ‘‘He’s hungry,’’ her mother said.

The back door shut.

‘‘That was cruel,’’ Savina said to Judith. ‘‘You should have let me tell her.’’

‘‘You’re afraid to tell her anything that matters.’’

The kitchen door creaked as Judith left. Savina picked up Luca and watched her mother retreat across the yard.

Lamb had never been part of her family’s daily diet. When the pastor came for Sunday dinner, they might have his favorite, stinco d’agnello, stewed till it fell off the bone. Sometimes at Christmas there was a rack of lamb served with lemon balm pesto instead of mint jelly. Once a year her father attended a cappozella feast at his Italian-American club, each man presented with a roasted lamb’s head, the brain, eyes, and tongue intact. The one time Savina tagged along, she burst into tears when her father dug out an eyeball and popped it into his mouth like an olive.

Every Easter, though, there was a whole lamb, its legs hugging the spit in an upside-down double curtsey. It roasted all day over the fire pit by the boarded-up barn where her great grandmother had kept the milking cows. First thing in the morning, her father would pyramid wood, arrange the giant iron supports, and set the lamb to roasting. An uncle or a cousin turned it while the family attended mass.

At church Dommy stood beside the other altar boys and swung a brass urn smoking with incense that stung Savina’s nose. Her father paced in back while her mother sat beside her and Connie in a front pew. Her mother’s lace mantilla was always pinned in place, her hands a perfect steeple. A glare from her was enough to keep Savina from poking Connie or pleating the hymnal pages. On the altar drowning in lilies the priest preached atonement and loyalty to God for sacrificing His beloved Son. What might we sacrifice for Him, who rose on this day so that we could be forgiven? Savina drifted on the tide of his booming voice and imagined the lamb turning on the spit, her mother polishing serving platters, the Easter eggs and chocolates hidden in the yard.

The guests always arrived as her family pulled into the driveway: aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, anyone who had no place to go on this, the holiest of days. The men were sent to watch the meat. Better they should pass a Sambuca bottle around the fire, her mother said, than get in the way. The women set out the antipasti, her mother repositioning each shining platter and palm frond cross. Then the Easter egg hunt began.

So much more than eggs to find. Savina raced her siblings and cousins around the yard, filling her basket with picture books, stuffed animals, crayons, candy, hardboiled eggs dyed in rainbow hues. The satin of the bright shells against her palms, the scent of chocolate in her nose, her mother beaming as she pointed out a missed egg, a hidden bag of jellybeans. One year, Dommy found a journal with a little latch and key. Her mother took it, gave him a piece of candy to keep him from crying. ‘‘This is for you,’’ she said to Savina. ‘‘Special.’’

When the hunt was over, the other children retreated behind the barn to barter marshmallow chicks for cream-filled bunnies. Savina took her basket under the table where the women were gathered. Their new spring sandals shifted around her. Wedged heels for the younger women, squat ones with thick, white straps for the zias and nonnas. Her mother, as always, barefoot. Savina pulled out the book and leafed through the pristine pages. The cover, purple velour, bled on her sweaty palms. Hers alone. Special. Above, the women’s voices, her mother’s soaring over the rest. ‘‘Savina’s such a thinker. She needs somewhere to write things down.’’ Savina stretched out, the book pillowing her cheek. Her mother ducked under the table. The tablecloth tented her face. ‘‘My little genius,’’ she whispered and blew a kiss. The obligation of being her mother’s favorite. She couldn’t let her down. The women kept chattering above her. The heat of the day. The lull.

Then her mother crawled under the table to cradle her. ‘‘Sweetheart, dinnertime.’’ As Savina emerged, rubbing her eyes and yawning, one cheek purple with ink (Connie would tease her later, tell everyone she had a hickey), her mother called to the men to hurry, the children had to be fed. The men huddled around the pit, poking the carcass to see whether the juices ran clear. Ready for carving, they finally declared. Savina clutched her book and watched them carry over the lamb. Her mouth watered at the thought of the sweet, succulent meat.

Her mother sat by the fire pit until dark. Then, all night, she paced from kitchen to nursery, her slippered feet whisking across the floor. The study door remained shut, Judith bunkered behind it. Savina tossed on the couch. By the time she drifted off, it was dawn. She didn’t hear Judith leave, barely noticed when her mother crouched beside her. ‘‘Sleep, I have bottles,’’ her mother whispered. ‘‘Luca and I are going out.’’

Savina awoke to quiet. In the kitchen, there was a note in her mother’s tidy print: ‘‘Be back soon.’’ No cars in the driveway. All the clocks faced forward, but Savina hadn’t bothered to check when her mother had left. Too woozy and worried, wondering whether, how, to apologize. And to whom—her mother, Judith, Luca?

Half an hour. Her breasts ached. She pumped a few ounces, stored them in the refrigerator. There had been several bottles on the top shelf, enough for the whole day. They were gone.

‘‘She’s probably lost.’’ Judith sounded tinny on the phone. ‘‘Stay there. She might call. I’ll check the parks.’’

An hour. The sun rose higher. Judith called from her cell. Once more around the neighborhood and then home. ‘‘We’ll find them, Savvy.’’ Her mother’s suitcases were in the guest room, but her purse was gone, her wallet and credit cards. In the study Luca’s birth certificate was in the file drawer. Easy enough to copy it on the fax machine. Their surnames were the same, simple to explain to an unsuspecting airline rep. Her mother could be very convincing.

Another hour. Judith came home. Savina tossed clocks in drawers, turned them face down, to the walls. She circled the fire pit, took one stone, another, and threw them at the house. Judith joined in. The chips in the stucco became a gaping hole.

Tires squeaked in the driveway.

‘‘Let me,’’ Savina said when Judith tried to follow.

Out front she reached the car as it stopped. ‘‘Where have you been?’’ she yelled and flung open the back door. Luca’s eyes darted behind thin, closed lids. She forced herself to unlatch the car seat gently. He looked fine. When she touched one small fist, his fingers unfurled. He whimpered, arched his neck, his eyes firmly shut. A baby dream—of what? Shadows and voices. His mother’s—her own—scent.

Her mother stepped out, smoothing her dress, the impenetrable serge. She held up a pamphlet. Baptismal Rites, Saint Vincent’s Church.

‘‘Ma, you didn’t.’’

Her mother clutched the pamphlet. ‘‘It took three churches, but I found a priest. What if something happened to him, God forbid? He would’ve spent eternity in Limbo with the other unbaptized babies.’’

‘‘We don’t believe in Limbo.’’

‘‘Of course we do.’’

‘‘No, Ma. Judith and I. His parents. If we want to shave our heads and become Hare Krishnas, or raise him Buddhist or Muslim or Jewish, that’s up to us.’’

‘‘There’s more at stake than your unnatural lifestyle with that woman.’’ The words spat out like a taste of rancid milk.

Savina steadied herself against the car. Her mother hadn’t changed. How had she allowed herself to believe such a miracle could occur?

Behind her, the front door banged. Judith cautiously walked over. ‘‘Everyone’s home safe.’’

‘‘No.’’ Savina cradled the car seat. ‘‘My mother is leaving. She’s not welcome anymore.’’ She marched past Judith, inside.

A musky aroma filled the house, had filled it since dawn. In the bedroom Savina lay reading, the Moses basket within reach. Since yesterday’s fight, she had kept Luca close and avoided her mother, whose suitcases were in the entryway, awaiting the red-eye. She set aside her book and looked outside. The sun dipped below the treetops, staining the yard with a pinkish glow. Her mother sat by the headless lamb suspended above the coals. The head was cooking in the oven, the eyes gelatinous, the tongue leathery in the gaping mouth. After the fight, her mother had reassembled the fire pit and convinced the butcher to finish late last night. ‘‘Of course, if you don’t have time,’’ Savina had heard her say on the phone, ‘‘I’m not above doing it myself.’’

Her mother stood to turn the burnished carcass, both her mitted hands grasping the skewer, then walked to the house. There were footsteps in the hallway. Her mother opened the door. ‘‘I thought I heard him crying. I didn’t know you were here.’’

‘‘Where else would I be?’’

‘‘Of course. That was a silly thing to say.’’

She stayed in the doorway, waiting to be invited inside. This woman who never waited for anything, who simply took what she felt was hers, heedless of the consequences. Savina turned over and opened her book. Behind her, the door clicked shut. There were murmurs in the hallway, Judith and her mother. All day Savina had heard them talking in sporadic bursts, more forced civilities. Pointless now.

After a minute she saw her mother walk across the yard and resume her seat. Her shoulders slumped. Usually she sat as if her spine were threaded on a steel rod. Savina, Connie, and Dommy used to make bets with her: A quarter says you can’t balance a book on your head for five minutes, ten minutes, a half hour. They would jump up and down, shout dirty limericks they weren’t supposed to know. Their mother would close her eyes and cover her ears, her back invincibly straight, the book immovable as a stone slab. Only when the kitchen timer buzzed would she let it topple. ‘‘Pay up,’’ she’d say and give them each a quarter for the ice cream man.

Outside Judith walked into view. She carried two glasses. The pockets drooped out of her cutoff shorts. Savina’s mother patted the bench. From this distance, her expression was unreadable. Judith hesitated before she sat and passed Savina’s mother a glass. Their voices skimmed the air, halting and staccatoed, then weaving together, a melody in need of tuning but recognizable. To anyone else, they might be friends exchanging confidences. Judith looked at the house. Savina flopped back down. Her face burned, as if she’d been caught peeping in a window.

After a while, Judith walked in and sat cross-legged beside her.

‘‘Your mother keeps saying hello unprompted. I think she’s lonely.’’

Savina studied her book. ‘‘Too bad.’’

‘‘She gave me this.’’

Savina glanced over. Judith held out a gold medallion. On it was a monk surrounded by squirrels and birds.

‘‘Your mother said it’s Saint Francis, the one who protects animals. For Luca, but only if we want him to have it, she said.’’

The silence felt leaden. Savina scanned pages.

‘‘Savvy, she’s trying. Maybe she deserves a break.’’

‘‘After what she did—’’

‘‘I know. She’s impossible. But she was convinced she was doing the right thing for him.’’ Judith gazed at Luca. ‘‘She adores our son. Maybe that’s what matters most.’’

Savina scooted over. Luca was sucking on his fist. Yesterday he couldn’t connect hand to mouth. Today, look at him. She gathered him up, sniffed his crown. Milky, sweet, part of herself. Hers. This certainty of love, so out of reach before her mother came. She felt a shift inside, an opening to possibility.

Cradling Luca, she walked outside, the grass tender beneath her feet. She sat beside her mother, who kept staring at the lamb.

‘‘They shrink less if you cook them slowly,’’ her mother said. ‘‘Your great-grandmother taught me that.’’

‘‘You’ve told me that since I was five.’’

‘‘A little reminding never hurt anybody.’’

‘‘You have to trust me. About Luca, Judith. Everything.’’

Her mother laced her fingers over her knees. ‘‘In sixth grade you decided to make a log cabin for a history project. I told you, use those Lincoln Logs that clip together and, poof, you’re done. But no, you had to use twigs. They looked more authentic, like logs cut by pioneers. And no Elmer’s glue. You made your own mortar from mud. A solid week trying to get the thing to stay together, and you wound up with a pile of twigs. My straight-A student would have gotten an F if I hadn’t convinced the teacher to let you do extra credit, paint a picture or something.’’

‘‘I wrote a poem.’’ Which had taken her almost as long. The teacher had hated it. She hadn’t told her mother that part, or that it had taken several more extra credit assignments to save her grade. Let her mother keep her version. One day Savina might need such a story.

Luca was sucking his fist again. Her mother watched. Coming to California, staying in the same house with Judith—huge concessions for this proud woman, and not just made for her grandson. Savina wouldn’t have made them. At least, not before Luca. She inched along the bench and laid her head on her mother’s shoulder.

‘‘I’ve got more than a pile of twigs, Ma.’’

Her mother hesitated before smoothing her hair, then stood to turn the spit. Together they watched the lamb rotate over the coals.

Copyright 2008 University of Nebraska Press. All rights reserved.