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I can’t speak. I didn’t see this conversation coming when Uncle Louie picked me up this morning. If I had, I would have dressed better.

Suddenly,illuminata!The autumn sun soaks the church steps in coral light. Am I a witness at the site of an actual miracle? I must be! I have tried to get to Italy all my life, but something always derailed my plans. I couldn’t afford the study-abroad program in college, even though I was an Italian culture major and had the grades to qualify. I wanted to go to the Amalfi Coast on our honeymoon, but Bobby said Las Vegas would be more fun. I thought about going to Italy with a group, but I wasn’t interested in the tourist stops. I wanted to see the villages of my ancestors. Truthfully, I was afraid to go alone. Look what happened to Katharine Hepburn inSummertimeor Daniel Craig inCasino Royale. Uncle Louie reads the fear on my face.

“Think about it, Jess. You don’t have to give me an answer now.”

The only concern I have about Italy is that something will ruin this opportunity. “It’s a big yes, Uncle Louie! Yes! Yes! Yes!”

“All right already. Good. So, we plan a trip, you get your feet wet, work with the guys over there, and then decide how you want to proceed with the company. Perhaps we pray on the matter?” Uncle Louie is only half joking as he holds open the bronze entry door to the church.

3

Prosciutto, Figs, and Digs

We enter SaintCatharine’s not as parishioners but on official business. Our company maintains one of the only churches in America constructed completely of Carrara marble. This church may be more Italian than I am.

I walk through the shaft of light that extends down the aisle to the altar. On my wedding day, December 28, 2019, there was no aisle runner of heavenly light; it poured rain, then iced over, followed by a blizzard that had us detained at Newark for the first eleven hours of our honeymoon. I didn’t perceive the delay as bad luck. At the time, I chalked it up to inclement weather due to climate change.

The artistry of this church is celebrated in the frescoes painted by Gonippo Raggi of Rome and Thomas O’Shaughnessy of Chicago. Whoever says the Irish and Italians aresimpaticois correct. The church is a feast of classicism, inlaid panels of gilt and plaster, a circumference of saints floating inside the duomo tower, splendid arches that fan out from the vaulted ceiling, and windows so highthere are times when all you can see through them are stripes of gold through the clouds.

Uncle Louie and I kneel in the front row of the empty church and make the sign of the cross. In my family, we pray because we’re terrified. We have an unshakable faith rooted in the paralyzing fear of burning in hell for all eternity. We pray as much as we argue, or laugh for that matter, which is a lot.

“Are you crying?” Uncle Louie asks. “Not again.” He frowns.

I quickly wipe away my tears. “I can’t believe we’re going to Italy.”

Uncle Louie hands me his handkerchief. “I thought you said you were getting over your blues.”

“I am,” I promise him. “I’m happy at the news, that’s all.”

“Italy is the great healer.” Louie checks his watch. “Father Belaynesh said he’d meet us here. Priests and doctors, never on time.”

“Dad is meeting us too.” I turn around and crane my neck to the back of the church, when I hear the confessional door on the side aisle creak open. My six-foot-two dad emerges, white hair first, ducking as he exits the confessional as though he’s crawling out of a dollhouse. My father is built like a linebacker but never played football because Grammy B was afraid he’d get hit in the head and turnstunod.

Dad genuflects and joins us in the pew. “Got here early,” Dad whispers as he sits with us. “Went to confession.”

“Interesting.” Uncle Louie keeps his eyes on the gold tabernacle behind the altar. “How’d you do in there?”

“It felt good.” My father folds his hands.

“Do you think I should go in?” Louie keeps his eyes on the tabernacle.

“Wouldn’t hurt.”

“The poor bastard wouldn’t know what to make of my sins. Ihaven’t been to confession since Father Fuzigamo took off with the second collection and the church secretary in 1986. Left a sour taste in my mouth. I had confessed the worst to that guy and felt like he stole my sins along with the plate. So much forsimpatico. Fuze was the last priest of Italian American descent we had,” Louie says wistfully. “And they ain’t makin’ new models.”

“Father Belaynesh is as close to Italian as you can get,” my father says cheerfully. “He understands the nature of our people. You can tell him anything in there and he won’t hold it against you. In my opinion, he’s a gift from Bali.”

Father Belaynesh emerges from the confessional and genuflects to the altar. He turns to us. He is slim, young, and fresh scrubbed, like a Catholic Olympian on the cover of the Maryknoll missionaries pamphlets left at the ends of the pews during Vocations Week. American priests have dwindled in number, so the church opts to bring in mail-order priests from other parts of the world, a bit like mail-order brides during the gold rush, without the marriage element of course.

Uncle Louie stands. “What’s the issue, Padre?”

Father’s bright white smile turns into a slim black line. “The baptismal font leaks.”

I pull my sketchbook out of my purse. We follow the priest to the side altar. Uncle Louie gets down on his knees to examine the base as I sketch the shape of the font. I measure the dimensions as Uncle Louie pulls a small flashlight out of his pocket and turns it on. “There’s a hairline fracture. Did you get this, Jess? We can apply a sealant for now and order a new base out of Italy.”

“Just like this one?” The priest is concerned. The last thing he wants to be is the priest who changed a single detail in Saint Catharine’s.

“Can do, Padre. What do you think, Joe?”