“I am Phoung,” the young man replied respectfully.
“Hello, Phoung.”
“And I’m Tai!” cried the small boy.
“Well, hello, Tai,” she answered with a smile.
“I’m Cam,” said one of the other boys.
“Bay,” said another.
One by one, each of the boys introduced himself.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you all,” said Francesca. “You remind me of the old days, when my own children used to play with their friends around here. The kids were always in and out of each other’s houses and yards. It seemed like everybody knew each other. That’s the way it was around here back in those days.”
“Pardon me, but what is your name?” asked Phoung with great deference. He was still quite chagrined at his earlier misbehavior, and now he was trying his utmost to show respect.
“My name is Mrs. Campanile,” said Francesca. At seeing the strained look on their faces, she decided to sound it out for them. “Like this: Com-pah-neel-ay.”
“Comma…?”
“Oh, just call me Mrs. C,” she laughed. Then she let a stern expression come over her face, the same expression she used to wear whenever she gave one of her children a good talking to. The boys all stood rapt.
“I want all you young men to do me a favor,” she told them with great solemnity. “I can tell that you are all good kids, so I want you to promise me that you’ll always look after the old folks and the little children around here. This has always been a good neighborhood, so now it’s your turn to do your part to keep it that way. Can you do that?”
All of them nodded.
“Good,” said Francesca. “Now show a little pride. You can start by going home and shoveling off the sidewalks in front of all your houses. How’s an old lady like myself supposed to get around the neighborhood without slipping and falling?”
The snow from her recent tumble on the side of the road was still caked on Francesca’s coat and hat, so the remark elicited a round of giggles, the boys glancing at one another while trying their best to not laugh out loud.
Not wanting to press her luck further, for in reality they were actually a pack of tough-looking customers, Francesca decided that it was time to go. First, though, she wanted to impress them one last time.
“Chao ong,” she called over her shoulder as she turned to go, quite pleased with herself for having remembered how to say good-bye. Then she went on her way.
“Chao ong!” they all called back.
As she walked away, Francesca heard Phoung say something, as if he was giving some sort of an order to one of the other boys. She waited until she came to the corner of her street before casting a quick glance back. To her surprise, she saw that the small boy, Tai, was doing his best to follow her at a discreet distance. At seeing her stop, he ducked behind a telephone pole. Francesca pretended not to notice and proceeded home up the hill.
Back inside the house, Francesca pulled off her coat and boots, and hurried to the front window. She parted the curtain just enough to get a view of the street. Tai, she saw, had followed her all the way home. The small boy walked up the street to the front of the house and stood there for just a moment, before running off back the way he had come. Francesca wondered what he was up to. As she went about her business the rest of the day, she worried all the while that perhaps she had gone too far with those boys, and that they might have some sort of mischief planned for her. Perhaps, she told herself, she had made a mistake in even talking to them, instead of just walking away and keeping her big mouth shut. The thought shadowed her the rest of the day and into the evening while she prepared for bed. It didn’t leave her until she awoke the next morning to discover that someone, during the night or the early morning hours, had shoveled out her driveway and cleaned off the front steps and walkway.
CHAPTER 7
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
It was Saturday afternoon, and Francesca was making her confession, as she often did before evening mass. Something about acknowledging her sins, however great or small they might have been, had a way of lifting her spirits and getting her through the week to come. A lift was what she sorely needed, for at the moment she was in decidedly ill humor, and had been all day.
By now, the pleasant glow from Francesca’s encounter with Phoung and his friends earlier in the week had faded away, only to be replaced by some considerable soreness in her hip and shoulder, the result of her encounter with the snowbank that same day. Francesca felt certain that she hadn’t done herself any serious harm, and indeed, she hadn’t. Just the same, she squirmed uncomfortably as she knelt in the confessional. The jolt from the fall had strained her hip and back muscles; they would be tender for the next few days. A few doses of even a mild pain reliever would have done wonders for her. Francesca, however, usually disdained taking medicine of any kind; she preferred to just grit her teeth and bear it. Two nights of poor sleep, though, had left her tired and irritable. She would have to give in later on and take something before bed. Otherwise, she would be tossing and turning all night again. A few aspirin and a good night’s rest after confession and mass were sure to chase away the pain and brighten her mood by morning. Till then, though, she was as amiable as a lioness with a thorn in her paw.
“It’s been six weeks since I last confessed,” she continued, a distinct edge in her voice.
“Ah, Francesca, where have you been?” Father Buontempo said pleasantly from behind the thin little curtain inside his cubicle. “It’s been so long, I was beginning to wonder what had become of you.”
“Hey,” Francesca snapped, “you’re supposed to at least pretend not to know who I am when I’m giving you my confession. What kind of priest are you?”
“Sorry,” he replied, rolling his eyes, knowing she wouldn’t see. This wasn’t the first time he’d had an exchange of this sort with his parishioner. Experience had taught him that there was no point in arguing with her. Still, he couldn’t help himself from adding, “But how could I not know it’s you? You’re one of my best customers.” Then he let out an audible sigh before adding, “Sometimes you’re my only customer. Do you know what it’s like just sitting in here all by yourself all afternoon?”
“Never mind about that,” Francesca grunted. “I’ve got problems of my own.”
“All right,” he relented. “What have you been up to now?”
“I took the Lord’s name in vain,” Francesca answered, getting straight to it. “I didn’t mean to do it, but it just slipped out, more than once, after I fell down in the snow.”
“Were you hurt?” asked Father Buontempo, sounding truly concerned.
“Mostly my pride,” admitted Francesca. “I guess having too much of that is something else I should confess.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. I lied to my children.”
“Don’t worry about it. Everybody lies to their children.”
“Father!”
“Well, I know how difficult having children can be, even after they’ve grown up. It’s just that I think stretching the truth is the only thing that gets parents through their days sometimes, so I try not to be too hard on them.” Then he corrected himself. “But of course, it is something a father or mother should refrain from doing when at all possible, even when they think they’re doing it in their children’s best interests. The truth is always the best way.”
“Whatever.”
“Is that all?”
“No,”