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heart,” she whispered. It was beating wildly. “I might die,” she said.
    â€œLe petit mort,” Tommy said.
    â€œDeath?”
    â€œIt’s French. They call it the little death.”
    FOR TWO MORE FRIDAYS he came to her, his hands cold from delivering ice. She brought him into the bed she shared with Vincenzo. She imagined leaving her husband, following Tommy Petrocelli anywhere he wanted her to. Everything vanished in the hour they were together each Friday. On the fourth Friday, Josephine woke with her head spinning, and the taste of vomit rising in her throat. And she knew.
    But she couldn’t let Vincenzo see her like this, or he would know too. She pretended to be asleep until he left for the mill. Then she buried her head in the chamber pot and puked. That day, Tommy Petrocelli did not come to her. He didn’t come the next week either. He never came again. People said Alfredo died. Some believed his cousin did too. The blond one who had helped out for a while. Soon a new ice man came.
    Josephine tried to think of what to do. It had been years since her husband had lain with her. If he learned she was pregnant, he might kill her. Unless he believed it was his. That night, when he heaved himself into bed, Josephine said, “Vincenzo, do you no longer desire your wife?” The words made her sick, but she had no choice.
    Immediately his hand forced her legs open. He grunted, like a pig. Luckily it was dark and he couldn’t see her crying. She imagined her passionless life, stretching endlessly before her. She wondered if she could leave this place, leave all of her children, and find Tommy Petrocelli? But even as she wished for such a thing, she knew it was impossible. She had no money; she didn’t even speak enough English to find him in the world outside this neighborhood.
    When Vincenzo climbed on top of her, his weight pressing down on her so that she couldn’t breathe, Josephine thought she might be sick. But she only had to count to five, and he was done.
    Throwing up into the chamber pot two weeks later, Vincenzo beamed at her from the doorway. “Poof!” he said. “I only have to look at you and you get pregnant.” He laughed, proud of himself.
    Josephine spent all morning throwing up. When she finally had nothing left, she lay in that hot August heat, imagining this baby inside of her. Tommy’s baby. In a way, she would have Tommy with her forever. She tried to picture it, this child. What if this baby had Tommy’s blond hair? Other than Jacques LaSalle, no one here had hair so pale. Everyone would know. They would remember how she had kept asking for him. They would remember how he always delivered the ice to her house last, even though she was in the middle of the street. As soon as she let herself imagine it, she realized she had to do something.
    Josephine went to see Father Leone. She had a lie all ready to tell him. He brought her into his study and offered her a glass of wine, which she eagerly took. Father Leone had one too. He placed the bottle on the coffee table, and came to sit on the red leather sofa, right beside Josephine.
    â€œYou’re worried about something?” he said kindly.
    Josephine nodded. Adultery and lying to a priest, surely she was headed for hell.
    Father Leone placed his hand over hers. “Tell me,” he said.
    She liked his voice. It was smooth, like the wine he served her. “I’m pregnant again, Father,” she said. “But with six children already, and at my age . . .” She shook her head.
    The priest refilled her glass. “Go on,” he said.
    â€œI just wondered if you knew any families who wanted a baby, who maybe couldn’t have one of their own.”
    â€œSuch a selfless thing to do,” he said, squeezing her hand. “I remember your offering to God, Josephine. I think about it often. How selfless you were. But what does Vincenzo say about