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weakness, like illness.”
    â€œCome now,” David says, “enough drama.” He smiles at her, their roles reversed. “Now, I’m going to get you some minestrone, and you can tell me what all this is about.” He steps out, almost tripping over Clarissa and Teresa.
    â€œWe were just going to the kitchen,” Teresa says lamely.
    David raises his eyebrows at them and follows them into the kitchen, where a stainless steel pot of minestrone is bubbling on the stove, steam rising into the air. Fresh parsley and basil lie on the chopping block beside the sink. The small table is covered by a white tablecloth with tatted edges and has been set for three. In the centre of the table, a stemless yellow rose floats in a glass goblet. David breathes in deeply.
    â€œWell?” Clarissa says.
    â€œWell what?” David says, watching them squirm. “I’m sure you could hear what she said.”
    Clarissa sits down and picks up a spoon; turns it over and over in her hand. “We’re worried about her,” she says. “Is she ok?”
    David shrugs. On the counter, Teresa has already prepared a tray with bowl, cutlery, and napkin. “I’ll bring the minestrone when it’s ready,” she says.
    When David returns to Piera’s room, her hair is combed. Beside her bed, a chaise lounge, its pink silk frayed and brittle. He sits, recalls that other time when Zia Piera read him stories from Il Tesoro , the thick red encyclopaedia on her lap.
    â€œSo, you’re still not married,” she says.
    â€œNo,” he says. Across from him, on the tall dresser, are two glass domes inside of which are hermetically sealed saints, their eyes cast heavenwards, their hands open in supplication.
    â€œWhy not?”
    He shrugs. “Life. Time. Distance. Who knows?” Inside one of the domes, a barefoot St. Francis of Assisi leans toward clay birds perched on delicate twigs, row on row, as if they were at a lecture. Inside the other, St. Agnes of Rome holds up a staff while cradling a lamb to her chest. These saints have been a part of this household for two centuries.
    â€œBut is there someone you love?” Piera says. “Someone you want to be with?”
    He turns to her, startled. “I… maybe,” he says. “I don’t know, really. It’s hard to say… It’s not that easy…” He shrugs.
    Piera lies back and stares at the ceiling. “We persevered through everything,” she says, “our happiness earned, every joy paid for with a sacrifice. We all made deals with God for the things we couldn’t control — a cow to the church for the baby’s recovery from pneumonia; an extra hour of prayer, knees dug into the dirt floor, hands clutched tight around a rosary, for the love of a boy; a mother’s life in exchange for the safe return of a son from war. We gave something; we got something. Your generation gives up at the first sign of trouble.”
    David walks to the glass doors and lifts the blinds so he can look out. Bernette, he thinks. Per-severance .
    Teresa knocks at the door, soup in hand, but Piera will not let her or Clarissa into the room. After their footsteps recede, David opens the door and retrieves the soup, which he puts on Piera’s bedside table. He fluffs and pounds the pillows behind Piera’s head, then takes the shawl from the end of the bed and wraps it around her. She looks frail and sad. Above her head is a crucifix — a near life-size bleeding creature, with its crown of thorns imbedded in its forehead.
    He stirs the soup, and sets the tray on her lap. She sips meekly, her hand on David’s arm, as if afraid he’ll leave.
    â€œAt least, you have a girlfriend, then?” Piera asks. “An intended?”
    He smiles. An intended. For a moment, he glimpses a distant time, people intended for each other, oil and vinegar. How did they know, he wonders. What made them so