Читать книгу Francesca's Kitchen - Peter Pezzelli - Страница 13

“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,” said Francesca after a moment’s pause. “Something else has been on my mind.”

“What is it?”

“Well, it’s hard to explain.”

“Give it a try.”

Francesca took a deep breath. “Like I said,” she finally replied, “it’s hard to explain, but lately, God has been getting on my nerves. Is that a sin?”

“Hmm, that’s a new one, “replied the priest. “I guess it depends. Why don’t you tell me what you mean when you say God is getting on your nerves.”

Francesca hesitated for a time, trying to put into words exactly the way she felt. It had been building for some time now, and she wanted desperately to get it off her chest.

“I just don’t know what He wants from me lately, that’s all,” she finally lamented. “I mean, I feel useless these days, and I can’t get rid of the idea that it’s all His fault. What is my life supposed to be all about now that He has taken my husband and my children have grown up and moved away? What am I without my family? I know that I’m old, but does that mean that everything’s over for me? Have I already done whatever it was that God intended for me to do in this life, and I’m just killing time now until it’s all over? It’s starting to really annoy me.”

“Those are hard questions,” answered Father Buontempo, “questions that all of us ask ourselves at different points in our lives. God’s will isn’t always immediately clear to us, so there’s certainly nothing sinful about seeking to understand it. Accepting His will once we understand it can be the hard part.” He paused to assess whether his words were helping her. Then he continued, telling her, “But you ought to remember that even though your children might be far away, they love you and think about you every day, just like you love and think about them. You’re always all together in your thoughts and prayers. That’s how you stay close despite the distance.”

“It’s not enough,” said Francesca, shaking her head. “I need more from my family. They need more from me, even if they don’t know it.”

“Perhaps. But maybe it would help to consider the possibility that your children and grandchildren are not your only family. You’re also part of God’s greater family. Everyone you meet is a son or daughter or sister or brother, or even a father or mother, regardless of your age. They’re all there, all about you, everywhere you go. In a special way, each of them needs you, and you need them.”

“Maybe,” muttered Francesca, not completely convinced.

“Be patient,” the priest told her kindly. “When God is ready, He’ll make whatever it is that He wants you to do next clear to you.”

“No chance He could give me a little hint in the meantime?”

“Sorry, I don’t think He works that way. You’ll just have to wait.”

“And what do I do while I’m waiting?”

“For starters, you can say three Our Fathers,” he told her, “and you can try to stop lying to your children.”

Then he absolved Francesca of her sins, real and imagined, and sent her on her way.

After mass, Francesca stopped by the market to pick up some vegetables and a few pieces of meat to put in a soup she was planning to make. She liked soups, especially in the winter. They were so easy to make, and one good-sized batch cooked on a Saturday night would last her through the weekend and for several meals beyond. As she looked over the selection of stew beef and other meats, Francesca’s eye fell upon the butcher’s weekly special: a nice pork tenderloin roast that would be perfect for a Sunday dinner. In her mind, she could already see the entire meal on the table, the beautiful roast at the center, beside it some roasted potatoes and a platter of sautéed rabe, and maybe a fresh-baked loaf of bread. She could almost taste it all. The beautiful vision quickly faded, though, as the realization that there would be no one there to share such a meal with her once again invaded her thoughts. Just the same, Francesca picked up the roast and put it in her basket along with the vegetables and meat she had chosen for her soup.

“That’s a nice price for that roast, isn’t it?” said a smiling Tony when Francesca brought everything to the cash register.”

“Too good to pass up,” Francesca agreed.

“Cooking for the family tomorrow?” he asked as he tied the roast up in a plastic bag to keep it separate from the rest of the groceries.

“Nope,” replied Francesca, shaking her head. “Just me.”

“That’s a lot of meat for just one person,” Tony joked.

“Oh, no,” explained Francesca. “This is going in the freezer for someday and somebody, who knows when or who.”

“And what about you in the meantime?”

“Me?” she said with a shrug. “I guess tonight I’ll just make myself some soup…and then I’ll wait.”