Read Online The Black Madonna by Louisa Ermelino - Free Book Online

join in when the other women went on about them. Teresa would nod at the compliments and cross her fingers behind her back. It never hurt to be too careful.

T eresa reached out her hand and shook her husband’s arm. He turned his face away from her in his sleep. This made her angry and she dug her fingers into the soft space between his neck and his shoulder. The cotton of his pajamas was smooth and finely woven. They were his own. Cynthia must have brought them, Teresa thought, washed them, pressed them in her Bronx apartment, standing near the open window to catch the breeze.
    â€œAngelo,” Teresa hissed, and his eyes opened. He stared at her, blinked, wrinkled his forehead. His reaction startled her. Had she gotten so old, so ugly? “You bastard,” she said to him. “You don’t know who I am?”
    He looked at her. He sat up in the bed. His eyes were wide. His mouth opened but he didn’t speak. Then the surprise passed and he smiled at her. “Teresa . . .” he said. “
Madonna!
I must be dreaming. Am I in heaven?” He held out his arms. “Come here, let me kiss you. You’re so beautiful. I don’t believe you’re really here.” When she stood still, he put down his arms. “How are you?” he said. “Me, I’m sick. I’m not myself. I’m good for nothing. Look at me. Remember how strong I used to be? Forget me. Come here . . . Let me look at you. You look wonderful . . . Teresa . . .”
    She smacked him hard across the face. He started to say something but she smacked him again, this time with the back of her hand. Her pocketbook flew off her arm, everything inside spilling into the aisle between the beds. Two young boys came from nowhere and scrambled to collect the change and the pocket mirror. They ran off with them into the hall.
    No one moved but heads turned. She hit him again on the side of the head and then once more. She scraped his face with her fingernails. “Dog,” she said. “Son of a pig.” She put her face close to his. “Your mother pushed you out from her ass,” she whispered. “That whore you’re with should get cancer. She should die without her tongue.”
    â€œTeresa . . .” he said. He was crying. He took her hand and kissed her fingers. His blood was caught under her nails. He looked in her face for some sign of forgiveness.
    â€œI wish you dead, Angelo, crippled in the street, claws for hands, broken under a train.”
    â€œAh, Teresa . . .” he said again, fighting for his breath. “What are you talking about? Listen to me for a minute.”
    â€œIt’s not true? You’re gonna tell me it’s not true what I know? Just because you fooled me all these years, Angelo, don’t think I’m stupid.”
    â€œOkay, okay.” Sobs caught in his throat. “But the truth, Teresa, did I take care of you? The money . . . did you get the money every month? No matter where I was? No matter what? I sent you things. I always sent you presents.”
    â€œYou left Nicky and me alone on Spring Street, just me and Nicky, and you never came.”
    â€œI did come.”
    â€œOnce . . . you came once in all those years. Who remembers once? ‘She has no husband,’ they say. ‘Nicky has no father.
Il figlio di nessuno.
’ They forget you exist, you come once in all those years. They forget and they whisper that Nicky’s a bastard. They say things about me behind my back. ‘Where is he?’ they say . . . ‘this Angelo Sabatini?’” She pulled her hand away. It was wet from his lips and his tears and she wiped it on his bedsheet in disgust.
    â€œThings happen,” he told her. “I don’t know why. Look at me. God paid me back. I’m finished. My ticker’s bad . . .” And he started to cry again.
    â€œWho cares about you, Angelo? Nicky and I manage good enough, but you stopped the money.