The Saint of Lost Things by Christopher Castellani

Author:Christopher Castellani
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Algonquin Books
Published: 2005-09-19T04:00:00+00:00

10

A Concerned Neighbor

AT DINARDO’S, JULIAN CHOOSES a cheerful prearranged vase of pink, blue, and yellow flowers. Before he can ask, Fran pulls out the white lilies and replaces them with tulips. Maddalena is in danger, but still alive, and so there can be no suggestion of death, not even between florist and customer. Fran DiNardo has known Maddalena all seven years she has lived on this block of Eighth Street. Julian has known her only the past few months, a long enough time to start a friendship, too short for it to end.

“Never a dull moment, is there?” Fran says. “Good for business, bad for my heart.” She is a short woman of indeterminate age with a leathery face and a voice deepened by years of smoking. Never married, she’s worked in her father’s shop for as long as Julian can remember. He has never seen Fran without her green apron and an assortment of rubber bands around her wrist. In fact, he has never seen her outside this damp, humid store. She and Julian have a standing appointment here on Saturdays, when he picks up the fresh flowers for his parents’ graves. Surprised to see him on a Wednesday morning, she buzzes around like she would for a new customer, spritzing the jungle of tall leafy plants that crowd the floor and the blooms that droop from the hanging pots. When she cranks open the front windows to let in the fresh spring air, Julian notices the muscles in her forearm.

“When Signora Grasso wakes up, tell her I made something for her,” says Fran. “Let me show you.”

From the top shelf of the refrigerator she takes out a small white box. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper, is a delicate spray of violets attached to a plastic hair clip. She lifts it carefully and holds it up to her ear. “I don’t know if people wear violets in their hair,” she says. “But they’re her favorite flower. And I had a few left over.”

Julian looks at the tulips, irises and astra-somethings waiting for him on the counter.

“She’ll love yours, too, don’t worry,” Fran says. She closes up the box, affixes a gold seal to the flap, and places it back in the refrigerator. “Have I steered you wrong before?”

“Never,” he says. He walks to the register, takes out his money clip, and starts counting. Sun streams in from the skylights, forcing him to squint.

“You’re in a hurry,” says Fran, crossing the room. “I understand.” Without looking up from the numbers she punches into the cash machine, she says, “You know Signora Grasso from the restaurant?”

Julian hesitates. “Yes and no,” he says, hoping that will end it. But Fran looks at him expectantly.

How can he explain the strange course he and Maddalena have taken? On Christmas Eve, he sang a song that moved her. Upstairs, through the wall between bedroom and bathroom, he felt a certain unspoken connection to her. Over the past few months, she and Antonio visited him many evenings at his house, where they talked and played records.

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