The Fifth Gospel(206)

            But the cursore only says, “A car will be waiting outside your building thirty minutes before your audience.” He offers a slight bow. “Good night, Father.”

            Then he turns around and slips away.

            I tear open the envelope. The card inside says:

            YOU ARE SUMMONED TO THE PRIVATE APARTMENTS OF HIS HOLINESS

            TO BE DEPOSED AT TEN O’CLOCK.

            My heart pounds. I don’t understand. As Simon’s procurator, I can’t be a witness in his trial.

            But the rule book has changed. The pope is above the law.

            Numbly I go to my closet. I look for my best clean cassock. For my iron. But in the hallway, I stop. Out the window of Peter’s bedroom I can see the palace. Cardinal Boia’s windows are dark. All along the top floor, though, the lights are on.

            The thought of those apartments gives me a slippery feeling at the bottom of my stomach. I’ll have to prepare everything I’ll say. If Michael hasn’t confessed by morning, then I’ll need Mignatto’s help.

            I’m pulling out the ironing board when I hear a key turn in the lock. Peter’s voice rises as the door opens.

            “And usually, in the jungle?, they have poison that could kill you, but it’s only poison because they eat bugs that have poison, so in the zoo, they don’t eat the bugs?, so they’re not super poisonous. Or at all.”

            I take a deep breath and step out of the closet. My foot lands on something sharp, and I stifle a curse. It makes Mona notice me as I enter the hall. She smiles.

            “Tree frogs,” she explains.

            Then she notices the look on my face.

            “Babbo!” Peter cries, racing toward me.

            I step forward and quickly lift him onto my shoulder so he can’t see the uncertainty in my eyes. I hand Mona the card from the cursore.

            She whispers, “Is this a good thing?”

            “I don’t know.”

            Peter is ecstatic. The story of his adventures since I left comes out in a river of unintelligible sentences. I hold him in my arms and want to tell him that the man who broke into this apartment will never come back. Our home is truly ours again. But a few hours with his mother have already washed all the darkness from his life.

            “Thank you,” I say to her.

            Yet she’s already walking away.

            “You’re leaving?” I ask.

            She continues into the kitchen and finds the first-aid kit in the cabinet. “Your foot’s bleeding,” she says.

            Peter looks down and points to a trail of red dots.

            “Mona,” I say as she returns, “would you stay a little longer? I need to meet with someone to prepare my testimony.”

            “What did you step on?” she says, kneeling to pull something out of my heel. She drops it into my hand. It looks like a red pebble.

            I wait for her to answer.

            “I’ll stay however long you need,” she says without looking me in the eye.

            She starts to bandage my foot, but I reach down and do it myself. She takes back her hands and doesn’t follow me when I walk to the sink.

            The red washes off the pebble. It’s a piece of glass.

            Mona is behind me. In a quiet voice, so that Peter can’t eavesdrop, she says, “You’ve done a wonderful job with him. He’s so thoughtful. So curious about everything. Being with him makes me wish . . .”