The Cross-eyed Gypsy, Barry Rachin [read the beginning after the end novel txt] 📗

getting stranger by the minute.”
“What would they say?” Francine pressed.
“They'd say Francine was a nice girl with no luck. An ex-nun, who lives a drab and joyless life.” She cleared her throat. “And if they were decent Catholics, they might remember you in their prayers.”
“Vladimir invited me to supper tonight. At his apartment. Just the three of us.
The old woman smiled slyly as though confirming some private intimation. “So being with him is like jury duty; he has no history on you.”
“And the language barrier puts us on an equal footing.”
The old woman crooked her head more sharply to the side as though she were staring straight up through the ceiling to the gates of heaven. “And how does that make you feel?”
Francine cracked a raggedy, perverse smile. “Gloriously free from the dead weight of the past.” Though her voice remained measured, self-contained, tears dribbled down her cheeks. “No longer a failed nun.”
“You were never a failed anything,” Mrs. Antonelli said severely.
Francine cleaned up the dishes and put the rest of the soup in the refrigerator. “So who is the real Francine Spicuzza - the faint-hearted mystic who works at a parochial school or baby Igor's surrogate mother-of-the-week?”
“You are the kind-hearted soul who brought me chicken escarole.” Only now did Mrs. Antonelli lower her head and shift in her seat to face her. “Have a good time tonight with the men folk in 3B,” she said dryly, “and, for God’s sake, wear something revealing.”


The next day, Francine called the local parish and asked to speak to the priest. “What is this in regards to?” the secretary asked.
“A personal matter requiring spiritual guidance.”
Later in the afternoon, Francine was sitting opposite Father Rinaldi in the Church rectory. “Father, I have another hypothetical question.”
The priest removed his glasses and rubbed his face in what resembled a supplicating gesture. “Does this have anything to do with a 19-inch Sony Trinitron?”
“No, of course not!” Francine colored and, with a hint of embarrassment, added, “Well, not directly.”
“Ah!” The priest settled back in his chair. “As you were saying.”
“A man recently separated from his wife, comes to this country from abroad.”
“What nationality is the visitor?”
“Russian.” Buoyed by the priest’s interest in the narrative, Francine added, “The Russian wife has deserted him and run off with another man.”
Father Rinaldi rose from his chair. Head lowered, the priest began pacing the length of the room. “Did the infidelity happen in his homeland or after arriving in America?”
“Neither. In Israel.” The priest’s face clouded over, his eyes narrowing so the pupils were just barely visible. “The part about Israel doesn’t really matter,” she clarified. “It’s what comes after that’s important.”
“Yes, of course.” Father Rinaldi made a face as though he hadn’t heard properly. “So very strange! But then, every time you come to see me with a personal dilemma there’s an unusual twist.”
The intercom buzzed, but the priest ignored it. “How long did you say you and this Russian fellow -” Immediately Father Rinaldi waved a hand, canceling his own words. “I tend to forget that we’re talking in abstractions. The Russian and his unfaithful wife are imaginary characters, theoretical constructs.” The phone buzzed a second time. Father Rinaldi picked up the receiver and, after a short conversation, said, “Hold all calls. This is going to be a bit longer than I anticipated.” He turned back to Francine with a tortured smile. “Now, where were we?”


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Publication Date: 06-21-2010

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