The House at the Edge of Night by Catherine Banner

caressed the boy’s face. “Time to go down and talk to your mother,” he said.
    Pina, when he entered the room, was still for a moment disoriented—he could tell by the way she languidly smiled at him, as she had on her first morning in the House at the Edge of Night. Then she recalled their present trouble, and her face altered. “Give me my baby,” she said.
    He put the boy in her arms. The arch of her shoulders made him unwelcome, but he remained. “Pina,” he said. “I need to speak to you. I’ve done wrong by you, Pina.”
    Now she did not weep but was straight and unyielding. “Yes,” she said. “You have.”
    He became beseeching. He had not meant to, but he did. “Pina,” he said. “
Amore.
Tell me how I can make it right.”
    “It’s the lying I mind most of all,” said Pina, hard-eyed and quiet.
    So he told her the truth.
    It was a long time before Pina had anything to say. “You’ve disgraced me before everyone,” she said at last. “Our neighbors, our friends, the whole island. Do you think you can behave so badly and expect everyone to forget it? This isn’t a big city like Firenze. Once people know a thing, they remember! There’s nothing else to talk about. Now, everyone will know—and their children’s children—how you went with another man’s wife on the eve of your own wedding.”
    “I’ll make it right,” he said. “It’s you, Pina, I love. I’ll show it to be true.”
    “Can’t we go away somewhere?” she said. “To the north, to Firenze! Can’t you find another position, in some big town where we know nobody?”
    “And leave the island?” said Amedeo. In spite of himself, he shed tears of self-pity. They struck the baby like great raindrops, making him look up in wonder. “Isn’t there some other way, Pina? Ask me anything except that.”
    Pina dismissed him.
    —
    THAT AFTERNOON, ARCANGELO’S TEENAGE SON appeared on his bicycle on the dust road above the Rizzus’ farm. Amedeo was in the Rizzus’ kitchen, inspecting the children’s skin infection. The boy took flight down the hill in a fog of dust, and, propping the bicycle outside the gate, removed his hat and entered the kitchen. “You’re wanted
, signor il dottore,
” he said. “A special meeting of the town council.”
    After Amedeo had finished bandaging the children, he made the climb back to the town. On the slope between the prickly pears, the dust was silken, the heat like a weight on his back. Arcangelo, sweating, waylaid him on the steps of the town hall. “You’re to wait outside,” he said.
    “What do you mean, ‘outside’?”
    “In the lobby. You aren’t wanted at the meeting. We’ve your position to discuss.” Arcangelo took out a handkerchief and polished his forehead. “After this week’s events, we need to consider your situation on the island. Therefore
il conte
has called for a special meeting, and you’re to wait outside for our decision.”
    The count’s motorcar drew up with a retch. Up the steps came the count in his mayor’s sash and suit of English linen. Without a word to Amedeo, he caught Arcangelo by the elbow and drew him into the darkness of the building.
    Quick in pursuit, alight with fury, came Father Ignazio. Amedeo met him halfway up the steps. “What’s this?” he said. “You’re discussing my position. I was told only to come to a special meeting; I wasn’t told anything about this.”
    “I’ve only just heard it myself,” said Father Ignazio.
    “Am I merely to wait outside?”
    “We’ll fight it out, Amedeo,” said the priest. “I certainly intend to.”
    On the varnished bench in the entrance of the town hall, Amedeo waited. From within he heard shouting, roaring voices: the count’s voice and—to his surprise—the priest’s. “Damn you!” he heard the priest shout. “Do you think you’ll find someone else to take his place? And what about when the Mazzus were laid low with that fever last Christmas? And the idea of draining