The Gesture
We bathed and dressed Maria Athena Spade that night, laying her on the kitchen table for her mother. Her oldest son arrived with her. “We’re selling everything,” Mr. Spade said. “We’re taking my father and my sister home to Milan and never coming back. There’s nothing here for us anymore.”
All Mrs. Spade said was, “Thank you for bring a my girl home.”
But how could I take her thanks? I’d taken her money and left her with nothing but grief. I saw her daughter’s dead eyes, the hole in her head. “I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Spade patted my hand and left. I never saw her again.
* * *
The next day, we buried Madame.
Tenni was there, and of course, Monsieur. Many of Madame’s customers attended, a few embracing Tenni as if she were their sister, rather than a shop maid. Some grieved so he
