Alexandra always bought the Italian bread at Federico’s in the Italian section by the U. S. Rubber, “the shop” the workers called it. Harry (her mother would spoil Harry) always expected bread fresh from the oven. She herself was partial to her brother. Had he stayed in town, he might have propped her life by relieving her of mother. But none in the family—not Harry or Alice or Rob or Marian—had.
Old Federico, mostly paunch and so short only his head topped the glass bread case, was a lecher. Emerging to hand over the bread, as if carelessly, he would brush the phallic loaves against the breasts or thighs of the young and quivery girls sent for the daily bread.
Leaving, she could not get through the street. There was a procession. From St. Elizabeth’s. Portuguese. The incense, a sudden sea, imprisoned, and the crowd. As she was bound, she watched. It was the Virgin on a dais, released from captivity in her niche and carried, of course, by sons of women initiated in the sensual rites. Embalmed in plaster painted a paradise blue. No pagan Botticelli naked on the half shell. The dubious mother of a son. What higher tribute to the imagination?
The faithful crossed themselves as the Virgin passed, indifferent, as Alexandra was not, to the ecstasy of bodies pressed so close. If she afterwards passed through the last clouds of incense swung by the altar boys, only she celebrated the exaltation of common flesh.
She had then to cross the Common, today a reluctant, if usually desired, pilgrimage. She would not avoid the shrine, that sycamore, the site of her own momentary, and permanent, crucifixion.
It consoled that after brunch the three would go back, each to his life—Harry to Providence, Alice to her architecture and her various men, and Rob to his perpetual universities. And only Marian, with Russ Jr already gone back to the university, would be left alone in this house, without.
He was gone. Incinerated. Buried. And this the third day since. Out of whatever consideration—for Marian surely—the family had hardly spoken his name. And she, Alexandra, would not think the name for fear of uttering, yet could not not think it.
She quivered, and halted—till the wavering in her vision passed and the Common—the enormous trees, the bandstand, the courthouse, the school playground—took their places again. The clouds stilled.
Harry, Rob, and Alice had come at once—gathered was her mother’s word (for wheresoever the carcass is, Alexandra thought) to support Marian and Russ Jr, if not comfort them. For who could comfort in death? Not man or God. Only time, if it did. Alexandra knew—since Father.
Her father had claimed that she must have been conceived during the two days he and her mother had spent in Alexandria during their seven-week honeymoon tour of the Mediterranean. The boy (her father, if nothing else, was certain) we’ll name Alexander, he had told her mother.
And so Alex—for compromise or compensation or illusion.
For the first six years she had been his boy, Alex—till Harry. Even then theirs had still been common ground till Harry had turned five or so. Their life had been here on the Common, which meant the swings, the blackened faces in the minstrel shows, the carnival rides, the circus big tents of Barnum and Bailey and the Ringling Brothers and Clyde Beatty and the thinnest woman and the fattest man and the snake man and the werewolf and other freaks and trailers housing animals and clowns and trapeze artists, the weekly concerts by the Italo-American and Portuguese bands on the grandstand, and the