Mary Vigliante Szydlowski

Reprinted in April 2000 as an Authors Guild Backinprint.com Edition

   Her mother stood there motionless for several minutes, then suddenly, almost as if an invisible force was propelling her, she moved toward Philomena. When she came within a foot of her daughter, her eyes moved from Phil to the soft brown earth. Theresa's eyes began to tear, and she began rocking her body back and forth, the way one does when in great pain and thinks the motion will somehow help to stop the agony. She stopped staring at the ground and looked at Phil. Theresa tried to speak, but her sobbing prevented it. She looked once again at the ground, focusing on the word that was printed in the boldest letters: PHILOMENA. Theresa dropped to her knees and touched the letters, gently feeling the depressions they made in the cool soil. Phil could remember clearly how her mother raised her dirt-covered fingers to her lips, kissed them tenderly, and then moved the hand steadily downward till the fingers came once again to rest upon her name. Philomena watched as her mother's body shook, as her eyes darted again and again over the letters. She watched and heard the sobs, first barely audible, then louder and louder. . . . "Diu me perduna. God forgive me. What have I done? What have I done to my baby? God forgive me."

   As a young child, Philomena Rienzi was considered bright and precocious. There was only one problem, she did not speak. Her Italian immigrant parents, believing in Old World concepts of shame, bad blood, and divine retribution for parental sins, think she's retarded. Denying her help and compassion, they try to hide her from the world, keeping her tied to a tree in the yard like an animal.

   As she grows into her adolescence, however, Philomena finds kindness from a middleaged bachelor neighbor, Tony Giordano, and the elderly Signora Mancuso. Under their care, Philomena's world expands a little, and she and Tony begin to care deeply for each other.

    But tensions at home worsen. Philomena's mother begins to slip into insanity and takes her hatred out on Philomena. Her father deserts the family. Finally, when Philomena's mother discovers that her child is not retarded but only mute, her guilt drives her to suicide.

    At first, Philomena's prospects brighten. Tony and the Signora take her into their home and she is treated like a human being for the first time in her life. But, being without parents or a guardian, she is made a ward of the State of New York and placed in an institution for the retarded. Given no diagnostic tests to identify the true nature of her handicap, she is injected with sedatives, condemned to be a human vegetable.

    But Tony has other plans. Determined to give her a chance for as normal a life as possible, he takes her from the asylum and is charged with abduction.

    What happens during the trial will astonish you, anger you, and touch your heart.

Published by Everest House July 1980

CHAPTER I

    When had it all begun? Philomena stared out of the window, eyes fixed on smoky visions, memories from the past. It seemed that an eternity had passed, but she knew that it hadn't. It began, she remembered, in the green-shingled house in which she was born, the third on the right from where the street became a dead end.

    Once, years ago, she had been a pretty little child, with soft, wavy brown hair, big blue eyes, chubby cheeks, and strong limbs, and the house was a happy place. Philomena, joy of her mother, pride of her father. She had been a precocious child, wandering through the house and yard, looking into all the nooks and crannies, wanting to see and touch everything that made up her world. There had been a certain magic in her world then: freedom, the ability to learn and experience. She crawled by four months, walked by nine months and was toilet-trained by the time she was fourteen months old, impressive accomplishments that made her parents very proud. Joe and Theresa Rienzi were sure that their daughter would become the most beautiful and talented child ever to be born. Philomena was to be bilingual, learning both their native Italian and the language of America, their new country. As young immigrants, the Rienzis were trying to forget the ways of the little village in Calabria from which they came, with all its strange superstitions and old-world customs. Here in America their little girl would go to school, perhaps even college, possibly work at some career appropriate for a woman, then marry the nice Italian Catholic boy of her dreams, and settle down to raise a large, close-knit family.

    At some point in the past, however, their dream of triumph had been shattered.

    In spite of the swiftness of her development, Philomena had been a strangely silent child. She had made gurgling noises in her infancy; but as she grew, she never uttered sounds. At times Phil appeared to be moving her lips, trying to mimic the movement of mouths around her; but the sounds never came out. Her parents excused her silence to friends and family, saying that she had accomplished other things so early it surely was just a matter of her speech having to catch up with everything else. The explanation seemed plausible, and for a while it was accepted as fact.

    Those were happy times for Phil. She had vague recollections of Sundays with family and friends coming to call, of huge pots of spaghetti and sauce, platters of antipasto, her mother in the kitchen seeing to everyone's needs, her father in the living room playing cards. She could visualize herself as a toddler in pastel dresses, big bows in her hair, feet scurrying across the floor in shiny patent leather shoes. She smiled when she remembered the house at that time. Everything had been good then; she was happy; people had loved her.

    When she was four or so, the problems began. Her parents became agitated about her unwillingness to speak to them. They thought her stubborn and willful. They tried to coax and cajole her, they tried punishing her, but nothing seemed to work. She refused to speak. Their constant harping on the matter only increased her frustration. Philomena kept trying to talk, but she couldn't. She wanted to please them, but seemed incapable of doing the one thing that would make them most happy.

    From the past, she remembered Vito, a name used often amid tears, screams, and accusations.

    "She's going to be like your cousin Vito," she could still hear her mother scream at her father. "I should never have married you. There was bad blood in your family. She's going to be like Vito. She's retardata like him. God is punishing us."

    Vito was someone her father rarely spoke of. A profoundly retarded young boy who could neither speak, walk, be toilet-trained, or use his hands, he was not educable, and had spent his life in bed, being a burden to those around him.

    Her father had refused to pay attention to his wife's taunts. He would not accept the idea that his child was less than perfect. She was slow in talking, that was all there was to it. She was not retarded. He'd listen to no one saying otherwise.

    Phil's memories of her early years of happiness were replaced by painful visions of what her life soon became. She could remember those childhood years when her mother's attitude toward her would change as soon as her father left for work. Then the mother would ignore the child, pretend she didn't exist. She would not touch Philomena. There were no kisses, no hugs, no comfort if the little girl slipped and fell. In her eyes the child was somehow vile and unclean. By ignoring Philomena's presence, her mother seemed to be trying to make her disappear, or die.

    Theresa would make lunch for her and unbutton her pants when she had to go to the bathroom, but that was all. Sometimes, when Philomena was playing with her dolls, she'd get an uneasy feeling, as if something evil were watching her, lurking nearby. Turning to see what it was, she'd become aware of her mother, staring at her from across the room with a malevolent glare, a look of hate in her unblinking eyes.

    Philomena was not sure when she first became aware that her mother did not want her, did not love her, even wished her dead. She knew only that it was when she was still a little girl. Gone were the days of walks in the park, of shopping trips to the market and childish tea parties. She and her mother seldom left the house; they stayed hidden from the world. No longer did people come to visit on Sundays. Philomena's world shrank and became inhabited by only three people: herself, her mother, and her father, the man she waited for, with shining eyes, every evening at 5:30.

    Her parents' arguments increased in intensity and ferocity. Her father, the more intelligent and enlightened of her parents, wanted to take Phil to a doctor to see what was wrong with her, but her mother would not allow it, saying that she wanted no one else to know of their shame.

    When it came time for Philomena to go to school, her mother refused to send her.

    "What could they possibly teach her? She's retardata. They'll make fun of her, they'll say that God is punishing us for some sin," the woman would scream in anguish.

    Her father told her that this was America where they didn't believe God punished children for parents' sins, as was believed in Italy. But all his talk, all his arguments did not sway the woman in her old-world beliefs.

    Philomena could remember standing by the window watching the children from across the street in their neat little blue uniforms, with books in hand, walking toward the Catholic school around the corner. She also waited, often wondering when it would be her turn to go. But her turn never came.

    Something happened to her during that time. Her mind stopped expanding, her intellect stopped growing. Her senses were starved for new experiences. No one took the time to teach her letters or numbers, or anything at all for that matter. All the knowledge she had was what she had learned when she was little. Now her mother would point to her, in her father's presence, and repeat the words retardata, retardata, over and over again. Her father stopped defending her from Theresa's verbal attacks, shielding her from the malicious onslaughts, feeling perhaps that his wife had been right after all. Philomena knew and understood no more at age six than she had at four. Neither parent cared enough to find out why their child seemed so backward, why she was not progressing as she should.

    When she was seven, her father decided that she might be less sickly and pale if she were allowed to go outdoors. Her mother tried to stop the construction of the fenced-in play yard, but this time her father insisted and won. He told her mother that even though Philomena's mind was not like other children's, her body had the same need to run and jump in the sunshine. Her mother finally relented and the yard was surrounded by a four-foot cyclone fence. From then on, Philomena spent her days aimlessly wandering around the big maple tree or standing, fingers grasping the cold metal wires, and looking out at the world that was swiftly moving by, leaving her behind. She began to dream of going to school, of having friends and loving parents who played with her and were proud of her.

    She could remember monthly visits from Mrs. Giordano, a little old lady who had a gold tooth in the front of her mouth, wore black dresses and stockings, and had gray hair pulled back in a severe bun. She had lived next door to them, to the left, in an old white house at the very end of the street. The plump little woman was their landlady. Every month she would spend an hour or so, after receiving the rent money, discussing with Philomena's mother the sad state of world morality and how much better things had been in the old country. The conversation would invariably turn to the cross that God's will had forced Mrs. Rienzi to bear—that cross being Philomena.

    Mrs. Giordano was not a bad sort, kind of gossipy, who loved to discuss other people's failings in her broken English. She'd pat Philomena's wavy hair, shake her head as if some terrible tragedy had occurred, and then put an expression of sadness on her face and say "povera piccirilla, poor little thing". It never was clear to Phil whether the woman's sympathy was for her or her mother.

    When Phil was nine, a semblance of peace returned to the house. Her mother became pregnant again. The looks she gave Philomena were less hateful than before and she screamed less often at the child for every little indiscretion or violation of her strict rules.

    Every day Phil would watch her mother as she got down on her knees and said a rosary to pray that her next baby would be normal. It became such a compulsion that by the time she was in her fifth month she was saying four and five rosaries a day. Her father looked forward to another child. He became more affectionate toward Philomena. The coming child meant that after he and his wife were dead, there would be someone to care for Philomena. He had worried about that for several years, not wanting Phil to be put into an institution after he died. That was not the Italian way of doing things. They, the southern Italians, were manual laborers. They asked nothing from anyone and bore the brunt of their own family misfortunes: the aged, the sick, the mentally ill, and the retarded, without asking assistance from friends or state. In a way, the birth of a healthy child would be a vindication for Joe Rienzi, proof that there was no bad blood, no sin in his background which could account for producing a child like Philomena.

    One day Philomena had been walking with her doll in the prison of her yard when she heard the front door slam. She went to the fence to see what was happening. Her mother, pale and shaking, holding her belly, left the house, crossed the street, and went to Signora Mancuso's house. When the Signora was in her yard working on her flowers, she would wave to Phil and the young girl, in return, would shyly wave back. Signora never came to visit, but from the warm smiles and the way she would broadly wave her hand, Philomena decided that she must be a very nice lady indeed.

    Her mother knocked on the door and Signora Mancuso came out, only that day she hadn't waved. The Signora took Philomena's mother into the house and shut the door. After a little while an ambulance came with two men and a skinny rolling bed. In the distance, Philomena heard her mother screaming and moaning in pain as they brought her out of the house and put her in the ambulance. Phil wondered what was wrong and paced back and forth behind the fence like a caged animal. The siren was loud and shrill as they sped away and rounded the corner, disappearing from sight. Phil sat on the ground waiting for someone to come, hoping that her Daddy might soon appear.

    She had never been left completely alone before. It was an uncomfortable and scary feeling. She was thirsty, but the back door was locked and she was unable to get into the house. Philomena sat for hours, her mouth dry, waiting for someone to come and notice her, but no one did.

    It grew chilly, and the sun was setting when she heard the door across the street bang open. Out burst Signora Mancuso. She ran toward Philomena, hand held over her mouth as if embarrassed and sorry for having committed some terrible sin. She came through the gate and threw her arms around Phil, apologizing over and over again for forgetting that the little girl was still outside by herself. The Signora put her arm around Phil and herded her in the direction of the gate. They had run across the street, up the steps, and into Signora Mancuso's warm old house. The next two weeks, which Phil spent with the Signora, were to be the happiest of her childhood.

    Signora Mancuso explained that Philomena's mother was very sick and would have to be away for a few weeks so Philomena would be staying with her. The Signora was very gentle, not like Mama at all. She smiled often and laughed loudly, but best of all, she played with and touched Philomena. The Signora bought her coloring books and crayons and showed Phil how to color within the lines. She told her stories and made her cakes and cookies. Every day there was something new to look forward to: walks in the park, trips to the butcher and the baker, and on Sunday there was church.

    For years Philomena had seen the church standing on the corner, with its big stained-glass windows and tall steeple with gold cross, but she couldn't remember ever going into it. The first Sunday morning she attended church was very exciting. The Signora took Philomena's prettiest dress and pressed the skirt to make it stand out. It was just a plain, plaid cotton dress with white collar, but it was the nicest thing Philomena owned. It had pretty puff sleeves and a big bow in the back. The Signora washed her hair, gave her a bath, put clean underwear and pretty white anklets on her. She even polished Phil's shoes. After she was dressed, her hair was brushed until it shone, then a big red barrette was affixed in the long, golden-brown tresses. When they were all ready to go, the Signora stood Philomena before a full-length mirror so she could see her reflection. The young girl had studied the face in the glass. It was pretty. It was normal-looking; therefore, she could not be the girl captured in the mirror. The Signora told her how beautiful she was and then bent and gently kissed her on the forehead. Beautiful. It was a word Philomena had not heard in a long time, especially not in describing herself.

    Walking through the doors of the church, Philomena stared in amazement at the wonders before her. There were statues of pretty ladies with flowers at their feet, nice men holding little babies, and a man with long hair and beard who had a big heart painted on his chest. Everyone smiled at each other and when the man in the long robe came to the front, everybody stood up. There had been a lot of moving around: standing, sitting, and kneeling. The man at the front of the church talked funny. He didn't speak the language she was used to. It sounded a little like her Daddy talked when he didn't want to talk English. The Signora showed her how to fold her hands and look at God. He was hanging from a cross in the front of the room. Everybody stood up and went to the man in the robe. It looked like he was passing out cookies and Philomena wanted some too, but the Signora would not let her go. While everybody's head was bowed in prayer, Phil continued looking at the Man on the cross. He looked like He was hurt. She wondered why anyone would want to hurt Him; He certainly looked nice enough.

    Signora saw her staring, assumed that she was praying, and bent to whisper in Phil's ear. "He that sings to God a song of hope, shall find his prayers answered."

    Back then, Phil hadn't understood what it meant; but it had sounded pretty and she tried to remember the words.

    Later, at the house, Signora Mancuso told Philomena how nice God was and how He lived up in the sky and helped people when they needed Him. If you talked to God and asked Him for things, and if you were good, He would give them to you. Phil listened in rapt attention. If you were good, when you died, He'd take you to live with Him in a lovely place called heaven where everyone would be happy forever. The Signora knew a lot about Him. Phil had thought, at the time, that perhaps He was the old woman's closest friend. She could remember thinking how wonderful it would be if He could become her friend, too.

    There were pictures all around the house. They were all of the Signora's younger brothers and sisters. She had raised them after her mother died. The Signora had worked to keep house for them and her father until he, too, died. To Phil, she appeared old, very old. She was fat, with curly gray hair and dark wrinkled cheeks. The Signora had never married, being too busy with the children of others, even if the opportunity had ever come along. Yet somehow she seemed content, though lonely. Her sisters and brothers had moved far away, with families and children of their own. They couldn't take time from their fast-paced lives to come to see her and bring an old woman a meager bit of happiness. Except on holidays and her birthday, she rarely heard from them. She busied herself with knitting things for the women's church league and tending the beautiful garden of flowers that surrounded the house. But her busyness did not allay her loneliness and give a purpose to her life.

    The Signora was happy to have Philomena with her. Once again she could hear the sound of strong young legs running through the house, see eyes light up when she made sweets, have someone to kiss goodnight and tuck into bed. For awhile, she could fantasize that Philomena was her little girl, the child she never had. Phil's presence had given new meaning, new life to the old woman's existence. The Signora had noticed the little girl sitting in the yard, had occasionally waved, but had never approached her. The child's mother was not very friendly and gave the appearance of not wanting people around her or her daughter. But once the Signora had come to know the girl and had seen the need reflected in her eyes, she'd vowed to take the time to come to the fence and visit with her.

    It had struck the old woman funny that the little girl was thought to be badly retarded. She didn't seem all that backward to her. The neighborhood ladies were always chattering on about poor Mrs. Rienzi, burdened with an idiot daughter. But after the Signora had been around the child for a few days, she began to sense that there was nothing the matter with her except that she could not speak, read, or write. Maybe, if someone would work with the child, she could learn; but the Signora was not the one to do it. She had barely learned to read and write herself. She knew how to write her name and address and could write short words, but not much else. She had never been given an education because in her day it was thought that girls would only grow up to marry and bear children, so what was the use of teaching them to read and write. They wouldn't use it. In her case, however, they were wrong. She had been denied the education, yet circumstances decreed that she would never marry. Because of her lack of it, the Signora truly valued education. It was something very precious, to be denied to no one. She was determined to speak to Mrs. Rienzi about the girl. Maybe there was something— special classes perhaps—that could be done for her.

    When her mother returned home, Philomena's hell began in earnest. Theresa would eye her daughter malevolently and scream at her that she wished that she had died in the baby's place. For Theresa, the baby was a gift from God, while she, Philomena, had been a plague from the devil, a creature of evil, placed on earth to torment her mother. She didn't want to look at the little girl's face, so from early morning till five minutes before her father returned home, Philomena would be out in the yard. No matter what the weather was, that was her place and there she stayed. Her mother donned the black garments of mourning for her baby and prayed more fervently than ever, but what she prayed for, Philomena did not know. Sometimes she thought that her mother prayed for her to die, too.

    During the day she was forced to contend with her mother's abuse and neglect and at night with her father's desire for quiet and solitude. Philomena lived in the house with them, but they did not live there with her. She was a phantom, whose existence they kept denying, hoping against hope that she'd somehow disappear. Philomena was used to her mother's dislike for her; it had become an accepted part of her life, but it hurt her deeply when her father began to look at her with something other than love in his eyes. He had been the rock to which she had clung all these years but he, too, seemed to be moving away from her. There was no place for her to run for warmth and comfort.

    Her evenings were like living at the front line of a war zone. Her mother and father would verbally attack one another. Pointing accusing fingers, they would scream things about bad seeds, and sins, and punishment, and shame. Philomena sensed that what caused them to fight was her presence in the house with them. She would retreat into a corner of the room, sit on the floor, and watch her parents' angry gestures and hate-contorted faces. The screaming and yelling would frighten her, but she'd never cry. She didn't know why, only that she couldn't shed tears. Perhaps it was because their hatred for each other had become so routine over such a long period of time that she had become inured to it, or maybe she just didn't care anymore. Or perhaps it was simply that she was dead inside; empty of all feelings, hopes, and dreams.

    One night when she was twelve, the battle grew violent. Her enraged mother had said something to her father in Italian, a curse of some sort, and then in the ultimate act of disdain, Theresa spit in his face. He reacted instantly, hitting her, not once but several times. Blood began to flow from her mother's nose and mouth, spotting her clothing. Philomena tried to scream at them, to make them stop, but no sound passed her lips. She could visualize that night when her eyes filled with terror and her mouth gaped open. After the worst of the encounter was over, her father glared at his wife, ran from the room, filled a suitcase with clothing, walked out into the darkness, and disappeared. Philomena never saw him again. He sent no gifts, no cards, did nothing to acknowledge the fact that there existed a less than perfect child that he had fathered. Occasionally he sent some money for Theresa to run the house but the envelopes had no return addresses on them.

    That night, after he had gone, her mother walked around the house and closed all the drapes so that the neighbors might not see her shame in having a husband who beat her. In all the remaining years that Philomena spent in that house the drapes never were opened again.