Idiots First by Bernard Malamud

bothered her. One day Etta had come home from work and found them naked in the marriage bed, engaged in the act. She had screamed and wept. She called Laura a stinking whore and swore she would kill her if she didn’t leave the house that minute. Armando was contrite. He promised he would send the girl back to Perugia, and the next day in the Stazione Termini, had put her on the train. But the separation from her was more than he could bear. He grew nervous and miserable. Armando confessed himself one Saturday night, and for the first time in ten years, took communion, but instead of calming down he desired the girl more strongly. After a
week he told Etta that he was going to get his cousin and bring her back to Rome.
    â€œIf you bring that whore here,” Etta shouted, “I’ll pray to Christ that you drop dead before you get back.”
    â€œIn that case,” Armando said, “start praying.”
    When he left the house she fell on her knees and prayed with all her heart for his death.
    That night Armando went with a friend to get Laura. The friend had a truck and was going to Assisi. On the way back he would pick them up in Perugia and drive to Rome. They started out when it was still twilight but it soon grew dark. Armando drove for a while, then felt sleepy and crawled into the back of the truck. The Perugian hills were foggy after a hot September day and the truck hit a rock in the road a hard bump. Armando, in deep sleep, rolled out of the open tailgate of the truck, hitting the road with head and shoulders, then rolling down the hill. He was dead before he stopped rolling. When she heard of this Etta fainted away and it was two days before she could speak. After that she had prayed for her own death and often did.
    Etta turned her back to the other tables, though they were empty, and wept openly and quietly.
    After a while Cesare squashed his butt. “Calma, Signora. If God had wanted your husband to live he would still be living. Prayers have little relevance to the situation. To my way of thinking the whole thing was no more than a coincidence. It’s best not to go too far with religion or it becomes troublesome.”
    â€œA prayer is a prayer,” she said. “I suffer for mine.”
    Cesare pursed his lips. “But who can judge these things?
They’re much more complicated than most of us know. In the case of my wife I didn’t pray for her death but I confess I might have wished it. Am I in a better position than you?”
    â€œMy prayer was a sin. You don’t have that on your mind. It’s worse than what you just might have thought.”
    â€œThat’s only a technical thing, Signora.”
    â€œIf Armando had lived,” she said after a minute, “he would have been twenty-nine next month. I am a year older. But my life is useless now. I wait to join him.”
    He shook his head, seemed moved, and ordered an espresso for her.
    Though Etta had stopped crying, for the first time in months she felt substantially disburdened.
    Cesare put her on the bus; as they were crossing the street he suggested they might meet now and then since they had so much in common.
    â€œI live like a nun,” she said.
    He lifted his hat. “Coraggio,” and she smiled at him for his kindness.
    When she returned home that night the anguish of life without Armando recommenced. She remembered him as he had been when he was courting her and felt uneasy for having talked about him to Cesare. And she vowed for herself continued prayers, rosaries, her own penitence to win him further indulgences in Purgatory.
    Etta saw Cesare on a Sunday afternoon a week later. He had written her name in his little book and was able to locate her apartment in a house on the via Nomentana through the help of a friend in the electric company.

    When he knocked on her door she was surprised to see him, turned rather pale, though he hung back doubtfully. But she invited him in and he