Bana Fine Irish Pizza. T. STRAHS
city. The menu consisted of their favorites—bacon macaroni; pork-skin potatoes; pork choppettes; pork-rind pizza; pork rounds wrapped in bacon; pork belly mountain oysters wrapped in pork tongue; and in honor of Mary’s heritage, corned pork and cabbage. It was a short reception as most people where typically in bed by ten.
Mary and Emilio spent the night in the two room B and P (Bed and Pork) that seemed to always have a vacancy. Picked because it was upwind from the slaughterhouse and swine farms, it also had hot water and a shower, with B-and-P provided soap and towels. Yes, they took the soap and shampoo when they left but not the towels.
After a successful night with minor conversation, they decided to take their few money gifts and put it toward the repair of Patric’s and Aideen’s truck, mainly to get them out of town so that they could settle in without the “mother-in-law” spending her days in Mary’s small studio, clapping her hands and trying to sing along.
And it wasn’t soon after that the truck was fixed and Patric and Aideen left, in tears, to continue their music and missionary journey through Italy, with the promise that they would be back. Mary and Emilio told them not to rush, make sure they enjoyed their newly repaired truck and few extra Lira.
Chapter 5
The early years, the “adoption” of Luigi and Guido
Emilio and Mary McFadden-Banafasi’s parents weren’t happy with no grandchildren and certainly let them know their feelings. Martina, Emilio’s mother, was the most vocal.
“You know that your wife’s biological clock is tick, tick, ticking away, and soon you must have children to keep our family name going. It is your responsibility, as a true Italian, to have many children!”
Emilio, nearly in tears, said, “I know, Mama, it’s not me. I should have tried the merchandise before I married her to make sure she is capable of keeping the proud name of Banafasi going. I will continue to do my best. Maybe I should drink more to make sure the fluids are flowing the next time I come home late from the Ima Jally Aler.”
Mary overheard this conversation and felt guilty and prayed that there would be a sign. That night, they talked together in the sanctity of the bedroom.
“Mary,” started Emilio, “I know that we have tried for weeks now to get you pregnant. What is your problem?”
Mary, with her Irish hair now raising on her neck, answered, “Emilio, why is it that every Italian male blames the woman for all their problems?”
“I really don’t feel that it’s my biological workings.”
“Why don’t we get one of those fertility tests we read about in one of your porn magazines?”
Now it was Emilio’s turn for hair on the neck raising. “First of all, why are you reading my literature, and second, the tests are mail order, and I don’t want to spend the money on some dumb test that will tell us what I already know! Let’s stop talking about this for another week and then we will visit the medic, Giacomo, in town and see what he says, even though I know he will say it’s your problem!”
Mary, stuttering, said, “I don’t like your attitude and accusing me, a fine Irish woman from a family who understands the need to grow the Christian religion by producing a wagonload of children, of not being fertile! Time will tell, and I plan to go beyond your loyal Giacomo for an answer.”
“I will shut up and not bring it up till next week.”
“You are also sleeping on the floor till then.”
It was six days later that Luigi and Guido entered their lives. The twins were found at a Mormon mini-temple in the outskirts of Pissaccotta, Italy, by two Mormon missionaries.
The mini-temple was only occupied during times when a stake president in the US sent their least-liked missionaries. This was a well-known practice among the local stake and area presidents and was always humorous conversation at the annual area meetings over nonalcoholic drinks. Although since the church had not enforced use of caffeine, they were now drinking heavily caffeinated sodas.
It was now occupied for over five months since a Mormon ward in North Carolina decided that two of their least favorites would go there for their mission trip.
The two Mormons were on their two-year mission being sent to this dirt-floored mini-temple in hopes that they would see the light of Morona and become better Mormons.
Rupert and Gilly were the unlucky missionaries. Their daily routine was to bike-ride into town looking for any eye contact that could signal someone to talk to and record their names for their weekly written reports.
After a long three hours of noncommitment, they went to the community facilities on the outskirts of Pissaccotta and got ready to head back to their tent inside the mini-temple. As they rode up the road to their “home,” they saw a woman dressed in all-black burlap quickly leaving their area. They tried to catch her since they thought she was looking to convert to become a member of the Church of Latter-Day Saints. When they yelled out to her, she simply gave them the international sign for personal dissatisfaction. They didn’t take this as an answer and decided to ride faster to catch her and give her the Book of Mormon. As they were starting to stand up to race toward her, they heard the sound of a baby crying in stereo.
When the two missionaries got back to the small tent that they had set up inside the mini-temple, they heard, then saw two babies, very close together. In the middle of them, an attached note said, “Sorry, had to give them up. Please name them Luigi and Guido.”
They each tried to lift one to check them over and found that they were conjoined at the toes. No way to tell them apart since they were identical with deep black hair and bright dark olive-brown eyes.
It was a serious dilemma for two teenagers. They were discussing what to do or was it a sign, and if it was, what did it mean. Mary and Emilio were walking on a path around the town having a lively, animated discussion about no children and on their way to visit Giacomo, the town medic.
They were on a seldom-used shortcut nearing the small valley where no one goes since it was close to the Mormon mini-temple. They were walking past the Mormon mini-temple and heard a baby crying and two young voices arguing.
Voice 1 said, “Rupert, I don’t care what you say, we just can’t leave the babies here when we go out to find people to preach to. It’s not fair, what would happen if someone came by and took them?”
Rupert sniped back, “Look, Gilly, they will be okay. No one comes in here anyway. We will just give them some water before we leave, let them nap, and we will be back in three hours anyway. That would be enough time to tell the ward back in North Carolina that we did our job today.”
“Then we can figure out what to do with them while we have a few Italian beers.”
“I don’t know if it’s right to do that,” an angry Gilly answered. “Why don’t one of us ride into town, at least get some milk, give it to them in the bottle that lady left.”
“Okay,” Rupert snapped back. “Let’s look around town and see if anyone is looking for a baby with toes together.”
“If we can’t find anyone, we’ll bring them to the local midwife and see if she will take them.”
“We can’t bring them back to the US since we don’t have any passports or paperwork since the Italy ward president took our passports and little money to keep us from leaving early! Plus, the parishioners at the ward will think they are ours.”
“Shit, shit, shit,” Gilly spat out. “We’re screwed. We have some obligation to take them somewhere. We just can’t leave them here. Maybe the spirit of Joseph Smith is testing our commitment to doing right. Shit, shit, shit.”
When Mary and Emilio were close to the mini-temple, Mary saw that the front door was open with two tired-looking young men in white shirts holding small bags, standing next to their designer bicycles, which later will be stolen by a roving gang of gypsy cycle