Valentino LaManna’s baby was sick. The doctor came to their tiny walk up and examined the infant. He looked at the immigrant parents, his eyes as sad as he could make them, and shook his head. As soon as the doctor left, the woman spoke to her husband. “Prendi il Sacerdote,” she wailed.

Her young husband, accustomed, by tradition and temperment, not to shed tears in front of a woman, would do the only thing he could do under the circumstances. He would honor his wife Maria’s request. After all, the baby had been baptised only a week before she caught a cold. The cold turned into pneumonia. Now, his precious daughter had only hours to live. The man knew what his wife wanted from the priest. She wasn’t thinking of the ultimi diritti, the last rights all Catholics are entitled to. No, she wanted him to perform a miracle, to intercede with God himself to save her baby.

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, worried that his voice might crack. “”I’ll bring the Father back with me.” As he walked from the tiny bedroom he noticed a statue of the Madonna resting on the window sill. A crucifix was nailed to their apartment door. They were practicing Catholics, who attended mass every Sunday and every Holy Day. They lived in a neighborhood with other Italian immigrants and the Irish, with whom they had only religion in common.

The parish priest, Father Farrell, handled his priestly responsibilities just as he was trained to do. But, in spite of his years of study, his years of prayer, most of it done on his knees, he had no love for the WOPs in his parish. When Italians came to him for baptism rights, first communion, confirmation into the faith, or a funeral mass, he did his duty.

But the tall, red haired priest did whatever he could to avoid performing a wedding ceremony for the Italians. He would do whatever he could to get the Italian priest, Father DeLorto from the north ward parish, to handle those. The Italians always invited the priest to the reception and he hated all that garlic laced food they ate. They drank too much wine and anyway he hated they had this annoying habit of being cloying when they were in the company of a priest, as if he was the Holy Ghost’s first cousin.    

Valentino didn’t own a car, and there was no time to wait for a trolly car, so he walked the seven long blocks to the rectory as fast as his short legs would carry him. It was a cold day and his thin jacket did little to warm him. He rang the bell. An elderly woman opened the door. In broken English he said, “I have to see Father Farrell. It’s an emergenza”

The old woman led him to the dining room where the priest was eating his lunch. “What can I do for you LaManna?” He asked, a trace of Irish brogue apparent. The LaManna family gave the church just fifteen cents every Sunday.

“Our daughter, who you baptized one week ago is very sick. Il dottore says she may not live to see tomorrow. Will you come with me now and give my daughter her Catholic rites?”

The priest pointed to his plate which he had barely touched. “When I finish my lunch, I’ll come.”

“Please Father, my wife is crying and the baby is very weak. My wife will make you something to eat while you say the necessary prayers.”

The priest smiled. “You exaggerate. You all like to exaggerate. Everything is an emergenza with you people.” The last word was spoken in a mocking tone. “I’ll be there after lunch.”

Valentino looked at the priest and pointed his finger at him. In a voice colder than he knew he had, he said, “Never. You will never be welcome in my home.” He left the rectory and walked as quickly as he could back to his apartment. He prayed as he went, reciting the prayers he learned as a boy in the old country. He begged his maker for a miracle, not so much for him, but for his wife and their child.

When he opened the door to the apartment, he could hear his wife sobbing softly. Someone was whispering, a woman who lived across the street. She was very busy, tending to the baby, her whispers words of encouragement. When she saw his face, Mrs. LaManna knew better than to ask her husband where Father Farrell was. Valentino and Maria prayed silently. The woman stayed through the night willing the infant to survive.

The next morning the baby was doing better. She continued to improve. A miracle had indeed taken place. Every Sunday for many years after that day, the LaManna family attended services at the Presbyterian Church.