Stella Mia

by Rosanna Chiofalo

  My father’s search momentarily rescues me from another thrashing. But I know it has just bought me a few minutes. For when he doesn’t find anyone hiding behind the rocks, he’ll beat me until I tell him who I was meeting. Tears stream down my face. I don’t know how much longer I can go on living like this.

  “I’ll find you! You hear me? Maybe not tonight, but I will find you!” Papá continues yelling into the night, his voice only muffled by the waves crashing against the shore. “Come on, Sarina. That boy’s blood will be on your hands. You have disgraced me and your mother. She will be so disappointed in you.” He pulls me up by my arm, dragging me back home. I try shrugging his grip off me, but he sinks his fingernails into my flesh until I wince from the pain. My body is always covered in scratches and bruises.

  When we reach my house, I see the light on in my parents’ bedroom. I can make out my mother’s form behind the window. But as soon as she sees us approaching, her shadow disappears, and the light goes out. No doubt she is afraid of angering my father. Sometimes I wish she were stronger and would stand up more to him. I feel so alone. The only consolation I have is that she was worried and waited until she saw I was all right.

  “I have lost sleep because of you,” my father says once we’re indoors.

  I begin making my way to the bedroom I share with my younger siblings, but Papá comes over and blocks the entrance.

  “You wanted to sleep outside like an animal, so you will have your wish.” He turns to the cabinet in our kitchen and takes out from one of its drawers a long rope. Wrapping the rope around one of my wrists, he creates a tight noose. Then as if I were a dog on a leash he pulls the rope, leading me outside and to the fig tree in the yard behind our house. He kicks me hard in the shins, causing my legs to buckle as I fall to the ground. Undoing the noose around my wrist, he places the rope instead around my body and ties me tightly to the tree. The rope’s fibers dig into my skin. I begin shivering from my wet clothes.

  “You are lucky I decided not to give you another beating once we got home. But you do not appreciate anything I ever do for you.” He walks away, slamming the door of our house.

  This is not the first time he has tied me to this tree and left me out all night. He has been doing it since I was ten years old. I used to beg him not to leave me all alone in the dark, which I was afraid of until last year, and I also pleaded with him to let my cat Tina stay outdoors with me. But of course my pleas always fell on deaf ears. Eventually, I stopped being frightened. For I realized it wasn’t the dark I needed to be terrified of, but rather my father.

  I suddenly hear a twig snap behind the tree. Sitting up, I see two glowing yellow eyes beaming right at me.

  “Tina! How did you get out?”

  I didn’t hear the door open after my father went inside, and I know he would never feel any compassion toward me to give in to my request of having my cat stay with me so that I wouldn’t be terrified. She must’ve been out earlier, and no one had noticed she wasn’t inside when they went to bed. My father always keeps her indoors at night to ensure she catches any mice we have. That is his sole purpose for having the cat. He’s always frowned whenever one of us showers any affection on Tina and treats her like a beloved pet.

  “Meow!” Tina rubs up against me. I tilt my head toward her and let her lick my cheek.

  I start sobbing, feeling so wretched tied to this tree with only my cat to console me. My distress only elicits further meows from Tina. She’s always hated it when one of us cries. She senses our anxiety and in turn becomes agitated. Tina is now licking me more frantically until finally I stop sobbing. Content that I have calmed down, she curls up against my side, keeping me warm. Even her purring soothes me as it reverberates throughout my body. Comforting myself as I always have by singing, I whisper the words to the song I sang earlier, “Stell-ahhh mia, stell-ahhh mia,” imagining I am one of the stars up in the universe and far, far away from my cruel father.

  2

  Una Tazza di Porcellana

  A PORCELAIN TEACUP

  April 30, 1969

  Though all of the days are grueling for me in my household, today is particularly difficult. All of my younger siblings have come down with the flu. My mother and I have hardly slept, caring for them as well as staying on top of our chores. And now Mama and I are starting to get sick as well.

  “Sickness does not stop a house from running,” Papá likes to say, for when my mother and I are ill, we must carry on as always. We do not get to lie down in bed and have someone take care of us as when my younger siblings or my father fall ill. Naturally, Papá never lifts a finger to help my mother and me with our added burden of tending to sick children. The daily routine must run as smoothly as usual. All three meals must be cooked fresh every day, the beds must be turned out and made, the floors scrubbed, and the children must be kept comfortable enough so that they are not crying their heads off when he comes home in the evening and does not wish to have his dinner disturbed. Even through crippling body aches and high fevers, I have my hands deep in ice-cold water as I wash the laundry. If my father so much as hears me complain of a physical ailment or sees me take a moment to catch my breath, he is quick to raise his voice or even slap me like a mule to force me to resume. If I didn’t love God as much as I do and respect His commandments, I swear I could murder Papá in his sleep.

  “Sarina, bevi questo,” my mother whispers as she hands me a cup of tea with fresh-squeezed lemon juice and honey.

  “Grazie, Mama.” I quickly gulp the tea, ignoring its scalding temperature out of fear that Papá will catch us taking a momentary break from our chores. I leave some tea for my mother and implore her to drink the rest.

  “No, ho già bevuto. I already drank mine. This is all for you. Hurry, before he comes back.” Mama glances nervously over her shoulder, toward the front door.

  Nodding my head, I drink the last of my tea. My mother takes the cup and hides it in her apron pocket in the nick of time since my father comes in a moment later. I resume my ironing. The steam along with the tea I had is making me extremely hot. I press the back of my hand to my forehead and notice it’s burning up. Quickly I glance in my father’s direction. He is at the kitchen sink, washing the sardines he has caught in the ocean. My mother stands beside him, shelling beans. Taking my handkerchief out of my bra, I dip it in the glass of cold water I use for filling up my iron and dab my face. Suddenly my mother’s anguished cries reach my ears, followed by something crashing to the floor. I’m afraid of the sight that will greet me as I turn around.

  “Ai! Ai!” Mama repeatedly screams as she presses her hands to her right eye. Blood rivulets gush down. The cup I had drunk tea out of now lies shattered by her feet. Papá must have seen it bulging from her apron pocket.

  “While I am out toiling hard, you decide to take a coffee break?”

  “It was just tea. I am sick. You know that.”

  I am surprised that my mother has dared to speak back to him.

  “Sick! What is this nonsense? Are you one of the children now?”

  I want to rush to my mother’s side, but I know that will make matters worse for both of us. He will not only lash out at me, but he might hit Mama again.

  With great effort, I turn around and resume my ironing, pretending I have not witnessed Papá beating Mama.

  My shoulders shake as I hear more china being shattered. My father has taken from the cupboard another one of my mother’s prized china teacups and throws it on the floor. He then stomps on the broken teacups, ensuring they cannot be glued back together—the ultimate insult to my mother. For he knows how much she loves her china, the only wedding gift she received. Her china set has grown smaller over the years, each piece destroyed after yet another of my father’s volatile fits. All that exists now are three dinner plates, one pasta bowl, and a creamer. I feel guilty that because of me my mother has lost more of her treasured china. I don’t know why she didn’t use one of the cheaper glasses we drink out of every day. Per
haps because it is rare that she has an occasion to use her beloved china, and she is tired of just seeing it sit in her cupboard. We rarely have guests out of fear of my father’s unpredictable behavior.

  “Some nights I don’t know why I come home at all when this is what welcomes me. Utter disrespect for my wishes. I should have never taken you off your father’s hands. You aren’t worth the paltry dowry he paid me.” And if his words don’t sting enough, he spits on the floor beside my mother’s defeated, crumpled form. Her arms are wrapped over her head, and her body shudders visibly. Papá passes me as he makes his way to his bedroom. I keep my eyes lowered; my heart races and doesn’t slow down until I hear his bedroom door close. I wait a few seconds to be certain he’s not coming back out before I rush over to Mama. Untying my apron, I press it to the cut above her eye to stop the bleeding.

  “Go away, Sarina, before he comes back and hits you, too. I will be fine.”

  “He’s probably deep in sleep already. Here, let me help you up.” I hoist my hands beneath Mama’s arms and pull her up. Her lips are shaking, and tears threaten to spill from her eyes, but she’s attempting to be brave for me. I smooth back the strands of her hair that have escaped from her bun. Taking a glass from the cupboard, I fill it with cold water and hold it to her lips. She takes a few sips.

  “Grazie, Sarina. Don’t worry. It’s just a little cut.”

  “I’ll get you a bandage.” I walk over to one of our kitchen drawers and search until I find one. Bandages don’t last long in this house.

  “Let me see if the bleeding has stopped.” I take the compress from Mama’s hand. The cut is still bleeding, but only lightly now. I run my apron under the kitchen sink faucet and clean up some of the blood that has dried on her skin. I then pat her skin dry with a dish towel before applying the bandage.

  “There. You will be as good as new.” I smile at Mama, who momentarily returns my smile before her smile disappears as her eyes fill with sadness once again. Her gaze wanders to the broken fragments of her teacups that are strewn all over the kitchen floor.

  “Quelle erano le mie ultime tazze di porcellana.” She shakes her head as she repeats again, “Those were my last porcelain teacups.”

  The teacups were her favorite part of the china set, and now none remain.

  “Don’t worry, Mama. Someday I’m going to buy you the best china set in the world.”

  Mama laughs. “How will you do that? By marrying a rich man?” “Ha! I refuse to ever get married and be another man’s slave again. I will earn my own money. Once I do that, I will get you and the children away from Papá.”

  “You dream too much, Sarina.” Mama gives me a sad smile.

  We jump as we hear footsteps coming from my parents’ bedroom. We nod quickly to each other before I resume my post at the ironing table. Mama begins sweeping up the shattered china. Papá comes out of the bedroom. He stops in front of me. I dare not meet his gaze. After what seems like forever, he walks toward the door and steps out. Soon, the scent from his pipe reaches my nostrils.

  Silently, I pray to God to make Papá fall sick with an incurable disease. And I vow that somehow I will find a way to keep my promise to Mama. She will have the most beautiful china set in the world.

  3

  La Lumaca

  THE SNAIL

  May 7, 1969

  My cousin Agata and I are skipping through the fields of the land my father and uncle inherited after their parents passed away. We are deep in the countryside, about five miles from our home by the beach. Agata and her family live a few houses down from ours. We love to come here because we are left alone for hours without our fathers’ ever-watchful glares. Though we are hard at work, harvesting the crops, mainly grapes, that our parents grow, Agata and I don’t mind since we have each other’s company and can talk freely. Every so often, we chase each other like little girls or hold hands as we’re doing now, singing and skipping through the lush vegetation.

  I have a small plot of land, on which my father allows me to grow whatever I want—one of the very few kindnesses he has shown me. He seems to take pleasure in the idea that I’ve inherited his love of gardening. I especially love to cultivate herbs and have become quite an expert in those with medicinal properties. The other night my mother suffered from terrible stomach indigestion. I added a couple of bay leaves to a pot of water and let it come to a boil. I poured the water into a cup and stirred in a teaspoon of honey so that Mama could easily drink the bay leaf water. Within minutes, her stomach cramps subsided. I’ve also used the bay leaf water for whenever one of us feels nauseated.

  Once Agata and I are done picking the ripe grapes from their vines, we head over to my garden. I’m busy snipping oregano, rosemary, and thyme with my garden shears. I inhale deeply the herbs’ fragrances. Agata snips bouquets of basil—no doubt to make her famous pesto sauce.

  “You are planning on charming our fathers with some pesto tonight?” I smile as I glance up momentarily from the rows of neatly planted herbs.

  “Whatever works for their bestial temperaments, Sarina.” Agata glances over her shoulder, making certain our fathers are not within earshot.

  “They always seem to be in a better mood once we visit the farm. Maybe we should move here?” My thoughts wander as I fantasize about living in the countryside with a father who rarely gets cross with his wife and children. Sighing deeply, I shake myself out of my reverie, knowing that will never happen.

  “Nothing will change our fathers. Mama tells me that old age softens people. But I have also heard it can make them worse. My hunch is that my Papá will be just as mean when he is old.” Agata takes a break and plops down on the ground. She pulls her hair out from the bun it’s in and quickly braids it. We both have very long hair, reaching down to our waists, and as such often wear it braided or coiled in a bun.

  “I love it when you wear your hair in braids. It looks like two perfect husks of wheat. I wish my hair were your golden hue instead of this coppery shade—or as Papá likes to call it ‘the hair of the devil.’ ” I stare longingly at Agata’s hair.

  “Zio Salvatore forgets that his own mother had your same auburn hair. I doubt he called her a devil.”

  Salvatore is my father’s first name.

  “Poor Nonna. I can’t believe she is no longer with us.” My eyes well up at the thought of my grandmother who died the previous year of a stroke. True, I never witnessed Papá utter a harsh word toward her, but I often wondered if Nonno hit her and that’s where Papá learned to beat his own wife and children. I asked my mother once if she knew if Nonno had beaten his wife and my father, but she told me she didn’t believe he did. Zio Mario, Agata’s father, is also known for his bad temper, but his punishments are less severe than those my father doles out. He slaps Agata when he is mad at her, but he never beats her viciously or ties her to a tree for an entire night like my father has done to me. And I don’t believe Zio Mario has ever laid a hand on Zia Carmella, Agata’s mother. I think about how sweet Enzo and Carlotta are, and I know without a doubt that they will continue to be kind, gentle people when they grow up. Pietro is still too young for me to know what his temperament will be like, but the more I ponder my father’s violent behavior, the more I become convinced he is just evil and there is no explanation for his outbursts.

  “Enough sad talk. Have you noticed the son of your new next-door neighbor? He is quite handsome. He said hello to me the other day when I was coming to your house.” Agata smiles mischievously.

  “Did you talk to him? I cannot believe this is the first I am hearing of this.”

  “I could not risk your father’s eavesdropping on us.”

  “Ah! True. Don’t keep me in suspense any longer. Did you say anything to him?”

  “I just nodded my head and gave him a hint of a smile. Again, I was too terrified of Zio Salvatore’s hearing me and then telling my father, who would no doubt accuse me of acting like a whore merely by returning a greeting.”

  I laughed. Th
ough it seems absurd, our fathers consider any attention a woman gives to a man to be inappropriate until they are married. Before then, one must never glance in a man’s direction, talk to him, or do anything else that might encourage him.

  “Do you have any idea what his name is?”

  “I heard his mother calling him the other day. His name is Giuseppe.” Agata is smiling to herself as she inhales the scent of the herbs I’ve placed in my basket on the ground.

  “I wouldn’t get carried away with any fantasies, Agata. Sometimes I think our Papás intend for us to become old maids so we can take care of them forever.” I now add to my basket of herbs a bunch of sage leaves I’ve picked. I like using them in my soups. Lately, I have been cooking dinner more to give Mama a break. She’s been looking more tired than usual. Wiping my brow with my apron, I close my eyes and enjoy the warmth of the sun on my face.

  “When our fathers are ready, they’ll arrange our marriages to the sons of some well-off merchants or landowners. That is after all the only value they see in having daughters. I heard Papá say so to Mama once.” The joy that was evident in Agata’s face moments ago is now replaced by the usual somberness I’m accustomed to seeing.

  “We’ll run away before that can happen. Don’t worry.”

  Agata laughs. “You and your plans of running away. How do you expect to get far when we live with two bloodhounds who sense everything?”

  “I’ll kill myself rather than let my father barter me like some chattel.” My face is drawn into a scowl.

  “Sarina! Don’t ever say such a thing! I would never forgive you—nor would God! You’ll burn in hell. Then Zio Salvatore will surely think he was right in saying you possessed the devil’s hair.”