She’s frowning. “Because nothing. Because we’re family.”
“You need money. You need a place to stay.”
“No.” She reaches out but I lean away from her. “Oh, Frank—”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Soru . . .” Sister.
“Don’t speak to me in Sicilian like you’re suddenly as Caputo as they come!” My voice is loud again. I am holding tight to the doorframe.
Bella’s face hardens. “I am Caputo, Frankie. As much as you. I know I haven’t been around much lately but that doesn’t change the fact. And . . . I’ve had my reasons.”
“Yeah. You and your reasons. Go away.”
I push the door closed, but Bella lifts her palm and stops it from shutting.
“Move your hand,” I say.
“No.” She is calm.
“Move your hand.”
There’s an eight-inch gap between the door and its frame.
“Move. Your. Hand.”
“I’m not leaving, Frankie. Not anymore.”
I see her again as she was back then. Dark head leaning in towards him, hand pressed coyly underneath her thigh. Red lips seeking out that which wasn’t hers.
“Move your hand or I’ll break your fingers.”
As soon as she removes her hand, I slam the door shut.
* * *
I sleep fitfully, kicking off the covers, waking up cold, burrowing back down under the dusty quilt and then waking again, hot, my skin slick with sweat. When morning comes I feel more tired than when I went to bed. When I hear two voices talking outside the cabin I am confused before I am irritated.
“A farmer from Edison. He brought me here, and when he left I stayed. A good thing too. The place is nicer without him in it.”
A bellowing laugh.
“A senior citizens’ home,” Bella says. “About five years now. It’s good work.”
“Yoga . . . it keeps me centered.”
“Oh, I paint too!”
They talk of artists I’ve never heard of and the conversation becomes hurried and punctuated by more laughter. They talk over each other, chattering like squirrels.
“Wasn’t he wonderful? Such use of color. Wild.”
“They were his muses, of course.”
“The skin . . . the hair . . . It makes your heart sing.”
I get to my feet and open the door. Bella is sitting in her car, hair messy and face tired but smiling. She’s turned sideways so her legs hang out of the door. Merriem stands with a bag cradled in her arms.
“Frankie! Morning!” Merriem sings out when she sees me.
Bella looks up, but her smile fades when I return it with a glassy glare.
“I was just meeting your sister, Isabella.”
“Bella. People call me Bella,” she interjects.
“Beautiful. That’s what it means, right?”
Bella nods.
“You both are. The beautiful sisters.” Merriem points between us. “I can see the similarity. Your mother must be a beauty too.”
“We’re very different,” I say immediately.
Bella stares at me.
Merriem glances back at Bella. “Uh, well, that’s good too,” she says slowly. “Frankie, I brought more vegetables. Did you eat the last lot?”
“Almost. Hang on, I’ll get your basket.”
I step back into the cabin and place a jar of rhubarb on the counter before carrying the empty basket outside. Bella is already taste-testing sorrel from Merriem’s new offering. She looks slightly guilty and I’m glad. I’m surprised she stayed the night; I expected her to run away. As she always does.
“Thank you,” I say to Merriem, passing her the empty basket.
“My pleasure, honey, truly. It’s nice to share them with another human or two. Huia doesn’t love rhubarb and I think Jack’s sick of it.”
“Oh, no, he told me he likes it,” I reply.
Bella lifts her eyes back up to me.
Merriem sighs. “Bless him. He’s kind to me.”
“Your . . .” Bella asks Merriem, insinuation lifting her voice.
“Oh, no!” Merriem laughs. “He’s got to be almost twenty years younger than me. More your girls’ age and type, I’d say.”
“Oh?” Bella says.
“He has a daughter,” I say tersely, hating Bella for being such a flirt. I never had it in me; she seems to have been born with a double dose. Don’t think I didn’t see you.
Now they’re both staring at me. Merriem changes the subject.
“He said he had to give you a vacation notice?”
I nod and shrug.
“Barbara Gardner,” Merriem says, shaking her head.
Bella frowns. “What does she—”
“She doesn’t even like it here,” Merriem continues.
The Gardners’ cabin isn’t in a trendy, luxurious location like Orcas Island or Lake Wenatchee or Lake Washington. Every year Mrs. Gardner rented a beautiful house on one of the San Juan Islands, right by the ocean, and took pictures of her beautiful sons standing shoulder to shoulder by the water, arms crossed, hair thick, teeth as white as a photograph in a Ralph Lauren catalogue.
“You know her?” I ask Merriem, who nods.
“Not well. But I’ve lived here long enough to have bumped into her a few times. I’ve been around when she’s been giving Jack his orders. He does a good job for her, above ’n’ beyond what she pays him—or what she deserves—mainly because he cares so much about this place. Not that she’d notice—” She cuts herself off. “I’m speakin’ out of school.”
“The Gardners want you to leave?” Bella asks me.
I ignore her.
“You girls should come to my place for dinner one night,” Merriem says, changing the subject again. “In fact, I’ve got another new friend popping over tonight. Why don’t you come too? I can ask Jack and Huia as well. Lord knows I have too much harvest for just me.”
“Oh, no—” I begin.
“That would be great,” Bella says, beaming.
Merriem smiles back. “Good.”
I try again. “No. Thank you, but—”
“Can we bring anything?” Bella asks.
“No, Bella—”
“Ah. No, I don’t think so,” Merriem says, musing.
“Wine?” Bella asks.
“Okay, wine. Perfect.” Merriem looks pleased.
“Wait, no, Bella isn’t staying,” I say, but they’re still looking at each other.
“Do you think I could be so rude as to ask . . .?” Bella licks her lips. “Our father, Joe, he’ll be home by himself . . .”
“Bella!” I hiss.
“Of course!” Merriem says. “The more the merrier.”
“Merrier Merriem,” Bella replies with a smile.
“That’s what they say.”
Then they’re both laughing and I feel as though I could be a mile away.
“Bella, no,” I whisper urgently.
“It’s okay, Frankie.” Merriem pats my arm. “I love to host. And I need to get rid of some of my vegetables. It’s a great solution. Truly, no trouble. Quite the opposite. Being busy keeps me out of mischief.” She picks up her basket. “I’ll see you tonight around seven. Does that suit?” She’s looking at me.
“Thank you,” I stutter.
“Thank you, Merriem,” Bella says smoothly.
I can hardly bear to look at her. Ruffled, cinnamon-tipped curls, wide smile, sparkling nose stud, a picture of perfect trustworthiness. Almost elegant. Charming. She is a snake. I turn away from her. “The aunties are coming,” she calls to my back.
“What?”
“The aunties are coming. I thought you should know.” She sounds a little apologetic. “And . . . I’m not leaving, Frankie.”
“Perfect,” I mutter. “That’s just perfect.”
* * *
I clean the cabin angrily. Soak cutlery in boiled water; take a hot, wet cloth to all the surfaces, even the inside of the close
t. The omnipresent dust is thick and gray and furry. I tuck the coloring book and crayons into a drawer, and hang the red-and-white quilt over the back of the chair to air. Then I eat rhubarb and yogurt and a hunk of bread, make myself a coffee and drink it standing near the window, watching Bella doing yoga.
She bends and stretches like a cat, long and fluid, as if her limbs are simply strung together. Her skin is as golden as it was when we were kids, spending our days outside, and she’s lost her teenage softness. Her face is sharper, her arms leaner. She moves languidly, as though nothing has happened, as if she’s always been here, as though no one was just about to be married, as though no one has died.
I want to shout something cruel: “You look ridiculous!” Or reel off the colorful mean things Sicilians would say.
But I don’t. I don’t want her to see me watching her. I don’t want her to try to talk to me.
She rolls up her yoga mat and tosses it into the back of her car. Then shakes out her legs and walks into the forest as if she owns the place. As if she’s in an activewear commercial.
I stare into the trees long after she’s gone from sight, sending wordless curses after her.
Polpette al Sugo
MEATBALLS IN SIMPLE SAUCE
A typical Sicilian dish to serve family for lunch or dinner
Serves 4
1 teaspoon fennel seeds
4 garlic cloves
1 handful flat-leaf parsley
12 ounces ground pork (or 6 ounces ground pork and 6 ounces ground veal)
1/4 pound pecorino cheese, grated 1/2 cup fine dried breadcrumbs
1 onion, finely chopped
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 eggs, beaten
All-purpose flour
21/2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1 can (14 ounces) diced tomatoes
A pinch of dried oregano
PREPARATION
In a small bowl, soak fennel seeds in a little water (about 2 teaspoons). Finely chop 2 of the garlic cloves and set aside. Take the 2 remaining garlic cloves and the parsley and chop together so both are finely chopped and the flavors are combined.
In a large bowl, combine the ground pork with the parsley-garlic mixture, pecorino, breadcrumbs, half the onion, and the soaked fennel seeds. Season with salt and pepper, then mix in the beaten eggs.
Spread some flour on a plate. Using your hands, form the meat mixture into balls (about the size of a golf ball). Flatten them slightly, dust with flour, and shake off the excess.
To make the sauce, heat 1 tablespoon of the olive oil in a heavy-bottom saucepan. Add the chopped garlic and remaining chopped onion and cook gently until softened but not colored. Add the tomatoes and oregano and season with salt and pepper. Cover and cook over high heat until the tomatoes have reduced to a sauce, about 10 minutes.
To cook the meatballs, heat the remaining 1 tablespoon olive oil in skillet. Add the meatballs and cook until golden brown all over. Transfer to the saucepan of sauce, cover, and simmer over low heat for 10 to 15 minutes longer.
Serve the meatballs with the sauce or, for a typical Sicilian meal, remove the meatballs and serve the sauce over pasta, then present the meatballs as a second course with vegetables or salad.
Chapter Eight
• • • •
“Francesca?”
Piercing, rolling voice. European inflections. Zia Connie.
Both aunties are getting out of Papa’s car, Papa helping Aunty Rosa, and Aunty Connie already standing, squinting, frowning, and calling out.
“Where is she? I can’t see her. Where is she, Giuseppe?”
I hear Papa mumble in Italian: Wait, sister.
Aunty Rosa is wearing a silk head scarf with big dark glasses, as though she’s Elizabeth Taylor. She’s beautiful for her age, and knows it too, though she’s bigger and softer than she used to be. In black-and-white photographs her little waist is nipped in, forming impressive triangles down to her hips and up to her bust. Now, two children and three decades later, her middle section is fleshy, filled in. She is holding a bag that I know will be packed with home cooking.
A dark-haired young man gets out of the backseat and yawns, stretches, and looks around. He’s wearing a tight black T-shirt and denim shorts. Vincenzo, my cousin, Aunty Rosa’s son. He appraises the cabin, peeking over the top of his sunglasses, and sees me. He gives me a wink and a grin.
“Francesca?” Aunty Connie again.
I shrink back into the dim light of the cabin.
Aunty Connie has glasses too, but they are prescription rather than sunglasses. She is the eldest, and has never married or had children. Her brother Pietro, the youngest in the family, died when he was very little, of polio, back in Sicily. Soon after, Nonna and Nonno moved to America with the four remaining children: Concetta (Aunty Connie), Rosaria (Aunty Rosa), Giuseppe (my father, Joe as most people call him), and Mario. Nonno said they left Sicily because it was too poor—beautiful, but like a prison.
Aunty Connie is wearing a neat jacket and matching dress in conservative green-gray, the same color as her eyes. Her figure has never had Rosa’s curves. It’s straight, columnesque, like a Douglas fir.
“Are you in there? Good Lord, is she in there?” Rosa asks.
“Rosa . . .” Papa again.
There’s a short silence, then a shrill retort from Aunty Connie. “Get your hands off me, Giuseppe. Francesca? Francesca, come out here and look at me right now.”
“Francesca?” Papa’s voice sounds tired. Tired and full of love. “Will you come out for a moment? Your aunties want to see you, darling.”
I hear Aunty Connie muttering, “You always babied her, Giuseppe.”
I finally go to the door. Connie has her hands on her hips, Papa is frowning, and Rosa is brushing something from her skirt. Vincenzo is still grinning, his muscular arms folded across his chest, his sunglasses now folded and hanging from the collar of his T-shirt.
“Francesca Theresa Caputo.” Aunty Rosa sighs, coming towards me with her arms wide.
“I’m sorry, Zia, I—”
“Are you okay?” Papa asks.
“I’m fine,” I say, trying to sound reassuring.
“See, I told you she would be safe,” Papa says in a slow, calming voice.
“Oh, for God’s sake. Look at her! She’s not fine. She looks like . . . like . . . a homeless person,” Aunty Connie splutters.
“Bedda Matri, she does,” agrees Aunty Rosa sadly.
Vincenzo places a hand against his mother’s back and soothes, “Mammina.”
I run a hand over my hair.
“She is perfectly . . . safe here, just as Bella said.” Papa is careful with his words, as always with his sisters.
Vincenzo looks at me. “Where is Bella?”
I shrug.
He steps away from his mother to scan the surrounding forest.
“Look at her hair. What is she wearing?” Aunty Rosa talks as though I’m not there, her voice breathy and appalled. “And no makeup! Like a hobo.”
“Everyone will think she is mad,” Aunty Connie agrees.
“Zia Rosa, Zia Connie, I’m okay.” Although being referred to as mad has me reeling a little. “Please, come in. Have a look around.”
The moment I make the offer I regret it.
Papa reaches around Aunty Rosa’s shoulder to offer reassurance, patting her back and shushing her. “Francesca isn’t mad,” he says with that gentle voice of his. “Come on, let’s have coffee together.”
“In there?” Rosa is sniffing. She digs in her purse, drags out a little purple plastic packet and tugs a tissue from it, carefully dabs at the corners of her eyes.
Aunty Connie crosses her arms and gives me a disapproving frown.
“I have a kettle, an espresso pot,” I say, feeling embarrassed. “It’s quite comfortable.”
It’s confusing having the aunties here. They had been at our apartment just a couple of weeks before. They thought it was just
lovely and told Papa so. They were proud of their niece with the nice home and the nice man. I relished hosting them in the place I’d made into a home; the result of weekends spent at Home Depot and Ikea when Alex went surfing. Cushions and throw blankets, lamps, flowers in glass vases, prints in frames.
“I’m going to look for Bella,” Vincenzo says.
“Is she staying here too?” Rosa asks, incredulous, stepping warily into the cabin.
I don’t tell her that Bella slept in her car last night.
“She’s probably just gone for a walk,” I say to Vincenzo, who waves as he heads up the driveway.
The rest of us squeeze into the tiny cabin. Aunty Connie pushes at something, a dead moth perhaps, with the tip of her pump.
Papa clears his throat. “Sit down, everyone. Connie, you take the seat. Rosa, next to me on the bed here.” He presses down gently on Aunty Rosa’s shoulders.
“I’ll get the espresso,” I mumble.
“I won’t have one, cara mia,” Papa says politely.
I give him a grateful glance. It will take me some time to make everyone a cup using the little coffeepot.
I light the camp stove while Aunty Connie and Aunty Rosa watch in silence. One of the few silences I’ve ever experienced with my aunties. I find myself babbling.
“This was Errol Gardner’s cabin; he was Alex’s great-grandfather. He built it with some other settlers by hand. So it’s one of a kind. Alex’s grandfather, Hank, spent a lot of time restoring it. Alex’s father has been less . . . Well, Alex loved it here.” My voice drifts off as the pot starts to steam.
“It has been in the family for many generations,” Papa adds supportively, nodding at his sisters.
I pull out two cups, relieved that I spent the morning cleaning.
“Sugar?” I ask Aunty Connie, who replies with a sour expression.
“That’s Rosa. You know perfectly well I don’t take any.”
“Sorry. Zia . . .?”
“Due,” Aunty Rosa replies, holding up two fingers. Her nails are painted with bright pink polish; many sparkling rings are tight on her fingers. She leans over to touch the quilt hung over the back of the chair Aunty Connie is perched on. “Barbara Gardner made this?”
I pour the hot coffee into the two cups and add sugar to Aunty Rosa’s. “I don’t think so. Perhaps Alex’s grandmother. I’m not sure.”
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