by Dana Faletti
I continued to grasp the chair in front of me for support, feeling like I was about to lose my footing. In a matter of seconds, my past had been reduced to ashes. I had no home, no farm, no family in town other than Gio. Why had Gio sold our family farm? Who was he working for?
Heat and shock toppled me all at once, and I reached for Nicolina’s hand. “Signora, I need to lie down,” I said, the words sounding slurred and feeling like elastic on my tongue. Before I could make it to the stairs, my knees buckled. The world went black.
* * *
Luisa’s laughter welcomed me back to fuzzy consciousness. The absence of Domenico jarred me to my feet as I quickly surveyed my surroundings.
I was in a dim alcove and had been asleep under a thin wool blanket on a cot. An upturned barrel sat next to the bed, and on its top lay a tangle of rosary beads and a stained handkerchief.
Valanidi. I was back home. In the house of Nicolina Domani, my son’s grandmother. Was this her bed? Her makeshift nightstand?
I turned the corner and emerged into a tiny kitchen, where Luisa and Nino sat playing cards at a small wooden table.
“You’re cheating me for sure.” Luisa let out a throaty giggle.
“You French women don’t trust anyone,” Nino said, his warm brown eyes lit with laughter. Suddenly, he noticed me. “Maria!”
Nino rose from his chair to embrace me, planting two jovial kisses on my cheeks. “Are you okay? Mamma said you fainted and you needed rest.”
“I’m okay, Nino, thanks. I think your Mamma was right. I did need rest.” I nodded to Luisa. “So, you’ve met Luisa, I see.”
His face went from confusion to clarity and landed finally on amusement. “Ah, Luisa, is it?” He wagged his finger at her, and she laughed out loud. “Maybe I should be the one who doesn’t trust you, ragazza francesa.” He turned back to face me. “Your French friend told me her name was Genoveffa.”
I eyed Luisa, who was busy fixing the cards in her favor while Nino’s back was to her.
“You’ll have to keep your guard up when you’re with her, Nino,” I told him. “She likes to prank.”
“I’ll remember that.” His face reddened then, and he straightened, clearing his throat. “I have met your…your son.”
I smiled and stood tall, pushing away the shame that crept over me like demon fingers. I could not cower from it every time someone from my past discovered the circumstances of my new life.
“Yes, Nino, your nephew.”
He nodded, blushing back at me. “He is a strong baby, like his mother, Maria.” Nino took my hands in his, perhaps realizing that his words could ease some of my shame. “You don’t know what you’ve done for my mamma. This is the first grandson, and it means a lot to her…to all of us.”
I looked away, tears flooding my eyes.
“My mother’s sadness had grown worse since I returned from military duty injured, but now that she has a grandson—”
“What do you mean, injured?” I gasped as Nino showed me his left leg, or what was left of it. From the knee down, his angry red skin looked as if it had been chewed up, spit out, and then slathered back over the bone. Before I could search for the appropriate words to say, he put a hand on my shoulder.
“I was lucky to come away with my life. The countryside is littered with mines, Maria. Many of the others in my group were not so lucky.”
I nodded, trying not to stare at the light orange piece of wood that stood out oddly next to Nino’s olive skin.
“It’s only half a leg that got mangled, Maria,” he said, his voice lilting. “All of my other parts are in perfect shape and work just fine, you know?” A deep wheezy laugh escaped his lips then, transporting me to another time…a time when both Nino’s body and my family were yet unbroken. “So,” he went on, grabbing me from my memory trip, “I’m teaching your French friend how to play Scopa.”
“Luisa, you already know how to play Scopa,” I said, shaking my head. We’d played often at the convent, just to pass the time.
“Ah, putain, Maria, you spoil all my fun. Now, go collect your precious bambino while I have some laughs with this crippled Italian boy.”
My eyes widened at the sting of her strong words, but Nino only laughed even harder than before. Shaking my head, I left them thinking that the two of them would make a good match.
They were married just after Natale, before the turn of the year.
Chapter 25
Maria
Luisa’s train was sixteen pews long. It trailed her in a froth of white lace as she and Nino followed the priest, hand in hand now as husband and wife, back up the aisle of San Nicola. They smiled and waved at family and friends on either side of them, thanking everyone for coming. When they had nearly reached the exit doors at the back of the church, the shriek of a dissonant chord from the organ caught my attention. That was when chaos broke loose.
A gunshot and screaming.
People falling over each other in a flurry of panic tried desperately to get their feet around the kneelers and escape their pews.
My feet froze in their place on the altar. For a moment, I was paralyzed, searching the congregation for Nicolina and Domenico. She’d taken him from me before the mass so that I could perform my duties as Luisa’s witness, and now I wasn’t sure exactly where they were in the church. I had to find my son and get him away from the danger that had invaded this happy moment.
Suddenly, a familiar voice boomed toward the pulpit, its echo settling into my throat and choking me.
“You should all be ashamed of yourselves! Filthy pigs you are, all of you, to celebrate with this disgrace of a family. None could be more unworthy of celebration.”
Giovanni’s anger reverberated through the church, his sharp voice spitting knives, his hands gripping a mammoth black gun. It took me a moment to reconcile this rage-filled man with the brother I’d known all my life.
“Giovanni,” I called and stepped down from the altar, my fear of his weapon completely overshadowed by our history together.
“And you.” He stopped, holding the gun out with both hands and shaking it at me. “The town whore.” I flinched at his words. “How is it that you’re permitted to stand on that altar after you’ve committed such dirty sins?” He eyed me with a disgust so tangible, I immediately felt I was swimming in it. My legs grew heavy, and I was suddenly drowning in my shame.
“Gio, please,” I murmured. “Please put the gun down.”
“How dare you ask me for anything, Maria, when you’ve brought such shame upon our family? You, who broke our mother’s heart. It’s your fault she’s dead.”
His eyes burned into me, and I couldn’t speak.
“So.” Gio spoke, and the remaining congregation grew completely silent. “I hear you’ve brought back a bastard.” He scanned the church with his eyes. “Where is he, Maria? Where’s your bastard son?”
Flames rose in my chest, burning my lips into a flat line on my face. I glanced at the rifle in his hands and gritted my teeth, determined not to incite him further.
“I’ve brought a baby gift, Maria,” he said to me, and before I could take a breath, he stepped to the side, revealing the murky shadow of a man standing behind him. “I thought your boy should meet his son-of-a-bitch father.”
Nicolina’s sudden gasp finally revealed the location of my son, and without pausing to study the form and shape of Giuseppe Domani, I ran to her and scooped my child out of her arms. I kissed his forehead and shushed his whimpering, then began to back slowly toward the rear of the church.
“Ah, then,” Giovanni continued, swaying now as if he were drunk. “There he is. Stay there, Maria. I want to take a look.” He glared at me, and I stopped moving, sticky terror gluing me in place. Covering Domenico’s head with a blanket, I pulled him in to my trembling body and glanced at Nicolina. She’d remained in her same position in the pew and was staring not at Gio and his gun but at Giuseppe. A flicker of wrath licked at her face, and her mouth was squeezed into a
sour pucker.
Gio kicked at Giuseppe’s feet. “Hey, sporcaccione, why not take a look at your son?”
Giuseppe raised his head then, his face painted red with bruises and abrasions. His eyes searched the church and found mine. They lowered slowly onto Domenico’s blanketed shape and then quickly moved on to Nicolina. His countenance spoke nothing of shame or regret, only irritation at being lassoed and dragged out to face a chapter of his life that he’d left unfinished.
Just as Giuseppe opened his mouth to speak, Giovanni swatted him with the butt of the rifle. The crack of Giuseppe’s cheekbone was a prelude to the crack of gunfire. One accidental shot. A mistake.
When I felt the hot wetness pooling in my hands, I looked down to see where it was coming from. A crimson stain flooded the white of the blanket, expanding like a rose in forced bloom. I opened my mouth to scream but no sound emerged, and when I unwrapped my Domenico, there was just too much blood.
Blood and blue eyes.
Blood in blue eyes.
So much blood.
Chapter 26
Maria
“The bullet grazed his head just above the left ear. He’ll be okay. Just a little deaf in that ear if the mastoid bone was affected,” the doctor told us, placing his hand on the left side of Domenico’s head. “Otherwise, he’s okay.”
“Thank you, dottore,” Nicolina said, wrapping her wrinkled hands around his and holding on to them as if he were the pope and not simply an emergency room doctor.
I couldn’t speak, my tongue completely paralyzed by the fear of what could have been. All I could do was stare at Domenico, his tiny head wrapped in thick white bandages like a little mummy baby. His face peeked out from the gauze, crystal tears still stuck to his long eyelashes.
Later, when we were safely back home in Valanidi, Nicolina took Domenico from me and shooed me to her little bed to rest. I kneeled down next to the tiny cot and began to pray, thanking God for sparing my son, finally finding my voice and detangling it from the web of guilt and fear that had trapped it.
Shouting and a loud slam seized my attention away from my prayers. I stood and peeked around the corner of Nicolina’s alcove to discover the source of the uproar, my curiosity overpowering my fatigue.
There, in the yellow light of a naked bulb, stood Giuseppe Domani, the man who’d stolen my innocence but had given me the most precious gift of my life. His head hung forward dejectedly, and he was enduring a forceful tongue-lashing from his mother. At the sight of him, my face went hot. Waves of anger crashed into me, flooding my cheeks with a crimson I could feel. Months of blaming myself for everything, the disgrace and the pain of losing my mother, my Concetta—every emotion spilled forth. I wanted to spit at this man who’d seduced me and then run off, not only leaving my family hanging with no explanation but also leaving his son fatherless.
Sweet Domenico was the innocent victim of Giuseppe’s audacious irresponsibility. The man didn’t deserve to look at my son, let alone lay a hand on him, and yet after Nicolina’s tirade was spent, I watched her hand my baby to Giuseppe. I walked into the kitchen, my fingers itching to take Domenico from his father’s hands. Giuseppe was holding my blue-eyed angel out in front of him, staring widely at my son, while Domenico just smiled and cooed, kicking his legs back and forth.
I swallowed, hating myself for noticing how handsome Giuseppe was. Black magic eyes, dark stubbled skin. He wore a black hat that was tipped to the side in a display of casual arrogance. Today, however, his confidence was turned down a notch or two. His shoulders sagged a little more than usual. He looked tired and guilty, beads of sweat lining his forehead beneath the rim of his hat.
I scooped my son out of his hands and looked at Nicolina, her tiny frame so filled with fury that it took up more space than anything else in the room. Her lips were set in a thin line, and her black eyes rested, unmoving, on her oldest son. He cowered away from her gaze, then turned to face me.
A year before, I would have shied away from his eyes. I would have blushed and turned my head away, afraid of the truth in my heart, ashamed of it. He would have grinned that wicked grin and eaten me up from head to toe with just one look.
Not today, though. Today, I stared him down, rhythmically tapping my foot on the tile floor to steady myself and my anger. I slowly looked him down and then up.
“I see you’ve met my son.” I spoke evenly, keeping my gaze trained on his face. “Your son.”
“Maria,” Giuseppe began.
“Don’t you even speak to her, you cialtrone. You aren’t worth the dirt on her shoes.” Nicolina spat the words at him as she stood her ground, seeming so much taller than she was.
As an afterthought to Nicolina’s rant, I imagined that perhaps my dishonor was not only mine after all. Before this moment, I’d held my guilt to my chest like an admission, like a red letter I had no business in hiding. My only defense had been to admit I’d made a grave mistake in allowing Giuseppe to take hold of me. When Nicolina raged at her own son, I finally let go of a fraction of my shame. I exhaled as Nicolina shook a finger at Giuseppe’s red face.
“You go and wash off the filth of that puttana you were taking up with and then take yourself straight to San Nicola for confession.” She sat down at the kitchen table, never taking her eyes off of him, and then slammed her fist into the table, making even me jump. “Now!”
Giuseppe left quickly, his eyes down, his shoulders curved. Nicolina watched him go and then turned her attention to me, her eyes softening as she pulled out a chair and motioned for me to sit, which I did. Caressing Domenico’s bandaged face, she shook her head and then bit the knuckle of her right hand.
“I should have known your brother was a danger to us,” she said. “He has been involved in illegal activity for some time now.”
“Gio?”
“Yes. And your cousin Alfonso. They’ve joined up with a corrupt group of men in Reggio.”
This news only amplified my guilt. It seemed that my one bad decision had triggered a host of others. Giovanni’s corruption was yet another mark in the tally of things that were absolutely because of me.
“He won’t let up, Maria. After the wedding, you and Giuseppe must leave with Domenico.”
The wedding?
Her paper skin brushed over mine as she patted my hand and leaned her face in so close, I was drinking in her coffee breath.
“I have a cousin, Tino, who lives in the States,” she said.
What states?
“He left several years ago, when his home was destroyed by the earthquake at Messina. Loaded his family onto the ship for America.”
America?
“I also have a nice sum of money put away from when my husband was killed in the war.”
A haze misted over my eyes, slowing Nicolina’s lip movements and exaggerating her facial expressions. None of what she was saying made any sense to me. I couldn’t find the connections between her words and what they meant for me.
“Giuseppe will go first. My cousin will help him find a job and a home for the three of you. The wages in America are much better than here, Maria. You will live like royalty over there, and Domenico will be a little prince.”
Nicolina’s lips stretched over her teeth in a wide grin, revealing tiny black holes in the enamel.
“Once Giuseppe is settled, he will make arrangements for you and Domenico to follow. It will take some time, and we will have to be careful while you’re still here, but once you are away from all of this, it will be safe for him. And so much better. A much better life than you could ever have here.”
A hot fuzz pushed inside my ears, and I was suddenly inside a tunnel, far from Nicolina and her strange plan.
“I’ve spoken to Giuseppe and the priest as well. Father Aldo will perform the marriage and the baptism on Thursday, and Giuseppe will leave from Sicily next week. The ship sails from port every Monday.”
Nicolina stood then. As she left me and Domenico alone in the room, the sound of her sandaled
feet shuffled beneath my thoughts.
Today was Sunday.
I counted, the numbers puffing off of my lips in a breathy whisper.
“One, two, three, four.”
Four days until Thursday.
Four days until I’d become the wife of a man I could never imagine looking on with anything other than bitterness.
Four days until my son would have a legitimate father.
Four days.
I shuddered.
Chapter 27
Tate
Accordion music was still playing in her mind when Tate collapsed onto the lumpy single mattress at Zio Nino’s home in Valanidi. Drunk on dancing and sheer exhaustion, Tate drifted off quickly, only to awaken in a pool of sweat before dawn.
“Jesus,” she breathed, ripping off her drenched tank top and sitting up on the edge of the bed. After glancing at her phone to check the ungodly hour, she cranked open the window to let in some air, but found that there wasn’t any.
This was the mountains, for God’s sake. It was supposed to be refreshingly crisp up here. After a few moments of peering out into the utter darkness of predawn, Tate gave up and slunk back onto the damp sheets. Stubborn sleep refused to return, though, and she found herself lost in a maze of reflection.
It was ten thirty in the morning back home. Nathan was probably on rounds at the hospital. Tate was still perplexed over Suri’s discovery that her husband had been home so much since she’d been in Europe. Was he taking a mini staycation since Tate was out of the house? With nobody to bother him, was he finally able to spend some quality time at home?
Tate kicked at the sheets and flopped onto her other side, digging her face into the sweaty pillow. Behind closed eyes, she saw Michel’s face. He was the real reason for her frustration this morning—his overwhelming presence lingered over her even in his absence.