ALL IN THE FRAME

“All the perfect people, shallow and deceitful,

Staring back at me on T.V. and magazines,

Look so good like a box of fresh Twinkies,

What the hell happened to me?

So I took a drive to a rich and wealthy country,

Saw everything I wanted and everything I need,

Went right up and tried to join their party,

You oughta seen the look when they saw me…”¹

…As soon as I woke up I called Pessi. He said, ‘Ehh, I’m ar’ight. Eye’s all puffy ‘n’ bruised. I’m cut up everywhere. Where da bawdle hit s’swelled up but dry.’ When I asked the reason for the blind rage, he soft-pedaled the situation with the tough-guy routine, saying that the other had it coming. Story goes: Pessi had punched the other in the infield but fell down while slinging him towards the fence…then Pessi went chasing after him…back behind the batter’s cage…but the other, with a good lead, had time to pick up a beer bottle before Pessi caught up…at which point the other blindsided him with it, consequently breaking his mask of sanity. But now Pessi was acting like nothing had happened, that he hadn’t turn someone into mush. Oh well, I was just glad to hear he was “ar’ight” both physically and mentally, because I wasn’t. I too had abrasions and contusions, along with heartburn, muscle spasms, dizzy spells, and my back hurt so bad that I had to lie in bed all day. It gave me an excuse to spend my last Saturday inside, reading. I had to pause whenever the thought of college and how tomorrow was thee day popped into mind. Certainly wasn’t any family pressure on me to excel. Ma just said, ‘Me tappiceddu va a fari comu tutti li iorna.’² Her idea of college likely came from some cheesy 80s movie about a “beach college” that portrays college to be based around volleyball games. After a friendly coed game—Bikinis vs. Speedos—it’s time to study in the sand by reading romance and mystery novels…til the night brings half-assed promiscuities. But at least Ma was fancying some kind of future for me. Rick didn’t seem to overstand the first part: that I was moving out! When I told him about my matriculation, he dismissively said, ‘Well don't think I'm payin' for it,’ then buried the matter in the sand.

Stupid question, but is it true that many people take the blame for the negligence and abuse of their parents or spouse? posing questions to themselves like why’s this happening to me? or what’s wrong with me? I was always wondering what happened to him? and what went wrong with him? It’s like a psychological power-game: who can get who to ask what questions will determine who thinks what. In psycho-metaphorical terms, people like my father are cruel shepherds on the hunt for sacrificial sheep. They want to transfer their distress to the sheep through nefarious methods of herding: they seek a guilt-free conscience for whatever they’ve done but only at another’s cost, sometimes the whole herd! And when the cruel shepherd does succeed, the sheep (now transformed into a downtrodden subthing) is left alone to cry little sheep-tears, dealing with things they can’t overstand: waah, waah, waah’ing, instead of saying, baa-baa-baa, I don’t think so dad! I’m not your feeble sheep for sacrifice! Now a true shepherd is a gentle hub who brings the family together centripetally, for she gathers the sheep in her arms and carries them close to her heart.³ Hence, the construction of the word shepherd: “she”-“p”-“herd.” It stands for “she pieces the herd”; meaning, it’s the soft touch of a woman that brings the family together; not the cruel shepherd dressed in sheep’s skin, hiding the wolf inside, who, once securing the flock inside his fence, rips off his gilded garb, reveals the wily wolf, then drives the flock outward with no way of escaping, for the wolf’s incisors will dig deep into the sheeps’ pelt and throw them back in for more! And poor Ma, she’d been sacrificed just like that by the insidious shepherd who’d beguiled her just enough to get her into his flock, for—in literal terms—she’d shed tears for him: the ultimate snare. At a young age I promised myself that I would never shed tears for his cleansing. Never. I jumped the fence. Baa-baa!

***

I woke up Sunday morning to the sound of the cruel shepherd beating on the door, bleating for me to get up and unlock the door. When I got up and unlocked the door (he hated whenever I locked the door!) he asked why I wasn’t ready for church, and why Ma was cooking supper this early. He’d probably already asked her these questions, and knew himself, but wanted to hear it from my mouth. When I told him that I wasn’t going to church and that I was—he slammed the door shut in my face. Minutes later, he was heading out the door, yelling that he was never coming back, which meant he would be back around ten, drunk, because he had work in the morning. ‘Good,’ I thought, ‘I don’t wan’im da be around taday—my LAST day.’

After brushing and flossing my teeth, I called Pessi to tell him to come over in a bit. Then I grabbed and shook open an oversized garbage bag. Down on my hams, I began shoveling my haggard Ishmaels and Ragamuffins into the dark hole. Meanwhile, running through my head was an image of the typical college-bound go-getter, spending his final day home on his bed, filling himself with nostalgia: First, he pulls out from underneath his bed a little box containing the movie ticket stub from his first date, old concert tickets, pictures from the prom, spring breaks, family vacations, hundreds of receipts totaling elation: all hard evidence for his young paid-for adventures. My only comparable items were crumpled up citations and subpoenas. The typical college-bound go-getter pays for (or has paid for him) his ticket first, then enjoys the event; I’d always enjoyed the event first, then paid the price later.

After closing up the box of memories, the college-bound go-getter then turns to his nightstand where, slanting but up firm, sits a family portrait within a gilded frame. Family history and spirit just exudes from the photo…The photographer is cheerfully arranging bodies and says he’ll fine-tune things back at the post, if needed. The sturdy-chinned father is positioned in the upper-middle part of the photo. He swells out his chest, revealing the upper portion of his Armani. His accomplished smile tells the photographer: ‘Look at this great nuclear family. Stop! Now look at me, the nuclear engineer of this great nuclear family. Yes, what a fucking success I am!’ His petite wife is aligned where her head sits at the center of his chest. The sparkle of her diamond studs is overpowering the lighting. In her head, she’s reflecting on a past image of herself: ‘Oh, so young and so new back then…’ (a mental sigh) ‘…I want new! new! NEW!’ But other than new clothes and new gobs of makeup, the only thing new is additional wrinkles: the reason for all the makeup. However, she smiles anyway because the sudden thought of plastic surgery consoles her. Her red lipstick-smile conveys to the photographer: ‘Hey, loser, don’t you wish you were my husband? He’s gonna keep this face looking new! You never could, but he, my husband, is such a fucking success!’ Then hovering in the left-hand corner is the little girl. (Never younger than five because babies are unfavorable to the success-story portrait, for they’re symbolic of too much work!) In the back of spoiled brat’s hair is a pink bow. Luxurious and vivacious, her blond curling-ironed curls are moving around like thousands of slinkies dropping down a winding staircase. Soon, she hopes, she’ll be just like her mother. She gives a cute-as-a-button smile that says: ‘You know, Mr. Photographer, I model clothing for young girls at the mall. My agent says I have a face for the frame. So you should probably focus a little more my way. No, a little more. Just a wittle-bitty more. There you go! Success! Success! Sweet freakin’ success!’ Finally, the new man on the rise: the strapping big brother on the right: the college-bound go-getter. His face is ruddier than his father’s. The most ravenous eyes in the family. With his arms locked and gauged downward, he thrusts out his chest with pride and accomplishment. He glares into the camera lens with a smile that would assure anyone of anything. And that confident, suave smile says to the photographer: ‘Hey, bud, I’m off to a good college. Same one my father went to. And here’s a little secret: that sucker is gonna send me so much money to blow on booze, clothes, furniture, a new car—just anything that’ll impress those college whores! HA! And when I graduate with a degree in Business, which I’ll have done shit to get, he’ll even hook me up with a job! What a fucking success I’ll be! Now seriously, bud: take the picture before I go get the supervisor. I got things to do.’ So together, The Great Nuclear Family faces forward in strength. All smiles. All stars. Annnnnd—SNAP!!! The picture captures a moment of their indestructible bond, letting all who look upon it know that THIS family is far from weak. They’ll never show otherwise. It’s all in the frame.

While bitter-reminiscing over someone else’s sweet reminisces, I managed to fill two hefty garbage bags with my orphan clothes, one for the colored kids and one for the white kids: the Ishmaels and the Ragamuffins. Orphan clothes? Well, see, my room lacked a closet; I only had a dresser, and they, the orphans, usually sat piled in the corner anyway. Maybe they were the most excited to leave since they would finally have a cool place to hangout: a closet!

I lugged the bags of orphans over to the wall where I was situating everything I was taking. I had most of the room taken care of except for the posters on the walls. I realized that I would have to leave most hanging, but Darby was definitely coming. Unfortunately, I would also have to leave many books behind, for the time being. I really didn’t have much else to bring besides three binders of music, my stereo, television, the orphans, and all the small things.

Ma appeared in the doorway. On my knees, I did a double-take because she wasn’t in her tattered nightgown! Idda s’allicchittia?⁴ Yes, all dressed up in a long black poplin skirt, with a matching blouse flowered with bronze swirls. The blouse had a wide V-space of flesh wherein small violet glass beads with golden links hung tightly against her clavicle, and downward from the sternum, a golden Cross: reverence for the Rosary but not the Rosary itself, for that would be sacrilegious. She had a faint amount of blush powered on her bubbly brown cheeks; a glossy pink painted across her lips; and a sharp black curled atip her vigorous eyelashes, drawing the copper out of her irises like newly polished gems. Her ebony hair was also glimmering and seemed extra wavy as if heat-enhanced. Naturally, her hair was rather straight from root to shoulder…becoming increasingly wavier…til flickering out at mid-back. Stylistically, she threw thick individual waves in front of her shoulders and breasts, like a Greek goddess.

Once the moment in which she let me look her over ended, she smiled as if to thank me. And stunned, I smiled back because Ma was looking hot! OWW!

‘Ciauuuu, Tappicedduuu!’⁵ she crooned.

‘Bon giornu.’⁶

‘Almost finished?’

‘Yeeeeah, I’m gih’n’ ‘ere.’

‘Well, Uncle Alfonse and Aunt Stella izza coming now. Is Pipi still coming?’

‘Yeah. He should be here soon.’

‘Va beni.⁷ Soon as everybody comes, we eat. Everyting izza rrready now.’ (Ma humbly rolled Rs; initial- and double-Rs sound closer to flapping Fs. To the unlearned ear, the sound of Sicilian might suggest desperation or sorrow in the speaker, for Sicilian isn’t like the giddy and jolly Italian dialects. No matter what tongue Ma used, her tone was very guttural but in seductive, soporific, God-it’s-so-dreamy kind of way.) ‘I make-ah Spaghetti Bellini, and Aunt Stella izza bringing capicola panini and dee choke-a-lot cassata you like. Mi dispiaci, Tappiceddu, nun iè mancu tiramisu, ie nun sacciu se c’haiu i soddi pi gghiri a cattallu o—’⁸

‘Ehh, don’t worry about it. ‘At all sounds fine besides’ah capicola; she knows I don’t eat dat shit.’ I stood up and lit a cigarette.

‘Filty abit!’ Ma stood in the doorway emphatically shaking her head as if to help drop that horrid “h”: one of her abits. ‘You better stooop—’

‘Hellooo-oh!’ rang out Aunt Stella’s voice from the dead room. ‘Anyone heere-eere! Hellooo-oh!’ Smiling, Ma rolled her eyes at the pertinacity of la pazza cu na vuccazza.⁹ Ma went to greet them because if you didn’t right away both would stand (well, Uncle Alfonse would be sitting) there, confused, yelling and complaining…

…When Pessi arrived, I was still down on my knees, throwing the last of the small things into a box. Standing in the doorway, he braced his tatted arms out and high against the frame as if waiting for an introduction to enter. He was wearing a white tank-top with blue jeans that looked funny because they were way too tight. He was even smiling, in spite of the bruise beneath his right eye, which wasn’t that bad. The scratches on his face and arms looked worse due to abundance.

‘Houzza head, Tyson?’

He walked in and bent over to show me the cut. It started near his right temple and went into his hardly-hiding-it hairline. About two inches long, black, crusted, and knotted: all things considered, a lucky break.

‘Yeah, you’ll live. But wonder if ‘at other kid’s ar’ight. I mean, you rilly fucked ‘im up.’

‘He’ll live too.’

I grunted. ‘Bedder hope so.’

He walked over to the television and turned it on. Then he plopped back-down on my mattresses, crossing his ankles over and using the remote at his waist. While he channel surfed, I finished taping up the last box. With a heave and a ho, I hoisted it atop a larger box and slowly exhaled. I moved in front of a skinny floor fan and feigned a heavy sweat-wipe; the plastic blades of the fan were cutting the thick air into putrid slabs, while (like a phonic backdrop) providing our conversation with a methodical hum.

‘Dimmi, frutuzzu miu:¹⁰ are you going to meeeece me?’ I said satirically. Pessi didn’t bother looking over at my silly eyelashing face.

‘Nah. ‘Member dat Teresa chick I yoosta bring out? Anson’s cousin?’

‘Hmph. Like I could ever forget a fuckin’ mouth like ‘at.’

‘We’ll ya know she lives like five-ten minutes from Aristod. She akshly cawed me the other night. Stupid chick’s still tryin’ah get with me—like ‘fishly.’ (Officially.) ‘Figure might as well pretend to. Den I’d have a reason da come see ya.’

‘Wha’, you can’t come dahn da see me on yir own?’ I pushed him off the bed so I could lie down. He repositioned himself on the front edge, upright, turning from the television to me as we talked. Still a slight hum. Hmmm…

‘Hmmm. So ‘at’s where Squawk lives,’ I noted to myself. The thing that had remained in my memory about Teresa Cazzata was her loud, annoying, squawky voice.

‘Yep. She’ll be yir new neighbor.’

‘Awesome; tell her bake me a fuckin’ welcome-da-the-neighborhood cake. But for rill, man, how you plan on gih’n’ dahn ‘ere? Don’t think I’m gonna be drivin’ back ‘n’ forth every weekend juss da pick ya up. Too far for that shit.’

‘Dude, there’s a bus route dit goes dahn ‘ere on the weekends.’

‘Dude, don’t be fuckin’ stupid: there ain’t no bus goin’ dahn ‘ere from here.’

‘I’m tellin’ ya, dere is. She said on the weekends a bus goes from the campus upda Colbyville, ‘n’ ‘en ‘ere’s ‘at one ‘uts always runnin’ back ‘n’ forth between Colbyville ‘n’ Marian Heights.’

‘Doubt it. (Stupidest fuckin’ thing I ever heard.)’ Not sure why I was being so skeptical about it—well, mostly likely because it had come from her mouth. Even so, Cobyville—a small city filled with colleges and shopping centers, almost the exact distance between LaSalle and Pittsburgh—just seemed too insignificant for distant bus routes. But if true, then all the better: Pessi could visit with ease and a bunch of quarters.

‘Well, help me carry dishit out ‘fore we eat. I wanna get it done ‘n’ over with.’

‘You takin’ah TV too?’ He pointed at it as if it once belonged to him.

‘Yeah. I haven’t even talk da my roommate, so who knows whadee’s bringin’.’

‘You takin’ all ‘eez books too?’ He pointed at the three large stacks of books flush against the wall, left of the television.

‘Nah, not dis trip. Dey’d take up da whole car, ya know.’

He stood up and went to my white-trash exhibit of high-class books. ‘Man, ya know I searcly stole about half ‘eez fuckin’ books for you.’

I laughed. ‘Yeah, ‘n’ ya coulda got me some more if ya woulda taken’ah fuckin’ metal oudda Da Great Gatsby ‘n’ not hadda take off fuckin’ runnin’.’ That’s what happened. Pessi used to come with me to the local library whenever I wanted to add a book to my collection because the librarians knew me, liked me, and I went there too often to take the chance myself. So I would have Pessi cut out the metal strips that made the detectors go off. The last time he did it, he was shooting for three books, which he stuffed around his waist, but somehow he didn’t fully deactivate The Great Gatsby. I was watching from a distance—(I would never associate with him while there to avoid suspicions)—and when the alarm went off, he froze in disbelief for a second—before taking off quicker than Gatsby and Daisy in their own fictional hit-and-run.

‘Yeah, I fucked ‘at one up,’ he admitted. ‘Bahdiz like a sign you shouldn’t be readin’ so much. Izzer a word for someone dit has sexual fantasies over books?’ He stylishly (and fittingly) picked up Lolita, holding it out for me to observe him pinching lil Lo’s boob on the cover; Pessi actually knew the gist of the book.

‘I dunno; uhhh—a bibliophile maybe?’

Pessi huffed. ‘I ‘on’t fuckin’ know. Yir the fuckin’ cawidge nerd…No, ya know wha’: screw bibliophile. I’ll juss caw ya a book-fucker. Yeah, I betcha fuck ‘eez books when no one’s around.’ He held Lo up to the light to see if his forensic insight could catch any sexual fowl play. ‘I see sum’n. Look! Look!…’

‘Pipi, when did you-ah—huuuh!’ A sudden and dramatic gasp from Ma the instant Pessi turned and she saw the black eye. ‘Bedda matri, puvireddu! Chi succediu a to facci? Veni veni! Fammilla vidiri!’¹¹ She rushed over to him, grabbing his forearms to hold him still while she examined his eye…til spotting the knot. She gently brushed her hand over it, asking what happened. Although honest about getting into a fight, Pessi was sparing her the horrid details. At one point, she offered to embrocate his wounds with ointment, but since he denied with resolve, she continued to nurse him verbally, as if it had all been unprovoked, as if he was so innocent. She kept interjecting with Caspiterina! which is along the lines of “Wow!” or “Good Heavens!” And thank Heaven (as I had a time or two) that Ma taught me both Sicilian and English when I was young, even though at the time she was just learning English herself; and since she never got around to socializing, most of her grammar remained back-at-the-boat; but since I ventured out into the Yinzer Jungle, I’d been able to come back to the coast and feed her a line or two, usually to no avail. Be that as it may, I assumed Ma had taught me Sicilian just so she could talk to someone in her native tongue and thus “feel at home.” But Rick hated it because he didn’t overstand Sicilian and thus thought we were “conspiring in the house.”

Sitting on the edge of the mattresses, I watched her pampering with a dreamy smile. Once healed with a hug and a kiss on the cheek, Pessi started telling Ma how beautiful she looked; in parodic English, she told him to stop it, but I could tell she loved the flattery. He said that he’d never seen her so dressed up. Pinching out her skirt, with a bit of twist in her her hips, she replied, ‘What, deece ol’ ting?’ Yeah, it was good to see Ma in a good mood, and a nice skirt.

‘Can ya believe it, Ma,’ Pessi began, already with an air of facetiousness, ‘a cawidge boy now. Our liddle smartass goin’ off da make millions for us.’

Moving behind him, Ma wrapped her bronze arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder, allowing her hair to snake down his chest. ‘Ahh, you two grow up too fast. Yesterday you two-ah stand at my knees. And now look—’ She backed away from him and measured the top of her head to his neck. ‘All grown up!’

‘Taaay-yaaah!’ bellowed out Pazza’s vuccazza; Aunt Stella was probably deathly afraid (for whatever irrational reason) to come to my room to see what Ma was doing. Ma told her that she was coming, but first, in a whisper, she told me that she wanted to give me something, and not in front of chiddi vecchi.¹² She stealthily slipped out and into her bedroom…then returned with an envelope.

‘Ear, Tappiceddu.’ As soon as I stood up, she pushed it into my hand. I opened it to find ten crisp fifty-dollar bills.

‘Nooo, I’m not takin’ ‘iss. I got some money saved up.’

‘Well you need-ah more. I try to help-ah you much as I can—my little baby boy.’ May lee-tul bay-bee boi(yee). ‘Ahh, look at him!’ she glowed in light of my bewilderment. ‘Tappiceddu miu: sta divintannu n’omu! Talìa, Pipi!¹³ Look at Tappiceddu finally becoming a man!’

‘I dunno. If ya ask me, looks like ol’ Tapp’s finely becomin’ a liddle devil,’ Pipi said enviously, perhaps ironically since he was the one with the Devil’s greasy grin and the Rebel’s fight face. Ma moved back behind his shoulder, peaking out like the girl who stirs up an unnecessary fight for her boyfriend just to get off on the anticipation and hopefully the execution of masculine protection. She was smiling, Pessi smirking, both analyzing me as if I was behind a television screen a million miles away. I wanted to ask where the money came from but for some reason I felt uncomfortable asking with Pessi there. She probably thought it customary to give money, as a rigalu, in front of anyone who mattered, which is why it was just us three.

‘Well, soon as I get dahn’ ‘ere, I’m gih’n’ a job. So don’t be worrin’ about givin’ me any more money; I’ll be fine.’

She moved back in front of Pessi. ‘Oh I know that you’ll be fine. But I still send-ah money when—Nu nu, pigghiatillu!’ (Just as I opened my mouth to retort and sneak the money back in her hands, she insisted that I take it.) ‘Ie nun sfragari tutti i soddi ddaiusu, ie pi l’amuri ri Diu unn ti mentiri nna sti centu missi!’¹⁴

‘I won’t, Ma, but—’ All of a sudden she rushed towards me and embraced me with unforeseen strength, a liberation from the subtle awkwardness and timidity we long shared. With her head buried in my neck, she let the tears flow, squeezing me tighter than I could ever remember. I didn’t want to squeeze back too hard, but I also didn’t want to fail to express my self. “Ahh! Sweet Embrace,” I thought, “please don’t end: all the impurities relinquished by this moment will flood back in—twice as harsh in revenge!” At the thought, I grabbed her harder, uncontrollably harder, then even harder til we became one. As her tears continued wetting my shoulder, I could feel her quivers transferring into my Cross-stamped chest, trying to shake something loose…to tear asunder the concreted darkness where, within, monsters reside, which the little boy had feared but not without curiosity, which is why he’d augmented to the walls the weight of solitude and transgression, while silently screaming for peace and purity!…the same lair the maturing man still feared yet had a premonition of further augmentation from all the sanctities he’d hitherto questioned because of this certain inherent intuition he just couldn’t ignore: the paradox of taming and protecting the inner monsters from the ones trying to get in…

She pulled her head back, smiled, and petted my checks. I smiled, and being a simple matter of inevitability, that old dark feeling flooded back into me as she let go, making my smile feel superficial and twisted. She said, ‘Let’s eat!’ then walked away because Aunt Stella was about to call out a federal search team. Uncle Alfonse was telling Aunt Stella to shudup! shudup!

‘I searcly think I’m gonna marry her one day,’ Pessi concluded, jumping back into conversation. ‘But ar’ight, book-fucker, let’s take yir shit out.’

I nodded and watched his hazel eyes quietly wander around the musty room like when a family takes that long last-look at their house from the frontyard before hopping in the car and moving far away. And a part of Pessi was moving away when I left. Unlike me, he had mostly pleasant memories in my room: it was his safe haven—his home away from hell.

We each grabbed a box, leaving behind three others, the television, stereo, three binders of music, several rolled up posters, a skateboard, and of course the two hefty bags of the racially profiled. In the end, not much would remain besides some books, bed sheets, and pillows. In spite of Aristod informing me that my dorm room came equipped with a dresser, a closet, a large sturdy desk, and a fully clothed bed, I decided to bring along my “winter blanket.” It was a fuzzy cream-and-brown blanket with a large lion on it. The fuzz was frayed with one seam ripped two-feet and dwindling away. I’d had it as long as I could remember, and since it had kept me as warm as possible during winters that crept through the walls like unstoppable thieves, I decided it was time to set the lion free—so to speak, release it back into the jungle by taking it out of this one.

Exiting the hall and making a left, I could see over my box Uncle Alfonse in his wheelchair, watching television in the dead room. Pessi was already out the front door. But Aunt Stella stopped me for questioning. Grunting, I set the box down. She had to inform me that we needed to eat right away! because Uncle Alfonse was being impatient! and they had to be somewhere in an hour! Annoyed, I picked the box back up and stomped away, while she continued complaining about my insolence and sloth.

‘Okay, Aunt Fella! We’ll be done in a three da nine months!’

…Outside, after finishing the final haul, Pessi and I stopped to rest, talk, and enjoy the breeze, which was carrying faint smells of the nearby fair coming to an end. A true Sunday ambiance (like a pastoral scene mistakenly painted behind a ghetto) was casting down from the sky wide rays of blues, whites, and golds. The clouds looked whipped, spun, fresh, close enough to taste their sweetened gobs. The lucidness dancing across the sky had not a bit of oppressiveness. The physical neighborhood was active with adults at work and kids at play, none sweating or sluggish. In the nearby yards I could hear a rare geniality, nearly in accord, as if everyone knew I was leaving, and expressing their support, were letting out their spirits like unfallen sparrows.

Another rarity: Pessi and I began talking about my future at college—without any sarcastic or sour remarks! He was standing out in the yard, and I was leaning against my light-brown car. (My Uncle Jim gave me the beater, and for the past six months [ever since Pessi and I quit our job as potato sackers] I’d been driving it without insurance.) Anyway, just as our conversation was budding, Father Carr’s sedan appeared, white and freshly washed. A compliment to the Holy Sunday. He braked to a stop right before my car, lining up his front bumper next to mine with each pointing in opposite directions. I moved over and waited for his tinted window to drop down electronically…bzzzzzzz…til his turtle head shone, just barely coming up out of his black shirt, the one with the peek-a-boo collar—so to speak, his shell. That’s what Father Carr reminded me of: a turtle. He was a short man in his late sixties with a head that stuck out at you no matter the position of his body. But a healthy ol’ scuzzària.¹⁵ Still had heaps of glossy white hair left on top. He had this funny quirk, too, where he would always widen his eyes whenever you talked to him. It gave the sophisticated old man a touch of childishness. Even his voice was suggestive of a man half his age.

‘Hello, Vincent. You’re not sick, are you?’

‘No. I’m ar’ight. Why?’

Eyes widening: ‘Oh. Just haven’t seen you in church for a while. Today, though, we had a one of the highest non-holiday attendances of the year.’

‘Oh, ‘at’s good.’

‘You’re leaving for college soon, right?’

‘Akshly taday.’

Eyes fully popped out! ‘Good God! Today! So what’s it gonna be, Vincent: the next JKF? or the next Bill Gates?’ He’d suddenly broke into his chumminess, apparently still heaven-bent on showing me how funny and cool a turtle could be: but now it sounded real desperate, trying so hard to get me across the finish line on his back.

‘Who knows?’

‘Well like I told you before, Aristod has a Religious Studies program. Laudable, too, for a non-ecclesiastical school. Of course nothing like a true seminary,’ he mumbled reminiscently. After a moment passed, he gave me a look that said, ‘So how about it?’ But not wanting to affirm a sure disappointment with words, I put my faith in Air to whisper the answer into his ear. Wait, do turtles even have ears? ‘Hey, you know what?’ he resumed. ‘Now that I think about it, I know a professor at Aristod. Dr. William Brody. You should look him up. Take a course of his. Or just talk with him. He can help you continue down the right road—if you know what I mean.’ He winked and nodded once.

‘Cool. Thanks.’ I was trying to keep my responses concise with the hope that he would leave quicker. I had things to get done rapidly—but turtles aren’t rabbits, see!

‘Nevertheless, you should still give serious thought to their Religious Studies program. It wouldn’t even be hard for you. You really knew—and I’m not trying to flatter you here, Vincent—but you really knew Scripture like no other I’ve taught. I remember you were the only one—’

‘Akshly I have no choice,’ I interrupted. ‘I gadda scholarship specifically for English.’ An unholy lie because with my scholarship I could pick anything within the Arts and Literature field, which includes the Religious Studies program. Alwaysthemore, I wasn’t as well-versed as he claimed: what seemed to be an extension of his desperation.

‘Oh, then maybe you could pick it up as a minor. See, what you should do is…’

Stuck where I was, it felt like when I was in church, he in the middle of a sermon, and I had to go to the bathroom: if I got up, it would be (for no apparent reason) a rude disturbance. Even during studies, when it was a more “relaxed” environment, there was an implicit overstanding that thou wert to hold thy bowels til thou knowest thy vows. But at least I’d been blessed with The Good Water in a baptismal font and thus allowed to move beyond the prohibitive narthex. Pessi, too, had been baptized in the same church but he never went. Hence why Father Carr refused to glance in his direction where he was standing with his arms crossed a few feet behind me, scuffing at the grass, obviously annoyed. Whenever Pessi and Father Carr crossed paths, Pessi seemed to mutate right into the anti-Christ. ‘Apage Satanas! Apage Satanas!’ as I heard Father Carr say while quoting Latin Scripture. Satan, be gone! Satan, be gone!

‘…So English?’ said Carr the Chelonian in a low-key as if finally acquiescing to my future plans, but not without much despair written on his face. I was waiting for him to get out of his car and shell then turtle himself in the yard. ‘You’d like to teach then?’

‘Nah.’

‘Write?’

‘Yeah, I wouldn’t mind bein’ a novelist. A poet, too, if I’m successful enough.’

A slow widening. ‘Well I’ll be. Vincent Vallano the poet. Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? I didn’t even know you liked to write.’

‘Yep. I do.’

‘Well you’re in good company in the world of literature. There’s St. Ambrose, Augustine, Aquinas, Bonaventure, Jerome, and of course poets like Dante and Sacchetti. Heck, you could even say Mathew, Mark, Luke, and John were all great hands in literature. But with the direct help of you know who?’ While preaching the amen, he pointed up through the black velvety roof of his sedan at the heavens, chuckling. Over what? Only God knew. But I think Pessi the anti-Christ began summoning his powers to make Father Carr’s collar constrict because, despite the comfortableness of the weather, he began sweating in the silence that transpired. He pulled out a white handkerchief and dabbed at his garneted green face. Like statues, Pessi and I waited out the silence…(you could hardly hear Father Carr’s car idling)…as the sweat continued pouring out like gun shots. Yet he didn’t appear to be bothered by it. In large quantities, the sweat was dripping down his turtle waxy face…flooding down into and resting inside the two big wrinkles on his lower cheeks that formed at the slightest movement. He sighed, pushing the fresh sweat on his forehead up into his white heavens.

‘Okay,’ he coughed, ‘I must go spread the word at my brother-in-law’s.’ Again, he chuckled as if a witty joke had been told. ‘Now, Vincent, you keep your nose in those books. And I’ll pray that you succeed and resist the many temptations of college life that may cause one to stray one from the course of enlightenment and the worship of our Heavenly Father. I want you to call me anytime you need to talk; I’m always here for you. Oh! and tell your mother and father I said hello and that I hope to see ‘em in church next Sunday. Bye now. And God bless you, my son.’

‘Ar’ight. Thanks.’

He buzzed the window back up…bzzzz…then drove away. Pessi—and I was bothered by him doing it because I, not necessarily Pessi, would have to face Father Carr again—well, uncontrollably, driven by the Greater Forces, Pessi had to flip him off in the most flamboyant fashion. Jumping up and down, he was waving the provoking hand as if calling for Father Carr to stop because he forgot something. The effectiveness of the gesture depended on whether Father Carr glanced in the rear view mirror…and he did, for the car swerved a bit. Content, the anti-Christ smirked and waved a phony goodbye.

‘Man, ‘at guy,’ Pessi started complaining. ‘Why’d he juss sit dere when izz obvious we had nuh’n’ah say?’

‘I think he’z waitin’ for ya da join the congregation. ‘N’ look whachu juss did, you fuckin’ sinner. Maybe it’s time you should.”’

Just then, Aunt Stella opened the door and screamed, ‘Yinz guys come ‘n’ eat! For God’s sake, Vincent, we gadda leave soon!’

‘Okay, Aunt Fella! We’ll be in in a few hours!’

Angered, she slammed the door shut.

‘Ar’ight, let’s go eat ‘fore she has a fuckin’ heart attack.’

‘Ehh, akshly I’m gonna get goin’. I forgot I gadda go pick up some shit ‘fore Anson leaves for the beach. I’m not rilly hungry anyways.’

‘You searis?’ I shook my head in disapproval. ‘Man, I dunno; Ma’s gonna be fuckin’ pissed. She said she made Spagheddi Bellini juss for you.’

‘Well tell her I’m sorry ‘n’ I’ll stop by da eat some layder. Juss make up some story so she don’t get all offended. Tell her I got sick. No, tell her it’s my head.’

‘We’ll see. But what’s ‘iss “some shit” you gadda get?’

‘Nuh’n rilly—nuh’n you’d wanna do.’

‘Oh, ya mean some dope.’ But the real question was: what kind of dope seeing as it was something I wouldn’t wanna do. Probably some stupid pills. ‘Well, whadever then. Guess I’ll get aholda ya once I gidda phone hooked up in my room.’

‘How long ya think ‘addle be?’ He was now looking at me with his hand saluted on his forehead, for the clouds behind me had just parted from the sun.

‘I dunno; once’ah school gives me a number. Dey give students a free fuckin’ phone line. Juss gadda pay for long-distance calls. How ‘bout that shit?’

‘Cooll. Well, I’ll be waitin’ for da caw, Pluto.’ (He probably meant Plato.) He lowered his salute, for a new swarm of clouds eclipsed the sun. ‘So den, uhh, I dunno…Wha’ da fuck you lookin’ at me like ‘at for, you stupid book-fucker. Fuckin’ yuppie faggot.’ (Standing stiff, I was intentionally smiling in a tenacious, provoking way just to make him paranoid.) ‘Don’t think I’m kissin’ ya goodbye or sum’n weird like ‘at,’ he joked amid his awkwardness. ‘Searcly, it’s not like yir goin’ do another country. Juss another county. ‘N’ I’m glad. I’m so sick a always bein’ ‘round here, ya know.’

‘Yeah, I know watcha mean,’ I replied quietly, now feeling comically destitute. The guilt of knowing that I was leaving and he wasn’t begat a struggle to look at him. But Pessi was right: this wasn’t the final farewell, so, yes, emotional overkill was unnecessary. In a mutual initiation, we executed our signature see-ya-later: knuckles to knuckles to form the unified fist then taking an informal step inward. As we bumped shoulders, our hearts drew close together. But the shadow of us on the grass looked more intimate, like we were hugging or sum’n.

‘Ar’ight, V. Drive safe.’

‘Nah, I tryin’ah get a few speedin’ tickets on the way dahn. Maybe get maced while I’m at it.’ (He smirked, turned away, and started walking. About ten steps in, I heyed him. He turned around with furrowed eyebrows.) ‘Make sure ya don’t get struck by da yuck while I’m gone. Ar’ight?’ Relaxing his brows, he smirked once more—paused—then turned back around. Hands shoved in pocket, he began strutting down Bullitt Avenue again…then cut left on 12^th Street, never looking back. After watching the traces of his shadow slip away, I just had to wait for a squirrel in the neighbor’s yard to finish entertaining me with its acorn magic tricks and trill tailwags.

When I walked back in the house, the overpowering scent of sauce smacked my nose. That would be Ma’s Spaghetti Bellini, more commonly known as Pasta alla Norma; the operatic dish is composed of Sicilian spaghetti enriched with a sun-ripened plum tomato sauce, eggplant, olive oil, basil, pepper, and ricotta salata. I saw the large silver pan of it sitting atop the counter, steaming. Wafts of fresh dough were also filling up the air. That would be the pani rimacinatu: coarse, yellow bread, broken not sliced, and by my request, bloody with olive oil and hairy with sesame seeds. I saw the basket of it on the table where everyone was talking while waiting for the rude sloth. As I slugged forward, I saw on the backside of the breadbasket a silver plate heaped with capicola finger-sandwiches: gobs of goo Aunt Stella brought just out of spite.

Our kitchen—horizontally long for a small house—also served as our dinning room. The table was on the left side, running parallel with the faded yellow wall, with the long side flush against it. Ma had dressed the thick plastic table with a red-and-white checkered tablecloth. She was seated at the head of the table near the back door. Aunt Stella was next to her on the open long side. Next to her, Uncle Alfonse was rolled in too close. Which left me to sit at the other head seat, right along the golden fool’s strip that divided the kitchen from the dead room. It’s where I imagined where Rick would’ve sat (with me where Uncle Alfonse was sitting, and Ma unmoved) if we ate together as a family. Memory would say that it happened that way a few times when I was younger, before I was courageous enough to eat alone in my room.

When no one followed me in, Ma stood up with an exaggerated look of alarm. ‘Unni iu pipi? Sinni iu cû stomacu vacanti?’

‘Si sintiu mali mpruvisamenti—mali a testa.¹⁶ So he went home da sleep it off, but he said he’d stop by sometime soon.’

‘Dat boy made us wait ‘n’ he’s not even eatin’!’ griped Aunt Stella. She shot up, causing her chair to scrape violently along the linoleum. While she filled four plates with pasta, Ma filled the four wine glasses on the table with Nero d’Avola, a sweet red wine, with velvety tinges of violet, made from calaurisi.¹⁷ ‘Dat’s not right, Teodora! I awwdda go after ‘im ‘n’ drag his behin’ back here ‘n’ make him eat til he’s sick!’

I nasally huffed out some mockery at her griping, moralizing, gigantic platinum-blonde perm, and fat bubbly ass squeeeeezed into a pair of black leotards cut at the calf. I sat down next to the man who somehow tolerated it, ol’ Uncle Alfonse, whose head looked larger, more splotched, and more wrinkled since the last visit.

‘How’s it hangin’, Uncle A? Like a horny horse? or a shriveled stallion?’ (That’s what he used to say when I was younger and he saner.)

‘Huh? Oh, I’m good.’ He turned sideways in his wheelchair and yelled, ‘Stella!’ When he spotted her, he turned back around and mumbled something incoherent.

Aunt Stella set the plates down, mine with carelessness. Treating Uncle Alfonse like a two-year-old, she stuck the fork down in his partially-receptive hand. Once she sat down, Ma said grace in Italian. By the time the Amen came, the two-year-old in a wheelchair was already eating like one in a highchair. Uncle Baby Alfonse had orangish-red sauce all over his wrinkly little mouth, down his wrinkly white shirt, and somehow a dot on his large floppy ear. But his ravenous manners were warranted because once I took a bite I too fell sweet surrender to the meal. And Aunt Stella made sure I acknowledged Ma several times for making it possible; Ma would just look up obligingly, reply obligingly, then, when she saw her eyes were safe from theirs, give me a quick flash that said, ‘Yeah, I know, Vinny: she’s crazier than him!’

To punish me for not eating her capicola, Aunt Stella forced me to have two heaping plates of Ma’s Spaghetti Bellini. Meanwhile, the conversation was lame. Aunt Stella was doing most of the talking, mostly about her old friends, most of which I couldn’t have cared less about. But things changed when she served her cassata. Her cassata (for they vary) was filled with ricotta and fudge, with a layer of green marzipan on the sides, topped with cherries and almonds. At first, I thought about trying to decline Aunt Stella’s cassata just to make her madder—and because I was so stuffed! mi cafuddai na cona!—but trying to decline Aunt Stella’s cassata would be fruitless.

‘Ya know, my nanna passed this recipe dahn da me,’ boasted Aunt Stella. ‘She’s the one thit invented this kinda cassata in Calabria.’ The latter statement was true; the former a homemade exaggeration she often fudged. Like Uncle Alfonse, Aunt Stella wasn’t from Italy, but unlike him, she wasn’t a two-boot progenitor; she had fifty on Calabresi-Italian, and quarters on Slovak and Polish, with an unutterable eleven-letter Polish maiden name. But the real bloody point about Aunt Stella is she was loud, easily offended, and dissatisfied with everyone but herself and her family. Before I could even enjoy the first bite of her nanna’s world-renowned creation, she had to say, ‘Now, Vincent, who do ya think’ll cook for ya at cawidge? Ju even think about dat?’

‘You bedder believe I did. ‘At’s why I rounded up a team of highly-trained meal advisors, ‘n’ after hours of deliberation we came to a unanimous decision thit I should hire a personal chef.’

‘Why you gadda be such a smartass about everything?’

‘‘Cause I wanna git good grades in cawidge, Aunt Fella.’ Childishly, I lowered my head and started jamming the cake into my mouth like a smartass pig.

‘Ju hear whadee juss cawed me, Tèa! He keeps sayin’ it! I wouldn’t even let ‘im godda cawidge if I’s you! Der gonna kick ‘im out! Dey will!’

‘Oh, Vinny knows what to do at college.’ Ma turned to me with a smile. ‘So do you know where to go for all-ah your classes?’

‘Uhh, I don’t rilly know where anything’s at yet.’

‘You don’t know where anyting is,’ she said incredulously. ‘You didn’t take dee tour? I thought dey took you on a tour.’

‘Ehh, uzz brief. But don’t worry, Ma: they got maps ‘n’ ‘at all over the place.’

Satisfied, Ma lifted a fork of fudge up to her glossy lips; some fell to the floor. After chewing on the piece in a slow, unsicilianlike manner, she said, ‘Sì tisu?’¹⁸

Concerned with a fly that had flown into my cake and stuck for a second, I didn’t answer right away. ‘Nah. I been readin’ah stuff ‘ey do in cawidge for years. I mean, I didn’t gidda scholarship for nuh’n, ya know.’

‘I know, I know. But if college is-ah too much, you call me. Or Fauter Carr. I see him outside talking to you and Zach. He went to a veeery good university, so he-ah knows what to say. See, I don’t even know dee first ting about university—’

‘Goddamn ‘tackerturns! ‘Tackerturns!’ (Uncle Alfonse was warring to the death with the flies.)

‘I’m not even a high school graduate.’

‘Yeah, I know, but ya never rilly said much about it. Time da spill the beans maybe?’ While taking a bite, I glanced up surreptitiously to gauge her reaction because I wasn’t sure what the situation entailed. As she turned to Aunt Stella—who looked back sternly as if she was offering no sympathy or help in explaining the unexplained—Ma’s day-long polished and happy look vanquished. The sudden quietness and somber mood told me that sum’n was being kept from me, and had been for a long time: a sensation that my intuition and curiosity had long been toying with anyway.

‘Well? Was it ‘cuzza money or sum’n? Nun iè pi chistu ca tu vinisti cca: pu travaggiu picchì docu nun cc'è nenti chi fari?’¹⁹

‘Let’s go!’ interjected Uncle Alfonse, pushing his cake away.

‘Well?’

‘Ca cettu! Mi ni vinni cca picchì vulia ca facissi un pocu soddi! Picchì cci su cchiù cosi megghiu! Pi i puvirazzi ra sicilia l’america iè na cosa troppu bedda! Cca si vivi megghiu! I nostri picciriddri imparanu u inglisi pi veniri cca. A nuddu interessa sapiri u sicilianu. A tutti sti picciutteddri nun cci anteressa maritarisi n'autru sicilianu o n’italianu, si maritasseru macari cu ‘mericanu!’²⁰

‘Yeah, okay, way da deviate from the point here. I mean, you juss don’t drop oudda high school ‘n’ immigrate withouchir family ‘cause yir “seventeen ‘n’ wanna live in American so bad.” Dere’s obviously a missin’ chapter in the story, so tell it.’

‘No, no, I’m not going into deez tings today. Anyway, it’s not a big deal. Really.’

Bound by curiosity, I gave her gritty you-will-tell-me stare, while holding my fork upright like a mini pitchfork…til she conceded, her eyes rolling in either trepidation or preparation. ‘Vinny, when I was-ah sixteen I-ah, uhh—what do dey say?’ She squeezed her eyes shut as if trying to force the missing words out of the corner of her eyes.

‘Yir mudder got knocked up,’ Aunt Stella said forthrightly.

Whaaat?! My mother knocked up at a young age—well, at any age: that’s just preposterous! She was a reserved type of woman. (Then again, she’d been drummed into that tune.) Still, she never told me! No one ever told me! Knocked up! Nooooo!

‘Yes, I have a son before you,’ she admitted with a tone of regret. ‘But I would not-ah say “knocked up.” Dee fauter Milvio went to Perugia to be a gar-dzooh-nee: jee, ah, ehrrie, dzetah, ooh, ehnnie, ee: garzuni: an apprentice.’ (It was in that manner she taught me a new word, or reminded me of one we hadn’t used in a while.) ‘Anyway, after dee baby, I become-ah very sick, and we have nooo money. So Milvio’s fauter says if he comes-ah home and learns dee family trade he can manage dee business wit his brahters. Nun iera cosa facili travagghiari a catania picchì cc’era u pizzu. Ancora u pizzu cc’è. I cosi vecchi ie i tradizziuni, u capisci?’²¹

‘Yeah, I akshly juss read an article at da library about da pizzo in Palermo.’

‘Mmhmm, mmhmm. In Perugia your business eece safer and you can make-ah more money—’

‘Whawuzzer business?’

‘Fannu i rulogerii. Prima facivanu—’²²

‘I sold dose things!’ Uncle Alfonse screamed at Aunt Stella, starting up his own conversation. ‘Wha’ were dose metal things I sold!’ (Apparently, Aunt Stella had no idea what he used to sell, which only riled him up more.) ‘Dose clicker things! When me ‘n’ Giuseppe were boys! We sold ‘em dahntahn! ‘Member Beppo?’ Apparently, Aunt Stella didn’t know who this Giuseppe/Beppo character was either, which riled him up into a fuckin’ frenzy. While they quibbled over what he and Giuseppe used to sell dahntahn, Ma and I continued (amid our cassata-picking) talking about her adolescence in Catania.

‘So den wha’ happened?’

‘Well-ah Milvio, he goes to Perugia, learns to make and fix watches, and sends me some money. But I have-ah bad chest pains and dee flu and—and some “woman problems,” and dee baby needs care, so dee money was just not enough. I even wanted to work a job—anyting—but I just couldn’t do it: just too sick, you know. Ahhh…’ She sighed as if her explanation was reviving every prickly sensation of the pain she once had. ‘Anyway, once I feel-ah better, I want to move to Perugia—’

‘Fuckin’ Beppo! He lived on 3^rd Street, coglione!’

I couldn’t help from laughing at that testicular outburst from Uncle Alfonse because I caught his slobber flying through the air and onto Aunt Stella’s cheek. But Ma looked as if she was becoming frustrated; I motioned for her to continue anyway.

‘Milvio, he says it’s better for me to go to America because maybe we can make a looot-ah more money here. And then we have-ah good healt care for me and dee baby. He says once he’s in a good position wit dee business, he brings it here. So I tell Papa, me and Filomena want to come to America. He says, “Impazzisti? Siti troppu scimuniti ie carusi! Nun cci putiti iri!”²³ But weeeee don’t listen.’ (She smiled briefly.) ‘So Milvio, he says him and his mamma will take care of dee baby til I’m situated here. See, Vinny, his mamma says it’s baaad to take dee baby overseeeas. It’s like dey didn’t want meee, the actual mamma, in dee peekchur. I really didn’t like it. Nope. But I also want dee best life for, uhh—Gennaro.’ After mentioning the baby’s name breathily, her eyes began to water. The fervent noise of Aunt Stella and Uncle Alfonse’s conversation had to be making it even harder for her to talk. But as if trapped into telling me the rest, she went on, becoming emotional.

‘Yes, Milvio says dey must take care of Gennaro til dee right time comes. He says, “Cci viremu n’ammerica quannu i cosi sunnu megghiu.”²⁴ What else could I do? Wait in Catania ah-sick and poor wit dee baby? And myyy family? Sparti filumena me frati ie soru avevanu i so figghi da suppurtari, ie nanna scandurra, uhh, iè n’arraggiata, cussì stunata, ancorchì circava spiegari…’²⁵ (Even though she began talking to herself, I still caught the drift that Ma—the youngest of six—having sex out of wedlock, especially at sixteen, didn’t go over well with one of Sicily’s remaining famigghii ri na vota.²⁶ Pains me to admit that, according to her, but not held as her own belief, our family deemed Gennaro of the bastard breed. She added that traditional Sicilians love family above all things, but if you disgrace the family then you’re easily forgotten. Although my ears overstood her words, and my eyes the gestures of implication, and although I’d pictured her a thousand ways before, including her as a sexual being, my mind just couldn’t paint clearly the story that she was telling.) ‘…Nobody else to help. Nobody to-ah, huuh—’ She sucked in her exasperation then released it: ‘Cetti voti a vita iè cussì amara!’²⁷ After sighing, she signed herself with the Cross and bowed her head to repent.

From across the table, I gave the top of her head a sad parting look. When she looked up, it was clear that her eyes were crying to cry, but staying American-strong, she pretended she just had a bothersome hangnail to mend before continuing. ‘Finally I agree dat Gennariddu will have a better life wit Milvio’s family for dee time being. So I tell myself me and Filomena must come here and do what we can til—’ Again she paused because Aunt Stella stood up to refill Uncle Alfonse’s wine; them two were still exchanging fervent nonsense. ‘Anyway, Milvio tells me to come to-ah Peetsburgh because he has a cousin here from Abruzzi. He tells him it’s-ah “cheaper den New York but still Italian-friendly.” But he says we can’t live witum because he has a wife, but me and Filomena can stay in a free shelter til we find apartment. So when we-ah come here, we-ah clean fish at Sole’s. And we save as much money as we can to buy apartment. But what is-ah left after dee rent only helps us for dee day. I couldn’t save any money; I didn’t plan for dis either! But den—poof!—I meet your fauter. And well, we fall in love so quick and everyting is wonderful! But he insists I don’t work; he says he will take care of me. I thought, “Okay!” And I love-ah your fauter sooo much, you know. (Mi rissi ca mi rava u munnu.)²⁸ So, sure, I quit dee job for him, but den Filomena has to go back to Catania because he doesn’t like her!

‘But now I have Milvio calling every day. He would say, “Chi facisti docu?” And I would say, “Travagghiu pi tuttu u tempu!” Weeks later he calls very, uhh, anxious and puuushy: “Diri unni stai! Vogghiu veniri docu ie pottu u picciriddu macari cussì semu na famigghia comu chiddi ri na vota! Travagghiu facennu chiddu ca fa me patri ie se nun possu chiui fazzu nautra cosa!”²⁹ But I don’t know what to say; I’s-ah—very confused about what to do. Den when your fauter buys deece house, he says I can move in too. And remember, Vinny, I’m now eighteen. I speak-ah little English. He takes care-ah everyting for me. But see, he gets sooo jealous when Milvio calls. He even threatened to kill him!’ (That made me laugh.) ‘So I call Milvio when your fauter goes to work. But now Milvio is mad too ‘cause I live wit a man. I try to tell him he’s only a friend helping me ‘cause I have nooo money. But he don’t believe me. Den—den he just moves away! witout even telling me!’ Abruptly dropping into a sombre tone, with her head hung: ‘Se, abbannunarunu mpruvisamenti, ie ancura unn sacciu unni abbitanu.’³⁰

‘For rill? His family didn’t warn ya or anything?’

‘ô telefunu a famigghia d’iddu sparrannu a mia. Iddi mi pigghiavanu a mali paroli…’ (In sum, Milvio’s family was cruel to the point where she couldn’t take it anymore, but one day she called anyway to check on Gennaro and the phone number no longer worked.) ‘So I sit in dee apartment. I tink about everyting. Cry about everyting. And I dunno, Vinny—’ She looked up, so solemn her face, as she shifted into a sober tone: ‘I just-ah give up and pray dit Gennaro has a better life wit his fauter.’ (The bleakest wine-sipping moments pass by…) ‘Ah maybe my nannu was right. He used to say to your nannu: “Acqua passata nun macina cchiù.” Water having past no longer grinds. It means, don’t hold onto dee past because it won’t do you any good.’

‘‘At’s true,’ avowed Aunt Stella, rejoining our conversation. She was still panting a bit from her argy-bargy with Uncle Alfonse. She turned to me with fiery cheeks: ‘Even me ‘n’ Alfonse had trouble lettin’ yir cousin Amanda move dahn da Florida. Bahdiz best for everyone. Isn’t ‘at right, Alfonse?’

‘Huh? Yeah, Donna was a tired loaf. She hated Beppo.’

Leaving my cake unfinished, I stood up and flashed a glance at Ma in her pensive, seemingly isolated state. I don’t know what compelled me to the kitchen sink but that’s where I went…peering out the window at Razzle in the backyard. His chain was shortened because he’d wrapped it around the tree several times, probably hoping that one time around he would fortuitously run into the portal of freedom.

‘Hey, Ma?’ With both hands cupped on the tawny counter ledge, and my focus straight ahead, I didn’t look over when she responded. ‘You feed Razzle taday?’

‘Yes, I give Razzu lots a food and water deece morning.’ (When I was six, a neighbor gave us Razzle as a pup, and the name came with him, but trilling the R, Ma never failed to pronounce it RRRAH-tsooh. So even Razzle had been Sicilianized.)

After spotting me in the window, Razzu started tugging his chain towards me. His long dirty face looked so anxious. His paws, as they dug forward, were kicking up little clouds of dirt. He tugged harder and harder…til the chain jerked his head sideways. In an awkward, twisted neck position, he started barking to the sky. Quick little yelps. Poor Razzu: he was still trying to get in; and there I was: still trying to get out.

‘Ya know, Ma. You should start lettin’ Razzle in the house, at least while Rick’s at work. Iddle keep ya company while I’m gone.’ Something I’d suggested many times before, and knew why it never happened, but still said it as if it was a novel idea.

‘Oh no, it’s not allowed in here. Your fauter says it makes dee house smell bad.’

‘Well, ya know wha’? Fuck him ‘n’ what he says.’

‘Fallu pi mia veni ie finisci a to cassata!’³¹ fretted Ma.

‘For God’s sake, Tèa, he’s gadda mouff like his fahder!’ carped Aunt Stella.

‘‘At dog wants a bone! ‘At dog wants a bone!’ swaned Uncle Alfonse, hearing the ardent barks of Razzle. When I looked over, Uncle Alfonse was trying to rock himself out of his wheelchair, screaming, ‘‘At dog wants a bone! ‘At dog wants a bone!’

‘Ar’ight, Alfonse. We’re leavin’. Vincent’ll feed ‘im. Shhhh. Shhhh…’

Aunt Stella stood up and wheeled him out from the table. When he wanted to he could wheel himself, but not to seemed part of his decline into infancy, or another expression of his discontent. Ma stood up and gave them kisses. I didn’t. Aunt Stella told me to take her cake with me, which wasn’t happening, and when she saw that I had no desire to kiss her, she gave me a perfunctory peck on the cheek. Then, wagging her finger, she had to remind me to “watchir mouff at cawidge!” because there they don’t put up with “liddle smartasses” like me. Saying goodbye to Uncle Alfonse was futile but I did anyway. I walked to the door and opened it with a goodbye snarl. As Aunt Stella rolled the gimp out, he was still yelling something about Razzle wanting a bone.

Bones buried, I walked into the kitchen and helped Ma clear the table. To lighten up the mood I tried making several jokes about Aunt Stella’s humorlessness and Uncle Alfonse’s delusion. Then—feeling as if I had to say something about the ghost that had been let out of the closet and seemed to be watching us from the dead room—I said, ‘Ya know, I’m a liddle shocked about da whole baby thing, but not rilly. I always had a strange feelin’ sum’n was up. I juss wish you woulda told me sooner, ya know…Once I graduate ‘n’ get a good job, I’ll senja over da Catania. Ya can find Gennaro. Maybe even Milvio. Maybe I’ll come too ‘cause I dunno whaddle be waitin’ for me after cawidge. But don’t worry; I’ll at least get you oudda here.’

Sweeping and keeping her focus on the linoleum crumbs around the table, she withheld a response. Bones burning, I went outside and brought Razzle in. Fuck him.

Not much was said after promising that her much obliged second-son would one day send her over to Catania to regain her lost life. Standing at the door, I assured her that I would call once I arrived—regularly thereafter—and eventually make my way back home to visit. She cried, I comforted, we hugged, we kissed, door opened, door closed, and I was gone. Ciauuu!

Torn between a quick getaway or a trip down memory lane, I decided to drive the scenic route to the highway, like a decision to retrace the steps I’d walked and stumbled, kept swift pace and stumbled, sometimes ran for my life and stumbled, crashing to the ground, not always able to proceed right away. First, I drove a few blocks down to the ball field where, only two nights prior, Da Rockwell Abanonders had lost a tooth-and-nail game to Da Verna Hoolies. But seeing it, a better memory surfaced, one where I hit a homerun in a neighborhood pickup game. Chipped-ham-fisted Pessi hung me a high slider, and as I rounded the bases, I taunted him…til he threw his glove at me. Then he and Eddie tackled me before I could touch home plate. Jeremiah, Anson, Matty, Dubo, Conner, Samskin, and others piled on. Dante jumped in to take my side. He dug down to the bottom and started licking Pessi’s face because that was one of his idiosyncratic taunts before he got herpes. After we all stood up, Pessi walked up to Dante and punched him in the face. Dante took a step back, laughed, then tried bitch-slapping him, but Pessi kept dodging. Finally, Dante got a hold of him, hip-tossed him to the ground, then boxed him into claustrophobia. Since Pessi was claustrophobic and embarrassed by it, he went home pouting once Dante let him go, while we threw rocks at him. He was so pissed at me, and only me, for the next week. I told him it would’ve never happened if he’d just kept his slider down…Looking through the rear view mirror, I spotted three teenagers—two white, one black—slugging 40s and passing around what looked to be a blunt. They were sitting on the bench where Dante and Anthony had watched the glassy fight and mirrored cold laughter. I drove down to the cul-de-sac and circled around…On the way back, now facing the smoking trinity, a hearty gust kicked up dirt from the infield…and as it swept through the tiny diamonds of the metal fence, the teenagers set their 40s down between their shoes, lowered their heads, and kept passing the blunt around with careful attention in the exchange. Go, team, go…

…At 6^th, I turned left at the 4-way and crossed over to 5^th. Passing between rows of two-level public housing, blacks were lounging around on interminable porches, some smoking cigarettes, most vocal and lively. For half a minute, three on bikes rode alongside my car, staring me down. Up the road, I came upon a now vacant orange-and-white gas station that we’d turned into a place for practicing graffiti. Anson, the tat artist, tagged some amazing pictures on the back and side walls. Even Pessi, as lousy of an artist as he was a pitcher, managed to tag a set of lopsided tits lactating profusely all the way to the ground. And wrapped around the weeded lot, and extended elsewhere, were the waxed metal railings and curbs that we used to grind our skateboards on…

…Driving into the snail traffic from the fair, I observed with pensiveness the familiar but strange houses, stores, peoples, lands, and the palpable and phantasmal energies coloring in and connecting together everything former. Millions of memories started pouring into me like a great internal rain…flooding my senses with thousands of droplets of laughter and sadness and anger and mystery, theirs and mine…flooding my senses with tiny, swirling pieces of reminiscences and adamantine substances which were somehow me and yet somehow them, somehow everything I am and yet somehow everything I am not…driving past, a light suddenly turned red, and about to drift into the intersection, I slammed the breaks, unable to do it in my head. A blue bullet zipping into the intersection from the right beep beeped at me. Sitting there like a frozen sigh, I posed to myself the choice to turn left and see a little more of Verna just to relive the half-broken memories, or to turn right down towards Pittsburgh and the southbound highway. When the light turned green I made a right.

Driving down oak-lined Mt. Brennan, making this turn and that turn, Pittsburgh gradually became larger and different angles of the city opened up. The Mon was shimmering its cleanest green of the year; several boats were afloat, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off the engorged eminence of dahntahn. The high-and-mighties still looked like they were trying to squeeze the life out of the sky, especially the tallest one: a solid black steel monster with hundreds of eyes, all homogenous: a monolithic powerhouse, scraping my thoughts like a Brillo Pad…off the palm…diving freely into the cool air…diving freely…without a parachute…

…Traveling down the southbound highway, the landscape was predominantly wooded hills with occasional yellow fields squeezed in; here and there sat farms and farmhouses, highway exits, gas stations—small towns too small to recall. At one point, I spotted a doe and two fawns darting through a field, but other than that, the only noticeable movements around me were shadow-driven cars and headless tractor-trailers. But my good ol’ friend Music was keeping me company and content. CD-crazed, I was in a deep reverie in which I was the singer of a Rock ‘n’ Roll band performing to a soldout crowd. I cranked up the volume loud enough to bring the scene alive. Outside of the reverie, the fast, hard music was secreting adrenaline from my glands. Unknowingly, I had the pedal to the metal. But there, up on the stage, I had the microphone cord wrapped around my wrist and forearm, my leg perched up on a PA speaker, wearing my infamous plain black t-shirt, my biceps bulging more than they actually did. Down into the crowd, I was whaling out the voice of Evil Elvis: ‘I'm headin’ down the highway. Sign has three inverted nines. If the lord don't get me the devil will. But not without a fiii-ight! This highway never fuckin’ ends. American nightmare runnin’ scared. American nightmare runnin’ scared. American nightmare runnin’ scared. Oh, American nightmare runnin’ scaaaaaaaaaaaared!!!…’³²

…Drenched in sweat and about to make an encore to thousands of screaming punk rockers, I snapped out of the dangerous reverie—nearly two hours later. I found myself sweating much like Father Carr had earlier in the day. And from that, his persistence assumed my thoughts til, low and behold, right before my hungry brown eyes my long-awaited haven appeared! From afar, Aristod glimmered like the Land of Oz! I was a driving Dorthy who sadly had to leave her little Toto behind.

I began maneuvering through the bricked streets, pretending to impress the bodies outside with my sense of direction; but I didn’t know where I was going! (I had taken an assessment test in a building on the edge of campus like I’d told Ma, but the “brief tour” was a lie. I’d cut out of the orientation, which was to be a thorough one, to come back home and party with friends.) So the campus was a mystery land! Well, after driving around in circles like a fool, not able to read the signs correctly, I finally broke down and asked a power-walker where I could find Philemon Hall. ‘West Halls,’ he answered hardly winded, pointing far out beyond my car, suggesting it was closer to the distant horizon than where we were. For five minutes, I drove on the outskirts of the campus to avoid confusion…til I came upon West Halls where Philemon Hall—a large red brick dormitory in the shape of an upside-down T—rested in the mix of things.

Now prepare my room ‘cause I need restored…deep in the bowels.³³

As I expected, there weren’t many students moving in; most had moved in Friday and Saturday instead of waiting til the day before classes. I parked my car in front of the dorm…took a deep breath…then walked inside. I went straight to the front desk, a brightly lit cubicle, and asked for instructions. A pretty lil Asian chick told me that she needed some information first. I was required to fill out a few forms, while she made copies of my social security card, driver’s license, and birth certificate. Then she instructed me to go to an orientation starting in five minutes—just for our dorm—and I figured I had to in order to get the key. Although a bit confused about things, and Life, I carried my confusion across the street…and into another building where I sat in an auditorium, half full with Philemonians…Finally, after thirty tedious minutes of history, pride, and boasting, I walked back to Philemon. In the lobby I called Ma to let her know that I made it; it was a brief conversation; Rick was home. Then back at the front desk the pretty lil Asian chick kindly set the key into the palm of my hand. I thanked her, while squeezing the key so hard it left a print in my palm.

So I was off, walking down a blinding white hallway, wondering about my future roommate whom I hadn’t received any information about nor had I bothered contacting the school to find out, and he, as far as I knew, never tried contacting me. So I didn’t know what to expect! I was deeply bothered by the idea of being boxed in with a stranger who I couldn’t avoid and would be sleeping six-feet away. And he could have one or maybe all of the quirks and commonalities that bothered me: when people sneeze more than twice; cough without covering their mouth; phonically retarded people who play shit like techno music; guys who wear sandals everywhere; people who gulp while drinking, especially when it’s going down the throat and the Adam’s Apple undulates convulsively; all those other weird grunting sounds people eject unwittingly; people who laugh like a dying animal; meatheads who have that swelled-chest, jutted-jaw, cocky strut like you better move out of the way for them. Fuck that; I’m not moving! Halfway down the hall, I concluded that my roommate better be quite the quiet mime.

Like a piece of petrified wood, I stood rigid in front of room 122. The door was nothing fancy: just a slab of oak with the number on it. Since my focus remained straight ahead, I had no other observations to make, which is why I took another minute or two to dissect the minutiae of the door…til gathering up the courage to slide the golden key into the lock, readying myself for the first twist—but suddenly a pang of uncertainty swept over me in a hot-hot flash!!!—but I resolutely pushed it away and away, as I pushed the door open with poise, ready (so fucking ready!) to take the next step in life—even ready (to a certain extent) to masquerade an act of excitement as I introduced myself to my roommate. But no one was inside except Jesus Christ…

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