at Via Roma with my mamma at the doorstep ready to scoop me inside should my brakes fail me.
I love my Tarquinia. I love my mamma. I hate the beating she gave me, but I understand. I hope the thought of it will not stay locked in my mind.
One day, the carabinieri escort my mamma and I to our church. I want to be an officer in the carabinieri when I grow up.
Giuseppe, Esterina, and their daughter, Silvana, my babysitter, come along. Silvana is still
afraid of me. I did not want to hurt her with the hammer. I just wanted to walk like a man and not always hold her hand.
Esterina loves to bake cookies and pastries for me. She lets me listen to a large seashell she has on her dresser in her bedroom. I swear I can hear the waves of the sea. Giuseppe loves to play Briscola with me or stack those playing cards into replicas of buildings. Once, we managed to erect a seven-story structure.
Giuseppe still likes me even after I crashed his truck. He had gone home for lunch one afternoon, after his usual espresso, and while he napped, I climbed into the vehicle and pretended to be driving. I moved the gear stick and the mini truck started to move down the incline in the road. I was ecstatic until I crashed into a light post across the street. Giuseppe was very mad at the post and openly worried about me. He said he would teach me how to avoid such hazards when I was older.
Once I cut my hand on a broken milk bottle. Sebastiano tripped me while I was carrying home some groceries. Giuseppe wrapped a washcloth around it, put me on his shoulders and ran me to the hospital blocks away. He sang Volare terribly off- key but I laughed hysterically. I didn’t laugh when the doctor sewed six stitches in the palm of my right hand.
Another time I had eaten so much bread drenched in olive oil that my stomach swelled. Giuseppe had the doctor pump my stomach. The doctor and I became buddy-buddy.
The Sisters at the hospital like me too,
especially the very young Sister Fiorella. She tells me that I am cute. Once she ran her fingers through the curly blonde locks in my hair. It tickled and made me laugh.
I am a regular visitor at the hospital. Mamma brings me there weekly for needles. I have a touch of polio and rickets.
We all enter the church together. The priest and Sister LaRosa are waiting. She begins to cry. I don’t understand why? I wonder if I disappointed her somehow.
Mamma tells me to sit in a pew half way down the aisle. I watch them talking: sometimes they glance my way. I look about at the various statues. Jesus, high on the crucifixion, looks away from me. I count the Stations of the Cross. The emptiness of the church is new to me. I prefer the overcrowding of Sunday service and the singing of hymns. The sight and smell of burning candles are soothing.
Mamma and Giuseppe sign papers. Then mamma comes down and sits beside me. She gives me a necklace with a small gold medallion imprinted with two winged-horses.
Mamma assures me, “I cavalli ti porteranno fortuna e salute. (The horses will bring you luck and good health).”
I sit politely while she places it around my neck. I do not ask mamma what ‘adopted’ means. Is it another type of pasta? I tell her I do not like ‘adopted’. Mamma and I cry. I see Sister LaRosa, teary eyed, rush out the side entrance of the church. On board the ship to America, my adopted family is seasick and vomiting. The smell is sickening
but I do not puke. Feelings within me have numbed. I simply explore the ship and spend most of my time playing with the kitchen staff and eating tomato salads.
In Toronto, Canada, months later, I freeze from the cold and snow. There is no golden sunshine. There are no piazzas. There is no time to wander and play. People keep to themselves. There is work but little of life, even for the children.
I miss Tarquinia, Sister LaRosa and my best friend Sebastiano. I especially miss my mamma. I squeeze my winged-horses medallion. Will I ever see Tarquinia and mamma again?
Chapter 3
Toronto, Canada 40 years later
I lost it. Mount Vesuvius would be envious of my ticking bomb eruption. I karate chopped our kitchen table to the brink of annihilation. My old Sensei’s teaching reverberates in my brain: Control anger before it controls you. Easier said than done.
Fear, fatigue or frustration does not implode me. Falseness does.
“Renzo, get real. Being friendly with other men is not cheating,” claims Emily.
“What are you talking about?” I snap and stand across from the kitchen counter. “Open your eyes for God’s sake and stop being a crazed teenager with your incessant need for male attention. Grow up. I know I did not marry a virgin, and though I
cannot prove you have been adulterous, you are certainly having emotional affairs. Being silent about things makes it no less than a lie. You deceive. At the very least, you are psychologically unfaithful. Your appetite is insatiable. Do not play innocent. It doesn’t flatter you.”
Emily laughs uneasily, getting around the kitchen counter handling different pots and utensils. She is shoeless. She is wearing one of my button-up, white dress shirts with cuffs rolled up. Her G-string, tan thong is seductive. Her jaw-dropping looks could easily win any bikini butt contest. Why am I not enough for her?
For a distracted moment, I see her curiously fixated on the knife storage block before she turns to antagonize me.
“You’re making things up. There is no such thing as emotional infidelity. I am not doing anything wrong, and I am not letting you cage me by your definition of love and marriage. You do not know what love is. I am physically attractive. Other men appreciate my looks, and I like their attention. It’s natural law.”
“Emily you are lying to me. You deny that men make passes at you. That includes my brother- in-law for Christ’s sake who majored in religious studies and does not give a shit that my sister is pregnant. You deny that you phone and text other guys. That you spend hours talking and texting, frequenting isolated areas, without my knowledge. If cheating could be calculated, you would register as a catastrophe on a Richter Infidelity scale.”
Emily barks back, “Stop talking nonsense. I
am a little bit flirtatious. So what? It does not make me a cheater of seismological proportions. You are making a terrible tsunami out of something everyone takes for granted. It is an earthquake only if dishes and windows are broken. It is just a little fun, and I am in full control over the situation. Stop treating me like a child. I can handle it. You’re a control freak and you’re not going to manipulate me.”
I stand in front of our French patio glass doors and stare at the backyard shrubs. The blooming flowers mock me. I can feel fresh tremors surging throughout my core. Anger management is never an issue at work. At home, Emily knows how to press all the hot buttons. I take massive, deep breaths to relieve the shakes.
Emily continues her routine preparation of Saturday brunch while periodically sipping her latté. We do not look at each other. Eye contact will surely reignite the volley of venom. The kids, aversion sensitive, have already absconded to go play with their friends.
Finally, I am composed enough to break the
silence.
“Look, I don’t even know for sure. I really do
not want to lose heart. I don’t know what I would do if...” My voice trails off. I am emotionally exhausted. Emily stands in place. Her obstinacy and unwillingness to back down make me think of my
mother.
“You can’t control me. You cannot expect me just to have girlfriends. Yes, I am physically attracted to handsome men, and they are physically drawn to me. That’s natural. It is only a game and everybody
plays it. I share a drink and conversation with men. What is the big deal? You’re just jealous because women don’t chase after you.”