Season of Salt and Honey (11 page)

To cook the meatballs, heat the remaining 1 tablespoon olive oil in skillet. Add the meatballs and cook until golden brown all over. Transfer to the saucepan of sauce, cover, and simmer over low heat for 10 to 15 minutes longer.

Serve the meatballs with the sauce or, for a typical Sicilian meal, remove the meatballs and serve the sauce over pasta, then present the meatballs as a second course with vegetables or salad.

• • • •

“F
rancesca?”

Piercing, rolling voice. European inflections. Zia Connie.

Both aunties are getting out of Papa's car, Papa helping Aunty Rosa, and Aunty Connie already standing, squinting, frowning, and calling out.

“Where is she? I can't see her. Where is she, Giuseppe?”

I hear Papa mumble in Italian:
Wait, sister
.

Aunty Rosa is wearing a silk head scarf with big dark glasses, as though she's Elizabeth Taylor. She's beautiful for her age, and knows it too, though she's bigger and softer than she used to be. In black-and-white photographs her little waist is nipped in, forming impressive triangles down to her hips and up to her bust. Now, two children and three decades later, her middle section is fleshy, filled in. She is holding a bag that I know will be packed with home cooking.

A dark-haired young man gets out of the backseat and yawns, stretches, and looks around. He's wearing a tight black T-shirt and denim shorts. Vincenzo, my cousin, Aunty Rosa's son. He appraises the cabin, peeking over the top of his sunglasses, and sees me. He gives me a wink and a grin.

“Francesca?” Aunty Connie again.

I shrink back into the dim light of the cabin.

Aunty Connie has glasses too, but they are prescription rather than sunglasses. She is the eldest, and has never married or had children. Her brother Pietro, the youngest in the family, died when he was very little, of polio, back in Sicily. Soon after, Nonna and Nonno moved to America with the four remaining children: Concetta (Aunty Connie), Rosaria (Aunty Rosa), Giuseppe (my father, Joe as most people call him), and Mario. Nonno said they left Sicily because it was too poor—beautiful, but like a prison.

Aunty Connie is wearing a neat jacket and matching dress in conservative green-gray, the same color as her eyes. Her figure has never had Rosa's curves. It's straight, columnesque, like a Douglas fir.

“Are you in there? Good Lord, is she in
there
?” Rosa asks.

“Rosa . . .” Papa again.

There's a short silence, then a shrill retort from Aunty Connie. “Get your hands off me, Giuseppe. Francesca? Francesca, come out here and look at me right now.”

“Francesca?” Papa's voice sounds tired. Tired and full of love. “Will you come out for a moment? Your aunties want to see you, darling.”

I hear Aunty Connie muttering, “You always babied her, Giuseppe.”

I finally go to the door. Connie has her hands on her hips, Papa is frowning, and Rosa is brushing something from her skirt. Vincenzo is still grinning, his muscular arms folded across his chest, his sunglasses now folded and hanging from the collar of his T-shirt.

“Francesca Theresa Caputo.” Aunty Rosa sighs, coming towards me with her arms wide.

“I'm sorry, Zia, I—”

“Are you okay?” Papa asks.

“I'm fine,” I say, trying to sound reassuring.

“See, I told you she would be safe,” Papa says in a slow, calming voice.

“Oh, for God's sake. Look at her! She's not fine. She looks like . . . like . . . a
homeless
person,” Aunty Connie splutters.

“
Bedda Matri
, she does,” agrees Aunty Rosa sadly.

Vincenzo places a hand against his mother's back and soothes, “
Mammina
.”

I run a hand over my hair.

“She is perfectly . . . safe here, just as Bella said.” Papa is careful with his words, as always with his sisters.

Vincenzo looks at me. “Where is Bella?”

I shrug.

He steps away from his mother to scan the surrounding forest.

“Look at her hair. What is she wearing?” Aunty Rosa talks as though I'm not there, her voice breathy and appalled. “And no makeup! Like a hobo.”

“Everyone will think she is mad,” Aunty Connie agrees.

“Zia Rosa, Zia Connie, I'm okay.” Although being referred to as mad has me reeling a little. “Please, come in. Have a look around.”

The moment I make the offer I regret it.

Papa reaches around Aunty Rosa's shoulder to offer reassurance, patting her back and shushing her. “Francesca isn't mad,”
he says with that gentle voice of his. “Come on, let's have coffee together.”

“In there?” Rosa is sniffing. She digs in her purse, drags out a little purple plastic packet and tugs a tissue from it, carefully dabs at the corners of her eyes.

Aunty Connie crosses her arms and gives me a disapproving frown.

“I have a kettle, an espresso pot,” I say, feeling embarrassed. “It's quite comfortable.”

It's confusing having the aunties here. They had been at our apartment just a couple of weeks before. They thought it was just lovely and told Papa so. They were proud of their niece with the nice home and the nice man. I relished hosting them in the place I'd made into a home; the result of weekends spent at Home Depot and Ikea when Alex went surfing. Cushions and throw blankets, lamps, flowers in glass vases, prints in frames.

“I'm going to look for Bella,” Vincenzo says.

“Is she staying here too?” Rosa asks, incredulous, stepping warily into the cabin.

I don't tell her that Bella slept in her car last night.

“She's probably just gone for a walk,” I say to Vincenzo, who waves as he heads up the driveway.

The rest of us squeeze into the tiny cabin. Aunty Connie pushes at something, a dead moth perhaps, with the tip of her pump.

Papa clears his throat. “Sit down, everyone. Connie, you take the seat. Rosa, next to me on the bed here.” He presses down gently on Aunty Rosa's shoulders.

“I'll get the espresso,” I mumble.

“I won't have one,
cara mia
,” Papa says politely.

I give him a grateful glance. It will take me some time to make everyone a cup using the little coffeepot.

I light the camp stove while Aunty Connie and Aunty Rosa watch in silence. One of the few silences I've ever experienced with my aunties. I find myself babbling.

“This was Errol Gardner's cabin; he was Alex's great-grandfather. He built it with some other settlers by hand. So it's one of a kind. Alex's grandfather, Hank, spent a lot of time restoring it. Alex's father has been less . . . Well, Alex loved it here.” My voice drifts off as the pot starts to steam.

“It has been in the family for many generations,” Papa adds supportively, nodding at his sisters.

I pull out two cups, relieved that I spent the morning cleaning.

“Sugar?” I ask Aunty Connie, who replies with a sour expression.

“That's Rosa. You know perfectly well I don't take any.”

“Sorry. Zia . . .?”

“
Due
,” Aunty Rosa replies, holding up two fingers. Her nails are painted with bright pink polish; many sparkling rings are tight on her fingers. She leans over to touch the quilt hung over the back of the chair Aunty Connie is perched on. “Barbara Gardner made this?”

I pour the hot coffee into the two cups and add sugar to Aunty Rosa's. “I don't think so. Perhaps Alex's grandmother. I'm not sure.”

I notice Aunty Connie is peering at the bookshelf as if appraising its contents.

Aunty Rosa sniffs. “It's good work.” She is a very good sewer and avid quilter.

I pass the cups to the Aunties, the fragrance of coffee filling the tiny space. It makes it smell better, more familiar. I watch Aunty Connie's shoulders relax a little. They lift the cups to their lips and blow the
crema
into eddies and swirls.

Aunty Connie sighs and tuts. “Running away . . . not telling your father where you are going . . .”

“It's okay, Concetta, she is here,” Papa cajoles.

“Running away,” Aunty Connie repeats, taking a sip of her espresso. “Not something I'd imagine
you
would do, Francesca. More like—”

“We worried,” Aunty Rosa cuts in. “After the funeral. You should be with family, Francesca. Your blood. Family look after you.”

I glance to Papa to support me, but he's looking down at the bed, silently agreeing with the aunties. This is Caputo lobbying: loving but persistent, a generous dose of guilt.

“I'm fine, really I am. I just need a little time.”

Aunty Connie snorts, as though I'm being ridiculous, and looks around the cabin with disapproval.

“Come home with us, darling,” Aunty Rosa coaxes.

I shake my head slowly and she looks wounded. My chest is tight and I can barely swallow. I can't remember the last time I disobeyed the aunties. Or Papa. I can't say what I need to—that I
can't bear to go back to our apartment. I can't bear for Alex to be dead. I can't bear the whisper of strange relief inside that makes me feel so dreadful. I can't bear to be anywhere but here, where everything is green and simple.

Papa lifts his head to me.
Please understand
, I beg him with my eyes. If anyone can understand, it is Papa.

“
Si tistuni,
” Aunty Connie mumbles, meanly.
Stubborn
.

Vincenzo sticks his head into the cabin. “Look who I found.”

Bella steps past him. She gives me an awkward smile, then glances around, seeing the interior of the cabin for the first time. She is still wearing the clothes she was doing yoga in: leggings and an orange T-shirt.

Aunty Connie studies her. “
Buongiorno
, Isabella.” Her tongue serves up the syllables in Bella's name in sweet parcels:
Ee-sah-bell-ah.

“
Buongiorno,
Zia Connie, Zia Rosa.” Bella goes over to give them kisses.

“Nice digs,” Vincenzo says with a laugh, glancing around. He peers out the window, hands on the counter. “Could use a hot tub.”

“Francesca won't come home,” Aunty Connie says flatly.

Bella looks at me but says nothing.

“I will, Zia,” I reply, feeling hot. The cabin seems crowded. “Just not right now.”

Vincenzo pokes at the linoleum countertop. “How
old
is this place?
Cuscinu
, it's a hundred years old. Seriously. It's kind of a dump.”

Everyone ignores him.

He's a good-looking young man, Cousin Vincenzo: muscular, well-groomed, a good head of thick, dark hair. Aunty Rosa thinks he's heaven on a stick, but he's lazy and mischievous. He and Bella were always close growing up. Once they got caught shoplifting from the local drugstore. Vincenzo told his mother they'd meant to pay for the lipsticks, deodorants, and eye shadows they'd swiped and Aunty Rosa believed him. He's the apple of her eye. These days he works in sales for an electronics store. He always has the latest sound system and the latest phone. He still lives at home with Aunty Rosa and Uncle Roberto, posters of glossy-lipped, long-haired girls in bikinis on the walls of his room.

“Are you eating here?” Aunty Rosa suddenly asks me, her voice accusing.

“Yes, what are you eating?” Aunty Connie demands before I can answer, lifting her chin at me.

“Papa and I brought some food,” Bella pipes up. “Didn't we, Papa?”

Papa is looking downcast, but at this he nods.

“And there's a neighbor, Merriem—she grows the most incredible vegetables, doesn't she, Frankie?”

“Yes.” I'm surprised my sister seems to be sticking up for me.

“Asparagus, rhubarb, herbs—enough for a big family, Aunty Rosa. She has a vegetable garden just like yours, Aunty Connie. Well, not as good as yours, of course, but she's a very keen gardener.” Aunty Rosa and Aunty Connie are staring at Bella now. “In fact, she invited us to dinner tonight. There's quite an active local community out here. Merriem, Jack—”

“I don't know if we're going,” I interrupt.

“Merriem invited you too, Papa,” Bella says.

Aunty Rosa's face lights up. “She invited Giuseppe?”

“How old is this woman?” Aunty Connie wants to know.

“I don't know. Fifties maybe? She has quite a youthful disposition, don't you think, Frankie?”

“What does that mean, youthful disposition?” Aunty Connie asks, still suspicious.

“It means she's a cougar,” Vincenzo says with a belly laugh.

I watch the corners of Bella's lips twitch.

Aunty Connie's frown deepens. “What does that mean?”

“I just meant that she's fit and healthy,” Bella explains. “She has a positive outlook on life.”

Aunty Rosa nods. “Well, that's good, isn't it, Connie?”

“She sounds like a flake,” Vincenzo says, shrugging.

Bella elbows him and he winces.

“I think she sounds nice,” Aunty Rosa says hopefully.

Papa's looking around at us all, till his eyes fall to me. “What is this, Frankie? Dinner? Are we . . .?”

“No, Papa. I mean, well, maybe. . . . I hadn't—”

Bella interrupts. “Yes, Papa, dinner. Merriem lives just down the road. I said we'd bring wine.”

“You said
you'd
bring wine,” I correct her.

“Right. So, we're expected at seven. I think you'll really like her, Papa. She's very friendly, isn't she, Frankie?”

“She's very nice,” I agree.

“Well, there you are,” Aunty Rosa says buoyantly. She surveys the cabin once more, talking almost to herself. “You know,
Frankie, this place could be quite cozy with a little care. Some throw cushions, good drapes.” She looks at the floor. “Carpeting.”