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“What the hell do you know anyway? You are not a doctor.”
“No. I am not,” I whispered.
“We need to take this fork out of his body. He is not even badly injured,” Carmine said.
“We should not remove it yet,” I said. “I can make an incision near the wound to try to see where exactly the tines are in his body. But if they are in his lungs or close to his heart, when we remove them the blood will fill his lungs and he will suffocate.” I did not know why I was begging to save this wretched man I hardly knew, only that it was the right thing to do.
Carmine growled. “I will get a car so we can take him to the real doctor.”
“I am going to make one cut. And then we can put this gauze in the wound.” I held up the cloth as evidence of my plan as I swabbed the area around the tines with an antiseptic. “And that should help get him to Sciacca.” Where the doctor won’t be able to do anything, I thought.
Blood oozed from the incision as I tried to widen it enough to see where the tines had gone. As I cut, more blood bubbled over the wound.
“Stop, you are killing him. I told you not to cut, you ignorant bitch,” Carmine yelled. “Take the fork all the way out and bandage the wound and the real doctor will fix him.”
He loomed over me, his massive shadow darkening both of us. The blade of his machete gleamed against his thigh, his hands clenched into white fists at his sides. I knew I did not do what I did next out of spite, but it might have been out of fear. I also knew in that moment that Carmine would not hesitate to strike me if I didn’t do exactly as he asked. I stood and gripped the handle of the fork and pulled it from the man’s body. It slipped out easily, too easily. I felt it slide around the soft tissue of the lungs, right between the ribs. Blood pooled at the wound as I rushed to wrap a bandage around the chest cavity and stop the bleeding. But the damage was on the inside. The man on the ground began choking, blood poured from his mouth, much more than before. As I suspected, the only thing holding his body together had been the pitchfork. He was drowning in his own fluids. I held on to his hand, hoping to give him some comfort, but his eyes bulged from his body as he gagged and was overcome.
Carmine cursed and spat at me. “Stupid woman. Stupid bitch.” I heard the same words over and over again. Then something different. “Witch.”
The man’s soul had left his body, but I held on to him anyway, afraid of what would happen when I stood.
Before I could react, Carmine grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked me to my feet. I stared up at him, my eyes beseeching. When I looked into his sun-worn face I did not see the angry, desperate man. I saw the gentle teenager who had once whittled little dolls out of sticks for Cettina and me to play with, the young boy who wet his bed when there was a thunderstorm. Cettina and I had washed the sheets so no one would know. Desperation, the need for money, and the desire for power had changed him.
“You did this on purpose, witch.” I felt blood on my scalp as the handful of hair ripped out of my skull, taking my skin along with it.
“Please. Please, Carmine. There was nothing I could do for him. It was a terrible accident.”
“Look at him.” When he released me I collapsed onto the ground, and he swiftly kicked me in the side with his boot. “When you arrived, he was breathing. There was no blood. Now this. How can I explain this? I cannot say it was an accident. No one will believe me. Do you know who this man’s boss is? Do you know anything? They will think I did this, and they will come after me.”
I did not know exactly who they were, but I had an idea.
“You can blame me,” I said, desperate to get out of his reach. I slowly crawled away through the dirt for all the good that would do. I could feel that something was shattered in my chest, a rib.
“Like anyone would believe me. Believe that I called a woman to come to heal him. No, they will blame me.” He was no longer speaking to me but rather up to the sky, perhaps to a God who would always favor men.
The sound of a motor saved me. Someone was driving up to the farmhouse. Suddenly Carmine lost interest in me, though he left me with a few parting words as he walked away to the house. “You will regret this.”
I had no doubt of that.
When he was out of my sight I managed to get to my feet and walk off in the opposite direction, through the fields, away from the house, toward the road. I did not know how I’d make it home. After walking for an hour, I was so slow I was not even close to the village. I settled into the shade of the one giant ficus trees among the olives and lemons. Its massive roots supported my back as I lifted my dress to examine the damage. My entire left side was already turning purple. There was blinding pain with each breath. I knew that I should not be walking. The sound of another engine saved me. Stepping out to the road was a dangerous proposition. It could be anyone. It could be Carmine. It could be the men who employed the Black Hand. But I did not see any other choice.
The Virgin Mary was on my side. I saw her shrine as I stepped onto the dirt of the road. It had been built by Cettina’s mother when we were children. Mamma Filippa took exquisite care in hand painting the beautiful features and the flowers lining the hem of her blue gown. Sunlight seemed to pour out from inside of the statue’s ivory skin. I kissed her dusty foot as I stumbled into the road.
Paola was driving, thank the Virgin. I stepped out and waved my arm at my friend. The sheep grunted their annoyance as she stopped and pulled up next to me, leaping from behind the wheel and taking me in her arms.
“What happened to you?” I shook my head. I didn’t know yet what story I would tell.
Paola took off her shawl and wrapped it around my shuddering shoulders. I inhaled her familiar scent of yeast, the strong amaretto she used to sweeten her sponge cake, and the pipe she sometimes smoked while she drove. She pulled me tight to her and kissed the top of my head like a mother.
“Take me to Rosalia,” I managed before everything went black.
THIRTEEN
SARA
The police officer’s long hair flew behind her like a banner in the wind as she drove the three of us down the side of the mountain on our way to the coast. In another life Fina the cop could have been a Formula 1 racer. She took the hairpin turns at a breakneck clip that shuttled me from one end of the back seat to the other.
Immediately after filing the police report for my missing passport, the two women asked me to decamp for a long lunch by the sea.
