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Seven
...wáre of a wórld where bút these | twó tell, each off the óther; of a rack
Where, selfwrung, selfstrung, sheathe- and shelterless, | thóughts agaínst thoughts ín groans grínd.
—Gerard Manley Hopkins,
from “Spelt from Sibyl’s Leaves”
After making sure that Lorenzo was sleeping peacefully, Sabina padded into the hall and eased the spare room door closed behind her. She jumped a foot in the air when she turned around and found herself inches away from her mother. She threw a hand over her mouth to cover the instinctive squeal. “Mama!” She kept her voice a whisper. “You scared a year off my life.”
Mama chuckled and patted Sabina’s cheek. She, too, spoke in a bare murmur. “I thought I heard talking and was coming to check on Enzo. Did he wake up?”
“Briefly.” Her shoulders slumped. “He’s asleep again now. I figured I’d go get the coffee started.”
Mama nodded and turned to lead the way down to the kitchen. Sabina followed, talking at a normal volume once they’d gained the cozy room and turned on a light. She missed it in here—the well-worn workbench and the old, scratched table, the comforting feel of the percolator’s handle as she pulled it from the cabinet. She missed the knowledge that she could create a meal at the stove to satisfy the people she loved and make them smile.
This was home—the one room in the house that hadn’t been completely remodeled, with more expensive furniture moved in. Sabina might resent that the stalwart Sicilian woman whose one English word was “Cook” had taken over, but she had at least given Papa an earful when he’d suggested updating this room. Cook had made it clear that if his construction crew touched her space, she’d take a wooden spoon to the lot of them.
Mama didn’t seem to share Sabina’s regard for the old, worn fixtures. She scowled at the stove as if it offended her sensibilities and reached for the coffee beans. “How is Enzo?”
“He’s still pale, and I could tell he had a splitting headache, but I imagine he’ll be ready for breakfast in a few hours.”
“Ah, good.” As she cranked the handle on the grinder, Mama lifted her brows. “So? You talked to him?”
Sabina filled the metal carafe with water and put it on the stove, then picked up a box of matches. “Yeah.”
“You told him you still want to marry him?”
It had taken every ounce of courage she had to say those words. “Mm hm.” She struck the match and put it under the pot to light the burner.
Mama’s motion stopped. Sabina could feel her steady gaze. “And? Did he agree?”
She squeezed her eyes shut, but that only made the look on his face that much clearer in her mind’s eye. He loved her; he’d proven that last night. But would he ever trust her again, ever really forgive her? “He didn’t disagree.” She sighed, set down the spent match, and leaned against the counter. Exhausted didn’t begin to describe her current state. She had snatched a few minutes of sleep here and there as she held vigil over Lorenzo through the night, but the quality had been as lacking as the quantity. Nightmares had stalked her, filled with blood and bullets and an empty, yawning future. “He isn’t convinced it’s a good idea.”
“Of course it is. You’ve learned your lesson.” Mama turned the crank again, stopped again, pierced her with those eagle eyes. “You have learned your lesson, right?”
“I have.” The rising smell of fresh-ground coffee tried to comfort her, but even its magic could only do so much. Sabina slid over to the table and pulled out a chair. Her nostrils flared. “Mama, are you in love with Papa?”
The sound of grinding filled the kitchen again. “If I didn’t love your father, I wouldn’t be here.”
“I know you love him. But I mean in love. You know, passion and fire and racing heartbeats.”
“Ah, cara. I outgrew such fleeting feelings long ago. They don’t last long in this world. Had I let myself be ruled by them, our family would be in tatters.”
Sabina rested her forehead on the table, its cool surface too inviting to pass up. She felt like crying again and wasn’t sure why. “But you did feel them? Once?”
She heard her mother open up the grinder and transfer the grounds into the top of the percolator. “Long ago, yes. When I was little more than a girl in Sicily, and your father was a young mafioso. All strut and big words.” A smile saturated her voice. “In our hometown, there weren’t so many opportunities as you have here. You either stole or were stolen from. You hit or were hit. The Mafia was sometimes the only protection we had. The government—” She made a scoffing, dismissive sound. “They were the worst criminals of all. But it was a small town. Not much to do, not much to make of yourself. So your father and Franco and Vanni all decided to come to America. They’d heard grand stories about the opportunities. I couldn’t imagine a life without him, so we married, and I came too.”
Sabina hummed out a sigh. “Very romantic.”
“No.” Mama’s voice went stiff. “It was not, or not for long. For the first months, we lived in a shanty along the docks in New York. Twelve people stuffed in a small room, never enough food. Praying our numbers would be drawn in the lottery. Every penny we earned, the Black Hand would steal from us. Just like in Sicily, the authorities didn’t care. ‘Let the dagos kill one another,’ they’d say. As if we were no more than animals.”
The hatred in Mama’s tone inspired Sabina to lift her head. She saw a matching bitterness in her mother’s eyes. “It took a year before we got out of there, and we managed it only then because Manny and Franco made a deal with Lupo, offering to distribute some of his counterfeit money in Chicago if he would pay our way here. By that time, I was pregnant with Gianna, God rest her soul.” She crossed herself, as she always did when mentioning either of the two children who had died before Sabina was born. “Once we were here, your papa got to work. Found ins anywhere he could, took them where they shouldn’t be found, spilled blood when necessary.”
Mama gave her head a sharp shake. “It was not pretty, Sabina, and not romantic. There were days I wanted to run away, but I had nowhere to go. Days I wanted to end it all, especially after my baby died in her cradle. Days I wanted to kill your father when he came home smelling like the cheap perfume of the women he had begun to sell.”
Afraid she might be sick, Sabina squeezed her eyes shut and wrapped her arms around her stomach. “You’ve never told me any of this.”
