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The place is a far cry from the supermarket with its wilted vegetables and soggy lettuce that are crammed into rows of refrigerators. Here, the fresh produce are presented in crates and neatly arranged on trestle tables. The tomatoes are fat and red and not half-frozen. Local and organic products are displayed on wooden shelves. Dried sausages hang from the beam over the counter. A whole salted ham stands on a slicing block. The space smells of paprika and cloves. It’s warm inside, cozy, not freezing like in the generic supermarket.
My mother looks at me like she did in the car.
Ignoring the quiet plea in her eyes, I push the basket into her arms. “The quality looks better here.”
Her voice is soft. “Angelo.”
“You wanted rice. Get it. And the oranges too. Take some extra. Papa likes his orange juice freshly squeezed.”
Her manner is quietly accepting like when my father gives her an order. She’s never said no—neither to him, nor to us—but she has that way about her that says, Don’t say I didn’t tell you so. It’s the same look she wore when she warned us not to go too high on the swing, but we did it anyway and came home with scraped knees and bleeding shins.
She takes wild rice, my father’s favorite, and a few oranges.
A man, who I presume to be the owner, comes out of the backroom just as she carries the basket to the counter. Dusting his hands on the striped apron tied around his waist, he slides his gaze from my mother to me. His expression becomes shuttered. He’s in his fifties, old enough to know who we are.
My mother unclips her handbag and takes out her wallet.
Pursing his lips, he pushes the basket back toward my mother.
The fury that’s been building since we set foot in the village explodes. In two long steps, I’m in front of him, curling my fingers around his nape. His eyes bulge as I squeeze.
“Ring it up,” I grit out.
He shakes his head as much as he can in my hold.
I push, knocking his head three times on the counter. “Ring. It. Up.”
He braces himself with his hands on the wood, not fighting my grip, but he shakes his head again.
I’ll crack his fucking skull open.
My mother leans her back against the counter. She looks away, yet she doesn’t tell me to stop. She knows I won’t listen. Whatever she says won’t matter. She’s not a stranger to the violence running in our veins. My father has been careless at times, letting her witness things she shouldn’t have seen.
I bang the shop owner’s head on the counter again. “Why won’t you take our money?”
He grunts at the impact.
My voice is mocking, my smile thin. “Do you think it’s dirty?”
“I didn’t mean to disrespect you,” he stutters. “I can’t charge you. It’s on the house.”
I don’t think so. Holding him down while digging my fingers into his neck, I take a few bills from my pocket and slam them down in front of him. “Look at the money.”
He lifts his gaze to me.
I apply enough pressure to make him shuffle his weight. “I said look at the fucking money.” A little more, and I can make him pass out. I know exactly where and how hard to press, but I want him lucid.
Slobbering, he squints at the bills.
“Good,” I purr. “Does it look dirty?”
“No.” He sniffs. “No, sir.”
Shifting my hold, I grab a fistful of his hair and rub his nose in the money. “Does it smell bad?”
He mumbles something unintelligible.
I push harder, flattening his nose. “I can’t hear you.”
“No,” he cries out in a nasal voice.
I let him go with a shove, slamming his nose down hard. He bounces to his feet, cradling his nose between his palms. A drop of blood drips from his nostril and splashes on the hundred-euro-bill on top of the stash of money. It paints a big splatter in the middle with a few red dots around.
“Keep the change,” I say, taking the basket and handing it to my mother before leading her out by her arm.
We say nothing on the way home.
I only speak when I stop in front of the house. “How long has it been like that?”
She stares straight ahead. “You know how it is in small villages.”
Just about forever then.
I turn to face her. “From now on, you take a man with you when you go shopping.”
She lets that sink in before reaching for the door handle.
“And you go to the village.” I clench my jaw. “You will shop at the market and anywhere else you damn well please.”
My mother gets out. So do I, but I hang back, leaning in the open door as I watch her walk to the house with her shoulders squared and her expression hidden behind those glasses that obscure half of her face.
