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The old man and the kids didn’t want to move here. You’d think I offered them a pigsty instead of a house with every possible luxury and comfort. I organized a cook and a cleaner, but the women resigned after a few weeks. They couldn’t put up with my grandfather’s verbal and physical abuse. The cook said he threw a pot of boiling water at her. She said if she hadn’t been so fast, her face would’ve needed skin grafts.
I punished him by withholding his allowance. Food and commodities are always delivered to the house. He doesn’t need the money, but that’s what he cares about most. Nothing hits him harder than losing the cash.
Things went better after that. Until he started again. It’s always the same. He causes trouble and promises to be good when I don’t pay the euros into his account. As soon as he gets the next installment, he acts out again.
Those devious kids don’t help. They stole the cleaning lady’s phone and bank cards from her purse. They emptied a bucket of piss over her head while laughing their asses off. I thought sending them to school in Bastia would help, but they created so many problems that I ended up hiring a tutor to do home schooling. That lasted for little more than a week before the woman stormed through my door and demanded her money before getting off my property as fast as she could.
What’s it going to take? Sending them to a military boarding school? I was no model child, but I knew how to behave civilized when necessary. If I’m being honest with myself, moving them into the house had less to do with feeling charitable and more with wanting to wipe away the stigma that clings to my family name. I wanted my mother to walk down the street in the village and be met with respect instead of scorn. Sure, after I made an example of the grocery store owner, people served her when she went into a shop, but they still despised her. They just hid it better.
Toma waits outside when I pull up at the house. What in the name of the gods happened here? I cut the engine and get out of the car.
Not a single plank remains where the coop and shed were situated in the distance. The garden—or what’s left of it—is one big slush pile of mud and junk. The flowers are chomped down to stalks, probably by the goats. The grass is trampled, and the terracotta pots in which herbs and succulents were planted are broken. A mattress that’s more brown than white with a hole burned in the center lies in a corner. Pieces of crockery stick out from the wet soil. A fork shines among the dirt in the winter sun.
Toma stands on the seat of a chair that’s missing all four feet to keep his pants from dragging in the muck.
“What the fuck?” I say, raking my fingers through my hair.
“Wait until you see the inside.”
I climb the steps to the porch. Goat manure covers the veranda. The front door stands open. A few pigeons moved in. They fly to the ceiling, flapping their wings in a flurry when we enter.
The place inside is no better than outside. It stinks of rot and mold. Everywhere I look, there’s chaos. A curtain that’s been torn off the rail is spanned between the two living room pillars to form a hammock. The drawers are turned over on the floor. The silver and cutlery are gone. Only the plastic picnic eating utensils are left.
“They emptied out the place,” Toma says behind me.
“When?”
“Must’ve been recently. They were still here last week when the delivery guy dropped off the food.” He waves an arm through the space. “I brought the water fountain refill to find this.”
“What about upstairs?”
“The same. They left the heavy mattress in the main bedroom. Most of everything else is missing.”
I turn in a circle, taking in the destruction. “Where have they gone?”
“Back to the valley. Kids, goats, chickens, and all.”
“Motherfucker,” I say under my breath.
He makes a face. “You tried.”
Stomping back outside, I say from over my shoulder, “Get this fucking mess cleaned up.”
“Do you want us to bring them back?” he calls after me.
“No.” I climb down the steps. “Let them rot in that damn valley.”
He runs to keep up with me, sidestepping a pile of goat shit. “What about the house?”
“Lock it up.”
I get into the car and slam the door.
So much for trying to turn dirt into gold. Some families are born to be scum. I’m the perfect living proof.
ChapterTwenty-One
Sabella
