A couple more men came to see what the fuss was about. A few of them grinned as they tucked their weapons back in, going back to whatever they were doing. Canvasing the property, it seemed like.
“He he he he!” The aunt stabbed a finger at me through the window. Her name dawned on me then—Theresa, and her two sisters, Helena (who I remembered they called Lena) and Serafina. I remembered the sisters, or as they were known around Sicily,Tre Sorelle, forThree Sisters. The sisters were famous cannolo makers. And apparently gunslingers as well.
“I have to sit down,” I said. “I need a minute.” My heart was in my throat, and it seemed stuck there. My knees were slack and my palms slick with sweat, despite the chill in the air.
I took a seat on the last step, lowering my head for a moment, attempting to calm my nerves. Once all of the sensors in my brain settled, I asked Romeo if he was all right.
He waved the gun in an easy manner. “Bene.”
He didn’t seem fine, but it didn’t seem like the time to point out the obvious.
“I should have warned you, Sissy,” Romeo said. “ZiaTheresa has a, ah…sense of humor.”
“You might want to askZiaLena orZiaSerafina if they have ice,” I said. Theresa might give him Dry Ice as a joke. “An egg has appeared on the side of your head.”
Romeo touched it and winced. Vincenzo went to take a seat next to me but Romeo held him up by his collar. “Ice,” Romeo told him.
Vincenzo’s eyebrows narrowed. “There is a kitchen right there.”
“Butheneeds ice,” Guido put in.
“Get it for him then!” Vincenzo snapped.
The three of them argued over who was going to get the ice, until I stood and excused myself as I made my way past. “How many Italian men does it take to get ice? One woman. I’ll get it!”
With the matter settled, Romeo and Vincenzo took the bottom step as a perch, and Guido stood with his back to the wall, a normal conversation ensuing after I had made myself scarce.
“Men,” I muttered to myself, along with a few other choice words as I entered the kitchen.
Uncle Tito looked up from his espresso, Serafina and Lena from their cannoli making, and Theresa pointed a stubby finger at me and giggled. I made a mental note to stay away from that one. At Carmen and Dario’s wedding, she had followed me around, hiding behind flower arrangements and bathroom stall doors.
“Ice,” I said to Uncle Tito. “Romeo fell down the stairs. He has a knot on the side of his noggin.”
“What?” He stood, going to look out of the window. Instead of going to Romeo, he cursed at him from behind the glass. A few times his long, thin finger made contact, thumping in accusation.
We were all on edge. Uncle Tito had a temper, but rarely did he scold someone for falling down the stairs.
“I will take care of him,”ZiaSerafina said. “Romeo! Romeo!” She fussed to herself as she made an ice pack, set a few cannolo on a plate, poured a glass of espresso, and then set them all on a platter.
ZiaLena kept up her flow—the entire kitchen had been turned into a private bakery, old school but with high-end commercial appliances. The fryers were going and rolling cannolo shells were bobbing up in the popping grease. Wide tables were littered with chocolate chips, pistachio pieces, ricotta cheese, flour, and sugar, along with paraphernalia such as strainers and cannolo forms. Somewhere in the vicinity…I sniffed. Candied cherries.
My stomach made a noise like a panther crying, despite my lack of appetite.
I jumped when Uncle Tito put a hand on my shoulder. I didn’t realize that I was standing in the middle of the room, staring at the floor while everyone else stared at me.
“What are those?”ZiaTheresa stabbed one of her black flats at my boots. “For men?”
“No, they’re for men or women,” I said.
“Ha! I do not believe this.” She narrowed her dark eyes. “I want a pair.”
Serafina told her something in Sicilian that I didn’t understand, throwing her hands up in frustration. Then she asked me in broken English when I was going to start, along with the two lazy women upstairs. I looked at Uncle Tito for answers.
The old doctor stared ahead for a couple of seconds, before he blinked behind his spectacles and met my eye. “Come,” he said, moving me toward the door. “Let us take our espresso and cannoli on the rooftop.”
The view was expansive from the third level. Sicilian hills rolled on for miles and miles, carpeted with a dusting of green leftover from summer, more cream starting to take its place as the temperature grew colder. Autumn was making itself known, the smells of bitter earth and burning wood perfuming the air. The sun was out, clear skies as far as the eye could see, but when the wind blew I burrowed into the jacket for more warmth. In the distance, I could’ve sworn I heard bleating.
Uncle Tito sat across the table from me, his legs crossed, his crossword puzzle open, his pencil sitting in the middle of the book. He chucked his narrow chin toward the jacket. “I recognize this,” he said. “It belonged to Luca.”
