There’s a man at the front door, holding a scratchy, sparse-looking broom.He looks like he could be any age between forty-five to eighty.He’s wiry with corded muscle, and I don’t know how much of the wrinkling on his tan face is due to age or sun exposure.He’s got a full head of hair, and it’s all grey.His clothes are well-worn, faded, and dusty.
Alessandro seems to be expecting him.This must be the church caretaker who’s been looking after the place.Paulo.
I wish he’d have just burned it to the ground.
Alessandro hops out of the car, greeting the older man in Italian.Both of their heads swivel to take me in where I sit.Alessandro seems to be confirming something now.Maybe telling the man that I’m his wife.
Being here with yet another Messina suddenly becomes too much.Shoving the car door open, I bend over and puke onto the stone.The other man exclaims loudly – a complaint, I’m sure – and Alessandro says something placating in return.I think I hear the wordvinoin there somewhere, but I’m too busy heaving to be sure.
There’s not much in the stomach to eject.When I’m done, I’m actually glad I’ve taken Alessandro’s stupid water bottle.Because now I have something to rinse my mouth with.I do so, spitting, then take a queasy sip.
I’m not allowed to remain in the shelter of the vehicle long.After a couple of minutes chatting at the front door, Alessandro returns for me, yanking me from the car and dragging me to the building.I cringe upon entering, then allow myself the smallest breath of relief when Alessandro marches me past the tiny, first-floor room I slept in as a child.If he’d insisted I sleep there, I’m certain that I would have somehow managed to crawl out of my own skin in response.
Unlike Curse in Toronto and then the other house in Springwater, once Alessandro releases my arm, he doesn’t seem to give a shit where I go or what I do.He knows there’s nowhere for me to run.And if I break my end of the bargain and leave him, there will be nothing stopping him from sending an assassin of his own to kill Curse after all.I watch Alessandro’s back as he moves away from me, his phone against his ear.I burn with the desire to take it from him.To call Elio, call anyone, and make sure that Curse is alright.
He was on such a lonely, tree-lined road.Would anyone have even found him?My forehead aches with the strain of mental math.How many hours has it been?Twelve?Twenty?I take another sip of water, realizing that if I’m going to have any semblance of my wits about me, I will need to drink more of it after all.
I’m currently standing in the sitting room area.Large glass doors stand straight ahead, leading out into the back of the property.Unsure what else to do, I go through them.
It’s not summer-hot yet, but my outfit is too heavy nonetheless.I kick off my boots, then remove my socks, feeling the grains of tiny stones and the sun’s warmth sink into my soles.There are more glorious gardens back here, all contained by those pointy, interconnected spires of fencing.Beyond the fencing, the property slopes down, lush and green, then rises again to the hill that houses the church.It’s the only building nearby.
The church is only about three hundred feet away, and Paulo has already returned to his post there, taking his scraggly broom with him.He’s outside, brushing at old gravestones.Spying a shovel leaning against a low, crumbling wall beside the church, I wonder if Paulo is the gravedigger as well.
Is Carlo’s body there?
My guts threaten to expel the little water I’ve had, but I swallow back the urge.It’s been years since Carlo died.Even if he’s there – which he might not be – he’d be nothing but bones by now.
But suddenly, I have to know.
My feet move swiftly over stone and through gardens until I encounter the small gate in the fence at the very back.I push it open, then continue down the grassy hill, sweat prickling along my lower back and beneath my arms.From beneath the shade of his hand over his eyes, Paulo sees me coming, and he calls something to me in Italian.Though I can tell it’s a question, I can’t find any meaning in it.
“Carlo Messina?”I ask him.At the very least, Paulo should know that name.He nods, then aims his broom at the largest, newest gravestone.It’s closer to me than I was prepared for.My body quakes, like I’m six, in that bed, and I can hear him on the stairs.
He’s nothing but bones.He’s nothing.
I can’t convince my nervous system of that fact.My body wants me to run.
But I’m not going to.I’ve come this fucking far.
Other headstones peel away from me on all sides as I make my way to Carlo Messina’s grave.I stop short of standing on top of where I think his body would be – because that would just be too close – instead pausing about seven feet away from the stone.I can’t read the Italian on it.Which is probably a good thing.I don’t need to read about how beloved he was – what a faithful husband, uncle, and friend.
I consider spitting on the grave.But Carlo isn’t even worth that fucking much.Especially when I’m dehydrated, and I’ve already vomited and started sweating.I’m not even going to waste my goddamn saliva on him.
And suddenly, as warningless as the sun disappearing behind a cloud, my fear is gone, replaced with bitter anger.Anger over the fact that an entity who is nothing now but bones in the dirt could have caused me so much harm.Ruined so much for me.
I don’t realize I’m crying until Paulo approaches cautiously, waving a faded-looking handkerchief at me.I blink down at it, dumbfounded.I’d promised myself not to waste my spit, but here I am shedding tears.
But these tears aren’t for Carlo.
They’re for me.
And Curse.
And everything that’s fallen the fuck apart.
Chapter21
Curse
