L'Italo-Americano

THURSDAY, AUGUST 10, 2017 www.italoamericano.org 12 L'Italo-Americano FRED GARDAPHE P asquale Rotolo thought his family had too many daughters. Angelina was their first, then Lucia. Anna dreamed of sending their daugh- ters to study with the nuns, but Pasquale laughed and told her that they would have to work in the fields until she gave him sons. When Francesco was fol- lowed by Michele, he thought he was on roll, but then came Antonietta, Michelangelo, Rosa and Leano. Pasquale thought that once Micheangelo was old enough to work he could risk sending Michele to "L'America."So in 1912, Michele went off to the U.S.A and it seemed the invest- ment was paying good dividends. And if it hadn't been for the war, the four dollars a month that Michele had been sending home would have continued. Pasquale had fought with the red bearded Garibaldi and there was no way he would keep his son from serving the country he had helped create, even if the very government he had fought for was now taxing him back into poverty. And so Michele returned from the U.S. only because the government threat- ened to block future returns of those emigrants of military age who failed to serve. After his service, he would help the family with one more harvest. Michele's last day in Castellana started in silence. He walked to the hearth, where the coffee pot hung steaming above a small fire and brought the pot to the wooden table where a brown ceramic bowl sat, stuffed with stale bread. He poured the coffee over the bread, ate and thought of work. Michele dipped his fin- gers into the hot coffee and pulled out a drenched piece of bread. He swallowed it without chewing. When he had done the same with the other pieces he blew on the coffee and emptied it in one draught. Anna cracked brown eggs and mixed them into a large mound of flour. She wasn't singing today. She said nothing. Unlike the other days when she would say something about the fine eggs the chickens had given to the family or announce the new additions to the rabbit family, today she worked in silence. Michele left her in that silence to join his brothers and father in the fields. Those fields and the small stone town had been all he had known until he was almost eigh- teen years old. As far as he could see the fields stretched out, leading in one direction to the hills where the olive trees stood, and in another to the sea. America had taught him differ- ently. For two years he had worked as a hod carrier building streets and homes in Chicago. Today was his last day working with his father and his brother. No one talked today as they bent over picking the endless rows of fava. Michele kept checking the sun's position. At lunch they ate without sharing a word, then napped in the shade of olive trees. When it sank to the tops of the trees he loaded the donkey with sacks of beans and headed home. Usually they would all return home together when the sun had sunk below the tree branches, but today he left early to ready himself for the journey. He unloaded the don- key, brushed it down and walked into the house. His sisters were all in the kitchen, helping his mother prepare for dinner. They all worked in silence. He lept up the stairs and his eyes scoured the room for any- thing that his mother might have missed. He sat on the floor and untied his work boots. He changed into his only suit and stepped into his only pair of shoes. He stared down at his work boots. Scarred and scraped so that the leather was as thin as an olive leaf, they would be use- less in America. He grabbed them and hurried down the stairs. He had one more thing to do. With his work boots in his left hand and the shotgun in his right, he ran out of the door. Michelangelo was outside, throwing stones at the wild rab- bits that had gotten into his moth- er's garden through the short stone wall that separated the house from the fields. 'Maybe he's going hunting. But why does he carry his boots tied together? He doesn't hunt in his suit!' Michele trampled over the bean plants, kicking pebbles and unpicked plants into a cloud of dust. His eyes were fixed on one tree, the largest tree in the grove, near the top of the hill. He slowed as he neared it and stopped at its base. Pasquale and his sons were still working on the other side of the hill. Mario could hear their feet shuffling through the rows of beans. 'What is he going to do?' thought Michelangelo. Michelangelo hid behind an olive tree and watched. Mario was a silhouette against the peach colored evening sky. He dropped the shotgun, grabbed the boots and swung his arm up, the boots dan- gling overhead. He twirled around once and let them fly toward the branches. The tied laces wrapped around a gnarled branch that looked like an old man's arm. He turned from the tree, seeing but ignoring his little brother. The tattered boots hung from the limb swinging in sirocco's breeze, like some strange over- ripened fruit that had been ignored during the harvest. Michele walked a few steps from the tree, stopped, turned and stared, then raised his gun and aimed. Michelangelo imagined some invisible man hanging from the tree, clicking his heels and toes together, dancing in his dying. He had once seen a man who had been hung for stealing from Don Pasquale: the face contorted, quickly turning the color of red wine as it twitched and twisted, the pink tongue thickening and whitening with foam as it bulged out of a wide opened mouth that sucked but didn't swallow air. BLAM! Michelangelo jumped from behind the tree to see his dying thief disappear leaving behind two empty boots, blown open at the toes, tongues limply lapping the holes. Michele threw the still smok- ing shotgun at the tree yelling, "There! It is finished. I am done with this work. Done with this gun!" He turned and waving his arms wildly above his head he ran towards Michelangelo who was laughing nervously. His father and brothers had run to the top of the hill. When they reached the crest they saw the boots swinging in the tree and burst into laughter. Michelangelo ran away in fear yelling, "Mamma! Mamma! Michele shot his shoes. In the tree! Did you hear it? Michele killed his shoes!" Michele laughed insanely as he chased his brother to the house. Having killed the silence of the day, he was ready to return to l'America. A Generation Removed: the Last Day "Pasquale thought that once Michelangelo was old enough to work he could risk sending Michele to "l'America." So in 1912, Michele went off to the USA.". Sketch by Lila Quintero Weaver LA VITA ITALIANA TRADITIONS HISTORY CULTURE

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