“Nonna,” I said, going to her side. “Please, Nonna, calm down. I’m getting Luca. Don’t worry.”
Nonna grabbed my sleeve and pulled me close. Reaching for my hand, she took it between her cold fingers and brought it to her heart. She looked me in the eye and, her voice shaking with emotion, said, “Listen to me, child. I saw it. The beast came for me on the mountain pass. Its teeth were sharp as razors, its eyes devilish. But worst of all, it was so like us. Monstrous and yet so human. The legends were true.”
Three
Devil. Monster. Beast. Suicide.
These words circled my mind as I walked through the parking lot. Devil. Monster. Beast. Suicide. Nonna Sophia had left Italy nearly seventy years ago, and yet her fear remained hard and tactile, so solid I could feel it there beside me as I kicked through the snow to my car. What on earth had she seen that had scared her like that? An animal? A person? What did she mean by “the legends were true”?
Try as I might, I couldn’t put her words out of my mind. The way she held my hand to her heart and the beseeching look in her eyes—she had been terrified. Don’t be fooled. Whatever that family gives you is nothing compared to what you will lose.
At my car, I looked out over the vast grounds of the Monastery. It was three thirty in the afternoon, snowing heavily, the sky a fog of indigo against the river. The days were at their shortest, and dusk had fallen, darkness rising from the river to the heavens like watercolors seeping into paper. I brushed a layer of snow from the windshield, wishing that Luca had come with me. Surely, he would have known what to say to calm Nonna. He was always better at these things than I was.
Yet, even Luca would have found Nonna’s reaction to the letter extreme. I leaned against my car, feeling unbalanced, dizzy. Had my grandfather really committed suicide? Why would my parents have kept that from me? Had they, like Nonna Sophia and the older generation, tried to protect me from the truth?
As I got into my Honda, I heard something behind me. I turned, expecting to find a visitor, maybe even Luca. There was nothing but the empty parking lot, the wash of darkening light, the snow swirling in the wind. And yet, I felt a presence, an eerie human presence, close as breath on the back of my neck. Something wasn’t right.
I locked the car door, turned on the heater, and called Luca, telling him everything. After he promised to come to the Monastery to check on Nonna, I threw the car into reverse, did a U-turn, and headed back toward Milton. It was three forty-five. The town hall closed at five.
Mrs. Thomas, head of the Vital Records office, was my friend Tina’s mother. In high school, there had been weeks when I had slept at the Thomases’ house more often than my own, partially because Tina and I played softball together, but also because, being an only child, I loved Tina’s brothers and sisters, the big chaotic family dinners, and the sense that there was always something exciting happening at the Thomases’ place. I’d compared her house with mine and, finding life quiet and dull with my parents, chosen to be with Tina.
The Vital Records counter was abandoned, but I could smell coffee from somewhere beyond the rows of metal filing cabinets, so I knew someone must be back there. I rang the bell and waited. Office hours were 8:30 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. Monday through Friday, but even if Mrs. Thomas had left early, someone would help me.
“Well, hello there, Bert Monte!” Mrs. Thomas said, stepping out from behind a cabinet. She was a tall black woman in her fifties with an abundance of gold rings stacked on her fingers. “You looking for Tina?”
I was glad to see Mrs. Thomas. She had a way of putting me at ease. Maybe Tina had told her about my troubles at school, or my crippling shyness, because Mrs. Thomas always made me feel welcome. “Isn’t Tina in the city?” I asked.
“Brooklyn,” she said, shaking her head. “That girl left the day she graduated and is never coming back.”
“I heard you’re a grandma,” I said, aware, suddenly, how much time had passed since high school. I could hardly believe Tina and I had graduated ten years ago.
“Blessed many times over,” Mrs. Thomas said. “Three grandbabies. Two boys and a girl.”
Mrs. Thomas reached for a framed photograph on her desk, but I was too preoccupied to see her grandchildren. “I know you’re closing soon, but I was hoping to take a look at the Monte family records before you leave for the night,” I said. “Birth and death certificates. I’m doing some research.”
“Not you too,” she said, flipping up a square of countertop and letting me pass into her domain.
“You’ve had other requests for Monte family records?” I asked.
“No, silly,” she said, swatting my arm. “We are totally overrun with genealogy requests. I have been photocopying and mailing records all over the place. Just last week I priority-mailed twenty-three birth records to a lady in Florida. She took a genetic test and realized her dad—the man she grew up with and whose name she carries—wasn’t actually her biological father. Her mother told her the name of her real father is Joe Johnson, from Marlborough, New York, so I went through every one of these cabinets hunting down that name. There were twenty-three Joseph Johnsons born between 1899 and 1935.” Mrs. Thomas gave me a look of exhaustion. “I know I shouldn’t complain. Vital Records revenue is up by about a million percent.”
She walked back into the maze of filing cabinets. “Are you making a family tree? Everyone I know has one going on ancestry.com. Or they’re doing genetic tests from that other site. What’s it called? Two-three something. I just did a spit test and found out I’m not even African!”
“What are you, then?” I asked, surprised by this. Her skin was a dark caramel brown.
“If you ask me, I’ll tell you I’m African American. But according to my test, I’m thirty-nine percent Hispanic, forty-one percent Middle Eastern, twelve percent Irish, and eight percent African! I’m more Irish than African? I couldn’t believe it, so I took it again. I paid another hundred dollars to get the same result!”
“That is crazy,” I said. Maybe I wasn’t the only one with family secrets. “What a surprise.”
“It changes everything and nothing,” she said, shaking her head, as if she were ready for whatever life might throw at her. “I mean, I am still me, but jeez, it’s hard to get your mind around something like that.” She went to her desk and pulled out a piece of paper. “Here it is, all official.”
The words “Genetic Profile” were written across the top. Below this, there was a sequence of ancestral groups—Northwestern European, Middle Eastern, North African, Southern European, East Asian, Sub-Saharan African, Native American, and so on, with percentages next to them. There were “Maternal and Paternal Haplogroups,” a section titled “DNA Family,” and another column called “Neanderthal Variants.” A chart outlined the ancestral group results Mrs. Thomas had described.
I knew exactly what kind of test this was. Some months before, I had bought a genetic testing kit from the online company Mrs. Thomas had mentioned. The site promised to give a complete profile of my ancestry, including the countries of origin and the ethnicity of my ancestors, all for ninety-nine dollars. I had spit into a plastic tube, mailed it to a lab, and awaited my results.