When it was clear I wasn’t going to hide, Sal backed away into a shadow to save my father his dignity from crying. My father peered up, startled I had been able to sneak up on him. “Mr. Rossi is teaching you well.” He quickly wiped his face to disguise the tears I had already witnessed.
Not interested in a lie or cover-up, I knelt next to him. “I am glad you are home.”
Those being my first words seemed to surprise him. We had not spoken much since his return. It seemed he had been avoiding me. Since I was happy where I was and didn’t want to now live with my father, I let him.
He let his hands fall, no longer hiding his wet face. “Thank you.”
After a moment of silence was broken by Isabella crying out again, I dared to ask, “What happened to her?”
With exhaustion I wasn’t accustomed to witnessing on a Suit, he leaned his head back against the house. “I think the proper question would be, what didn’t happen to her?”
“Will her nightmares ever end?”
Tears streaming, my father shook his head. “I do not believe so, son.”
“You wish you could have found her sooner?”
A sob escaped him before he could recover. “Yes. Very much so.”
“At least she is with family now.”
Father eyed me with a glimmer of pride. “Yes, this is true.”
I am grateful my father did not tell me more details until I was older. My young mind was impressionable. Why haunt my dreams with a cruel world before needed? Which it would be. In an unimaginable way.
History would soon repeat itself for my father and me.
One year later
By age fifteen, Sal and I were gaining weight and growing much taller, absolutely taking up all the room in our little beds. Mrs. Rossi was now complaining about having to peer up to read our eyes. I asked her once, “Why is it so important you read my eyes?”
“Ah, that is so I can see if you have fallen off—” she suddenly grabbed her aproned stomach and slowly, distractedly, finished with, “your path,” while staring into nothing that was for me to see. Then, as if whatever was shown to her was quite alarming, her upper body startled backward as she sucked in air.
“Mamma? Are you not well?” asked Sal as he entered the living area connected to the kitchen.
As soon as he was close enough, she pulled him into her arms with such vigor my heart sped up. Holding him to her, she nodded. “Yes, my son. I will be just fine.” I swallowed as one of her hands left her son to reach up and cup my cheek. “My angel will make it so.”
After releasing me, she then released her son. “Would my boys like some hot milk before their adventurous day?”
Knowing the answer, she didn’t wait for a reply, just turned to the stove and heated milk. She still called it hot milk, but as we got older, more and more coffee was added. We were no longer children, per se, only allowed hot milk of coco, and could totally be on full coffee by this point, but Mrs. Rossi liked to mother.
We loved to be mothered.
It was a natural arrangement that worked for the three of us.
Sal grumbled as he grabbed a homemade pastry from the center of the small wooden dining table. “I hardly believe shoveling poop is an adventure.”
I was still watching Mrs. Rossi, wanting her meaning of what she said about me and my ‘path’, but she refused to meet my eyes. The next time I would see them she was handing me my milky coffee. Since no explanation was being offered, I accepted the drink and finished my pastry. It was time for work.
Giordanos had sheep for milk, some for meat, some for wool, and some for sale. We bred the crossbreeds to grow and sell some of the best tasting meat in the area. At least, that is what I believed. Being older, I started to question the boxes being put in the trucks before we loaded the containers of milk. Same for the containers that were put in the trucks before sheep were loaded and sold.
Helping the Giordano employed farmers with herding sheep from one pasture to another nearby one, I quietly asked, “Sal, what are in those boxes we saw this morning?”
A couple of dogs were barking in the background as Sal lectured, “How many times must I tell you? We will know when no longer considered children.”
Since the argument, “but your mother now adds more coffee to my milk,” sounded quite immature, I kept my mouth shut.
Once the sheep were relocated and we were headed back to a barn, one of the men looked up and saw a sheep high on the side of the hill. “We have a wanderer, men.” He laughed. “And two kids to go and fetch him.”
Still tempted to speak of my coffee to milk ratio, I forced my lips to stay shut and followed Sal toward the rocky hill. The sun was setting, and I was tired. Sal was, too. His feet practically dragged as he stepped up, higher and higher, cursing the dumb sheep for wandering off.
“How did he manage to get so high?” I asked, completely annoyed.
“There is another easier path I thought was properly blocked.”
“May I ask why we are not taking the easier path?”
“Because I would like to shower and be in bed before two in the morning.”
Grabbing a rock over my head, I could barely shrug. “Valid point.”
Once to the large ledge the sheep was on, we both sat for a breather. Far below, we could see Suits and farmers watching us, over by the barn.
Sal sulked before standing again. “I guess sitting on our asses won’t impress them.”
Fighting to get back on my tired feet, I laughed. “Nor help us to be considered men.”
At the edge, Sal shooed the sheep toward the easier way off the hill. I watched the sheep pass me as I approached Sal, asking, “How long before we reach the bottom on the other path?” When he didn’t answer, I found him staring down at his feet. “Sal?”
Slowly, his eyes lifted to mine.
Then, the edge broke from under him, and he began to drop…
It is true what they say; time slows down at crucial moments in your life. And this was one of the most crucial of all. My very best friend was falling to his death.
Without telling it to, my arm swung out and clasped the hand reaching out in terror. My other hand swung out to grab onto his wrist, to concrete a strong hold. I am so grateful for my gut reactions because Sal’s weight had my body jerking forward and slamming to the ground. There is no way a one-hand hold would have been enough.
My ribs screamed in agony as my bones bruised and my chest dug into all the rocks, breaking my skin. At least my best friend was still in the air, not crashing to the ground. He would not survive.
Yells of fear escaped Sal as his free hand gripped onto my outer wrist, knowing I was his only chance of surviving.
I couldn’t yell. My ribs had taken such a hard hit, I was too consumed with grunts, trying to accommodate his weight, now all mine to carry. His legs were kicking as if searching for ground that wasn’t there.
In the distance below, I could faintly hear men shouting, but could not make out what they were saying. I was far too focused on the hands clinging to mine. My arms were hanging over the broken part of the ledge that was now ripping my skin.
Sal was looking down, frantic. “Angelo!”
I grunted out, “Don’t let go.”
“Angelo! Angelo!”