She squinted up at him as she backed away.
“Abatti’s the name.”
“Of course. Twelve children.”
“Thirteen. One died a few months after birth.”
“Yes, I remember now.” She waved. “I live not far from here. I’ll be fine. Really.” She turned, gazing at him over her shoulder and giving him a quick wave.
But he stood there as if rooted. “Most of us are gone now. A few of the girls and me, we’re all that’s left.” He hesitated. Then, slowly, he lifted his hand in farewell.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Tuesday, February 12, 1867
Evidence of spring, the sky was saturated with a blue so deep it could be the Madonna’s cloak. A scouring wind blew Serafina’s cape. Ancient trees bent against its force, but as they rolled and bounced inland, the air grew softer. Their world filled with spring blossoms and Serafina smelled the heavy scent of almond, the tang of citrus.
Carlo drove. She closed her eyes and felt sand underneath her lids. She shouldn’t have indulged her sorrow last night, weeping for hours in her room. She was a fool without conviction. What would her mother have done? Gone to him, of course. Or maybe not. But she’d be quick to give her daughter advice. Serafina could hear her saying something about time to get on with life.
It took hours of searching before they found Ugo’s missing boot. Nearby she saw churning footprints in the soft earth, a red button, nothing more.
“Take the boot?” Carlo asked.
“And the button. I’ve had enough searching for today. I know a little clearing not far from here, a good spot to rest. Bring the food.”
They walked apart, Serafina several meters ahead of Carlo, but she could hear him clomping back and forth, cracking branches, crushing leaves. Soon I’ll hear the full force of his roar.
He called out, his voice ringing in the clear air, “What’s the point? Why can’t we all make love and babies and coins, honor our family and have done with it? Forget the war and the thugs, the poverty of the peasants, the corruption of the government.”
Serafina swiveled around.
Her son didn’t bother to face her. “Why try to change the world? You can’t even keep your daughters at home.”
She stared at him.
“That’s right. They can’t wait to leave. First it was Carmela. Now Renata’s gone.”
Somehow, maybe in the effort to stay calm, she snagged a sleeve. “You’re lucky,” she said, liberating herself from the thorn tree. “You live like a king compared to the peasants. You’ve got a family’s love, a father who left you prosperous, a younger brother who minds the shop so you can go to school, a mother willing to seek the truth. And as for Renata…”
But Serafina didn’t finish. Instead she stumbled on a rock, barely breaking her fall by sitting on a felled tree trunk.
“Most women are spoken for by ten or twelve, married by the time they’re sixteen, but not my sisters. They’re not even betrothed. What will they do, the four of them, wait on your every whim until you die? No wonder they leave! You treat them like slaves! And the few days I have to visit, what do you have me do but search for a chimera.”
She concentrated on the forest before her eyes. “What do you know about being a woman, betrothed to a man you cannot bear to look at?”
“Better than their fate. Oh, you’ve cajoled them into thinking they search for their ‘specialness.’ Specialness? What’s that but a trick to keep them at home-Renata, the cook, Giulia, the seamstress, Carmela, the midwife. Only she didn’t play the game the way you-”
“Enough!” She felt the blood pounding in her temples. Her own son speaking to her like this? What would Giorgio do? Slap him, of course. But no more Giorgio.
Something told her not to reply until her own breathing slowed. She closed her eyes and waited for calm. “I was lucky. When my father promised me to some starry-eyed activist, my mother found Giorgio-with my help, of course.”
Carlo’s right foot pawed the earth. The gesture was as close to an apology as she’d get from him. She wondered if Renata had received the letter she’d written. All that attention from the monzù and the baron’s household in Bagheria might turn her head.
“As for your sisters, Giorgio and I wouldn’t promise them to just anyone. And they’re all still so young.” She ran a hand through fading ginger curls.
He hung his head. “Ever since Papa died, we don’t know where your mind is. Today, you’re lost in some fruitless chase, a stranger to us. Tomorrow, who knows?”
Serafina rose and hugged her son. She was about to say something, but so far, her words had caused greater harm than good.
There was a faint sound, a trembling in the earth perhaps, or a trampling of the ground. Brushing off her skirts, she said, “Thank you for your honesty. What would I do without you? Now, not another word about your sisters or my mind. The clearing I told you about is over there, just beyond this bush. A lovely spot, no?” She breathed in the smell of the soil.
They sat under a chestnut tree eating artichokes, caponata, and slabs of bread brushed with olive oil. An iridescent light filtered through leaves and warmed their backs. Not far away, boars snorted, birds called. In the distance she heard shouts of peasants working the wheat and beyond, the faint sounds of the sea.
“Something odd about Ugo’s house. No locks picked, no windows broken, no signs of struggle and yet the house seemed violated.” Serafina poured herself another glass of Nero d’Alcamo, held the bottle out to Carlo. A shot rang out.
Carlo yanked her behind the tree. They heard a second shot, a rustle of leaves.
“Got your club?” Serafina hated the tremor in her own voice.
Peeking around, she saw a man emerge from the bushes and stand in a shaft of light. Tall and thick. For a second, he seemed unreal, like those cartoons of twisting soldiers she’d seen plastered on the sides of war-torn buildings. Uncombed, unshaven, unwashed, he wore a faded red shirt. Something gleamed on his vest. In his hand, he held a rusting Garibaldi rifle. For a second, she’d forgotten where she’d seen him. Then she remembered and felt the rush of blood to her face. How would she explain their meeting to her son?
“Look at him, our tattered soldier,” she said softly. Doesn’t he know the war’s over?” Serafina’s heart raced. Trying to steady her voice, she called out, “Italy is one, long live Italy!”
Carlo rolled his eyes.
“Who calls?” the man asked.
“He speaks in dialect,” she whispered. Clearing her throat, she called out again, “Donna Fina, midwife of Oltramari.”
“Ezzo Abatti. We met last night.”
Carlo dropped his jaw and looked at her.
“I’ll explain later,” she whispered.
“What are you doing in these woods?”
“You wear the Marsala Medal pinned to your vest. I salute your bravery, but you just shot at us.”
“And I didn’t shoot at you.” He held up a quivering hare, elongated, dripping blood.
Serafina motioned to Carlo and they stepped into the clearing. “My oldest son, Carlo.”
Abatti nodded in Carlo’s direction. He came closer.
“You live nearby?” Carlo asked.
The soldier shook his head and pointed in the direction of what she imagined was the edge of the forest. “The cart by the road belongs to you?”
She nodded. “We’re here to investigate the death of Ugo Pandolfina. Awarded the Marsala Medal, just like you. You knew him?”
“Him?” He spat.
“He was killed near here,” Serafina said.
He shrugged and turned to Carlo. “Ezzo Abatti at your service. Fought with Garibaldi and the thousand.”
Something about him. She’d seen him before, not just near the fountain last night. Then she noticed his unbuttoned cuff. A fox with chicken feathers stuck on his snout. “You didn’t like Ugo,” she said.