Page 41 of Mafia Queen
One day in late August,the volcano tried to destroy everything around it.
The lava flowed in all directions, destroying foothill cities before hardening to porous, black rock. It was the spitting ash that was deadly, and the wind decided to push it over Pompeii—not Naples.
Every schoolchild learns that their ancestors lived because of the wind, and what any child can tell you is that the wind can change any minute, and rich or poor, young or old, strong or weak—you cannot fight the wind once it’s decided where to blow.
Before my mother took me on a climb up the volcano that shaped my horizon, I wasn’t that different from any of the other kids. We had nothing, but I wasn’t the only one. My mother cleaned the rooms at the hotel and sometimes brought home fancy chocolate. She’d hide it and give me clues to its location. When I found it, I’d insist on sharing with her, and she’d cut it in half with a knife. We tapped them together like wine glasses.
She told me that when she saw me with the other kids, she could tell I was like my father, and that men like him and me had no choice but to rule over others. This was the opposite of everything I experienced outside the walls of our apartment.
When I came home from school that day, Mamma took my books from my bag. She chattered about wrongs done to her by her father. Grandma dying out of spite. When she got like this, I usually ran outside to be with my friends, but that day was different.
“You have a purpose, Santino,” she said, stuffing sandwiches and a bottle of water into my bag. “You’re meant to be a great man. They won’t believe it, but you are. We just have to prove it to them. Go get a pair of socks.”
I did as I was told, wondering…socks? Why would she put socks and sandwiches in my book bag? Where were we going?
Giovanna—the most popular girl at school—was making a black and redscubidùfor my belt. The twist of two plastic strings was going to be three inches long, one inch for every year we’d been friends, which should never have happened since she was always so sparkling and beautiful and my clothes weren’t always clean and never fit right. She hadn’t ever made one for a boy before, and she said she’d be done by that night. If Mamma wanted to prove I was special, all she had to do was wait for Giovanna to be done with her gift.
“Will we be home for dinner?” My question was timid, and I avoided Giovanna as the reason I wanted to get back. I was eight. Maybe nine.
To this day, I don’t know what triggered my mother. I just didn’t want it to be me.
She shrugged. “It’s up to God.”
So I prayed.
We got on a tour bus to a parking lot at the base of Vesuvius, which looked a lot like the rest of Naples. The other passengers chatted and pointed out the window. They were on a pleasure trip to a corpse—hiking up the spine of a dead god. My mother looked straight ahead with her mouth set firm. She and I were on a sacred mission to find the source of its power. I held this in my head along with the grumble in my stomach and the setting sun—at the same time, I held out the hope that I’d get home in time to accept thescubidù.
When the rest of the travelers trekked to the start of the trail that would lead them point to point up a safe, guard-railed path to the peak, my mother led me in the other direction. Once we were out of sight, she pulled me aside and put my jacket on me.
The sun was setting, and the wind was picking up.
It was January, and down in Naples, nights only got a few degrees above freezing. She told me to keep my mittens on even if my hands got sweaty, because it would get colder up there, and it did.
My mother was not experienced in the outdoors, yet she took the dangerous way, avoiding the paths and trails. The visitor’s center. The views. She steered clear. We slept on the ground, tucked into low shrubs. She gave me her sandwiches, and when those ran out, we ate dandelion leaves. My mother cried, and I comforted her. I wondered if Giovanna was going to give my black and redscubidùto someone else, but I was too hungry to care.
On the third day, the shrubs gave way to rock and dust, and the climb got steep. In the late afternoon, we stopped. The peak looked close enough to touch. My mother put her head down to rest. She wouldn’t get up. I shook her. I screamed. I even kicked her, but she didn’t move.
I turned my back on her and ran. My mother, who loved me and believed in me. The woman who hid stolen chocolate like little nuggets of grace and made me find it so I could feel the power of self-salvation.
I left her behind.
* * *
My wifeand I go to the Alfa Romeo in silence.
The doctor may have been satisfied with the results of the exam, but Violetta is not. She squeezes my hand as if she’s afraid I’ll let go, which I won’t. She avoids my gaze as if I’ll see something in her she doesn’t want me to, which I might. When I open the car door for her, she thanks me as if I can’t hear the crack in her voice, which I do.
I walk around to my side and get behind the wheel, but I don’t start the engine.
“Tell me.” I try not to sound demanding, but what can I do? I am who I am.
“I’m fine. Clean inside.”
“Of course you are.” What kind of diagnosis is this? I’m offended on her behalf.
“I mean, there’s no extra tissue. My cervix is closing. It’s over.”
She stares out her window at the ghost town of the rows of empty white tents, each with a card table and two folding chairs inside. A folding sign sits at the head of an unpopulated brick path.
