“No, please . . .” Concetta collapsed with her arms around her children, crying, “Please, Carlo, don’t—”
“I said, SHUT UP! Why don’t you ever listen to me? I work all day, and then you think you can tell me when to speak and when to keep silent?”
“I don’t, I’m sorry, please, just let the children go out, and then you can say what you want. Do what you want—”
“What I want is this thorn out of my side.”
“No! Please! Please, I beg you!”
Carlo turned the report card over and over in his hands, running his fingers along its edge. Elisa tried madly to process what was happening. Her muscles strained to run out of the room. To Fatima’s—but no, Fatima wouldn’t want her after what happened. To Luciano’s. He’d accept her. She had to get out of there, anywhere, even the threshold of San Nicola chapel.
Carlo said softly, “It’s time for her to leave.”
Elisa recoiled. Could her father read her thoughts?
Concetta stammered, “Leave? Leave where? This is her home, we’re her family. She’ll do better, show him your math test, Elisa, the one you got a perfect score on. He’ll be so proud of you, he will, show him, show him, your father will be so proud . . .”
“You’ll have to find her father first. Check the sagra, he may be there. I never did learn who he was, but maybe you can find him by looking for the man with the same blank expression as this one.” He gestured at Elisa.
More silence.
Then a deep keening sound sprung from Concetta’s throat, a sound unlike any Elisa had ever heard. Guido pulled Elisa closer. A beat later, Elisa blinked. He . . . wasn’t her father?
Concetta sobbed, “You promised! You promised you’d never say anything to her, to anyone . . .”
“You promised raising a third baby would make you happy. Would make you a better wife. Promises can be broken. And I’m tired of raising someone’s bastard.”
“She’s ours, she ours as surely as she was born to us. As surely as our sons.”
“Our sons bring us credit.”
Elisa pulled her brother’s arm, “I don’t understand—”
Carlo laughed, “See? A moron. She’s an embarrassment. It’s time for her to go back where she came from.”
“We can’t do that! You know that, her mother—”
Guido stopped stroking Elisa’s hair away from her forehead. He shot a look at his mother.
Carlo snickered again. “What? Did you think your mother found someone to sleep with when I was at work, and Elisa is the product of an affair? Don’t be dense, Guido, I expected more from you. Elisa isn’t your sister, not your full sister, not your half-sister. She’s nothing to us. You really never figured out why your mother had to go away to have the new baby?”
“You said the baby was twisted and Mamma had to be on bed rest in a special hospital—”
Carlo shook his head in disappointment. “I seriously never thought you believed that. I figured you knew. Your mother couldn’t have more children after Matteo and when a man at the factory told us about this pregnant teenage girl, your mother insisted that taking her in would fill the hole we needed in this family. Turns out, she’s been nothing but a drain.”
Concetta pulled Elisa to her and glared up at Carlo. “Just go, Carlo. You’ve done enough damage.”
“Don’t you think we should tell Elisa who her mother is? The father, of course, we’ll never know since her mother likely spread her legs for every man in a 100 kilometer range of Santa Lucia. But Elisa can live with her mother—”
Concetta stood up. “Elisa does live with her mother. I am her mother, the only mother she knows. It’s you that doesn’t live here anymore. Get the hell out of this house.”
“You can’t be serious. We’ll get rid of the girl and then we’ll have dinner and our lives will go back to normal. When my income only has to stretch to a family of four, and we only have children who bring us honor, we can finally have a happy life. You’ll have time to keep the house clean for a change. You’ll remember to brush you hair before I get home, put on some make-up. Look like someone worth coming home to. Once she’s gone, we won’t fight so much because you’ll be able to do your wifely duty.”
“No! Elisa, Guido, go to the questura, tell the police your father is beating your mother.”
“I haven’t laid a finger on you—”
“Yet. But you will. Now, go Guido, take Elisa, keep her safe. Get Matteo from the playground on your way. I don’t want him here for this.”
Guido pulled Elisa to standing and they cowered around Carlo, still gritting his teeth as he stared levelly at his wife.
Edo skirted away from the table of jeering men. The wine had raised their voices and distorted their manners, and he wanted to stop the rush of shouted insults before it could mar the evening. Which had, up until now, been quite pleasant. It was a warmer day than could usually be counted on in November, a boon since the festival wasn’t protected by the walls of the piazza.
Everyone appeared to be enjoying the sagra more than usual. Edo himself noticed aspects of the festival brought vividly into the foreground. Had the light always been this slanted? Was the scent of popping herb-infused fat always this pervasive? Did the laughter of the townspeople arm in arm with the tourists always ripple into the softening twilight? He wasn’t sure, but he had to concede that a festival presided over by a crumbling castle was an inspired idea.
In an effort to preserve this overflowing feeling of good will, Edo went the long way around the tables to refill his plate with wild, earthy, roasted cinghiale meat. As
