Frank Polizzi - Somewhere in the Stars

The image was bookmarked in his head like all those National Audubon prints in the library, the brilliant, dazzling colors stored in his youthful memory, especially when the rain pelted against the large windows of his neighborhood sanctuary. That was long ago when birds were just something to wonder at—their colors, their movement, their songs—connections to other living forms, but Nick needed to see the birds and even the stars in a new way, offering some inner meaning to patch up the tormenting thoughts he clung to—what he should have done or how he could have handled things differently. But there he was, thinking too much, reading too much, as his cuginu admonished him for. For now, Nick would have to put his last conversation with Nathan in a secret place, as easy as out of sight, out of mind.

As soon as Nick had returned from the service, he continued the routine of spending Sunday with his parents, eating their customary multi-course dinner. His spring semester of college recently completed, Lucia returned from an early mass and spent the rest of the morning arranging an antipasto of local air dried meats and imported cheese, and preparing pasta al forno siciliana and a secondo platter of pork braciola and meatballs, to be followed by fruits and nuts, and caffè e un po di Sambuca. Nick read the San Francisco Chronicle and other newspapers stacked up on the table and Gaetano listened to his Caruso records in the living room, as the sun lit up the rear kitchen. When Lucia called out, Nick got rid of the papers and Gaetano scurried in, sitting at the head of a white porcelain enamel table.

“ Nicolo , you no look happy,” Lucia said. Nick waved his mother off. “I slaved all week over my Singer and then my stove, only to seea that sad face.” She smiled. “I coulda made pasta cu sardi for your father, but no, I made your favorite dish.”

“Lucia, leave the boy alone.”

“It’s okay for you to say, sitting like King Tut, but your son has a sour puss on whenever he comes in the house.”

“Mi dispiace, Mamma .”

Gaetano gestured towards the pasta that Lucia had already ladled into their dishes. “ Mancia , Nicolo . Your mother can’t help it because you mope around the house and we worry. What are we supposed to do?”

“I got things on my mind. Let’s just eat.”

“Va beni!” Gaetano reached over and poured some red wine in everyone’s glass. “ Salute !” as they clinked glasses.

They ate with a minimum of conversation, and at the end of the meal Gaetano took out two, stubby Toscano cigars.

“Nicolo, step into the backyard and have a smoke with me. The sun’s rays will do us good.” He arched his right eyebrow and grinned at his son.

Nick followed his father out the back door, when Lucia blocked his way and said: “Innuccentu!” She pinched her son’s cheek.

“I don’t think so, Mamma.” He kissed his mother’s hand. “Pop is waiting outside for me.”

“Good. I no want him to stink up the house.”

The cool breeze coming from the Bay tempered the warmth of the sun. They sat next to each other at the picnic table. Gaetano had already lit his cigar and handed one to his son who opened his Zippo with a ping and torched the Toscano.

“Mannagia, you’ll set yourself on fire.”

“I got everything under control, Pop.”

“I can see.” Gaetano puffed on his cigar and blew smoke into the air, spiraling away. Nick repeated the same pattern as his father while they stared for a while at the covered tree in the corner of the yard.

“Do you want me to liberate the fig tree, Pop?”

“Beni.”

Nick leaned the cigar in a glass ashtray and proceeded to undress the tree, starting with its bucket hat, cutting the rope and wrapping it around a stick, then unraveling the black coat and furling it, placing each item on the table.

His father clenched the cigar in his teeth while approaching the tree and gently spread the branches out.

“Do you think we’ll have a lot of figs, Papà?”

Gaetano took the cigar out of his mouth. “Don’t worry. When the figs are ripe, we can eat them with some prosciutto on top. Allura, what happened to your friend, Nathan? He don’t come around no more.” Gaetano stubbed the cigar out in the ashtray.

“Nothing, Pop.”

“Your friend hasn’t returned since he banged my back door. Non capiscu .”

“Nate has some cockamamie idea that he should run after some woman he met in Italy.”

“Does he love her?”

“Si.”

“Then why should he not pursue her?”

“I don’t know.” Nick walked over to examine the fig tree. “It’s none of my business anyway.”

Gaetano followed his son to the tree. “Bravu. Eh, but why you no speaka to each other?”

“He wants me to go with him to Italy and I refused.”

“Isn’t Nathan your best amicu?”

“He used to be.”

“No, non possibbili! There must be something else you’re not telling me.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“Tell me the truth. You always confided to me since you were a picciriddu .”

“For Christ’s sake, Pop,” Nick yelled out. “Don’t you know where I’ve come from?”

“No, I know nothing about what happened to you during the war.” Gaetano raised his voice. “I guess in time you’ll tell me what’s bothering you.”

“What’s going on out there?” Lucia called out, as she stepped out the door. “The neighbors!”

“Lucia, I am just having a little talk with our son. No problemu!”

Lucia shook her right hand in the air and went inside.

“Nicolo, let’s sit down again.”

“Okay, Pop.”

Gaetano sat opposite to his son. “There’s something else troubling you. Besides Nathan. I heard you were once sweet on his sister. Deborah, right.” Nick nodded. “A nice girl. But she is married, I understand. Anyway she was Jewish, so how was this going to work out, you being a Catholic?”

“I’m not interested in the Catholic Church anymore.”

“You used to be an altar boy. When you were in the sixth grade you told your mother and me you wanted to be a priest.”

“That was a long time ago, Pop.”

“But thank God, you came to your senses when you discovered girls.” Gaetano pointed his index finger at his son. “Ma Nicolo , you are still Catholic. We are not heathens.”

“Pop, you only go church on Palm Sunday, so you can get free palms to weave into fancy crosses for us to wear.” Nick ran his hand over one of the limbs. “Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot Christmas.”

“Never mind! Your mother goes every Sunday.”

“Let’s get off this. I don’t want to hear about it.”

“Okay, so what else is bothering you? Your cuginu, Paolo ?”

“I don’t want to talk about the war.”

“It was terrible what happened to my nephew and what it did to Ziu Francesco and Zia Concetta. La tutta famigghia .”

“And what about what happened to you? The government should be ashamed of themselves for throwing you and your paesani into one of those internment camps.”

“FDR shoulda stopped the whole damn business from the beginning. And to think we Italians, loyal Democrats, helped put the President into office. And when we sent our sons to fight in the war, they still called us enemy aliens.”

“The G-men stole you away in the middle of the night. Right outside.”

“You should of been at the camp to witness their riddles. The interrogator, he says: ‘Who do you want to win this war?’ I saya just like this: ‘Think of your mother as one country and your wife as another country. You love your mother and you love your wife, but not in the same way, that is if you’re not pazzu, excuse me signuri , crazy.’ So I thought for a moment and finished. ‘I love my mother country, Italy, and equally love my new wedded country, America. Sir, would you be able to choose one over the other? I only want them not to fight against each other, just like we did in the last war.’ Still I was guilty as charged, an enemy alien. Allura, we are a proud people and don’t complain, but everything remains here.” Gaetano tapped the side of his head.