Season of Salt and Honey

by Hannah Tunnicliffe

  For a brief moment I consider telling them what I have learned. “Alex had an affair.” But I don’t. I probably never will. Is it an affair if they only kissed? Is loving someone else worse than sleeping with someone else? What are the rules? How upset am I allowed to be? With a dead man.

  “Gabriella Favano had a beautiful jacket on this morning, didn’t she, sister?”

  “She did.”

  “Lilac. A kind of linen.”

  “Mauve.”

  “Yes, perhaps mauve.”

  It seems as though life is going on exactly the same, as though nothing ever changes. I watch Vinnie and Daniel at the other end of the table. Vinnie has rolled up his pants to show Daniel the scar on his leg where he broke it as a kid, the place where the bone had come out through the skin. Daniel is nodding but he’s also glancing around the table at all the people, most of them talking loudly, some—Papa and Uncle Mario, for instance—in Italian. He seems a bit bewildered. I remember him looking the same way at our engagement party.

  “How are you, my girl?” Aunty Rosa asks, carefully watching my face.

  I shrug and smile. “I’m okay, Aunty.”

  “She’s having some time out,” Aunty Connie says sharply.

  “I was just—”

  “She’s been through a lot,” Aunty Connie adds, chin lifted.

  “Bella’s here with me,” I reassure them. “And Daniel.”

  They both look over at Bella and Daniel, who are both peering at Vinnie’s leg while he gesticulates wildly, Bella then rolling her eyes.

  “He’s Alexander’s brother, isn’t he?” Aunty Rosa asks.

  I nod.

  “Quite a handsome young man,” she says approvingly. “He’s taking some time out too?”

  I nod again. Daniel is smiling at something Bella’s saying, staring at her face, watching her lips move.

  “That’s good,” Aunty Rosa replies, satisfied.

  Aunty Connie straightens in her chair, smooths her dress, and nods too.

  As the food is passed around, crusty bread getting stuffed with salami and roasted peppers and pickled eggplant, oil and vinegar dripping down fingers, paper napkins being dispensed, I see Merriem stepping towards the gathering. She’s wearing one of her long dresses with a cardigan, and sandals with a silver anklet. Her red hair is piled on top of her head, the white strands catching the light.

  Papa springs to his feet and the aunties put down their forks in almost perfect synchronization.

  “Merriem,” Papa says, beaming.

  She accepts a kiss on the cheek with a wide smile. “Giuseppe. Great to see you again. Hope you’ve been enjoying the honeycomb.”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, it’s delicious.”

  Bella brings over a chair and Papa makes room between him and the aunties. Uncle Mario introduces himself and pumps Merriem’s hand. She laughs in that booming way of hers.

  “Hi, Frankie,” she says to me, her face cautious, testing.

  “Hi, Merriem.”

  She doesn’t ask if I’m okay, as though she already knows I don’t want to be asked.

  Papa gestures to Connie and Rosa. “These are my sisters.”

  Merriem reaches out her hand. She has a silver ring on every finger.

  Aunty Connie blinks and shakes her hand. “Concetta.”

  “A real pleasure to meet you.”

  “And my other sister, Rosaria, Rosa,” Papa says.

  “Hello.”

  Aunty Rosa clears her throat. “You live nearby?”

  “Very near. I’m just down the road.”

  “You’ve been here long?”

  “Quite a few years now,” Merriem says, and adds her standard explanation. “I followed a man . . . you know . . .”

  “Oh. Well.” Aunty Rosa looks to her sister. Aunty Connie is unmoved.

  “Merriem grows vegetables,” I say.

  “She keeps bees too, just like Nonno,” Papa adds.

  “Yes, you said that,” Aunty Connie replies.

  “It’s very nice here . . . with the trees. . . . Very . . . rustic,” Aunty Rosa says to Merriem.

  Merriem gives another full laugh. “Rustic, yes. Well, we like it. Darwin and me, I mean.”

  Aunty Rosa looks dismayed.

  “Her cat, Zia. Darwin is a cat,” I explain.

  I catch Bella staring at me from the other end of the table. She smiles knowingly. I suddenly have a memory of hiding vegetables I didn’t want to eat in my pockets at Aunty Connie’s house. Surely that was Bella, not me. But when I search my memory, I realize they were my pockets, my fingers tucking the cooked vegetables, broccoli from the orecchiette perhaps, right down into the seams. Bella saw me do it and smiled, just like she is now. I return the smile.

  Merriem settles into her seat and I watch as Vinnie passes her the bag of fresh bread rolls. Papa touches her elbow and begins asking her about the garden and her system of crop rotation.

  The smells of the forest—the damp dark of the soil, the bleeding sap of the trees, the lemony cedar smell—all vanish in the company of the Sicilian food: the pungent garlic in Zio Mario’s salami, the vinegar pickling the vegetables, olives bobbing in brine, roasted peppers, the ubiquitous, sunshine-colored olive oil. It’s a kind of colonization. The forest is one of ours now.

  After the rolls there is salad, and after the salad there is fruit. Cristina’s older children become unruly so Vinnie and Bella walk them down to the water. Daniel stays with Cristina and baby Joe. Cristina talks on and on, and jiggles baby Joe till he falls asleep, and then continues jiggling out of habit so his fat cheeks bounce up and down, his bottom lip hanging open and glistening with drool. Giulia takes her leave; she has a friend to meet, to the consternation of her brothers, who protest that they should be able to leave too. Uncle Mario clips Cousin Luca, the one who wants to join the army, across the ear and tells him for the hundredth time that Nonno took his children away from Sicily because of military service and here he is, the imbecille, wanting to join voluntarily. Merriem talks to Zio Roberto, the aunties speak to one another, Sicilian and Italian and English filling the spaces between the trees, silencing the birds.

  When the salad and fruit are finished, Papa and I go into the cabin to make espresso. Aunty Rosa calls out to bring the sweets too. We find them in a box placed by the counter: almond-paste cookies, brutti e buoni, even lingua di suocera, mother-in-law’s tongue. I put an almond-paste cookie in my mouth, let the sweet dough melt on my tongue. It’s flavored with orange and cinnamon. Aunty Rosa is a great baker; no one makes treats like she does.

  Papa smiles at my satisfied face as he fiddles with the espresso maker. “Rosa wanted to make your wedding cake. She did ours, you know.”

  “Aunty Rosa made your wedding cake?”

  He nods. I think of a photo on their dresser: Mama and Papa and their cake; Mama holding the knife, Papa with his hand on the small of her back. They are both looking at the crowd beyond the photographer, grinning. Love and food: the Italian equation for bliss.

  “What was it like?” I ask.

  “Ahhh. It was . . . bedda.” He sighs and smiles, and his gaze drifts off.

  I wonder which part of their wedding he is remembering. The tables full of food, the kiss in the church, or Uncle Mario forgetting the rings and having to rush back to get them before the ceremony started. Perhaps his mama, Nonna, arguing with the waiter about the bad coffee. The sky being blue and perfect, even though it was April and the weather could go either way. I’d grown up on these wedding stories, little details ever so slightly changed in each recounting. The priest becoming more drunk, Mario more bumbling, the coffee more and more undrinkable. I felt as though I’d been there, amid the color of it, the music of it. The swish of bright polyester dresses, the tinkling of ice in glasses, the roly-poly singsong sounds of Italian and sharp bursts of American laughter.

  I imagine Mama and Papa set apart, in a bubble of their own vero amore, whispering into each other’s necks. Mama has a veil that she doesn’t
take off because it makes her feel like a bride, and Papa keeps his palm against her all night, thinking, she is my wife. They can’t stop smiling.

  Aunties and uncles come to kiss their cheeks and grab at their faces, saying, “Tanti Auguri!” Their American friends try out the new words they have learned, like cassata and gelu di muluni.

  These stories were how I fell in love with a wedding. The idea of a wedding, the daydream. Crisp, pure, and white as a snowdrift. Elegant and flawless.

  Papa nudges me. “Are you sad, cara mia?”

  I nod. “Sì. I am sad.”

  But what I want to say is “disappointed.” “Papa, I am so disappointed.” One day I will tell him the whole of it. One day, but not today.

  “I’m sorry, Francesca,” he says, as though it is his fault, and stares at me, troubled, till I force a smile and look out the window.

  He finally gets the espresso machine working, then hunts for extra cups.

  I see Bella and Vinnie come back with the children, who are wet from the pants up. Merriem is laughing—I can hear her from inside.

  I watch a charcoal-colored car, clean and shining as a seal on the rocks, glide down the driveway.

  Mrs. Gardner squints from the front passenger seat.

  Lingua di Suocera

  MOTHER-IN-LAW’S TONGUES, (MARMALADE-FILLED PASTRIES)

  A traditional Sicilian sweet-and-sour treat for serving with espresso

  Makes about 24 pastries

  3/4 cup semolina flour

  1 cup all-purpose flour

  1/2 cup granulated sugar

  1/4 teaspoon salt

  7 tablespoons butter cut into pieces

  2 egg yolks

  2 to 3 tablespoons cold water

  About 1 cup marmalade (any citrus fruit of your choosing)

  Powdered sugar, for dusting

  PREPARATION

  In a food processor, process the semolina for about 5 minutes, until fine and silky. Add the all-purpose flour, granulated sugar, and salt and pulse to mix. Add the butter and process until crumbly. Add the egg yolks, one at a time, pulsing to mix. With the processor running, add just enough water so the dough comes away from the sides of the bowl. Do not add too much water or the dough will be difficult to work.

  Turn the dough out onto a floured surface and form a disk. Wrap in plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes.

  Preheat the oven to 375°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

  On a floured surface, roll the dough out to no more than 1/4 inch thick. With a 31/2 x 2-inch fluted oval cookie cutter, cut out ovals of dough. If you do not have a cutter you can make your own template and cut around with a knife or a fluted pasta cutting wheel. Gather and re-roll scraps and cut another 3 or 4 ovals.

  Place about 2 teaspoons marmalade in a line in the center of each oval. Fold together the sides of each oval until they almost touch and pinch the ends (leaving the center agape). Place about 1 inch apart on the baking sheet.

  Bake until golden, 15 to 20 minutes. Transfer to racks to cool. While still warm, dust with powdered sugar. Store in an airtight container.

  Chapter Twenty

  • • • •

  Papa walks down the steps behind me, carrying a tray loaded with as many cups as we could find.

  Mrs. Gardner’s pale blue eyes, morning-sky blue, are roving back and forth, taking in the scene. Her face is drawn and her clothes hang from her more loosely than usual. Mr. Gardner stands apart from his wife. He’s holding the car keys as though they’re a talisman.

  “Giuseppe,” Mrs. Gardner says.

  “Mrs. Gardner. May I offer you an espresso?”

  She purses her lips. She is wearing tan pants, a silk blouse, and a string of pearls. I watch Aunty Connie roll her own pearls between her fingertips.

  “Barbara, Marshall,” Merriem says, cheerfully, but only Mr. Gardner gives her a little nod. He catches my eye and gives me a tired smile before glancing at his feet.

  Mrs. Gardner shakes her head at Papa, speaks in a clipped voice. “No. No, thank you.”

  Papa places the tray on the table and finds an empty seat, which he offers her. She refuses again. The Caputo chatter seems to have been silenced. Even the wet children are looking at the strange woman who hasn’t been introduced. I open my mouth to do so when she cuts me off.

  “My husband and I”—she turns her head to include him in the statement—“have come to inform you personally that you are trespassing.”

  Teresina looks at me, alarmed, and Bella comes to stand by my side. Aunty Rosa whispers to Teresina.

  Mrs. Gardner continues. “We have sent several messages via our groundskeeper”—she emphasizes Jack’s title—“giving you notice of the fact, but you seem to have ignored them.”

  Papa looks to Mr. Gardner, but he’s staring past us all at the cabin.

  “Barbara,” Papa says, his voice low, “Francesca is staying for only a short time. It has been difficult.”

  “It has been difficult for us all,” Mrs. Gardner says, “but that does not excuse taking advantage . . . breaking the law, in fact.”

  She eyeballs me and my stomach drops. I suddenly feel tiny.

  “Hey, lady, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” I glance over at Vinnie who’s shaking his head. “Frankie? Breaking the law?”

  Mr. Gardner steps forward and touches Mrs. Gardner’s shoulder. “Darling, perhaps—”

  She shrugs him off. “No. It’s the principle of the thing. Look at them all—making themselves at home.”

  “We are here to support our niece!” Aunty Connie pipes up.

  “Surely you can allow your own daughter-in-law, your famiglia, some time here?” Aunty Rosa hisses, incredulous. “It isn’t being used. It needs some upkeep, to be honest.”

  Mrs. Gardner glares at her and I know what she’s thinking: She is not my daughter-in-law.

  Mr. Gardner whispers his wife’s name again, pleading. Aunty Connie agrees loudly with Aunty Rosa. There’s whispering all around: Teresina to her fiancé, who is nodding; Cristina murmuring to the baby, who’s woken up; Roberto pressing the other two children to his legs, covering their ears; Vinnie frowning and muttering, lifting his chin; Mario’s boys seeming suddenly taller and angrier.

  My heart pounds as I feel the heat of Mrs. Gardner’s gaze upon me. I meet it.

  “It’s not your cabin,” she says to me, her voice low and steely. I notice the blusher on her cheeks, applied a little too heavily.

  “I know,” I reply.

  “You won’t get it. It’ll go to Daniel.”

  Daniel moves towards us, but Mrs. Gardner doesn’t notice him. She’s leaning towards me, lifting her finger to my face.

  “Mom,” Daniel says.

  “You’re not a Gardner,” she hisses at me. “You never will be.”

  “Mom!”

  “Barbara,” Mr. Gardner says.

  “She won’t have it!” she shouts wildly.

  Mario’s boys and Vinnie are all standing now. The trees seem to bear down. I feel sick. I look at Daniel, who stares at me and then at his mom. Mr. Gardner is trying to pull Mrs. Gardner away, and also trying to catch Daniel’s attention, but Mrs. Gardner is loud.

  “Let me go!”

  “Come on, darling.”

  “Let me go right now!”

  “I think it’s best if we—”

  She struggles out of Mr. Gardner’s grip and cries, “Little . . . whore!”

  I reel back, my fingers against my cheek, though she hasn’t touched me.

  “That’s enough!” That’s Bella and her body is right up against mine now, moving to stand in front of me. Papa has grabbed hold of my hand. Vinnie is close too, his biceps twitching, his jaw square.

  “She let him go surfing that day!” Mrs. Gardner bellows.

  “I couldn’t stop him. . . . He loved the sea,” I mumble uselessly, pleading with her.

  “You think you know everything about your son? You think he was flawless?�
� Bella shouts at her.

  I reach out to stop her. “No, Bella, don’t.”

  Mrs. Gardner is writhing in her husband’s arms, her silk shirt twisting. I can see her bra, the loose skin of her stomach as she struggles. When she yells spit comes out of her mouth. “She seduced him!”

  “How dare you!” Bella screams.

  “She did nothing of the sort!” Aunty Connie retorts, her voice shrill.

  Bella is pointing, threatening. “Stay away from my sister! She’s been through enough.”

  “Mom, please. Stop. Please?” Daniel is begging his mom, but reaching out for Bella. I watch him take hold of her hand. Their fingers lace together easily, out of instinct.

  Mrs. Gardner sees it too. “See? See! They are just like that other . . . French bitch! Get away from my boys! Whores!”

  The Caputo men crowd in, tall and dark and silent as the trees. Mr. Gardner glances at them, eyes wide. Mrs. Gardner struggles in his arms, shaking her head from side to side. She spots something beyond the end of the table and lunges in that direction.

  “Jack!” she calls. “Arrest her!”

  I look up to see Jack jogging out of the forest with long strides. The men wheel around, confronting the new arrival. Jack glances at Mrs. Gardner and then to me, his eyes round. He’s still looking at me when Luca, Mario’s son, buries his fist into his stomach. There’s the strangest sound, like someone punching a pillow rather than a person, and Jack folds down to the ground. “Jack!” I cry out.

  And then Daniel is lurching towards Luca to pull him off Jack, and Luca’s brothers are tearing at Daniel, and Vinnie’s among it all too, and the table crashes on its side and the dark espresso splashes up Mrs. Gardner’s tan trouser legs.

  * * *

  The cabin is mine.

  It tumbles out in a chain of whispers. Mr. Gardner to Daniel, after his wife is finally in the car. Daniel buckles her into the seat as though she’s the child; he’s the only one she’ll let touch her.

  Vinnie overhears, and tells Bella.

  The cabin was Alex’s, it turns out, left to him by his grandfather, Hank Gardner, because Alex was his favorite. And Alex left everything to me. He made a will a few months ago, when he renewed a bunch of insurances, something I didn’t know. So many things I haven’t known.