The Complete Series

by Angela Scipioni

  “Yiiiiiiikes!” Louis screamed, blazing a zigzagged trail through the knee-high grass that separated the house from a dilapidated shack out back. Jasmine said it was a chicken coop, but Iris still hadn’t seen any chickens in the vicinity. Louis was running like crazy, dragging little Ricci behind him, a cloud of insects circling around their heads. “Wasps! Wasps!” Louis cried. “Heeeelp!” Ricci screamed, as his brother bounced him across the grass.

  “For cryin’ out loud!” Iris heard her father yell from out back, where he was trying to fan enthusiasm into both the fire and the sons whose help he had enlisted. John was raking grass into a pile as tall as he was, while Alexander stood at the edge of the fire, disappearing and reappearing as the smoke shifted according to the wind’s whims. Seeing Louis and Ricci engulfed in the swarm of wasps, their father grabbed the nozzle of the garden hose he kept handy by the fire and ran toward the boys, turning the water on full blast. He trained the spray on his sons, dousing them from head to toe as they screamed and stomped and flailed their arms, until the wasps retreated in reluctant surrender.

  The sound of an approaching siren pierced the air, joining the concert of Ricci’s wailing, Louis’s shouting, Alexander’s laughing, John’s exclaiming, Iris’s gasping, their father’s yelling. Iris ran toward a stunned and soaking wet Ricci who was weaving his way in her direction like a drunken sailor. His bottom lip was trembling, his head of curls dripping. “Come here, honey!” Iris said, extending her arms to draw him close in a comforting hug, but abruptly blocked him when he was still inches away. She cried out in horror at the sight of one – no, two – no, five – no! - there must have been at least a dozen drowning wasps writhing in his soggy crown of curls.

  While a crying Ricci clung to Iris and an excited Louis pointed out the location of the wasp nest to their father, Alexander darted to the garage and back to the smoldering fire, carrying a shiny red tank. He unscrewed the top, swung back his arm as if preparing to pitch a softball, and sprayed a shower of gasoline over the pile of branches and grass. After a few seconds’ hesitation, the stunned pyre belched, sending a burst of flame into the air. Alexander was knocked flat on his butt, but sprang back to his feet immediately. “I got it going, Dad!” he cried out excitedly. “Look!”

  “Jeepers Cripes!” their father yelled, rushing, hose in hand, back to the blaze. A bawling Ricci and a stupefied Iris were riveted in place by the sight of flames leaping in the air, and the shrill sound of the siren screaming louder and louder. The screen door slapped in rapid fire as Capostostis of various shapes and sizes came tumbling out of the house to see what all the commotion was about. Their eyes widened in collective awe as a gleaming red fire engine cornered the driveway and a crew of men outfitted in yellow slickers and hardhats hopped down from the truck even before it came to a halt. The firemen shouted orders to each other as they manned a huge hose and raced over to the blaze in the back yard. Amid shouts and cries and screams, the fire Alexander had forced to life was extinguished in a matter of seconds. The firemen stood in a semicircle, nodding their heads and patting each other on the back as they stared at the defeated heap of soaked greenery as if it were a slain dragon. Across from the firemen stood Alexander, the empty gas can on the ground beside him, a satisfied grin branded on the face topped by a mop of singed hair.

  Iris gathered in close with her brothers and sisters, as one of the firemen marched over to their father. “I’m Fire Chief Maloney. And would you be the man of the house here?” he said in the scariest voice Iris had ever had the misfortune to hear.

  “Yes,” her father replied, running a hand across his sweaty brow.

  “Well, Mister… what’s the name, please?”

  “Capotosti,” Iris’s father muttered. “Carlo Capotosti.”

  “Listen up, Mister Capotosti,” the chief continued, “I don’t know where you folks come from, but out here, we have respect for safety and property. We get a call from your neighbors complainin’ about all this smoke comin’ from your yard, and what do we find when we get here? A blazing inferno, for cryin’ out loud, and a kid playin’ with gasoline. Right under his father’s nose. Gosh, with a little more wind this coulda turned into a three-alarm fire! You coulda burnt the whole neighborhood down!”

  Even if he was a chief, Iris did not like that man talking to her father that way. He would never let Alexander play with gasoline, and he would certainly never burn down their brand new neighborhood. Blood rose to her indignant cheeks, but no words came from her paralyzed lips, despite her desire to speak up in her father’s defense. Her father just stood there panting, his sleeveless undershirt clinging to his muscular torso. All eyes were on him. He released his grip on the garden hose, dropping it to the ground in defeat, then reached into the back pocket of his trousers, extracted a pack of cigarettes, and flipped it open. Iris thought she had never seen him look so tired, except for maybe when her mother was in the hospital giving birth to Ricci and he came home to cook fried bologna for the family’s dinner. He offered a cigarette to the chief, and the deep furrows in his brow seemed to soften when he accepted. “You got a light, Chief?” he asked him. “Looks like I lost mine.” The chief reached under his slicker, pulled out lighter, and lit both cigarettes.

  “Look, Chief,” her father said. “I have to clear this land somehow. Everything was under control. We just had a little emergency that called for my attention, and then, well, accidents can happen. Do you have kids, Chief?”

  The chief looked around at the rapt audience encircling them. “They all yours?” he asked, waving a hand the way Father Connor did before giving his blessing to the congregation.

  “Darn right. A whole dozen, that’s what God gave me and the little woman.” Iris had never heard her father call her mother “the little woman” before. Maybe it had something to do with being in a new neighborhood.

  The chief shook his head and sighed. “Let’s just say you come down to the station with Lucifer over there, and we’ll explain a few things to ya’ both. Firehouse number twelve. Be there at four o’clock. Sharp.” The chief flicked his cigarette butt into the soggy cinders and turned away, gesturing for his men to follow. “C’mon men. Let’s move on out.” The crew pranced back to the truck behind their chief, looking proud as peaches.

  “You should see your hair, Alexander!” John yelled, standing on his rake.

  All faces turned to Alexander, who ran a hand over his head, then looked with disgust at the singed clump of hair that came off in his hands. He made a dash for the house before his father could react. They all knew as well as Iris that their father’s temper exploded instantly when it came to the small stuff, which might be resolved simply and swiftly by The Belt, but when someone caused serious Trouble, they might be forced to wait for their punishment, and the anticipation made it even worse.

  “OK, everyone. The show’s over. Get back to your chores,” he said, disbanding the group of onlookers. Sisters and brothers spun off from the nucleus into clusters of two or three, reluctant to leave the scene of such excitement. Iris walked toward the house, a sniffling Ricci in tow. She stopped outside the screen door to take another look at Ricci’s hair. She could still see the wasps trapped in his curls, but they appeared to be dead now. As she was trying to muster up the courage to pick them out, she heard her mother’s voice coming from the kitchen.

  “Well, the only solution is a haircut, Alexander,” she said. “You’re in luck. I just unpacked the barber kit a few minutes ago.” Iris raised her head and pushed her forehead against the screen door to peer inside.

  “I love the burnt chicken smell, Mom. Can’t I just keep it like this? At least until I start school?”

  “No son of mine is going to go to school looking or smelling like that!” Iris watched her mother set a chair in the middle of the room. “Now sit down, and let me cut that hair.”

  As soon as the razor began whirring, Ricci wriggled from Iris and pushed open the screen door. “Mommy! Mommy!” he cried. “Wasps!”
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br />   “What on earth are you talking about, Richard? What wasps?” she asked, her voice as calm as holy water in the font. Iris followed Ricci into the kitchen and stood immobile as she watched her mother plow the razor through the charred remains of Alexander’s hair.

  “He and Louis found a wasps’ nest,” Alexander said to his chest, as his mother tilted his head forward. “And they headed straight for his curls. You’re gonna have to buzz him, too! He looks like a girl, anyway, with that hair. You don’t want to look like a Miss Curly-head Cutie-Pie, do you, Ricci?”

  “I’m not Miss Cutie-Pie!” Ricci cried, hitting Alexander ineffectually on the knee with his hand. “Mommy!”

  “That’s enough, boys,” intervened their mother. “You just stay put, Richard, and I’ll tend to your hair next.”

  Iris stood with her mouth agape, a sense of injustice stirring deep inside her, sending blood to her cheeks, and, finally, words to her lips. “Thanks a lot, Mom!” she cried, joining the group in the kitchen. “I could have sworn you said you didn’t have time for haircuts! I guess what you meant was that you didn’t have time for me! Why’s that, I wonder? Is it because I’m not a troublemaker, or just because I’m not a boy?”

  “For Pete’s sake, Iris, whatever has gotten into you?” her mother said, looking up from the task at hand while Alexander snickered. “You got a bee in your bonnet, too, Iris?” he said.

  Without answering, Iris snatched a pair of shears from the box on the table and hurried off into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. Her hands were shaking as she grabbed a fistful of hair with one hand and chopped it off with the other. There was no mirror on the bathroom wall as yet, or Iris might have been stopped by the twisted expression on her face, or by the sight of what she was doing to her hair. She snipped away furiously, then with trembling hands she swept up her severed locks, and flushed them down the toilet. She stormed out of the bathroom, out of the house, and down the driveway.

  Tears of resentment stung her eyes as she ran down Chestnut Crest, so upset she neglected to count her steps, not stopping until she came upon the duck pond Jasmine had spoken about. She stumbled down the grassy bank, her sudden intrusion sending ducks flapping and geese waddling away amid quacks and honks. She spotted a weeping willow tree close to the shore of the pond, and parted the fronds of its shady dome to slip inside. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she leaned against the tree trunk, taking comfort in its solidity. She let her knees buckle, and the bark scratch her back through her thin shirt, as she slid lower, until her butt rested on the soft, spongy ground. As its cool dampness seeped into the fabric of her shorts, Iris wondered vaguely if she were sitting in duck poop, but decided she didn’t care if she was, just like she didn’t care if anyone ever came looking for her. They probably wouldn’t even notice she was gone. The weeping willow’s slender branches fluttered around her, concealing her from the world, its long, narrow leaves whispering their welcome in the soft breeze. Iris settled in for a cry, thankful that she had found her first new friend.

  8. Lily

  Space. That was the most striking thing about Chestnut Crest. Space to run and play, space to get lost in your own backyard or in your own imagination. All the Capotosti sisters had been piled into the back of the windowless moving van on Rugby Road, and came back out on the other side of the world. The trip to this mystical place known as Chili was dark and bumpy and scary. It was only ten miles, but it took them from the tidy city blocks, street lamps, and closely knit community of the nineteenth ward neighborhood to this sprawling anonymous place known as the suburbs. When the van finally came to a stop and the back door was thrown open, the excited but anxious gaggle of girls poured out into the sunshine and erupted into exploration.

  “It’s got an acre-and-a-quarter of land,” Lily’s father had boasted. They were just words to Lily, but to be here, to kick off your lace-less sneakers and run on the grass was something she understood fully, and it filled her with such a sense of exhilaration that she kept running and running, beyond the freshly mowed lawn and into the field of milkweed and goldenrod whose tips tickled her armpits and brushed against her chin. In her wake a dozen monarch butterflies rose into the air and flitted away. She kept running, deeper and deeper into the wild undergrowth, past the dilapidated chicken coop where Queen Anne’s lace yielded to young cottonwoods, maples, and chestnut trees. They were all vying to establish territory in this neglected expanse of what was once someone’s farm, but had been parceled off into split-levels and center entrance colonials, all of which made the Capotosti house - with its peeling white paint and crooked dark green shutters - stand out as the throw-back of the neighborhood.

  Once into the small woods of the far back yard, Lily stopped, awash in the sense of being at home, but slightly frightened by the unfamiliarity of her surroundings. The birds twittered among themselves, as if conferring with each other about the newcomer and what they should make of her. Twigs snapped under the tiny feet of critters who scurried away, just in case, and cicadas sang their love song as Lily’s quickened breath and heartbeat slowed down to meet the unhurried rhythms of this enchanted place.

  Quietly, Lily sang the first line from the song Iris had taught her.

  “There is a little man in the deep, dark woods.” She stopped and listened, but there was no response. No echo, no ridicule. The woods absorbed her voice, absorbed her.

  She continued, a little louder. “He wears a purple cloak and a small black hood.” A chipmunk chirped and scuttled past, which delighted Lily and made her giggle.

  Emboldened by the safety and comfort of the shade of trees above and the soft cushion of moss beneath her feet, Lily sang out in full voice, “Do you know him standing there, silently without a care, can you see him standing in the deep, dark, woods?”

  Just ten minutes off the truck and Lily had already discovered the best part about her new backyard: She could sing – as loud as she wanted – and no one could hear her. And if no one could hear her, no one could make fun of her, or tell her to shut up.

  Lily ventured further into the small woods, finally coming upon a chain link fence, which marked the end of her exploration, the edge of her new world. She was glad for the fence; it was a sign that there were limits to her new freedom; and while her world had been thrown open, she could never get so lost that she wouldn’t be able to find her way back.

  The distant clang of the dinner bell was both an intrusion and a comfort; a tether back to things and people she knew. For as intriguing as Lily found the anonymity of the woods, it was good to hear that the breeze carried the sounds of her family, which in turn, carried her home.

  “Daddy says we have to leave our shoes in here.” Iris was crouched over, lining up assorted sneakers on a mat in the back porch. “And we can hang our coats on these hooks in the winter time,” she added with glee.

  Iris had a passion for keeping things in order, a skill that Lily didn’t possess and couldn’t understand. Auntie Rosa always said, “A place for everything and everything in its place,” but you could put something exactly right where it belongs and the next day it would be gone anyway. What good would it do to save things and clean things if someone else might just come along and take them or break them? Furthermore, tasks such as making the bed simply didn’t make any sense at all, given that you would just be getting back in later on. There were too many other things to do, too much else to explore to waste time being tidy.

  Having made fast friends with the yard, Lily was anxious to get inside and see the rest of the house. She dropped her sneakers and climbed over Iris, into the kitchen. The massive rectangular table was of solid maple, and had been acquired from the cafeteria of Rochester Jesuit, the high school that Alexander and John attended. Rather than chairs, backless wooden benches surrounded it. One long bench was up against the wall opposite the stove and refrigerator – both appliances were in “avocado,” as Lily had heard her mother describing with delight to Auntie Rosa. But really, they just looked gree
n.

  What was once Lily’s special chair was positioned over to the side, with Ricci comfortably nestled in it.

  “Mommy – where do I sit?” Lily asked.

  Her mother pointed to a spot on the wall. “You’ll be sitting there, right next to Iris.”

  Lily took her place, looking about her and surveying the places where all of her brothers and sisters would sit, proud to finally recognize herself as one of them. Lily would happily sit in that spot next to Iris forever, learning to jostle and maneuver and negotiate meals with the rest of the family.

  As the other children filed into the kitchen, Lily’s mother assigned each one a seat that had been strategically selected to maximize efficiency and minimize fuss. Violet, Marguerite and Iris sat on the same bench as Lily, because they were smaller and it was easier for them to slide in and out, just like in church, with Henry sitting on the end because he was claustrophobic and refused to get wedged between two of his brothers like smelly sardines in a can.

  Directly opposite from the bench that Lily sat on was a second long one, and upon it sat the three eldest boys, plus Jasmine and Lily’s mother. This enabled Alexander, John, and Louis to get up and down from the table just by swinging a leg over the bench, and it also gave Jasmine and her mother access to the stove, refrigerator, and cupboards during meals, making it easier for them to retrieve another fork, more butter, and of course to put the water on for coffee – which had to be timed perfectly so as to coincide with their father’s final bite of food.