The Sun and Other Stars

by Brigid Pasulka

  I drag myself up to their gate and ring the bell.

  “Who is it?” Nonno’s voice is scratchy over the intercom.

  “It’s Etto.”

  “You’re late.”

  “I know. Sorry.”

  He buzzes me through the gate, and I stand under their giant, gnarled lemon tree to wait. The villa is named after it—Il Limone—but the tree has been completely barren since the day they moved in. Nonno is always trying different fertilizers and pruning methods, but he says the tree is constipated, and I imagine one day splitting it open and finding the inside flush with blooms and lemons at various stages of development, like the chute of eggs inside a hen.

  Nonno eventually opens the front door, Nonna standing behind him. She still wears black every Sunday even though she thinks it’s for her sister, who died ten years ago.

  “Where’ve you been? I was about to take her myself.”

  Right. He would have just told her it was Saturday.

  “Ciao, Luca,” Nonna says, and kisses me.

  “It’s Etto.”

  She pulls away.

  “Luca’s brother,” Nonno says. I offer Nonna my arm, but she eyes me suspiciously. Her mind has elbowed out all memory of me. I try to push the hair out of my eyes and straighten my clothes.

  “I’m Etto. Your grandson. Luca’s brother. Carlo and Maddy’s son.”

  She relaxes when she hears my mother’s name. She treated Mamma like a daughter from the day Papà brought her back to San Benedetto.

  “And where is she today? Where is Luca?”

  I used to tell her the truth, but then she would become confused and start to cry, and I would spend the rest of the day consoling her and feeling bad about it, as if I’d killed them myself.

  “Mamma’s in California. With Luca.”

  “Why is she in California?”

  “Because she’s American. She’s from there. And Luca has a tournament there,” I add.

  “Oh.” Nonna takes a minute to process this. She searches my face again before taking my arm. She is the bravest person I know, every day to trust in strangers, to take the arm of someone who could be a serial killer. I could not do it.

  “We should probably hurry, Nonna. We’re late.”

  “Whose fault is that?” Nonno calls after me. “Did I ever tell you the story about the girl who was late to her grandfather’s deathbed?”

  “No, Nonno.”

  “I’ll have to tell you later.”

  Great. “Come on, Nonna,” I say. “Mass starts in fifteen minutes.”

  But Nonna can’t be hurried. Down the path, she has the eyes of an English referee, picking out every dropped coin, loop of wire, matchbook, and lotto card along the way and stashing them carefully in a plastic sack that was probably also at one point scavenged. She hums as she does this, different songs every time, so softly I can’t tell the tune. Could be the Miserere. Could be Metallica. But you can tell she’s perfectly content. Even if she forgets who she is and who she’s with, where she’s going and why, she has this internal homing device telling her she will get there eventually. Wherever there is.

  “Oplà!” Nonna says, reaching out and touching the wall of the path to steady herself. Vaffanculo, it shouts back at her. Raffaella has big tits. Superbang. Fall Out Boy. Fall Out Boy sucks. Ultras suck. Life sucks. Blank-eyed skulls stare out at her. A backward swastika drawn by one of the illiterate baby-fascists. It makes me ashamed of the world that Nonna has to see this. She’s an old lady and has already served her time. She should be able to scavenge the ground and hum in peace.

  My blood feels thick and slow as I plod past the graffiti and around the broken bottles and used condoms ground between the stones. I think about last night at Le Rocce, replaying each stupidity in my head, and the nightmare I can’t seem to shake. I think about what a terrible son I am for not telling Papà about Yuri Fil and what a terrible grandson I am for making Nonna late. Each thought makes my head a little fuller and my shoulders a little heavier, until it feels like I’m stooped under the weight of the entire hill.

  “Aha!” Nonna turns around, a triumphant look on her face as she holds up a one-euro coin. I smile at her, and she goes back to her search. Sometimes I wish I could be like her—wipe my mind clean and keep moving ahead instead of always throwing down these mental anchors into the past and floating back to them. Nonna doesn’t suffer over Mamma or Luca. She doesn’t constantly replay the outtakes in her head—the one where the paramedics get to the tunnel in time to save Luca, or the one where Mamma is found in the pool of a searchlight, her muscular arms clinging to the rocks of Whale Island, exhausted but alive. Nonna doesn’t slosh all her emotions together like a great toxic lake. When she’s happy, she smiles. When she’s sad, she cries. When she’s angry, she yells. Nonna stops her humming for a minute and puts her hand on my back as if she knows exactly what I’m thinking.

  The hill flattens. We pass people Nonna doesn’t recognize, and I answer for both of us.

  “Salve.”

  “Salve.”

  “Ciao.”

  “Ciao.”

  “Buongiorno.”

  “Buongiorno.”

  When we finally get to the church, Nonna looks up at the sweeping archway over the entrance to the courtyard. There are two ancient palms on either side, the giant trunks like elephant feet stomping the earth, the bark peeling and curling away.

  “Here we are, Nonna.”

  Her eyes void just before the moment of recognition. “Ah, yes. Here we are.”

  The doors of the church are flung open to the air, and I can hear the other nonne warbling along to the dirge of the organ. “Go in the middle door, Nonna, and I’ll see you after Mass.”

  She looks at me, confused.

  “Your friends are waiting for you right inside,” I say. “They’ll see you. Go on in.”

  “And what about you?”

  “I already went to Mass this morning.”

  “With Maddy?”

  “By myself. Maddy and Luca are in California.”

  She kisses me on the cheek. “You’re a good boy.”

  And this is probably why Nonna is still a believer. Because in her ravaged mind, Mamma and Luca are vacationing in California, the ground is full of treasures, and I am a good boy.

  I sit on the bench just inside the courtyard and pull the hoodie over my head against the blinding sun. We used to go to church together sometimes when Mamma and Luca were still alive, mostly for baptisms and Christmas, but Papà and I haven’t kept it up. It’s not that I’m an atheist. I’m not defending any grand principles or anything like that. There weren’t any nuns who humiliated me in school or priests who messed with me. It just all feels silly to me. Wishful thinking. A childhood fantasy meant to make you feel better, like Superman or Santa Claus, too perfect to be believed. I’d rather be a realist about it now than wake up later feeling like a chump.

  I close my eyes and try to clear my head, but the chatter inside won’t stop, and the nightmare, instead of melting away, only grows, looming over every other thought. I try to keep myself from playing it to the end, but it has a momentum of its own. The corpse keeps staring at me and motioning to me, and I stare back, unable to either move toward her or look away. Finally, I recognize that it’s Mamma, or at least the corpse they dragged from the water and never let me see. She smiles as if she can read my mind, and as the minutes pass, she seems to be warmed by my gaze, her skin drying out and turning pink before my eyes. Her feet straighten. Her arms grow hands. And she starts singing this song, one of her favorites by Umberto Tozzi, and dancing around on the molo in her bare feet.

  I know. You’re probably asking, what’s so bad about that? And you early-rising cheerful optimists out there will probably even interpret this dream to mean that Mamma is in heaven or whatever, doing fine, and she only wants to reassure me that she’s happy. And I grant you, maybe the fact that I don’t see it this way shows you how crooked and bent a person I am. Because to me
, the dream is a message from her that it was all my fault. That if I’d really looked at her, really seen what was going on that year, I could have stopped it. That if I’d been a better son, a son worth living for, she would have found the will to live.

  The irony is, if I were a better son, this thought would make me sad. Instead it only pisses me off, as does every other thought about Mamma. I guess when it happened, I expected to feel like I felt after Luca’s accident—the sadness and the loss, the what-ifs spiraling backward through my mind, undoing that morning and bringing him back to life for a few minutes at a time, like a myth or a legend. Saint Luca—killed by the world, killed by his own weaknesses or by that French puttana he was with, who was thrown clear of the wreckage and walked away without a scratch.

  Nobody ever tells you that with suicide it’s different, that you will be so pissed at the person from so many different angles. First, of course, you get pissed at the part that did the violence, then at the part that acted as a helpless victim and didn’t fight back. And then again at the part that stood by watching, a gawker who knew full well what she was going to do and never raised the alarm or gave you the chance to swoop in and save her. You get pissed at the fact that she made the final action of her life eclipse every other happy moment you had. And then you realize you can’t even tell other people you’re pissed at her. She’s checkmated you. Because when other people ask you how you feel, they expect you to act pitiful and sad like on TV, and if you tell them that instead you’re pissed off at your own mother, they will think you’re a cold, unfeeling traitor, deserving of the lowest circle. More Judas than Judas. More Brutus than Brutus.

  My phone lights up in my pocket.

  YOU STILL ALIVE?

  NO THANKS TO YOU.

  WHAT’S THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?

  I turn my phone off and close my eyes, but now that the tourists have clogged the pedestrian streets, all the locals apparently detour around the church at this hour. Two trans from Albenga I recognize poke their heads cautiously through the archway, like they’re afraid of a hidden guillotine dropping on their necks.

  “Salve.”

  “Salve.”

  Sima wanders past, but she doesn’t see me. Then Franco, who I never recognize when he’s wearing pants and shoes.

  “Etto, is that you?”

  “No, Franco.”

  “Very funny. Tell your nonna I said hello.”

  “Okay.”

  Inside, the nonne are chanting. I pull the hoodie farther down over my eyes, but people are somehow determined to pester me today.

  “Etto, is that you under there?”

  Regina Salveggio actually has the nerve to reach in and pinch back the edge of my hoodie. I open my eyes and she’s peering into my face, her kids clinging to her legs like barnacles.

  “Boundaries, Regina, boundaries,” I say, and I reposition the hoodie. She’s already fifteen minutes late for Mass, the lazy cow.

  “Oh, don’t be such a pedant, Etto. Did you bring your nonna to church today?” The little boy reaches out a tentacle and grips my knee. I give him a dirty look.

  “Just like last week, Regina. And the week before.”

  “Are you okay, Etto? You look kind of pale this morning. Paler than usual, even.”

  I narrow my eyes at her. Am I okay? Doesn’t she realize she’s the only one in Europe still having kids? Doesn’t she realize that at twenty-two she’s already doomed herself to a life of stretch marks and IKEA furniture?

  “I was just going to ask you the same thing, Regina.”

  She laughs. “Oh, Etto, you’re so funny.” And she goes inside the church with her brats.

  Father Marco must have made a joke because I hear the nonne laughing. He starts with his serious tone now, the words themselves inaudible, like he’s in there telling secrets. More people pass by.

  Ciao, Etto.

  Ciao.

  Salve.

  Ciao, Etto.

  Ciao.

  Ciao.

  How many times can you say “ciao” in one day? You might as well say “vaffanculo.” It basically means the same thing: I see you, I acknowledge you, but nothing more than that. Finally, the organ starts up again, and Casella and Claudia lead the stampede out of the church.

  “Your nonna’s still in there,” Claudia says.

  “I know.”

  “Then you also know that it’s going to be hotter than hell today and you look like a child molester in that hoodie, right?” Claudia asks, and Casella laughs. I hate it that he laughs at her jokes now and not mine.

  “Good. That’s the look I was going for. Where are you two lovebirds off to today anyway?”

  “Abu Ghraib,” Casella says, which is what he’s started calling Claudia’s parents’ house because each week, he’s asked in a hundred different and unsubtle ways when he’s going to propose to Claudia.

  “Don’t call it that.” Claudia slugs him on the shoulder, and they play slap their way out of the courtyard.

  I slouch against the archway, out of the way of the clean-scrubbed people, their spines straight as ships’ masts, their laughter as clear as Christmas bells. The crowd today and every Sunday is mostly nonne and youth groupers who swarm around Father Marco like hungry pigeons as he comes down the stairs. Nonna and her friends are usually the last because before they leave, they have to make their rounds of the statues. As I wait for her, I imagine Nonna looking up at some patron saint of this or that, some spooky guy on a pedestal, her scrambled mind mistaking a candle for an ice cream cone or a hairbrush, the fire catching and spreading through the other nonne’s dandelion hair like the burning of Troy, setting them all to high-pitched screaming like those plants in Harry Potter.

  I know. Sometimes I feel like I’m one thought away from the asylum.

  Father Marco takes up his position at the bottom of the stairs. He’s in his full penguin finery, those blue eyes glittering in the sunlight, that smile that could be on a billboard selling coffee or sunglasses or even swimsuits. Why would a guy that good-looking take a vow of celibacy? He must know he could get as much as Fede if he wanted it. Father What-a-Waste is what the girls at school called him, and when he first came to San Benedetto, there was a solid month when they all packed the pews before eventually realizing he was never going to get over this guy Jesus. He sees me under the archway and corners me.

  “Ciao, Etto. Good to see you.”

  “Great homily today, Padre,” I say, but I can tell he’s not buying it.

  “Are you waiting for your nonna?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know, you’re always welcome to sit inside.” He looks through me with those piercing blue eyes, which scares me a little, like my sins will show up as bright spots on an X-ray, a coin I’ve swallowed or a toy magnet I’ve stupidly stuffed up my own nose.

  “I know,” I say, squirming out of his gaze. One of the youth groupers comes and pulls him away, and I breathe a sigh of relief. The nonne finally come down the stairs in a line, clutching each other by the arm. Nonna is giggling and whispering in Signora Costanza’s ear. I wonder how far back she’s gone today. Twelve years old? Fourteen? When most people take on a new age, they leave the others behind, maybe carefully pack one or two of them away, saving them in tissue and mothballs. Cazzo, the thirteen-year-olds these days fling them away and move on to the next ones before they’re even completely unwrapped. Nonna, though, keeps all of her ages accessible, hung up in the closet of her mind, every morning pulling out a different one.

  I reach up to wave to her, then yank my hand back down to my side. Because behind the line of nonne, squinting in the sun, is Zhuki. I duck behind the giant palm and watch her coming down the stairs. She drops something, and bends down to retrieve it.

  “Ah, there you are, Etto,” Signora Costanza says. “Why are you hiding behind the tree?”

  “I’m not hiding.” I put my hand on Nonna’s back and hustle her toward the sidewalk. “Come on, Nonna.”

  But maybe I’v
e moved too abruptly because Nonna looks up at me, alarmed, and starts shouting for help. “Aiuta! Aiuta! He’s going to sell me to the gypsies! He’s going to sell me to the gypsies!”

  Everyone in the courtyard turns to look, including Zhuki.

  “Nonna, it’s me. Etto. Your grandson.”

  “You’re not my grandson! You’re not my grandson!” Nonna shouts. “Aiuta! Aiuta!”

  Fortunately, when the nonne aren’t gossiping, they are busy meddling in other people’s business, so it only takes a few seconds for a group of them to swoop in, explain everything to Nonna, and calm her down.

  “Zita, it’s your grandson.”

  “It’s okay. He’s the one who brought you here.”

  “You remember Caccia, your husband, and Carlo, your son . . . well, this is Carlo’s son.”

  I glance back into the courtyard. Zhuki and everybody else are still staring at us.

  “Nonna?” I say.

  Finally the fear melts from her face and she grips my arm.

  When we get back to the villa, Papà and Nonno are sitting in their undershirts beneath the wide branches of the lemon tree, their wine glasses carefully balanced on their knees, their voices low and serious, though they talk low and serious about everything—calcio, of course, but also the deficienti in parliament and Nonno’s slovenly neighbors who don’t know how to trim and clean their own property. Nonno’s chair is facing us, and he points a finger in our direction as we approach. Papà gets up to open the gate, and Nonna heads into the house with her treasures so she can spread them out on the kitchen counter and systematically put them away. A bit of wire goes into the drawer with her twist ties. Change gets dropped into a slot in the lid of a large jar in the front hall. Nails and screws that Nonno will use for repairing arbors and loose boards are sorted into smaller jars, the cigarette butts shaken into the garbage, the plastic bag washed and set on the drain board.

  “Everything went okay at church today?” Nonno asks. I know someone has already called to tell about Nonna yelling at me.

  “Fine. Why?”

  “No reason.”

  Papà sits down and they continue the conversation. About the scandal. What else?