Once the furniture was set up, I took out more clothes: a vintage Dior haute couture shirtdress from the fifties, ruffled cocktail dresses, Clair de Lune beaded gowns, fairy-princess slips, quilted coats, vintage Gucci silk shirts, Deva’s bell-bottoms. I ironed them on a board so they’d look pristine and beautiful hanging under the oak tree against the morning light. The more my parents crammed dirty white T-shirts into boxes that read “1 dollar!,” the harder I pressed my iron against each fold. I hung my earthquake leopard coat from an oak-tree branch—the ghost of a wild cat flying over our street.
“Is this part of the same sale?” a disheveled woman in pajamas with a Los Angeles Times under her arm and Starbucks latté in her hand asked.
“Yes.”
“Oh…” she mumbled, glancing at my collection. “I thought you guys were neighbors and they let you use their lawn.”
“No, those are my parents. I’m just selling different things.”
“Obviously,” she remarked, smiling and running her fingers over my Indian bat-sleeved shirts from the Bombay shop. She picked one out and tried it over her checkered pajamas. “I like these silk shirts. How much for all?”
I felt a knot form inside my throat. I hadn’t thought about pricing anything yet.
“I’m still setting up. Come by in a bit and I’ll have prices sorted out.”
She scoffed at me and dragged her flip-flops over to my parents’ area where she was greeted with more enthusiasm.
“Ricotta pie?” my mother asked.
The woman lifted her coffee cup, toasting her hospitality. She picked up my mother’s earrings from a broken wicker basket and dropped them back inside. They were all unpaired or with broken clasps. More visitors arrived expressing confusion about the different areas in the front yard. I heard myself repeating the same words: “Those are my parents and that’s my brother. It’s the same sale. I’m just selling different stuff.” I almost argued about this.
Stuff was going fast on the other side of the garden. My family was regurgitating into the city what they’d ingested when they first arrived, tossing it all back into the melting pot, the hand-me-downs’ hand-me-downs. The blow-up pool was given away for free to a couple of four-year-olds along with my brother’s water bed. My family stood there, sun gleaming on their wide-open faces, no hats, no sunscreen, braving the move, the changes, the influx and outflux of money.
By three o’clock the only thing I’d had the heart to sell were the Reebok Pumps I’d worn on my first day of high school. My parents had sold almost everything and were putting the rest out on the street with a sign that read FREE STUFF. On my side of the yard everything still hung untouched under the oak tree. Kids ran and jumped inside the yurt.
“What’s the price on this?” one of their mothers asked, picking up a golden enamel bracelet.
I looked back at her. She had a fanny pack, a fluorescent white tracksuit, and gray hair.
“I’m not selling that,” I said.
“And how much is that?” She pointed to the leopard coat.
“Definitely not selling that either.”
I sneered at her and she backed off, mumbling to herself.
With each inquiry I felt my voice rush out to protect those objects. It was a waste to give them away like that. Where would they sleep at night? Would they be loved or forgotten at the back of someone’s closet? For so long I thought my father was the hopeless nostalgic, the romantic seeker of glorious pasts, but really—I laughed when I saw how obvious it was—it was I who didn’t want to let go of those ancient treasures, who wanted them to mean something.
My father and brother retired inside with a shoe box full of cash.
“You sure you want to stay out here?” Serena asked me.
I nodded.
“It looks beautiful, what you did,” she said and walked back in, hauling trash behind her.
I was surrounded by furniture, feathers, and clothes. I held my fort down obstinately, hissing at anyone who got too close. When shoppers dwindled and yard-sale time was officially over, I began to fold and store my clothes with the same meticulousness I’d used in setting up my wing. I placed everything in big Louis Vuitton antique steamer trunks. They still had passenger labels on them. I placed the trunks, clothes, and all the furniture I could fit into the back of the Cadillac that was parked at the foot of the driveway bearing a fluorescent orange FOR SALE sign. I was allowed to drive it until it got sold.
Through the window I glanced at my parents inside the living room, counting the day’s earnings. My brother hopped around them, his hand open, asking for part of the profits. I slipped into the driver’s seat, scorching my thighs against the black leather, and put the key in the ignition and turned it. The white winged car rolled down Sunny Slope Drive like a tired dinosaur. I navigated the weary beast to the bottom of the street and onto the freeway without thinking. I noticed a postcard on the floor of the passenger seat. I’d sent it from Sicily last summer. They sold only two postcards at the island newsstand. One was a photo of a donkey climbing the stairs, the other was an aerial view of the island. On the card the cone-shaped island was cropped and placed over a matte blue background to symbolize the sea. That was the one I’d picked for my parents to remind them just how far away from them we were, on an island in the middle of a false blue ocean. I flipped it over and read:
Dear Mom and Dad, there are a lot of animals here. Antonio and Alma are very nice and they have a new boat. They called it Samantha Fox. We miss you. Eugenia
I knew what kind of summer they had ahead of them. I knew how happy they’d be riding Samantha Fox out to the Scoglio Galera, then plunging off the cliffs. My brother would be by their side with his rusty trident. As the car drove on, I felt myself slip away from the salt and the sea, from sea urchins, capers, and rock people. The island would be there for me down the line, exactly as I’d left it—immobile and prehistoric, with its ferocious birds and wild goats. I’d be greeted again. The kids, a few years older, would still make the same jokes. I’d be a film star forever for having once appeared in an outdated canned-meat commercial. Santino would have another farm with different animals—the past ones buried under porous rocks. Rosalia’s crisp curls would have grown back on her head. Endless centuries’ worth of volcanic stones would still be awash, unaltered under the sea.
Italy seemed to me like one of those impassive rocks now: an ageless, peninsular boulder emerging from still waters. And I knew I didn’t want to be back there yet. I didn’t go through the things that happened before the earthquake just so I could pretend like they hadn’t existed. I couldn’t follow my parents to more film sets and new beginnings, no matter what.
There were people who wanted us back in Rome, my parents said, but I didn’t know who they were. I’d never spoken to them or seen their faces. Here there was a university and a teacher and a friend and a store, and I knew what those things looked like. I also knew that maybe they weren’t much of anything at all, but that was okay too.
The top was down and my lace nightgowns flapped in the air. I climbed up the ascending lane toward Hollywood and Henry’s store. He’d be there to help me unload the trunk. From where I was the city seemed suddenly credible. It was indeed a city, not an agglomeration of low-rise buildings. I pressed the accelerator and rode farther up, leaving behind the polluted afternoon low clouds—moving out of the Valley’s last sliver of land.
Clusters of treetops on the horizon swayed in the tropical sky as a golden amber light poured in. There was silence and then the steady breath of hot air at my back—a strong, dry wind blowing from the desert, pushing me toward the city and its ocean. It streamed upon me moving in different directions at the same time, tickling the corners of my eyes. I’d felt that breeze before, I’d seen that light and knew what it was: the luminous unseen. This time I did what Max said. I didn’t try to grasp it. I didn’t focus on it or try to understand it. I just let it shine.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to all th
ose who have contributed to this book with their generous reading, edits, and guidance: Claudia Ballard, Raffaella De Angelis, Gerry Howard, Sarah Porter, Sarah Engelmann, Michael Goldsmith, Emily Mahon, Bette Alexander, Karla Eoff, Yuki Hirose, Lauren Mechling, Robin Desser, Jhumpa Lahiri, Frederic Tuten, Iris Smyles, Catherine Lacey, Diane Williams, Tijana Mamula, Ines Mattalia, Derek White.
To the patient and passionate Italian team: Stefano Magagnoli, Marta Treves, Carlo Carabba, Francesca Infascelli, Francesco Pacifico.
And to those who have given me rooms, homes, and quiet time to write: Giovanna Nodari, Micah Perta, Peter Benson Miller, The American Academy in Rome, Associazione Culturale SabinARTi, Lorenzo Castore, Eugenia Lecca, Maria Clara Ghia, Emanuele de Raymondi.
A special thank you to Luca Infascelli, who walked me through the darkest passages and lost as much sleep as I did to get this story where it needed to be.
To: Francesca Marciano for sitting me down in her studio on a warm October day and giving me the talk that jump-started this novel.
And to: Kate Schatz and Taiye Selasi, who came through to save the day in crucial moments.
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Things That Happened Before the Earthquake Page 28
