by Joanne Lewis
As Julio parked in the driveway of the one-story home in Opa Locka, Filippa grabbed the duffel, jumped out of the car, and ran to find Buddy.
Chapter Four
As the sun set and prisms of red and gold reflected off the Apennine Mountains, Dolce sneezed and dirt scattered. The scrawny dogs lay on their bellies near the tree stump—their ears twitching, licking their black lips, their eyes set on the little girl’s head.
Hardly able to move below her neck, Dolce was thankful she faced the construction of Brunelleschi’s dome that sparkled in the distance in the last twinkles of sunlight. Octagonal in shape and self-supporting without buttressing, bricks were being laid horizontally in a herringbone pattern. It was Brunelleschi’s ingenious and brilliant creation to cap Firenze’s cathedral —Santa Maria del Fiore—and compliment Giotto’s bell tower.
Dolce had an itch on her nose. The itch, which was more like a burn, had been there since Bandino had buried her up to her neck in dirt and left her to die. But Bartolommeo wasn’t going to let the mongrels or the birds or any other creatures get Dolce. Seated on a wooden chair next to her, a crossbow in his lap, he scrutinized the grounds like a soldier on duty as he told stories of Roman treasure hunters, talked of Mea and their love, spoke of the boys, and wiped tears from his eyes as he recalled Tessa’s death from the plague.
As worms nibbled Dolce’s toes, the burning itch on her nose traveled down her face, her throat and all over her skin like a parasite. Dolce knew she would never speak again. She didn’t know what she had done that was so bad her mother would kill herself moments after her birth, her father would despise her more than the devil itself, Novella—her wet nurse—would abandon her, and Tessa would die such a horrific black death.
Bartolommeo rose, paced, grabbed the shovel as he had done several times since Bandino had dropped it and ran. And as Dolce had done each time, she registered her protest by vehemently shaking her head and emitting a snort-growl. Each time, Bartolommeo had dropped the shovel, understanding her message. If he dug her out, he would be Bandino’s next target. Bartolommeo couldn’t lose his job on the farm. His expulsion would mean Mea would have to leave too. And then what for the both of them? Men without work became beggars or thieves. Women, whores. Bartolommeo let the shovel fall from his hands.
If Dolce had the mind to speak, which she didn’t, she would say leave me to die, let the dogs eat a hearty meal, save yourself.
The dirt felt cool around her, squirmy things between her fingers and toes. She sneezed again, blowing dust and dirt from her nose and mouth. Bartolommeo sat back in the chair. Iacopo, one of the eleven-year-old twins and Dolce’s best friend, jumped from the porch, crouched next to her.
“Pray, Chi-Chi.” His normally strong voice weak. “How be you?”
Dolce closed her eyes, thought about how to respond to Po without words. Cold, tired, ashamed, angry, helpless, hopeless. Po jumped up, grabbed the shovel. He ignored Dolce’s groans of protest and started to dig her out.
“Be careful, Po,” Bartolommeo said.
“I’m not scared of him.” He threw a shovelful of dirt to the side.
“Me neither.”
Dolce couldn’t turn her neck enough to see who had spoken, but she knew the voice. It was Piero, Po’s twin.
In front of her, while Po dug nearby with a shovel, Piero fell to his knees and cleared dirt away with his fingertips. Mea came next and fed sweet and slightly stale bread to Dolce and let her sip from a goblet of wine. Dolce ate and drank voraciously, stopping midchew when Nic jumped in front of her, his boyish face screwed into a scowl. Po leaned on the shovel. Piero sat on his heels. Mea sidestepped until she was behind Bartolommeo who fingered the crossbow.
Looking up at Nic, fear erupted in Dolce like when Bandino had first thrown her in the hole. She dog paddled in the dirt, moving slightly. The muck and grime closed in around her even more. Panic rose, tightened her jaw and clamped her mouth. Raspy, quick breaths barely flung in and out of her dirt stuffed nose. Her head flailed back and forth. Her neck snapped side-to-side. As the dirt tucked around her, she was no longer able to move her arms and legs. She felt desperation, hopelessness, and helplessness. She looked up to the heavens to ask why me, what did I do to deserve such punishment? She saw the sun setting behind the dome in the distance, orange, red and yellow lights glistening and warming her. And then the unexpected happened. Her heart began to pound and her spirit to soar. She kept her eyes on the dome and wanted, more than anything, to live.
Yet as quickly as she had felt hope, darkness descended and the rays of the setting sun were blocked. Dolce was swathed in shadow. The dogs? Were they finally coming to get her? She twisted her neck, saw his shoes, his red hose, the bottom of his tunic, the cinch at his waist, the handle of a dagger gleaming.
Bandino pointed at Nic. “Dig out one arm.”
“Me?”
Bandino grabbed the shovel from Po and threw it at his oldest son. “Just her arm.”
Nic dug around Dolce’s left side until she was able to wriggle one arm free. Bandino reached under his garment and threw a pointed chisel, no bigger than Dolce’s smallest finger, to the ground. Just within her reach. Bandino looked at Bartolommeo and Mea, then at Po and Piero.
“If anyone helps her …” He pointed to the tree stump where the chickens were slaughtered and skinned and where the hungry dogs panted.
Chapter Five
Filippa ran to the house, the duffel swinging over her shoulder. The front door was unlocked. Inside, she called, “Buddy.”
There was no answer. She looked around the two bedroom, open floor plan home. Something was different but she wasn’t sure what it was. She had lived in this house with Julio and Buddy for years and had always considered it her home. She had been gone a long time. The walls were the same pale yellow she had painted but were now faded and chipped in places. The wood floors were the same Pergo she had chosen but now were scuffed and with less of a shine. The kitchen appliances were also the same—Kenmore, plastic and yellow. There was a dent in the dishwasher. The handle on the oven door was hanging off.
Filippa tried to assess how she felt about the deterioration of her home and about her sense that more had changed that was not readily visible. And then she realized she was feeling nothing, unless being numb was a feeling. So much had happened already in this short day—her birthday, Valentine’s Day—and she recalled, how could she forget, it was also the anniversary of her mother’s death. Filippa inhaled deeply and released a long breath. She had heard the story only once when she had insisted Grandpa Raj tell her the truth. He did and then refused to discuss it again. Her mother had given birth to her. Her mother didn’t want her. Her mother had snuck into a hospital supply closet a few hours after Filippa’s birth and took pills until she passed out and died.
Today was Filippa’s birthday. It was Valentine’s Day. It was the day she was released from a halfway house. It was the anniversary of her mother’s death. It was the day she learned that Buddy had cancer. Yes, she felt numb.
Filippa looked for signs of Buddy and saw his Florida Marlins baseball cap on the kitchen counter. His school backpack on the floor by the island that separated the kitchen from the dining room. A box of Frosted Flakes above the refrigerator, his favorite cereal. The DVD’s in the rack over the TV. The PlayStation games.
Buddy was everywhere. She inhaled deeply. It even smelled like him. Twix bars, shaving cream and sweat. But that cheap floral smell, that was one scent she didn’t recognize. The odor told its own story. Julio had not been loyal. Filippa smiled. She didn’t care.
But still, what was so shocking about the inside of this house that it took her breath?
Julio walked in behind her. She turned toward him, saw the vacancy in his eyes. Sometimes, the most obvious was the last to be seen.
“Where’s all the furniture?” Filippa looked at the wall above where the L shaped couch used to be. The paint was extra faded in three thin rectangular strips and in the shape of
perpendicular brackets. She saw screw holes too. “Where are my shelves of Boyd’s Bears?”
Julio pulled the car keys out of his pocket and dropped them on the kitchen counter. “I sold most of the furniture. Your bears too. I never knew those things were worth almost a thousand bucks. I haven’t been able to work the last two months and the guy who helps me at the garage quit. I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t work for free either.” He dug into his other pockets, pulled out coins, dollar bills, his driver’s license, a credit card and a bottle of pills. “I’m behind on the rent at the shop. The house is going into foreclosure next week. I’m going to have to sell my tools. Maybe my lifts too. I don’t have any savings left.” He reached into his back pocket and threw a pack of cigarettes on to the counter.
She dropped the duffel to the floor. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well, it’s only temporary. Buddy will get over this, go back to school and everything will be okay. You know I’d do anything for him.” Tears welled in his eyes.
“Where is he? I thought he’d be home.”
“He’s at Jackson Memorial. Been there since he was diagnosed.”
“He’s at the hospital? Why didn’t we go there?”
Julio went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door and reached in. He emerged holding a can. “I thought you’d want to freshen up first. Take a shower, put your things away. Maybe get it on some. You know, I’ve been loyal to you. It’s been way too long with just me and my fist.” He popped the top on the can, put it to his lips, threw his head back and drank. Finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m hoping Buddy’ll come home in a couple of days. The radiation and chemo treatments seem to be working. At least that’s what they tell me. I don’t trust doctors. I guess that’s what people say about mechanics,” he laughed. “Thing is, when Buddy comes home, I don’t have the money for a nurse to take care of him.” He burrowed into the refrigerator again. Filippa heard a can open, a fizzle, a chug. Julio stepped back, closed the door. He crushed the can with his hand. “So do you want to?” He threw the empty can into the sink.
“Take care of Buddy? Of course.”
“No, do you want to get it on?”
She turned away, hoping her disgust was obvious. She couldn’t look at him. “How long have you been drinking?”
He opened another can, drank, sucked the backwash out and again smashed the aluminum. He tossed it onto the counter top. It rattled side-to-side then came to a stop.
“Its just Budweiser.”
She turned toward him, daring herself to be brave, to not give in as she always did due to fear. Yes, fear and alcohol had kept her in his bed. Buddy had kept her in the home. She couldn’t forget Buddy.
Julio drank another beer. There was so much Filippa wanted to say to him—you know I can’t have beer in my home, look what happened to my life because of drugs and alcohol, what about Buddy, you have to be sober for Buddy—and so much more. But now wasn’t the time, and it was no longer her job. She had one responsibility at this moment in her life and that was to focus on Buddy.
“Won’t his home healthcare be covered by his insurance?” she asked.
Julio’s posture sagged. “I didn’t have health insurance for Buddy. While you were away, I got into a bad financial mess. I was going to get him insurance as soon as I was able to straighten some things out. They help him a lot at Jackson and haven’t charged me a dime. Something about a Public Trust.”
“Take me there.”
Julio reached into the frig, grabbed another can and popped open the top. He opened the bottle of pills and shook it over his open palm. He threw the pills into the back of his throat then washed them down with another long gulp.
She grabbed the bottle of pills. “What did you take?” It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. While in prison, she began to need reading glasses. “Xanax? How many did you take?”
“I dunno.”
She read the label on the prescription. “Who’s Marta Gonzalez?”
Julio sat on the floor, his back against the island. His eyes closed. “I’m so tired. Go to the hospital yourself. You can take the truck.”
She frowned. “You know I can’t do that.”
“Oh yeah, you’re not allowed to drive. Your driver’s license has been permanently revoked.”
“Whose truck is that anyway? If you’ve closed your business …” Filippa stopped speaking. There was no use. She didn’t really want to know the answers to these questions anyway. She held out her hand. “Let me have your cell. I’ll call a cab.”
“It’s shut off for nonpayment. I know. I’m a loser.” His words began to slur. “Will you get me another beer?”
Filippa didn’t move.
“Padre Lorenzo started a fund for me and Buddy at church.” He rose slowly, went to the refrigerator, shot back another beer. “We’re officially charity cases.”
“Where’s the landline?”
“Shut off too.” He sat on the floor again, leaned over and pulled Buddy’s backpack toward him. “Don’t you have a cell phone?” He laid his head on the knapsack and curled his knees into his chest.
“I just got out of prison,” Filippa said. “Of course I don’t have a cell phone.” Julio didn’t respond. “Did you hear me?” she asked.
He shot up. “What?”
“How many pills did you take?”
“One, I think.”
“It was more than one.”
He lay down again, Buddy’s backpack his pillow. She looked at the counter and saw the keys to the pickup. Half a second was all it took for her to make the decision. If she got caught driving, it would be a violation of her parole and she would be right back in prison. No, never again. She let her eyes drift over the money, his license, the empty beer cans, and the empty pill bottle and then to something she first noticed. She reached over and picked it up. Mac lipstick. The color was Red Wine. Marta’s, no doubt.
“Julio,” she held the lipstick up as evidence. “Who’s Marta?”
His mouth was slack. His eyes fluttering slightly.
She nudged him with her foot. “Who’s Marta?”
Julio’s eyes barely opened. “I dunno.”
She sat on the floor, several feet away, her back against the wall, the duffel nearby. She watched him, gauging if she should call 911. He mumbled a few times, Buddy’s name mostly. She waited another five, maybe ten minutes, watching him. Then a light snore and a slight smile crossed his lips. She looked at the lipstick lodged in the palm of her hand. Did this explain why the front door had been unlocked? Did he have a girlfriend? If he did, would she care?
She knew one thing for certain, she wanted nothing more from this man. He was right. He was a loser. She stuffed the lipstick into her pocket, picked up the duffel and headed toward the front door. Jackson Memorial was several miles away. She walked down the blacktop driveway and turned on to the sidewalk, the afternoon sun beating down on her back. It was her birthday and it was the day to celebrate love. She would get to Buddy. Somehow.
Chapter Six
With the moon low in the horizon, preparing to switch places with the sun, Dolce stopped digging. Her breath was shallow and her throat was dry. Sweat and dirt were embedded in every pore of her body. Her dirty fingernails dug into the soft flesh of her right palm. Her left fist clutched the dulled chisel. Her muscles ached from digging all night.
With Bartolommeo telling stories when he wasn’t dozing and with Po’s encouragement, she had unearthed herself from the chest up. Her arms were free, which was helpful since she could employ both hands for digging, if you could call it digging when her actions were really slowly, methodically, resolutely chipping away at packed, rocky soil.
But from the midsection down, she was still stuck. Po had wanted to help but Dolce adamantly refused. This was her battle, her duel. She wouldn’t be responsible for Bandino’s dagger piercing the heart of the lovely Po or the loyal Bartolommeo. She would get out of this herself, no matter how long i
t took. Already a few hours had felt like forever.
While Bandino took his useless spot at the tower—having decided not to throw the giant into the sea as its spirit would surely return and eat out his heart—and began banging metal against marble, as Mea came out of the house and replenished Dolce’s energy with almonds and berries, and while Piero read to her in Latin about Dante’s Hell, she dug. Wrapped in Piero’s voice and Dante’s poetry, she had wanted to pause a few times to listen more closely but didn’t.
She was soon able to twist her hips. She dug more quickly, the excitement of liberty fueling her. Eventually, she tossed away the decrepit chisel and used both hands to shove dirt out of the way. Finally, after she felt a gust of warm air on her legs, Bartolommeo, Po and Piero lifted her out of the hole.
She brushed dirt off her dingy dress, scooped filth from her nose and mouth, and cleared muck from the corners of her eyes. Raw and bloody bites and sores on her arms and legs smelled of rot. The web-like crevices between her fingers and toes were cut and bleeding. She twisted and saw Bandino watching her, a pickax frozen over his shoulder. Il Gigante was tall and silent behind him. Dolce turned her back to him and saw the beginnings of Brunelleschi’s dome rising in the distance.
Dolce moved forward, stumbled, regained her balance and stepped again. The bottom of her bare feet were tender. Each step sent shooting pain into her atrophied muscles. She didn’t want to limp, didn’t want to give Bandino the satisfaction of seeing her weakened. She held her head high, her shoulders squared and proud, and felt Bandino’s angry stare on the back of her matted hair. She looked onward and saw a stonewall with lilies—the Iris Florentia—growing wild in its crannies. She hobbled past Bartolommeo and Mea. She limped past Nic, Piero and Po. Never losing sight of where she wanted to be. Far from Il Poderino, close to Brunelleschi’s dome, in the deep bustling cityscape of Firenze, her city of flowers.
