Season of Salt and Honey by Hannah Tunnicliffe Page B

salad.

Chapter Eight
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    â€œF rancesca?”
    Piercing, rolling voice. European inflections. Zia Connie.
    Both aunties are getting out of Papa’s car, Papa helping Aunty Rosa, and Aunty Connie already standing, squinting, frowning, and calling out.
    â€œWhere is she? I can’t see her. Where is she, Giuseppe?”
    I hear Papa mumble in Italian: Wait, sister .
    Aunty Rosa is wearing a silk head scarf with big dark glasses, as though she’s Elizabeth Taylor. She’s beautiful for her age, and knows it too, though she’s bigger and softer than she used to be. In black-and-white photographs her little waist is nipped in, forming impressive triangles down to her hips and up to her bust. Now, two children and three decades later, her middle section is fleshy, filled in. She is holding a bag that I know will be packed with home cooking.
    A dark-haired young man gets out of the backseat and yawns, stretches, and looks around. He’s wearing a tight black T-shirt and denim shorts. Vincenzo, my cousin, Aunty Rosa’s son. He appraises the cabin, peeking over the top of his sunglasses, and sees me. He gives me a wink and a grin.
    â€œFrancesca?” Aunty Connie again.
    I shrink back into the dim light of the cabin.
    Aunty Connie has glasses too, but they are prescription rather than sunglasses. She is the eldest, and has never married or had children. Her brother Pietro, the youngest in the family, died when he was very little, of polio, back in Sicily. Soon after, Nonna and Nonno moved to America with the four remaining children: Concetta (Aunty Connie), Rosaria (Aunty Rosa), Giuseppe (my father, Joe as most people call him), and Mario. Nonno said they left Sicily because it was too poor—beautiful, but like a prison.
    Aunty Connie is wearing a neat jacket and matching dress in conservative green-gray, the same color as her eyes. Her figure has never had Rosa’s curves. It’s straight, columnesque, like a Douglas fir.
    â€œAre you in there? Good Lord, is she in there ?” Rosa asks.
    â€œRosa . . .” Papa again.
    There’s a short silence, then a shrill retort from Aunty Connie. “Get your hands off me, Giuseppe. Francesca? Francesca, come out here and look at me right now.”
    â€œFrancesca?” Papa’s voice sounds tired. Tired and full of love. “Will you come out for a moment? Your aunties want to see you, darling.”
    I hear Aunty Connie muttering, “You always babied her, Giuseppe.”
    I finally go to the door. Connie has her hands on her hips, Papa is frowning, and Rosa is brushing something from her skirt. Vincenzo is still grinning, his muscular arms folded across his chest, his sunglasses now folded and hanging from the collar of his T-shirt.
    â€œFrancesca Theresa Caputo.” Aunty Rosa sighs, coming towards me with her arms wide.
    â€œI’m sorry, Zia, I—”
    â€œAre you okay?” Papa asks.
    â€œI’m fine,” I say, trying to sound reassuring.
    â€œSee, I told you she would be safe,” Papa says in a slow, calming voice.
    â€œOh, for God’s sake. Look at her! She’s not fine. She looks like . . . like . . . a homeless person,” Aunty Connie splutters.
    â€œ Bedda Matri , she does,” agrees Aunty Rosa sadly.
    Vincenzo places a hand against his mother’s back and soothes, “ Mammina .”
    I run a hand over my hair.
    â€œShe is perfectly . . . safe here, just as Bella said.” Papa is careful with his words, as always with his sisters.
    Vincenzo looks at me. “Where is Bella?”
    I shrug.
    He steps away from his mother to scan the surrounding forest.
    â€œLook at her hair. What is she wearing?” Aunty Rosa talks as though I’m not there, her voice breathy and appalled. “And no makeup! Like a hobo.”
    â€œEveryone will think she is mad,” Aunty Connie