Seeing it made Corrado’s stomach hurt worse.
“This soup is cold, Erika,” Vito said. “What did you do, pour it straight from a can into the bowl?”
“Oh, quit complaining,” she said dismissively, clutching a glass filled to the brim with red wine. She sipped it, completely ignoring the food on her plate. “Eat it or don’t. I don’t care.”
“Of course you don’t care.” Vito threw his spoon down. “If you did, you’d put more effort into taking care of your kids.”
Erika scoffed. “You want to criticize my parenting, Vito? I didn’t see you in that fucking kitchen trying to make them dinner.”
“Had I known how incompetent you were? I would’ve.” Vito leaned back in his chair, his gaze shifting from his food to his wife. “I guess I forgot, unless it comes in a bottle with a vintage label, it means nothing to you.”
“Fuck you,” Erika spat. “You have no right to talk that way when you’re never even here! You worry about your kids so much, then why don’t you take the little fuckers with you? Huh? Why don’t you take them to Chicago? Why leave them with me if I’m so goddamn incompetent?”
“Maybe I will,” Vito said. “God knows, they’d be better off.”
Erika jumped up, shoving her chair back. “You… you…”
“Me, what?” Vito challenged, cocking an eyebrow at her. “Spit it out, or are you too drunk to think of the words? What’s that, a bottle and a half already today?”
Enraged, Erika snatched a hold of the tablecloth and yanked on it. All four plates skidded her way as Vito’s glass fell over, the water spilling all over the table and onto his lap. Cursing, he shoved his chair back and stood, brushing the ice cubes from his soaked pants. “You bitch!”
“Looks like you pissed yourself, Vito,” Erika said, still holding her glass of wine, having not let go of it. “You might want to have that checked out, you little dick motherfucker.”
Vito, nostrils flaring, lunged across the room, but Erika slipped away before he got to her. Corrado sat there, staring down at the table, his heart racing, as his sister sniffled, fighting the tears streaming down her flushed cheeks.
“Don’t cry, sweetheart,” Vito said, frustration in his voice as he ran his hands down his face. “Come on, let’s go out for pizza. We can go to that place down on Fillmore, the one with the arcade. You can play some games. How’s that sound?”
Neither kid answered, but they both stood obediently and headed for the downstairs closet to get their coats and put on their shoes. No shoes on in the house… it was Erika's biggest rule, one her and Vito both seemed exempt from, but the kids were made to follow it.
Vito changed clothes, pulling on a fresh pair of slacks from his always-packed suitcase. He put on his fedora and grabbed his keys.
“Is Mom coming with us?” Katrina asked, her eyes puffy.
“Not this time,” Vito said.
They piled into Vito’s brand new shiny black Lincoln Continental, Katrina up front with their father as Corrado climbed into the back alone. The drive to the pizzeria took about ten minutes, the place packed on a Friday night. Vito parked in the only empty spot in the lot and led the kids inside, finding a small table off to the side. Vito squeezed into the orange plastic booth and pulled out a pocket full of change, dropping it on the table. He snatched some quarters for himself before motioning toward the rest. “Have a ball.”
Katrina grabbed handfuls and ran off, heading straight for the bowling game, while Corrado picked up the leftover coins and wandered around the arcade. He played a few games of pinball and tried his hand at the crane game, his eyes continually drifting between his sister and his father. Each time Vito would be sitting there, shaking his leg, not paying attention… until one time Corrado looked, and he was gone.
Panic bubbled inside of him as he stepped away from his game, seeking out his father in the crowd. Vito stood along the wall, crowding a payphone, the receiver to his ear. He paced around as far as the cord would go, his mouth frantically moving as he fed coins into it.
He stopped pacing after a few minutes, his eyes darting around. He spotted his son standing there and waved him over. “You got a quarter left? Let me hold it.”
Corrado handed the coin over. Vito stuck it into the slot, shaking his head as his focus turned back to his call. “I’m still here. I’m at an arcade with my kids. Yeah, I know, I shouldn’t have called… I just, I don’t know what to do. They’re my kids, you know? But I get it, Boss. I get what you’re saying. Gotta do what we gotta do.”
Corrado lingered for a moment before strolling away, wandering over to a game of Duck Hunt. He put a dime into the coin slot, having to step on a stool to reach the attached rifle. Lining it up, he waited until the birds flew by on the screen before squeezing the trigger, trying to shoot them. A few ducks fell but most breezed on past, unscathed.
“You’re pretty good, kid.”
Corrado jumped, nearly falling off the stool as he faced his father. Vito smirked, motioning for Corrado to get down. Vito swiped another coin from him—this time, a dime—and fed the slot. He grabbed the rifle, aiming it as the game came to life.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Ducks fell in rapid succession. A bell went off, declaring a perfect score, and Vito laughed. “Now that’s how it’s done.”
His hand clamped down on Corrado’s shoulder as he led him back over to their booth. As soon as they sat down, the waitress came by with drinks and a large cheese pizza.
“Katrina!” Vito called out. “Come on, baby girl. Get some grub before I eat it all.”
They ate and played more games, not leaving until the arcade closed. They drove back home, Katrina excitedly yapping the entire time, and Vito stopped Corrado on the front porch. "You alright? I don't think you've said a word all night."
Immediately, Corrado's gaze drifted past his father to the spot where Zia had died the day before. She had disappeared overnight, vanishing while Corrado slept. Tears stung his eyes as he bit his lip to keep them in… biting down so hard he broke the fragile skin. The rusty metallic taste of blood coated his tongue, and he grimaced, but didn't utter a single word.
What was he supposed to say?
"It's been a long day," Vito said. "Let's just go inside, kid."
As soon as they opened the front door, Erika's voice reached them, singsong and light-hearted, the words slurring together. "There you are! I've been worried!"
She reached for Katrina, hugging her tightly, and motioned for Corrado to join them. He remained in place, refusing to move, until his father shoved him forward. Begrudgingly, Corrado stepped toward his mother, bracing himself as she wrapped an arm around him, holding his breath to avoid smelling the alcohol he knew would reek on her breath.
After letting go of the kids, Erika turned to Vito, her eyelids heavy. "Vito."
"Erika."
She staggered forward, grabbing his shirt and pulling him toward her. “My big, strong, handsome man.”
Corrado grimaced as their lips smashed together, the pair moaning and groaning as they sloppily kissed. Erika's hands laced through Vito's dark hair, knocking the hat from his head.
Corrado didn't stick around to see what would happen next. He sprinted up the stairs, going straight to his bedroom and closing the door. After putting on his pajamas, he climbed into bed, leaving the small lamp lit so not to be left in the dark.
It didn’t take long before the house again erupted in chaos—an hour, maybe two. Doors slammed and glass smashed, shrieks filling the air. He covered his ears with his pillow, trying to block out their fighting, but it was useless. It grew louder and louder each passing minute as Erika screamed at the top of her lungs, flinging every curse Corrado had ever heard at his father.
His door cracked open after a while and quietly closed again, little feet scampering across the floor before his bed shifted. He remained still as his sister climbed in beside him, yanking some of the cover onto the other side to hide beneath it.
??
?Corrado?” she whispered, her voice quivering. “I’m scared.”
“Go to sleep, Kat,” he muttered. “They’ll get bored and stop soon.”
A few minutes later, Katrina’s deep snores filled his room, and not long after the fighting slowed to a trickle. When all became quiet, Corrado snuck downstairs, careful not to step on anything broken in his bare feet. The house had been ransacked—pictures torn from walls, vases smashed, furniture flipped over. Corrado scanned the house, through the mess noticing his father’s suitcase propped against the wall in the foyer. Vito lingered in the living room. The lights were off, but the moonlight illuminated his face as he clutched a picture frame, staring at a photo of the four of them.
Vito set it down, jumping when he noticed Corrado lurking in his path. He clutched his chest. “How do you do that? I never hear you…”
Corrado stepped aside to let his father pass. “You're leaving?”
“Yeah, I have to get back to Chicago.”
“How long will you be gone? When will you be back?”
“I don’t know.”
"Can I go with you?"
"Not this time."
"Why?"
"You know better than to ask so many questions." Vito grabbed his hat and put it on. “Be good, kid. If you can’t be good, don’t get caught.”
Corrado watched as his father picked up his suitcase.
"Arrivederci," Vito said.
"Goodbye," Corrado muttered.
His rough hand patted Corrado on the head. "Good job. Keep practicing that Italian. Never know when it might come in handy."
Vito walked out, climbing into his Lincoln and driving away, disappearing into the darkness. An ache burned Corrado's chest, an emptiness nagging at the pit of his clenched stomach.
He wouldn’t see his father again for almost a year.
There were more women in Zia’s wake, appearing overnight in the Moretti household to take on the burden of cooking and cleaning. Corrado never spoke to them; he never let them get too close. Sometimes they died, sometimes they disappeared, but never did they stick around long enough for him to remember their names. He pretended they didn’t exist as he withdrew further into himself, accepting the painful reality that had slapped him in the face that Christmas day.
It's best you don't get attached.
His mother’s harsh streak, her mental and physical abuse, grew worse as Corrado’s father’s absences grew longer. Things crumbled around them, often literally, the house in pieces as Erika destroyed everything in a bitter rage. She took her anger out on the kids, Corrado enduring the brunt of it to spare his sister.
He figured he was doomed, but maybe Katrina had a fighting chance.
2
Warm air filtered through the wide-open bedroom window one evening in the early spring of 1971. The temperature lingered around eighty degrees outside, even higher inside the darkened, bleak house. Nine-year-old Corrado lay tangled in his sheets, sweat soaking his half-clothed body. It was too hot to fall into a deep sleep, too suffocating to breathe, too muggy to relax. He'd tossed and turned for hours.
The dark made him restless.
The electricity was off. Despite the numerous notices that had appeared at the house, Erika acted shocked when the worker showed up that afternoon to disconnect it. She scoffed and insisted it was a mistake, belittled the man and berated him, but she didn't dare beg. Never that. She'd simply stood at the front door, watching. Once the electricity was off, she'd grabbed a bottle of wine from the kitchen and stomped off to her bedroom alone.
They hadn't heard a peep from her since.
It was eerily silent with no power in the house. Corrado was used to the subtle sounds: air blowing from vents, the hum of appliances, the static of televisions and radios. Even his bedside lamp emitted a sort of low buzz, a sound he'd never noticed until he'd tried to sleep without it.
Impossible.
He lay there with his eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to fall asleep, when a low groan rebounded through the still bedroom.
A creaking floorboard.
Corrado's eyes shot open just in time to make out the form hovering over him. His heart stalled for a beat before hammering fast and hard in his chest. He sat upright, eyes wide with alarm, and faintly made out his mother's face in the soft glow of the moonlight. She stood deathly silent, as unmoving as a marble statue, as she stared at him, clutching a white pillow with both hands.
"Mom?" His voice was a panicked croak. "What are you doing?"
Her expression, cold and detached, melted as she slowly lowered the pillow. "Just checking to see if you were still breathing."
The stench of alcohol was thick on her breath as she spoke. She made a point to fluff the pillow before setting it on the bed behind him. Grasping his shoulders, she pushed him down onto it, and grabbed his blankets. Despite the fact that it was scorching hot, she covered him up, tucking him in so tightly he could hardly move.
Erika staggered out of the room without saying another word. Corrado just lay there, staring at the doorway in the darkness.
It was the first time he'd had to consider the fact that his own mother might try to kill him someday. Had he been asleep, had he not sensed her, had that floorboard not creaked...
He shuttered to think of what she might've done.
Corrado didn’t dare close his eyes again that night.
Corrado stood in front of the darkened refrigerator, grimacing at the odors spilling out of it. He grabbed the milk, gagging and coughing when he caught a whiff of the rancid spoiled scent. He set the carton beside were Katrina sat on the counter, swinging her legs, watching him.
“Anything?” she asked impatiently.
He shook his head. Nothing.
The electricity remained off with no sign their mother planned to do anything about it. The most recent woman to come stay with them had vanished days ago. Corrado wasn’t sure if she’d run away, or been fired, or if she might have died, but her absence meant they had no choice but to fend for themselves. School days they'd had lunch at least, but today, Saturday, they were all on their own.
He moved on to the pantry next, but little remained in there. Picking up an old box of Cheerios, he shook it, hearing a bit of cereal left on the bottom. He tossed the box to his sister, who opened it and reached inside, grabbing a handful of the remnants. She popped some in her mouth, talking as she noisily chewed. “This is stale. Isn’t there something else? Anything?”
Corrado eyed the contents: a dented can of peaches, a bag of dry beans, and some kind of processed can meat. “Not really.”
Katrina groaned dramatically, throwing the box of cereal down beside her. “Ugh, I'm going to die!”
Corrado shut the pantry door. “You're not going to die.”
“Yes, I am! I'm going to starve to death!”
Corrado kept his patience, sensing panic beneath the immature whining. She was scared, and rightfully so.
He went upstairs, hesitating outside of his mother’s bedroom. Slowly, he raised his hand and tapped on her door, listening intently for sounds inside. There was nothing—no response, no movement—so he knocked again. When she didn’t respond that time, he carefully opened the door. “Mom?”
Erika lay sprawled out face down on her bed, not moving, hardly wearing enough clothes to cover herself. The air in the room was musty and humid, the odor nearly as putrid as the refrigerator had been. A surge of panic ran through Corrado as he stared at her, wide-eyed, unable to tell if she were breathing. He walked over and grasped her arm, feeling her clammy skin. He shook her hard, feeling like he was only able to breathe when she did.
She grumbled, peeking an eye open. “What?”
“We’re hungry.”
“Then eat something.”
“There is nothing. And the lights are still off. It's been a whole week already."
She groaned as she rolled away from him. “You brats are always complaining. I don’t know what you expect from me.”
I ex
pect you to be a mom, and get out of bed, and put on some more clothes, and take a bath so you don’t stink so much, and make the lights come back on, and feed us so my sister doesn’t starve to death!
The thoughts angrily ran through Corrado’s head, but the words didn’t come from his mouth. He remained silent, unmoving, until his mother fell back into a deep sleep, lying so still it was like she wasn’t breathing again.
For a moment, in his fury, he wished she wasn't.
Frustrated, Corrado's stomach growled, his gaze zeroing in on the white purse on top of the dresser. He peeked back at his mother, double-checking she wasn’t awake, before tiptoeing over to it. He dug around, his heart racing when he pulled out a crumpled wad of dollar bills. He shoved them in the pocket of his dirty jeans before bolting out of the room.
Katrina still sat on the counter when he returned to the kitchen. “Mom gave me some money so we can go get something to eat.”
Her eyes lit up. “Where?”
He shrugged. “The pizza place?”
It was the only restaurant they ever went to.
“How are we going to get there?”
“We can walk. It takes a couple minutes driving, so it won’t take much longer walking, I think.”
The two put on their shoes and Corrado grabbed his mother’s house keys from the stand in the living room, in case they got locked out, and hesitated before snatching a scrap of paper from the corkboard in the hallway above the telephone. It, too, had been disconnected days before the electricity went out.
The few-minutes journey actually took them almost two hours. Their legs were tired, their bodies drenched in sweat, when they stepped foot into the busy pizzeria. Corrado dug in his pocket, laying all his money out on the front counter.
Seven dollars.
"A small cheese pizza," he said. "And two colas."
The teenage boy rang up his order. "Total's $5.40."
He pushed the cash toward him. "Can I have the rest in coins?"