It had taken Mike almost twenty years to understand what Dominic meant to him. Mike learned, without his brother in his life, that their relationship was fundamental, even when it was flawed; even when they were inept and inarticulate with one another and brought the worst of themselves forward, they still needed to be loved and to love one another. Mike felt lucky that he had figured out that he loved Dom more than he hated his brother’s limitations. With that realization came redemption. He opened his arms wide. It was as if a hundred black crows flew out of his chest and up into the sky until they were specks of ash over South Philly. He let it all go, the broken promises, the anger, and the determination to change his brother; it all was gone. Mike swore he could hear their wings as they departed toward heaven, releasing the years of resentment, and making the space for forgiveness.
Mike would mail the deed to his brother later. Or he’d leave it in secret with his sister-in-law, Jo. Or maybe he’d will it to one of his great-nieces or -nephews on Dom’s side for their Confirmation day or a wedding. Mike would come up with some way to move the chips to Dom’s side of the table without his brother’s knowledge. Mike slid the deed back into his pocket. “If you won’t take the lot, you have to let me do one thing for you.”
“What’s that?”
“Buy you a suit. You dress like an undertaker.”
Dom scowled, but before the impulse turned to anger, he chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” Mike wanted to know.
“That you think you could take this”—Dom modeled his body—“and improve it.”
Mike was going to argue the point, but gave up. He laughed. Soon, Dom was laughing too. In the time that it took for one brother to tell a self-deprecating joke and the other to hear it, they were at peace once more. The dark days were over. Dom and Mike were together as they once had been in a place that they had tried to forget because it was easier to hate than to love. But love was so much better. It had only taken, what? Five? Ten? Twelve? Twenty years? It didn’t matter. Now they remembered. Now they understood. Now, they knew.
Postlude
May 3, 1954
Roseto Valfortore, Italy
A woman bent over the telegraph machine and tapped out the message coming in over the wire in code. She spun in her chair and typed out the telegram swiftly and accurately on the manual typewriter, a licorice black Olivetti.
She pulled the message from the carriage, attached it to the letterhead, folded it neatly, and slid it into an envelope. She went to the window and pushed open the bright blue shutters. The telegraph office in Alberona filled with the midday sun that reflected off the golden walls of the piazza. A group of young boys sat on the steps of the colonnade.
“Andiamo, Federico!”
The boy, around fourteen, came running. The woman handed him the telegram out the window. He jumped on a bicycle pulled from the clutter of them parked under the window, stuffed the envelope in his shirt pocket, and was about to pedal off when the woman shouted to him: “Il tuo cappello!”
She tossed his cap out the window. He caught it and put it on his head.
The boy pedaled through the town and out onto the main road. He took a turn and began to pedal up the hill to Roseto Valfortore.
The hillsides were covered in white blossoms over fields of green. The landscape looked like the finest swath of Fortuny velvet, the deep green embossed with lighter shades of mint where the sun fell behind the clouds into shadows on the peaks.
The boy stood up on the bike, taking the rake of the steep hill in long strides. His lean form threw a long shadow on the road, which was inlaid with smooth stone that had neither a groove nor a crack in it. In these ancient hills, this particular road was easy to navigate; it was smooth in the modern fashion, with gutters to funnel rain down the mountain without flooding the pass.
As the boy rounded the top of the hill, the fig trees that grew in abundance near the entrance of the town sprouted citrine buds that would bloom and grow into sweet fruit.
Carlo Guardinfante stood on the balcony outside his bedroom, holding his newborn son. The sweet scent of the roses blooming on the village walls drifted through the air. Everything, as far as he could see, was fertile, rich, and ripening under the warm Italian sun.
The piazza below was crowded with Rosetani shopping at the outdoor market. Fruit of every kind, fresh fish from the Adriatic, flowers from neighboring Foggia, fabric from Prato—it was all displayed under bright canopies for the locals.
Carlo looked beyond the piazza. The new road from the village down the mountain to the main highway was traveled with such frequency that Carlo ordered traffic signs made and requested that a carabiniere be assigned to deal with the traffic as it flowed into and out of the village. No longer isolated, the Rosetani were part of the world again.
From his window that morning, Carlo could hear the music of ordinary conversation, Rosetani bartering and laughing as they shopped. It reminded him of what life was like when he was a boy, and he was pleased. His own son would know the childhood that he had known.
The boy in the cap pedaled up to the entrance of the villa. He hopped off the bicycle and spun the chimes on a wheel next to the front door. Soon the houseman opened the door. The boy tipped his cap and handed the old man the telegram. The old man dug in his trouser pocket for a coin. He found it and gave it to the boy. The boy thanked him, jumped back on his bicycle, and coasted down the hill.
Carlo watched the boy glide down the road effortlessly like a gray feather floating in a gentle breeze.
“Bring the baby, Carlo,” Bette called out.
“He needs fresh air.”
“He needs milk.”
“He likes the balcony.”
“I’m his mother. Bring him to me.”
Carlo smiled and did as he was told.
Bette was propped up on pillows in their bed. She extended her arms. “Come here,” she said. Carlo handed the infant to Bette. She nursed him.
The houseman slipped the telegram under the door.
“Father DeNisco said to tell you the baptism is set for Sunday.” Carlo pulled the coverlet up to his wife’s waist. He went around the bed and propped up the pillows behind her so she would be more comfortable as she nursed the baby.
“Are you sure about his name?” Elisabetta wondered as she looked down at her son.
“I like it. Don’t you?”
“Very much. But it has never been used in our families, and tradition says the baby should be named after your father. His name should be Carlo.”
“I like Nicolo,” Carlo said. “Nic is very modern.”
“Nic sounds American.” Elisabetta smiled. “Not that I mind.”
“Our son should be as generous as our friend Nick Castone.”
Carlo picked up the telegram and opened the envelope.
“Bad news?” Elisabetta asked him anxiously.
“It’s from Nick and Calla.”
He read aloud:
NEW BABY IS COMING. OVERJOYED. KEEP THE ROAD CLEAR. NC
“Wonderful news! I will write to them,” Elisabetta said.
“See? You worry too much, and you worry for nothing.”
“I can’t help it, Carlo.”
“When the baby arrives, I’ll invite them for the summer.” Carlo was delighted.
Elisabetta nursed their son as Carlo curled up next to his wife on the bed. When the baby had had his fill, she placed him tenderly in the soft straw basket on the bed next to her. She draped her arm around it, protecting her highest dream.