Toward the end of summer, the skies turned against the sea. Thunderstorms shook the island and hailstones strafed the rocks. We thought the mountain would explode or sink under the sea. A feeling of doom and catastrophe cloaked the island. No commercial boats could get to our shores. No fishing, no food, no supplies. The storms banged against the sky for days, until finally the sun came back, ripping into the heavens, and everything turned metallic and wild. The island’s long stairway became tufted in moss—a green carpet leading to the heavens. Alma and my uncle decided it would be a good time to camp out on the crater. We had no tents, but we brought blankets, eggs, and the cans of Italian Spam we’d been feeding the cats with.
As we made our way up, the port became smaller, the island got quieter, filled with the ghosts of the immigrants’ empty houses. At the top, a few German Vikings with shaved testicles did sun salutations on their terraces. We said hello but they didn’t respond, too immersed in their spiritual practice. The mountain was different from the seaside. Nobody smiled there. People didn’t look at each other if they crossed paths. It was the place for everyone’s personal mission.
When we reached the crater, we felt as if we’d landed in space. The sun was setting over the sea while the full moon rose behind our backs. One side of the crater was infused in a pale, glowing light, the other blazed in warm red. Looming fig trees, heavy with fruit, sprawled on the basin’s edges. Wild rabbits scurried from one end to the other, electrified by the day’s end. We camped next to a stone cabin overlooking the sea. In the sunset the other Aeolian Islands looked like submerged boots left behind by a giant who had walked off barefoot into space.
We lit a bonfire. My uncle took out a banged-up guitar and prompted Alma to sing in German in front of the flames. My brother opened his first can of Italian Spam and burped.
In the crater’s basin, glowing in the moonlight, I noticed Rosalia. She was floating toward the stairs wrapped in a silvery gown I had never seen her wear. Alone with a basket of vegetables in her hand, she looked like a new being, an island spirit. Sometimes, like the village women, I too wondered whether it was still Rosalia inside that new body, if Nunzia hadn’t taken over after all. I hadn’t spoken to her since my incident on Santino’s boat and Angelina’s birth-giving night. In truth there was nothing left for me to do or say and Santino’s warning to keep away had been enough to make me falter every time I entertained the possibility of knocking on their door. But now she was alone. I walked toward her golden, bare back. Her flowing gown scurried down the staircase.
It was only when I took a few steps down that I realized why I had followed her. It was the presence of a sound. It chiseled its way into my ears now: Angelina’s bray. She was right below us, coming up the ramp of stairs, loaded with groceries. It was her first trip to the top since Nerino. Santino trudged next to her, flailing his switch on her buttocks. She was soaked in sweat, a shiny seal. She was too loaded and it was early to bring her all the way up. Nerino was probably suffering without her, with no milk for so many hours. From the face he made I could tell Santino hadn’t expected to meet Rosalia on the path. She was too beautiful with her loose hair falling over her shoulders. The words between husband and wife flew into the wind. I couldn’t hear anything from where I stood, but I could see they were tense. Rosalia waved her vegetables in the air defensively, as if she were smacking truth in his face.
I walked down a few steps to hear better, making sure they would not see me.
“She’s not ready for runs yet,” Rosalia said, pointing to the donkey’s stretched belly.
“Mind your own business!” Santino replied.
His arms moved in grand circles, then turned to smaller, contrite movements. His right hand sealed into a crooked fist like a capricious child’s. He stomped his foot, demanding attention. His rage mounted. There was no way out of it. A fury was taking over his body as he screamed nonsense against rabbits and donkeys and chewed-up electrical cords.
The mosquitoes were starting to come out. I could feel them on my bare legs. I wanted to swat them against my thighs and ankles, to splatter myself in blood marks, but I let them eat me. My eyes were fixed on Rosalia and Santino’s lips.
“Accà!” he screamed to the donkey. “Let’s go.”
He pushed Rosalia out of his way and hit Angelina on her side.
Angelina trotted up a few more stairs and stopped in front of Rosalia, asking for help with her eyes. Even though it was almost dark, I could see her expression and what I couldn’t see, I could imagine. She wanted to go back to her baby.
Santino flogged her again to keep her moving up, but Angelina stood stubbornly next to Rosalia, her heavy eyes as big as a cow’s, begging for help.
“Stop it! Can’t you see she’s tired? She just had a baby,” Rosalia protested.
“Accà!” Santino screamed, ignoring her.
I walked down the steps, trying to catch every bit of their wind-distorted words.
Rosalia now faced her husband, appearing stronger than him, like a bigger and better person.
“Let me take her back down with me. You’re almost there. You can unload her here and bring the rest of the stuff by hand,” she said as she patted Angelina’s soft snout.
“You think I’m going to do ten trips back and forth for a donkey?” Santino’s chest grew wider as he spoke—the man of the stairs.
“Accà!” He hit Angelina harder, staring into Rosalia’s eyes.
He grabbed a thick branch from a dry olive tree next to the stairs and doubled his whipping. He beat Angelina again, this time on the belly.
“She just had a baby!” Rosalia screamed.
I felt my legs tremble. I was outside my body, right there next to Angelina.
“I’m taking her up, you understand? And you’re going home!”
Santino hit Angelina harder, a second time, and a third. He stared down at his wife and raised his arm toward her, threateningly now. Either she got out of the way or she’d be the next one to get hurt.
“Basta, Santino,” Rosalia screamed. “That’s enough!”
She pushed him away from the donkey. Santino pulled a loose rock from the staircase, sending part of it crumbling down. He hit Angelina with it. She pulled back and started braying, hopping in place, trotting from front to back legs, trying to kick up, but was blocked by Santino’s reins. I noticed her belly bleeding and stepped down farther, emitting a small cry to get their attention. They didn’t look up at me.
“What are you doing? She’s bleeding!”
“Shut up!” Santino replied. He searched for another rock and lifted it toward Rosalia to scare her off. “I said go home! And don’t tell me we’re having scrambled eggs for dinner tonight. I’m not eating them!” he screamed after her.