They hung up.
On my cot in the kitchen, I thought about the islanders’ quiet pact and the silence that followed Santino’s actions over the next days. I thought about how Alma and my uncle had gotten rid of Angelina’s body with the islanders in the night, how they came back with their clothes covered in blood and just went to sleep. People on that island developed a forced affinity to nature, but something arid also grew in their chests. The volcano’s barrenness was present in every living thing. They were all like rocks. Rock people. My mind wandered back to the parking lot of the Woodland Hills Mall and I thought about Audrey and Natalie and how they were rock people too, and how wrong my uncle was. Rules in America were not so different after all. They’d gotten away with murder while two black kids would spend their lives in jail. A matter of convenience. White girls were needed more than black boys, and Santino was more necessary on the island than in jail because he lifted heavy objects and hauled furniture. I thought about the weight on Rosalia’s chest and how she was a rock person who had tried not to be a rock person anymore. Toward the end of August Tindara had announced her take on what happened. She said domestic animals were our filters, our shields against people’s envies like the island’s stray cats with their missing paws and the half decapitated fish in the sea. Maybe Angelina had been a screen, placed at the right place at the right time. A body taken in place of Rosalia’s. The weight Rosalia had felt all winter long, the one she begged me to get rid of, were the rocks pressed against Angelina’s heart now.
—
Santino abandoned his farm and moved to the top of the mountain. He came down infrequently. I never saw him again. The night ship that would take us back to the mainland was delayed because of more storms. Each day my brother and I waited on the dock, dressed in our American clothes, waiting to go back. Each day the sea told us it wasn’t time yet. But when the boat finally came, I ran back to Nerino before embarking.
I opened the farm gate and threw my arms around his neck as he walked in circles around the big metal container, looking for his mother.
“You are lucky she never came back,” I whispered in his ear. “Sometimes coming home only makes it worse.”
He brayed. It sounded different now. It was a sad, lonely cry, like the sounds of all the animals on that island. He’d become one of them.
part three
arrival
12
In the customs area at LAX, the immigration officer asked my brother and me where we’d spent our summer and whether we had a right to be back in Los Angeles. I knew the drill. Ettore had told us, “Whatever they ask, say you are entitled to everything and are dependent on your father who is a journalist.”
Our passports said we depended on his visa, but my father had gotten us in the States on the pretense of his being a journalist, so there were always difficult questions to answer. We looked at the long line behind us in the huge hall. It was such a big room, so promising. Anything could happen in a country that had a room like that. American citizens zipped right through the lines. They were greeted with smiles and questions about their holidays, but everyone else had to answer a different set of questions.
“Where are your parents now?” the officer asked.
“In the arrivals hall, I think.”
“Yes, but why are you traveling alone?”
“Because we spent our summer in Italy and our parents didn’t come.”
“Why not?”
“Because…they were working?” I ventured.
“Here?”
“Yes…here, but for an Italian company.”
The extent of their work permit was never clear. The gist of it was that the government was willing to look the other way for people working in the media as long as they paid taxes and stayed in that realm.
“Say you’re dependent on your father who is working as a journalist. Tell them I work here, but don’t ever tell them I work here.” Those were the kind of paradoxical instructions our father gave us regarding immigration officers.
“What do you mean, Dad?”
“That we work here, but we don’t work here. You know what I mean.”
I pretended I did, but I didn’t and I always thought he’d do all the talking if it ever came down to it. But now it was on me. I tried to bring back memories of our conversations.
“Don’t fall for those Nazi immigration officers’ intimidations. They’ll interrogate you like SS sergeants, but they have nothing on you. Everyone is innocent until proven guilty. So fuck them and their deportation tactics. If they press, tell them you are visiting your father, but don’t tell them your father lives here. Just tell them he is temporarily working here. The purpose of your trip is not business related. You are here to go to school. Actually forget it, never mind. Don’t tell them you go to school here. I’m not sure you’re actually allowed to go to public school. Whatever you do, do not mention the fact that I’m a director. Oh, yes, and if it looks like they’re really getting pissed off, just take back everything and say you’re on vacation.”
“I’m going to ask you this again, miss: Why did your parents not come to Italy with you? Let me remind you that lying to the government will jeopardize your entrance to the United States.”
“Because they’re making a movie!” I broke down, feeling at once guilty and relieved.
“They’re making a movie?”
“Yes?”
“Do they have a permit to work in the United States?”
“I’m sure they do,” Timoteo intervened.
“You’re not allowed to make movies with an Italian media visa. You’re only allowed to work for your Italian employer. So are they making an Italian movie?”
I remembered my father’s advice and took it all back.
“No, I’m sorry, I got confused. I meant to say they’re on vacation…we’re on vacation…we’re…all on an extended family vacation.”
“Please step aside. Take your passports and follow us.”
“Where are we going?”
“I’ll tell you where you’re not going, and that’s inside this country.”
We were escorted to the baggage claim area where our bags were sniffed at by a German shepherd.
“Must be the island cats,” I joked to the officer. He arched his eyebrow at me.
“Our dogs are not trained to smell cats. You spent your whole summer in Italy and you are trying to tell me you have nothing to declare?”
I looked away. How did he know?
Our bags were opened and displayed for public shaming: prosciutto, mortadella, pecorino, parmigiano reggiano, pizza bianca—my favorite—from the oven in Campo de’ Fiori in Rome, salami, and a huge wheel of caciocavallo cheese. Officers came by and shook their heads at us.