Writing & Critiquing Since 1979

Dante Carlucci slammed the cleaver against the chicken he was chopping for a cacciatora. Images of his son and daughter-in-law rose before his eyes. “I giovanni non hanno nessun’ rispetto, young people don’t have any respect,” he growled. His callused hands moved in jerky rhythm as his heart thrummed. We’ve lost everything good. Families. Love. Laughter. Sons don’t listen to their fathers. They don’t care about ancestors, tradition, anything or anybody but themselves.

He finished chopping, then gave one more whack for good measure. Most days he didn’t know whether to be angry or sad, but today his heart was sore, and he was tired of being sad. He grabbed the bottle of olive oil from among the boxes, bottles, and sacks at the back of the small table, and turned in his tracks to the stove. Pouring oil in the skillet, he lit the burner with an old cigarette lighter. When the pan was hot, he shoved in the chicken pieces, then grabbed the handle of the pan and shook it, muttering between clenched teeth. He checked the firebox of the woodstove in the corner, and threw in another chunk of wood. He’d invited his son for pranzo today, told him the relatives were coming as they always did on Epiphany, but as usual Mario was non-committal. Was he supposed to grovel and beg a son to come? Dante felt his chest. His heart had been acting up again. Was he supposed to tell that to Mario?

Ever since the boy lost his mamma—fifteen years ago, it was—Mario hadn’t looked Dante in the face. It was almost as if Mario blamed him for her death. Dante continued mumbling as he moved from table to stove. The most I ever get from Mario is a grunt. . . .

He reached into a bucket on the floor and took out an onion, peeled and chopped it, letting skins fall where they might. When he’d added the onion to the pot, he took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. Then breathing a heavy sigh, he slouched to the window to gaze out over his village.

This was what gave him pleasure. His Italy. He liked how the houses snuggled against the hillside and undulated into the valley. He liked the rooftops—tile mostly, though some of them still had the old slate. Many houses had been there four, five hundred years or more . . . the past, always there, giving him a sense of comfort and connectedness. Upstairs he had an even better view. From there he could see the bell tower of San Michele, where he and his family had all been baptized. Where all the important events—weddings, funerals, first communions, everything—had happened. He could see the river, and if he looked across the valley he could see his cousin Sandro’s house in the next village, reminding him of solidity and family ties. He could see life going on, could almost feel a part of it.

It was miserable to get old.

                        ~Excerpt from THEN FACE TO FACE