[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ILsD4gNTOX8]Rafe Mencini leads a structured life. You can set your watch to his weekly routine, on military time no less. He doesn’t need a watch, or an alarm clock for that matter. Without fail, he wakes up at 5:20 am each morning. At this point consistency is ingrained, as much a part of his identity as his social security number. Perhaps even more illuminating about the man he has become than any information found by entering a string of numbers into a computer program.
The contents of his wallet are sparse, limited to: a bill fold, his V.A. card, and a medium sized keychain with a scratched up copper robot medallion (a birthday gift from his nephew Billy). His wardrobe: simple. A typical engineer’s uniform, if you will: blue button down shirt, khaki pants and brown belt. However, there is one unique touch: a 1941 centissimo pendant tied on with a worn piece of twine. It never comes off for any reason and probably never will.
Life wasn’t always so rigid for Rafe. As a young boy he would run for hours with only a vague sense of direction and certainly, no destination in mind. When he walked through the door his mother would pull him onto her lap as she picked the bramble from his thick curly hair. All the while, he would fidget and squirm – like most boys sitting still was an arduous task best left to those with less energy and curiosity.
There was one thing, and one thing only, that he would sit still for: storytime with Papa. His father, Fabrizio, worked long hours as proprietor of the neighborhood dry cleaner. At the end of the day he was spent from the twelve hours on his feet; constantly running back and forth between serving customers and operating the heavy steel ironing machine. What energy wasn’t taken by the end of the work day was surely gone after his nightly hand of poker with his buddies down at the Knights of Columbus clubhouse. Sometimes he’d leave the game without the money he had walking in the door. Those nights were not good for anyone in the Menconi household.
Sunday was the one day Fabrizio Mencini took off from work. After the family attended the afternoon mass at St. Francis, they would return home to play board games. After dinner, young Rafe and his sister Iris would tug on their father’s perfectly creased pant leg, “Papa! Papa! Tell us a story!”
“Sono spiacente. Avete marmi nella vostra bocca? Non capisco una parola.”
Fabrizio was a quiet man, but when he spoke it was always in Italian. 12 hours a day, 6 days a week that he had to speak his version of English. Constantly repeating himself wore on his nerves almost as much as the sing-songish way customers would finally say, “Ohhhhhh! What DAY do I need my suit? Wednesday. I’m sorry. I didn’t understand what you said.” Speaking English at home was OUT of the question.
Iris and Rafe would repeat their request, this time in their parents’ native tongue. Of all the stories, there was a shortlist of favorites they couldn’t get enough of. Even the backdrop for the stories was seductive: a little village in Tuscany with rolling hills, fertile fields and rivers of wine free flowing through the center of town. Hyperbole was lost on them: they just sat on the floor with their legs crossed and heads pointed upward, mouths wide open – transfixed. Rafe’s mother, Mira, took full advantage of the relative quiet and worked on whatever scarf/blanket/sweater her family needed. Apart from time spent sleeping, it was the only time the twinkle of current or impending mischief left her son’s eyes. Knit 1, pearl 2: it was a welcome respite, indeed.
The children loved all the stories, but there were favorites. Their parents meeting in the "old country" at region’s communal San Genaro Festival ranked high on the list. Funny enough, it was not the moment when Fabrizio and Mira first locked eyes that fascinated them. Their father went into great detail about the decorations, costumes and bountiful feast laid out by the ladies of parish. As described, it was like nothing they had ever seen in Medford. However, if time was limited the story of choice was unanimously that of their parents immigration. This was the solitary thing Iris and Rafe agreed upon as children. It was the same night Mira and Fabrizio eloped. Their’s was an abbreviated courtship, not uncommon amongst those young and impulsive. When they fled their perfect village, the marriage vows had just passed through their lips and the ink of the certificate hadn’t time to dry. Rafe always had trouble with the same part of the story. “Se tutto fosse così bello e l’alimento così delicous, perchè avete lasciato il papa?”
It was a good question: if the old country was so beautiful and the food so fresh and plentiful, why leave? The answer was more than either child could understand. They had never felt the ripple effect of the change in political tide. They had learned to read and write but the history of fascist Italy before and during World War II wouldn’t be taught be in school for several years. They only knew that uttering the name "Mussilini" was worse than cussing and punishable by being sent to bed without supper. Fabrizio always glazed over the reasoning behind their decision to flee and instead detailed the conditions of the travel arrangements. The message was clear: this topic was not open for discussion nella casa di Mencini.
Truthfully, the wanderlust had been planted in Fabrizio’s heart as a young boy. His two older brothers had set out in pursuit of unknown horizons in the hope’s that their fortune would not be too far behind. He had pleaded to go with them, but was too young to be anything other than a nuisance to Carlo and Marco. Everyday the family eagerly awaited the arrival of the postman. After the over one year with no word, the prodigal sons were mourned by all of the citizens of Provence de Lucca. Fabrizio was meant to join them once they had settled but that plan was cancelled accordingly and his parents’ grip tighted on their only living son. Their determination to hold on was matched only by his desire to break free. And so it would be come to be that he was destined to make his own way soon enough.
__________________________________________________________________________
Now back to the story of how that came to be… They married and set off to a country they had only glimpsed in magazine pictures. Air travel was not possible with their meager resources, so they crammed into the belly of the boat for the long journey. All of their money went to secure their spot on the ship so their pockets were empty. Luckily, they had made arrangements with a distant relative for lodging and work in New York.
When they disembarked, it became clear that they had been directed to the wrong boat by a harried porter in Livorno. Both Mira and Fabrizio hid their distress and determined separately to be strong for the other. Maria remained near the boat, sitting on the trunk containing the only things they had in this world, save each other. Fabrizio sped off with a self-assured gate and a fast pounding heart. He had no idea what he was going to do, or where he was headed but he was a hard worker. Surely he could find something to do that would cover basic food and shelter for he and his wife. Suddenly, amongst the crowd of strangers he saw two familiar faces. Could it be???
__________________________________________________________________________
When her husband was out of sight, Mira lowered her face to her palms and held back tears as her shoulders bobbed up and down from the stifled sob. Though technically a married woman, she hadn’t had the time to shed the skin of a sheltered school girl. Just as she was losing hope, she felt an outstretched palm gently touch her wrist. An elderly woman appeared in front of her and dropped a coin into her palm. It wasn’t a lot – 5 centissimos – but it was clear from the woman’s thread bare clothing that it was a lot for her to give. Maria was stunned by this kind gesture. The woman disappeared into the crowd before she had the chance to object.
Mira brought her hands close to her face once again, this time clasped in prayer. That’s how she remained until she heard her husband’s voice getting closer. As she looked up and she saw that the two men walking arm and arm with Fabrizio were echoing his laughter. The faces were unfamiliar, but their features were unmistakably Menconi.
Moment’s earlier, they were lost and suddenly everything had turned around. Now a chance encounter had the newlyweds following Carlo and Marco as they led the way back to the boardinghouse they had found upon arriving one week earlier from Scotland. It all confirmed what the Mencini’s had suspected all along: they were destined to raise their family underneath a different than the one they were born under. Boston was to be their new home. Mira squeezed the coin in her right fist and rested it over her heart. From that point forward she kept it with her. Once they were settled, she had a jeweler pierce a tiny whole through the coin just wide enough for a piece of twine. __________________________________________________________________________
The family history was always of interest to Rafe. At age ten, the stories took on even more significance. In the best of circumstances, growing up brings changes and turmoil. As luck would have it, his was not a best case scenario. The chorus of things left unsaid grew unchecked with every passing minute. An eery type of quiet punctuated the voiceless emotional crescendo. Something wasn’t quite right.
Initial harbingers were subtle. Rafe would enter a room to find his parents talking in hushed voices while wearing serious expressions that immediately contorted to forced smiles when they realized they were not alone. These smiles expressed no joy, nor did they mask the steady rise of tension. This continued for several months… Next, the family routines were abandoned. First to go was attending the Sunday service. Rafe was secretly glad. He never liked having to sit through the boring liturgy. (Stand. Sit. Sit. Stand. Why can’t G*d make up his mind?) He kept that thought to himself when Father Ken began making his weekly visit. Even having such thoughts (let alone, admitting them) put him in danger of landing in purgatory, which he imagined would be something like Mass. (Stand. Sit. Sit. Stand. Man, I really messed up this time.)
Now the ball was rolling and the pace of theses changes picked up. The secrets had taken on a life of their own, consuming all breathable air in the once happy household tucked into the Medford hillside. When storytime was cut from their routine, Rafe took notice. Sitting still, keeping quiet, being serious and paying attention no longer required restraint on his part. Blending in became a necessity. When no one was looking he would press an ear to the wall or linger outside doorways. It was a game of the cloak and dagger variety.
Nothing in his scant 10 years of life experience prepared him for was the clue he found. The driving force behind the current state of affairs was summed up in the one word he overheard the family doctor speak during one of many housecalls. “Cancer." It wasn’t a word he remembered hearing before, but the finality of the tone in which it was spoken told him all he needed to know. There was his answer: Momma was sick. Mira no longer had the energy to take her young son into her lap. Most days of her days were spent sleeping. When awake, the pain medication insured that she was rarely lucid. The end was near and Rafe didn’t need to do any detective work to figure that out.
The light-hearted days of running free were a distant memory. After school he either made dinner for the family or ran the dry cleaner if his father was off having an afternoon drink at the clubhouse. Childhood was abbreviated and he became the only one well enough to hold it all together. His mother was fading fast. When she sent for him to come to her bedside, he didn’t squirm one bit. He conformed to the picture of good behavior. What little strength Mira had went to running her fingers through his moppy head of hair. It was two and a half months after his 10th birthday, and she regretted the knowledge that he was dealing with things well beyond his years.
She asked him to help her untie the makeshift twine necklace from her neck.
“I want you to have it. It’s always brought us such great luck… and I want that to know that blessing will be with you.”
He took the pendant as he gulped back tears. Moments later she drifted off to sleep, exhausted from their brief conversation. Now he was the one stroking her head as he perched on his tippy-toes to plant a kiss on his mother’s forehead.
The next morning he awoke at 5:20 am to be exact to his father moaning like a wounded animal. That was the exact time everything in his world changed. Routine became the only reliable constant. It certainly wasn’t his father. The loss of his Mira took away anything he had to give, and sadly that wasn’t all that much to start. Now Rafe was the adult, while his father mourned by alternating weeks of isolation and depression with binge drinking and rage directed at the children who were living reminders of all he had lost.
The price his son paid was much higher, and Fabrizio wouldn’t be around when the bill came due. Settling up would fall to Rafe. He assumed that responsibility without blinking an eye. Naturally. It was the only way he knew. Funny how the issues at the heart of the daily trials and tribulations of this man took seed in the soul of the boy he never had the chance to fully be.
Tags: Air travel, basic food, Boston, Cancer, Carlo, depression, detective, energy, energy wasn’t, engineer, Fabrizio, food, hard worker, harried porter, head of hair, heavy steel ironing machine, Italy, jeweler, Knights of Columbus, less energy, Marco, Massachusetts, Mira, moppy head, New York, pain, proprietor, Rafe Mencini, running back, San Genaro Festival, Scotland, travel arrangements, Tuscany
After I hit the shoe section I wandered over to the mess that is the panty section. Several months ago, while killing time between appointments I happened upon a set of two boyshorts for girls. They would be completely unremarkable but for the mere 2″ of extra fabric at the leg make them great summer jammies. The criteria for that is left over from 4 years of living in college dorms: “If I were stranded outside on the street wearing this at 4am with municipal authorities and everyone I know, how ridiculous would I look?” I haven’t lived with fire alarm pulling infants for 10 years, but somehow that script is still a part of my operating system. It just so happens that these St. Eve jammie-like items are impossible to find elsewhere. (Trust me- I’ve looked.)
So, you might wonder why I answered. (OMG- me too!) My best guess:
