"Sure."
The boy gave Corrado his receipt and a handful of change. He gave half of it to Katrina, who ran off to play games, while Corrado headed over to the payphone. He put a bunch of coins in it, not sure how much it cost, as he pulled the scrap of paper from his pocket.
Chicago, it said, written in his father's handwriting, with a phone number beneath it. He dialed, making sure he pushed the right buttons, and clutched the big receiver to his ear as it rang and rang.
"Moretti."
Vito sounded out of breath as he answered.
"Dad?"
Silence for a moment, then a woman's voice rang out in the background before Vito shushed her. "Shut up, V. It's my kid." Something rustled as he focused on the call. "Everything okay?"
"Yes, but we need some stuff to eat," Corrado said. "Things we don't have to cook on the stove, because we can't use it until they give us some lights back."
"What?"
"We need food at home," he repeated.
"Yeah, groceries, I got that part. But what do you mean about getting the lights back?"
"We don't have any," he said. "The man turned them off."
Tense silence took over before Vito spoke again, a hard edge to his voice. "You telling me you ain't got no electric?"
"Yes."
"Where's your mother? Put her on the damn phone."
"She's not here," he said. "She's at home in bed."
"In bed? Where the hell are you?"
"Walked to the pizzeria."
"By yourself?"
"No. Kat's with me, too."
Vito laughed dryly, muttering under his breath. Curses flew from his mouth, back-to-back, one after another. "That goddamn woman. I tell her to fucking call if she needs anything. Bullshit. What the hell did she do with my money? Drink it all away?"
Corrado switched the receiver to the other ear as a lady came on the line, saying he had one minute remaining. He searched his pockets for more coins, but he had none left.
"The phone lady said I have to go. Can you send some food? But not milk or anything, since we can't use the fridge."
"Don't worry about it, kid. I'll handle it."
"Thanks, Dad."
Corrado hung up, heading to an empty orange booth when their pizza was ready. Corrado took one piece, slowly picking at it, while Katrina greedily devoured the other five. He was still hungry, but he didn’t take any from his sister, not wanting her to starve.
Once they were out of food and money, the two made the trek home. They walked slower this time, in no rush to get back to the stuffy house, so it approached nightfall when they finally arrived. They stepped inside the front door as Erika walked out of the kitchen, wearing her robe, carrying a sealed bottle of wine under her arm. In her hand she clutched the dented can of peaches, the top removed, a fork stuck in them. "Where have you been?"
"Outside," Corrado said before Katrina could answer. “Playing.”
"Good," Erika muttered. "Fresh air's what you need. Keeps you out of my hair."
They remained silent until their mother stomped back upstairs. Katrina turned to Corrado then, raising her eyebrows. "Mom didn't give you that money, did she?"
He slowly shook his head.
“Didn’t think so.”
He headed up to his bedroom and took off his shirt before collapsing onto the bed, not bothering to change out of his jeans. Exhaustion dragged him into a deep sleep, but it didn't last long.
His bedroom door flew open, crashing into the wall and waking Corrado. It was dark now, the only light in the room from the open window. He sat up abruptly, eyes darting to the doorway as his mother burst in. His heart raced as he tried to make sense of things, his adrenaline pumping overtime.
Erika descended upon him, no hesitation in her footsteps, one of Vito's thick leather belts in her hand. Corrado tried to move away from her when he spotted it, but he was too late. She snatched his arm with her free hand, twisting it as she pinned him down on the bed. "You think you can lie to me and get away with it, you little shit? Huh? You think you can steal from me? You’re just like your father!"
Before he could reply, before he could defend himself, she raised the belt, the first blow striking him in the chest. A sharp sting rippled across his skin, seeping into his muscles, seizing his lungs as he let out an agonized screech. He tried to get away from her, sliding off the side of the bed and collapsing onto the hard wooden floor, his shoulder throbbing as she twisted his arm further.
She savagely whipped him as he huddled into a ball, trying to shield himself from the beating. Strike after strike hit his back, a few even connecting with his head and face. Tears stung his eyes, involuntarily running down his flushed cheeks, as he struggled to hold in the sobs bubbling deep in his chest.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to block out the sound of the cracks, the pain of ripping flesh, the flashes of memory. His mother didn't stop until her arm grew tired, the blows weaker as Corrado’s body grew numb, his mind detaching. He forced himself to go somewhere else, to think of something else, to not focus on the brutal sting.
Not a word was spoken as Erika walked out, dragging the belt behind her, leaving him on the floor, his face coated with tears.
He raised his head after a bit, his eyes drawn to the doorway. Katrina stood out in the hallway, watching him, that familiar look of wonder in her eyes he’d seen before.
"You," he ground out, his voice scratchy. She’d told. "How could you?"
She shrugged. "The more she hates you, the more she likes me."
Corrado stayed in bed that night and most of the next afternoon, huddled under his Batman comforter, not wanting to see the sunshine, not wanting to face the day. He heard movement around the house, cheerful voices downstairs, even his sister’s laughter across the hall, but no one bothered him. No one called for him. No one came to check on him at all.
Evening approached when he heard heavy footsteps down the hallway. He lay still, holding his breath as they neared his room. They stopped right outside, long, torturous seconds passing before the knob jiggled. Corrado closed his eyes, imagining his mother’s anger that he blocked it with his desk.
She had caught him off guard twice. He wouldn't make the same mistake again.
Someone shoved against the door, trying to force it open, but it wouldn’t budge. “You in there, kid?"
Corrado’s eyes opened at the sound of his father’s voice. Throwing the blankets off, he climbed out of the bed, hobbling as he made his way across the room. He shifted his desk back in place and cracked open the door, peeking his head out to meet his father's gaze.
"Hey," Vito said. "Why'd you have the door blocked? What if there's a fire? How you gonna get out if..."
Vito trailed off. His expression changed, his posture stiffening as the calmness drained from his eyes. With no warning, he slammed his hand against the partially opened door, forcing it open the rest of the way. Corrado winced as his father roughly grasped his chin. "What happened to your face?"
"What?"
"You got these red marks. You get in a fight at school?"
Corrado shook his head.
"Well?" Vito prompted. "What happened then?"
His voice was quiet as he tried to respond, stammering.
"Was it your mother?" Vito raised his eyebrows. "She beat you?"
Corrado didn't respond, but Vito knew.
Letting go, Vito studied Corrado, surveying his severely marked skin. He motioned for Corrado to spin around and let out a low whistle at the welts, the deep gashes and streaks of dried blood covering his bare back.
"Where's your mother, anyway? Her car ain't here."
Corrado shrugged. He hadn't even known she'd left.
"She didn't tell you where she was going?"
"No."
"She must've taken Kat with her," he said. "Your gym shoes were the only ones downstairs."
"Oh."
Vito stared at him, clicking his tongue. Corrado's face heated like a furnace, tears pricklin
g his eyes from shame.
"Come on," Vito said, his voice a forced calmness that betrayed his fiery eyes. "I brought a pizza home. Let's go eat."
Corrado followed his father downstairs to the kitchen, where a large pizza box lay on the counter. The greasy scent filled the air when Vito opened it. Sausage and mushrooms—Corrado's favorite kind.
Vito grabbed a plate and handed it to him. "Dig in."
Corrado took one slice, but his father grabbed two more and slapped them on his plate. He took a seat on one of the stools at the bar, eating as Vito opened the fridge. More covered the shelves now—things to drink. Corrado's brow furrowed, confused, considering the refrigerator still wasn't working.
"Habit, you know," Vito explained as he pulled out a glass bottle of coke and popped the top off, as if he'd sensed Corrado's confusion. "Can't keep them cool, but that's where they go, so that's where they went."
He laughed, but there was no humor to it as he slid the drink to Corrado. The soda was still sort of chilled, the outside of the bottle sweating from condensation.
Vito grabbed a can of Budweiser from the fridge and opened it, taking a swig. He grimaced in disgust, shaking his head, but it didn't dissuade him from taking a second drink. He set it down then and grabbed a slice of pizza, leaning against the counter as he gnawed on it.
"The Sox look good this year," Vito said casually. "They got that Tony Muserguy now. Good move, if you ask me..."
Small talk filled the kitchen, setting Corrado at ease as his father ran down the White Sox roster, talking up the team. "They're gonna pull ahead this season. We're going to the World Series, kid. I can feel it."
Corrado smiled at that.
He finished his fifth slice of pizza when the front door opened, and Katrina ran inside. She hesitated in the foyer, dropping a shopping bag on the floor. "Daddy?"
"In here," Vito yelled from the kitchen, taking a sip from his second warm beer.
Katrina burst in, heading straight for their father, wrapping her arms around him in a tight hug.
Vito patted her back, his eyes on the doorway as Erika stepped into view. "Erika."
"Vito," she said. "What brings you home?"
"Oh, I think you know."
Erika's eyes narrowed suspiciously, darting straight to Corrado. His shoulders slumped, body trying to fold into itself as he wished he could disappear.
Vito pulled Katrina away from him, motioning toward the rest of the pizza. "Why don't you grab a slice and head on upstairs so your mother and I can talk?"
Katrina glanced at the pizza and wrinkled her nose. "I don't like sausage."
"Pick it off."
"Gross, and mushrooms!"
"Pick them off, too."
"But—"
"You heard me, Kat. You can't always have it your way."
Katrina stared at their father for a second, frowning as he cut off her whining. She grabbed a piece of pizza and stormed out, her feet stomping on the stairs. Corrado slid off of his stool, his head down as he scampered toward the doorway.
"Hey, kid."
Corrado looked at his father.
"You look like you grew another foot."
Smiling, he turned back around and slipped from the room.
He barely had enough time to make it to his bedroom before fighting ignited downstairs. It was different this time, as Vito's usual passive voice rose above the chaos, enraged and terrifying.
"You think it's okay to beat my son? You think it's okay to hit him like a man? How about I beat you that way, huh? How about I hit you like a fucking man!"
Corrado huddled under his blanket again, trying not to listen to them, but it was impossible to block out all of the shouting.
"You can't pay the bills, you can't feed my kids, but you can go shopping? You can spend my money on this bullshit—your expensive shoes, your fucking vintage wine—but you can't keep the goddamn electric going?"
Corrado's door creaked opened, the loose floorboard groaning again. He didn't look, knowing it could only be his sister. She stood there beside his bed, and Corrado sensed her gaze on where he laid, dead center of the bed, but he didn't move, didn't scoot over to give her room.
He had nothing to say to her after what she'd done to him.
Katrina went away eventually, going back to her room alone.
"I do everything for you… everything! You never had to work a day in your life because of me! All I ask is you keep my kids fed, and you don't even have to do that! I give you someone to do it for you! And you can't keep them around for more than a couple days without losing control!"
The fighting went on and on, non-stop for hours, increasingly incoherent as they yelled about things Corrado didn't understand. The house was pitch black when it slowed to a trickle, finally growing silent, not a peep downstairs from either parent. After awhile his bedroom door opened again, heavy footsteps treading through the room. Someone sat down on the end of the bed and snatched the comforter off Corrado's head.
"Come on, kid." Vito's voice was scratchy from the relentless shouting. "Don't do that. We Moretti men don't hide. We don't cower from anyone."
Corrado sat up carefully, eyeing his father in the darkened room. From the soft glow of the moon, he noticed scratches on Vito's skin from his mother's fingernails.
"Your mother said you stole from her, that you lied about it. That true?"
He hesitated before slowly nodding.
"I told her she ain't give you no choice," Vito continued, not surprised by his answer. He knew he had. "You throw a man into a war and he's gonna kill, you know? Gotta do what we gotta do, any means necessary to make it out alive. And besides, people should never be punished for protecting family, no matter what."
Vito ran his hands down his face before standing back up. "You can't go to school looking like that. They'll think you live in a bad home, and we can't have them thinking that. We can't have them thinking they can take you away from me. So you'll have to take a few days off, you know, until it heals up a bit. Capice?"
"I understand."
"Good." Vito started for the door, pausing to look back at him. "I'm proud of you, kid."
Proud?
Corrado stared at his father as he walked out. It was the first time he'd ever said that to him.
3
Early the next morning, Corrado awoke to cool air blowing in his room, rattling the metal vent. A warm glow swaddled the bed from his lamp, casting light upon his weary face.
He was so groggy it took a minute for it to click.
Electricity.
Climbing out of bed, he slowly made his way down the stairs, hearing the radio playing from the living room. Frank Sinatra. The place was in order, all signs of last night's fighting gone. The smell of breakfast wafted through the house, bacon sizzling as the toaster popped up.
Corrado stepped into the kitchen, finding his sister sitting on a stool at the bar, dressed for school with her pink bag already on her back. She sipped a glass of orange juice, the plate in front of her practically licked clean.
Erika stood in front of the stove scrambling eggs, her hair a messy bun on top of her head. She dumped some eggs onto an empty plate as her eyes caught Corrado's.
"Just in time," she said, setting the plate on the bar. "Come eat your breakfast."
He hesitated. "Me?"
"Of course," she said. "Who else?"
Corrado slid onto the empty stool, picking up a fork and stabbing at the eggs. He tentatively took a small bite. They were rubbery and bland, but he choked them down, grateful to have some at all.
The lights were back on. They had food to eat.
His father had handled everything.
Katrina finished her glass of juice as Vito strolled into the kitchen, dressed flawlessly in a dark suit, wearing his fedora, humming along to the tune on the radio. "Come on, sweetheart. I'll drop you off at school."
"Do I have to go?" Katrina asked.
"Yes," Erika and Vito answered at the same time.
/>
"It's not fair!" she said. "Corrado gets to stay home!"
Vito shot her a disbelieving look. "You really wanna go there? Because I'm sure your brother would've been happy to trade places with you the other night, but you don't hear him whining about it, do you?"
"But—"
"Enough," Vito said. "Get in the car. You and I need to have a talk about ratting out people."
Sighing theatrically, Katrina jumped down from her stool and stomped out. Vito pulled out his keys and kissed his wife briefly before heading for the door.
Corrado sat still, staring down at his plate and poking at his remaining eggs as he listened to his father's Lincoln pull down the driveway. His mother stood right in front of him.
"You should go outside," she said. "It's a beautiful day."
She didn't wait for him to respond before walking out of the kitchen and heading upstairs.
Corrado took his mother's advice. He sat on the porch, still clad in his pajamas, when his sister got home later that day. The school bus dropped her off at the end of the long dirt driveway, and he watched as she made the trek toward him.
She hesitated as she reached the porch, kicking around in the dirt with her Mary Janes, before sitting down beside him. She frowned, her chin resting in the palms of her hands.
"You think he's coming back?" she asked.
Corrado stared down at the remnants of tire tracks. "Maybe."
They sat together for a while, watching, waiting, for something that didn't come. Katrina eventually gave up. "Well, I don't care if he does."
She was lying, but he didn't call her out on it.
Corrado continued to sit there by himself after she went inside, not getting up until sunset. He went inside and went right up to his room, going straight to bed.
Nobody called him down for dinner.
He's probably back in Chicago. Left without saying goodbye again.
He drifted off to sleep, waking early in the morning to a rustling in the doorway. Vito stood there, observing him.
Corrado sat up swiftly as he gaped at his father. "Dad?"
"You thought I left, did you?"