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352 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2003
In the far corner of West Olive, the trees stood so close together that the leaves made a second sky. Girls sat in circles under it and complained about their mothers. They gossiped about whoever showed up late or left early. When the army trucks swallowed up their brothers and boyfriends and young fathers, they came here to forget or cry or admit I’m glad he’s gone. After they turned twenty, they found somewhere else to talk—they got married or they leaned against the front walls of stores and acted smart—but until then, the olive grove was the center of their world.
“You won’t grow up,” Madallena said, her lips pursed. This was her vision of his life.
“The years will pass and the war will end,” she said, “but you will not get old…I see you running through a green field. I see you laughing, chasing a dog, everyone around you with white beards and crooked legs, with canes! But you are still young, still as much as a boy as today, forever. That is what I see for you; it is here in front of my face.”
“What does it mean?” asked Fiorella. She looked over at Vito curiously, as if she’d just seen him for the very first time.
“How do I know?” said Maddalena. “But I can tell you, it seems like a beautiful feature to me.”
This was falling in love, she told herself. She was making it happen. You saw something about to be taken away from you, and in that moment you saw how much it was worth. She’d sneaked out of her house in the middle of the night, broken the law and betrayed her parents to come here, and that had to mean something. God had to recognize it and remember.
“Maybe I do want to scare you a little,” he said. He faced the road again, his back to her. “If I scare you, maybe you’ll think of my life sometimes, for just a little while, when you’re safe on your zia’s farm. Maybe you’ll think of my Mother’s legs that don’t work, that won’t let us leave here. Of her sleeping twenty hours a day and not recognizing me when she wakes up. I want you to think of me, Maddalena, with you not here anymore.”