by Rita Siligato
The telephone rang: Christmas eve, nearly six in the afternoon. Redenta was cooking lasagna; she rinsed her hands before answering, taking her time, hoping that the caller would hang up. She detested responding to someone’s unwanted wishes. She moved to the corridor and picked up the phone in a somber mood. She never liked the holidays. Two weeks before she had sent a card to Nella only, because she knew that in Liverpool they used to hang their Christmas cards on a string in the kitchen, for the kids to look.
She heard a voice that at first she could not recognize. Someone was telling her, in broken Triestino, that somebody had an accident.
“Harry? Is it you? Are you drunk already?”
“No, Nella…”
“Put her on the line, please, Harry. I don’t understand a word you’re saying…”
“My baby had an accident this afternoon…”
“Rachele? Is she hurt?”
“No, Nella, Nella… she is in hospital, there is no hope…”
“Have you seen her? Is she conscious?”
“She is no more, Redenta. My baby died. Do you realize? She cooked our Christmas turkey, and she went out shopping because she forgot something for the gravy, and someone run her over with a car.”
Click. Harry was crying, and he cut the call abruptly.
Redenta fell in a heap on the floor under the wall phone. Her sister, her big sister, the one who decided to leave for a better life. And she had to tell mama about it.
Mama was in her room, rummaging inside the dresser: she had told Redenta that she wanted to wear her red sweater for Christmas, even if they were not going anywhere.
“Mama…”
She turned, and saw Redenta’s swollen eyes, her red face.
“What’s up? Is someone ill? I heard the phone ringing…”
“Nella had an accident.”
“Is she…?”
“She is no more, mama. This is all I know. What will we do now?”
Mama collapsed on the bed. Her face was very white. She patted the crocheted coverlet to make Redenta sit by her side.
“Baby, baby, come here, let me hug you. Poor Nella, my poor baby…”
Mama cooed her and cried aloud with her. They had no words for the terrible news, and Redenta felt safe in the tender circle of her mama’s arms.
After a few minutes mama shuddered and spoke at great speed: “Now, Redenta, call Mr Bruno: he worked with the allies after the war, and he speaks English. Ask him to call Duncane, give him the number. We need to know everything about the accident. And book a flight to Liverpool, no matter how much it is. For the two of us and for Marina and Ondina, too. We must be there for Harry and the kids. The sooner the better. Call now.”
They had never dreamed of traveling to Liverpool, because Nella always came home in summer, and they had never set foot on a plane before. They embarked in the morning on the 26th of December and landed at the Speke Airport late in the afternoon, after a sad and long journey.
None of them spoke English. Thank God, Rachele’s fiancée picked them up with his car and drove them to Nella and Harry’s home.
Harry came down the stairs catching the banister to steady himself. He was crying and he hugged mama and Redenta, breathing an alcoholic air on their face. The kids were in the kitchen: Duncane tried to hold himself straight, The Professor was sitting at the table with his glasses in one hand and a puffy face. Rachele was visibly drunk. She had dyed her hair platinum, Redenta noticed, maybe because she had planned a Christmas party a few days before the terrible accident.
She almost fell on mama, trying to tell her something mama could not understand. Her words were slurred, and Duncane translated.
“Nonna, the funeral is tomorrow. Tonight we will eat what mama cooked for our Christmas dinner.”
