Flaming June

The child thought that the girl looked so peaceful sleeping there. She was curled on the blanket-covered chair, draped in translucent, orange material. Her face was tranquil as she slept; she was so serene, she could have been mistaken for dead, were it not for the small breaths she took now and then.  Golden light danced around her, reflected from the sun that was setting into the sea behind the veranda. A branch of newly-bloomed  oleander peeked up from the garden below, standing out, green and pink, in a world of orange and gold. It reminded the child of the girl, though he wasn’t sure why. He toddled up to the side of the chair and pulled himself up to examine the flowers, taking care to not wake the girl. He reached up and tugged on the plant in an attempt to pick a few flowers off with his pudgy fingers. The flowers refused to budge. He pulled harder on the plant, and finally earned himself a handful of pink blossoms. He grinned triumphantly, but soon realized that he had fallen down onto the girl’s lap. He tried to let himself down quietly, but she had already started to stir. Her eyes blinked open and she yawned lazily, stretching her arms above her. The child tried to slide off of her lap unnoticed, but it was too late. She looked at him and cocked her head with a slight smile.

    “Oh,” she said groggily, “Hello there.” The child looked at her with wide eyes, frozen where he sat. She chuckled softly.

    “What is it, bambino?” She asked with a delicate Italian accent. “Why have you come here?” He continued to stare at her, scared that he would get in trouble for being caught trespassing.

    “There’s no need to be scared,” she mused, touching her fingertips to his cheek. She shook her head gently. “No need to be scared at all.” The child still looked at her warily, but seemed less nervous. He took the girl’s hand from his face and pressed the flowers into it with his chubby hands.

    “Grazie,” she smiled, “Now how did you get here, bambino?” She leaned her elbow on the back of her chair and rested her head in her palm, looking idly at the small child on her lap.  

    “Well, you see, signorina,” he started slowly, “I was trying to find my mama. She disappeared.”

    “Your mama!” The girl exclaimed. “She just disappeared? Tell me, bambino, what happened?”

    “Si, signorina,” he nodded solemnly, “She ran into the room and told me that the cattivi were coming and that I had to hide. Mama looked very scared.” He paused and looked at his little hands.

“Did you hide?” The girl furrowed her brow daintily, “What happened next?”

“Si. I went to the secret door and hid in the closet. Mama came with me. I think she was crying, signorina,” he continued thoughtfully, “She gave me a kiss and told me to stay quiet.” He glanced at the girl, as if to ask if he should continue, and the girl nodded in answer.

“Mama told me that she had to talk to the cattivi, and that she might have to go for a while, but she didn’t know for how long,” he crumpled his face and blinked, “She did say it would be a while, though. Then I heard the door open downstairs. Rapidamente, Mama kissed me again and told me to stay very quiet. Before she closed the secret door, she told me not to move until I knew there was no one in the house.”

“Oh, bambino,” the girl whispered, wide-eyed. She had an idea of what this boy was talking about. She had heard the stories of these cattivo men, a sort of mafia, terrorizing poor, low-class families, much like the one the child had obviously come from.

“I heard yelling, and I heard Mama run downstairs. It sounded like a lot of yelling and Mama was crying, I think. Then, Mama screamed and there was a big thump. I heard people pounding up the stairs. They were probably the cattivi,” the boy went on,“I stayed quiet like Mama said, but I was very scared. The men came into the room and shouted to each other. I could hear them knocking things over.” The girl pulled him into a sympathetic embrace, and urged him to go on.

“They didn’t open the secret door, and soon they went back downstairs. I heard the cattivi leave, and it sounded like they were pulling something out with them. I waited a long time before I left, just like Mama told me. When I went downstairs, there was red smeared on the floor. I thought it was paint, but I’m not sure. I ran outside and called for Mama. I ran everywhere, calling for Mama. That’s how I got here,” he was crying now, “Signorina, is my mama dead?” 

“Oh, bambino,” the girl began to choke up, “Oh, poor, poor bambino. I am so sorry. I will help you find who did this. Do you have nowhere to go?” The child shook his head.

“Well,” she said boldly, “You can live here for as long as you wish.”

“Grazie, signorina,” he cried, hugging the girl, “Grazie.”