The MaTriarch

1971: A Look at The Past

Mary had overslept, and Sean was late for his appointment with his editor. Since his marriage to Mary eighteen years ago, Sean’s eating habits had changed drastically. Because he had married a Sicilian woman, for whom breakfast was an incidental attempt to ingest enough nutrition to make it to lunch, he had adopted the Italian tradition of light breakfast. He put up a pot of demitasse coffee, and waited until it had steamed up to the upper chamber of the pot. He poured a half cup for himself and burned his lip as he sipped it in a hurry. “Son of a bitch!” he cried as Mary walked in.

“Oh God, Sean, you burnt yourself again?” She opened the freezer door, took an ice cube and put it on his lip. He loved the attention she was giving him.                                                            “At least I’m consistent,” he said, as she gently kissed his mouth. “There, tesoro,” she said. He patted her on her buttocks and she giggled. “Do you time these daily episodes?” she said.

“How did you guess?” he asked. “I’m testing to see if you still love me.” Mary shook her head. Their morning ritual was ruining his lip.

Sean was in a hurry. He had a proposal to give to the magazine editor about his pending trip, a trip Mary knew nothing about . . . yet.                           

“What are you up to?” she asked, but Sean answered, “Mary, two envelopes leaning on the bud vase. Read them. Gotta run. Call you later.”         

Morning sun flooded the table with light, and Mary pulled the yellow dotted Swiss curtains shut so that her eyes could focus. She poured a cup of coffee, and heard her husband’s car screeching out of the garage and on to the road.                                                                           Mary sat down. She tore open the first envelope and read:

Beloved Mary,

Last year I asked you if you wanted to go to Corleone. Then I got busy, my brochures remained in my briefcase and the idea was put aside. Since the newspaper strike and the shutting down of the newspapers, I’ve been feeling like a pile of dung, useless, and not carrying my financial weight around here. So…brevity is my best friend at all times, I’ll get to the point. I contacted a travel magazine and proposed a story on the return of a Sicilian daughter to her roots in Corleone. They said yes, and now we can both get something out of this trip. I’ve gotten the tickets, and in June we’ll be making the trek. Go for your passport, mine’s always ready anyway for my foreign assignments.

I want you to go back and dig up whatever you have to in order to find out what your past was like. Perhaps you might even put some of your nightmares to rest. So, don’t cook. We’ll eat out.

Open envelope #2, Mary. Read on my love:

In Envelope #2 you will find two round trip tickets to Italy. We’ll spend two weeks in Sicily— your town, Corleone, and your late husband’s town, Castellammare del Golfo, where he still has family. This is my anniversary gift for us.

 Ciao, baby,

Sean                                                                           

Mary’s childhood was austere. The house in Corleone was made of stone, and the dirt floors were covered with large wooden planks. Furnishings were bare. The dining room was where her father was served his meals. She and her mother ate in the kitchen on a small wooden table made with the leftover planks from the floor. The stove was a fireplace with an iron arm from which a kettle hung. Next to it was an oven to bake bread and to make pizza. Water was pumped from a well into a large tin sink. It was icy cold. Water was heated in a black kettle which hung over the fireplace.

Mary entered this world unwanted.