Free Blessed are the Dead by Kristi Belcamino Page A

it.”
    â€œIt doesn’t work that way, Mama,” I say, putting my arm around her waist. “And, anyway, I want to cover this story. I need to.”
    â€œI don’t understand. How can you even consider writing a story like that? I can’t read any more of your stories. I’m sorry.”
    â€œOh God, Mama, I don’t expect you to read them,” I say, turning toward her. “But you have to respect that I need to write them. It’s my job.”
    She looks me in the eyes for a long moment and nods, biting her lip to keep from crying. Then she tries to lighten the mood.
    â€œWhere is Brad today? He’s going to be sorry he missed out on my panna cotta. ”
    â€œYeah, Mama . . . about Brad. I’m afraid that ship has sailed. I bailed on his birthday dinner.”
    She raises her eyebrows.
    â€œIt was a murder-­suicide.” I know I am justifying my actions, but I can’t help it.
    My mother pauses and seems as if she wants to say something, but before she can, I walk away.
    In the family room, some of the men, including my two brothers, Marco and Dante, sit watching the San Francisco Giants baseball game. French doors leading to the patio are wide open, and several small children periodically run in and out, shrieking with laughter.
    An hour after I arrive, one of my uncles rounds everyone up for the standard Catholic prayer as we all stand around the big table under the trellis. As soon as he finishes, Nana says, “ Mangia! Mangia! ”
    And with that signal to eat, the chaos ensues. ­People crowd around tables covered in colorful Provençal tablecloths, heaped with giant bowls of spaghetti, wine bottles, and water carafes. Nearby lie plates full of the meat pulled from the sauce—­giant meatballs and tender pork chops, alongside the grilled Italian sausages. Colorful porcelain bowls of roasted vegetables rest near thick loaves of fresh bread placed right on the tablecloth. Later, we’ll eat salad greens lightly dressed in olive oil, lemon juice, and salt before dessert.
    The meal lasts about two hours. I drink too much wine and push away my craving to bum a smoke from one of my brothers. I’m trying to smother all the black memories lying just below the surface.
    During dinner, my favorite niece, Sofia, comes to sit with me. She’s seven—­the same age Caterina was when she was kidnapped and killed. I hug her close, smelling her strawberry-­scented locks.
    The children finish eating first and chase each other around the yard, while the adults linger over their custard dishes of panna cotta with fresh blueberries and raspberries, and sip small frosted glasses of Limoncello. The older uncles expertly peel peaches in one long windy strip with their steak knives. They meticulously slice the fruit and plop the pieces into their wine. Later, they eat the flavorful fruit slices at the bottom of the glass.
    After dinner, Sofia and I stay at the table for a few minutes.
    When we are alone for a moment, she turns to me and has a look of consternation on her face.
    â€œAuntie Ella, can I ask you something? Something important?”
    â€œYes, of course, anything.” I don’t smile. I can tell this is serious stuff to her.
    â€œYou deal with bad guys in your job, right? That’s what my papa says.”
    â€œYes.” I wait.
    â€œWell, I’m afraid of Halloween . . .” She looks up at me to see my expression, which I try to keep wise and knowing and solemn. I don’t bother pointing out that the holiday is months away.
    â€œI don’t want to tell anybody, but I’m afraid to go trick-­or-­treating. I’m afraid that some bad guy is going to answer the door when I ring the bell.”
    â€œWhy don’t you want to tell anybody you are afraid?”
    She fidgets and finally sighs.
    â€œEveryone says I’m a brave girl. Everyone at school says that I’m not afraid of