obsession in my grandson. It worries me. History repeats itself, especially when it’s in the blood.”
“He is not his father,” I said. “He is not his grandfather either.”
“I agree.” She lifted the trowel and then started digging again. “But he has been raised in this life his entire life. He never had a chance to be anything different.” She looked me in the eye.
“My husband slept sound every night. All the things he did, and not once did he stir in his sleep, unless he ate something that bothered his esophagus. All of the things he did—where was his conscience? Tell me. Does my grandson, your husband, sleep sound?”
“Maybe his conscience was his esophagus,” I said.
She grinned, but she knew I was avoiding the question she already had the answer to. Corrado slept sound whenever he slept, except for one time. When the boat in Lake Como had been blown up. He stayed up all night staring at me.
“I love him,” she said. “My grandson. More than my own life. But he chose this path.” She hit something in her garden. A metallic sound rang out.
She set the trowel to the side, took her gloves off, and then pulled out an old metal box from the ground. She dusted it off. The square box was clearly old, worn down even more by the mud that it had been packed in for what seemed like years.
It didn’t take her as long to pack the mud over the hole. She clipped a few flowers after, and then, tucking the box underneath her arm, rose from the ground without any help. “Walk with me,” she said, nodding toward the door that led into the house.
I looked up at the window. There he was again, watching me. I walked next to her, and he watched until he could no longer see us anymore. The lace curtains fluttered when he closed them.
She turned to me when she knew he could not see and gave me the box with the flowers. She took my hands in hers, squeezing. “I learned to hate him,” she said. “My husband. I loved him. I loved him the moment I saw him. It came so naturally. To love. But over the years—the life, always coming second to it—I learned how to hate.
“It was not an easy emotion for me. I wrestled with it. But after time, so much time, things, the loss of my children, the loss of a life I expected, the hate came, and it has never left me. I hate him. I had always thought the best day of my life would be my wedding day. It was the day we put him in the ground.”
She squeezed my hands even harder. The metal box, my wedding rings, and the rosary bit into my skin. “My nonna gave me this tin. She told me there are two things a woman should always have: a garden and a money tree to bury. It should grow over the years, given to the next generation, so if they need it, it’ll be there.” She shrugged. “They have their secrets. We have ours. One thing we have in common, we all bury them, capisci?”
She looked into my eyes and then took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. “If you love my grandson, go, or one day, you will be me. You will have so much hate in your heart for someone you once couldn’t imagine living without. Preserve what you have. Don’t let this life kill that, too. This life always comes first. Everything else comes second.
“Give your baby a chance. A chance to…choose life. Not this one, but a good one. Give this tin to your daughter, or your son, empty. The two of you build it up together again.” She released my hands and went into the house.
Men were around, but behind the gates, they browsed more than they watched. I cracked the tin, and inside, rolls of money filled it. She wanted me to take the money and leave.
“We’re digging up buried treasure now,” he said.
I shut the tin quietly and then looked into my husband’s eyes. He could be as quiet as a ghost when he wanted to be.
I sighed, lifting the tin and the flowers. “Your grandmother gave me a family heirloom,” I said. “When the baby is old enough, we will bury this tin after using the frangipani seeds inside for a garden. A family tradition.”
He put his arm around my neck and kissed my temple.