Authors: Rebecca Brandewyne
“
Italian?”
Renzo repeated dumbly, momentarily nonplussed. “Catholic? You
mean you didn’t like Sarah just because she’s not an
Italian Catholic? Jesus! I don’t believe this! I don’t
believe I’m
hearing
this!
And to think I told her you weren’t prejudiced, that you’d
suffered too often in the past at the hands of bigots ever to become
like that yourselves. But I guess I was wrong about that, huh? All
these years... all these years, I’ve been glad, I’ve
been
proud
to
be your son. But you know what? Today,
today,
I’m
ashamed! Yes, I’m
ashamed,
do
you hear?” Renzo’s voice shook with emotion.
“
Don’t
you dare speak to your mother and me like that, do you understand?”
Joe said sharply. “We’re your parents. You show respect!
Now, it’s not that we’re prejudiced— No, hear me
out, Son, because I’m telling you the truth. You’re
right. Your mother and I
have
been
on the receiving end of bigotry too many times in the past ever to
engage in it ourselves. But because of that, we also know what the
world is like, Renzo, how people feel about mixed marriages, in
particular.”
“
Please.
Don’t give me that crap! Times change, Pop. This isn’t
the Old Country, for God’s sake! It’s America! My
generation isn’t like yours—”
‘‘
Isn’t
it?” Joe asked. ‘‘Renzo... Renzo... despite that
you’ve grown to manhood, you’re still young yet in so
many ways, too young to understand that every generation shares the
same feelings, repeats the same mistakes of that before it. You’re
not the first young man to think your parents are just a couple of
old fogeys, set in their ways, and who don’t understand you or
your entire generation. And you won’t be the last to think
that, either. Because you’re right. Times
do
change,
yes. The world forges ahead, progresses technologically as our
knowledge of things like history, medicine and science increases.
But
people
don’t
change, Renzo. Man’s still the same creature he was when he
first stood upright, took up a club and bashed his neighbor’s
head in over a piece of meat. Those emotions, good or ill, are an
inborn part of us.”
“
Your
father and I, we love you, Renzo,” his mother declared. “We
know what the world is like, and we just don’t want to see you
hurt, that’s all. So it’s not that we didn’t like
Sarah. It’s not that at all. It’s just that... Well, life
is just so much easier, so much simpler if you stick to your own
kind, Son. These feelings you have for Sarah— they’ll
pass, you’ll see. Because what you want at your age isn’t
what you’ll want in ten years, or even five. In time, you’ll
understand that. That the best relationships grow from shared roots,
from common backgrounds, heritage and religion. Just give yourself
some time, Renzo. That’s all we’re asking. Time to see
the world, time to experience
life
before
you tie yourself down to any one girl. And when you’re ready
for marriage, bring home a nice Italian Catholic girl, one like Anna
Maria Pasquale. Now, there’s a girl who knows how to cook!”
“
Your
mother’s right, Son,” Joe insisted. “It’s
what’s best—and that’s all we’ve ever wanted
for you, the best. Try to remember that and not to judge us too
harshly.” After a moment, Renzo nodded tersely, not trusting
himself to speak. He thought his parents were wrong-dead wrong. But
he also recognized that there was no point in arguing with them.
They
did
love
him—and truly believed they had his best interests at heart.
“
Look,
Sarah’s waiting for me,” he said finally. “So I’ve
got to run. I’ll see you later.”
“
Sure,
Son. Have a good time,” Joe replied, trying, as he always did,
to behave as though there had been no quarrel, no unpleasant words
exchanged in the Martinelli household.
“
And
don’t drink too much,” Madonna admonished. “Are you
sure that motorcycle’s fixed good enough for you and Sarah to
be riding it?” she inquired, deeply suspicious of all forms of
transportation, since she was afraid of traffic, of driving in a car
and of motorcycles, in particular.
“
Yeah,
I’m sure. Bye, Mom. Bye, Pop.”
“
Bye,
Son. Take care. Drive safe, and we’ll see you at supper.”
Sighing
heavily, troubled, the Martinellis watched silently as Renzo strode
down the front walk, climbed onto his Harley and rode away, Sarah
perched behind him, clinging to him tightly, her head resting against
his shoulder. They did not know as they watched their son disappear
that many long years were to pass before they ever saw him again.
Renzo
took Sarah to the quarry that served as the local swimming hole. They
both knew it was off limits; they had both been forbidden by their
parents to go there. Neither of them cared. It was hot, and they
wanted to swim. Besides which, everybody in town knew that in
addition to the rocks that formed the unintentional and dangerous
diving platforms at one end, the other reason this specific abandoned
quarry was so popular was because it didn’t connect with any of
the rest, which meant that its water was unpolluted by the kind of
waste that oozed through the others. The municipal sewer system
didn’t extend beyond the town limits, so everybody who lived in
the country and had access to the quarries ran their plumbing pipes
into them, using them as septic tanks. No one with any brains fished
in those particular quarries, either. The fact that whenever it
rained or snowed, the contents of those quarries sometimes spilled
over to seep into people’s back yards was accepted as simply a
natural hazard, and people actually cracked jokes about the swamp
gas.
Even
before they reached the swimming hole, Sarah and Renzo could hear
shouts, laughter and music above the purr of the Harley. So, knowing
a crowd had already gathered there, Renzo dropped Sarah off a little
way from the quarry, so she could change into her bathing suit in
privacy, away from the prying eyes of the boys who delighted in
shamelessly spying on girls changing clothes in the woods.
“
I’ll
meet you at the quarry just as soon as I get my suit on,” she
said.
Renzo
nodded, frowning a little as he glanced down at the front end of the
bike. The shimmy he thought he had repaired appeared to be returning.
He could feel a faint tremble in the motorcycle, as though it were
still out of alignment.
“
What’s
the matter?” Sarah asked, fearful that despite all his
reassurances to the contrary, the lunch with Renzo’s parents
and their disapproval of her had somehow made him think twice about
loving her, about wanting to marry her.
“
Just
the problems with the Harley. Damn that Sonny! I’d like to
wring his neck! I had this bike in mint condition, and because of his
drunken stupidity, I’ve had to start all over again on it. But
I’ll get it fixed, sooner or later. See you at the quarry.”
Gunning
the engine, Renzo drove off. Sarah stared after him anxiously for a
long moment. Then, biting her lower lip, she turned and made her way
to a thick clump of bushes, where she quickly stripped and yanked on
her bathing suit. She had bought it at Wal-Mart, with the money she
had saved from her baby-sitting jobs, so Mama and Daddy wouldn’t
know. It was a bright, tropical-colored bikini that showed a good
deal more of her than either of her parents would have approved. Now,
as she gazed down at herself, she wished she had never worked up the
courage to buy the bathing suit. If she were honest with herself,
Sarah knew she must admit she had thought to entice Renzo with it, to
drive him crazy with desire for her. Now she worried he would think
she looked cheap and trashy in it instead. But there wasn’t any
help for if, she had brought nothing else to swim in. Folding up her
underwear and sundress, she stuffed them into her straw bag, then
headed toward the quarry.
There,
cars were parked all around, their doors hanging open, their trunks
popped, a couple of radios, all tuned to the same popular station,
blasting away in the muggy summer heat. Blankets and beach towels
were strewn over the ground, peopled with near-naked bodies smeared
with suntan lotion or baby oil, and soaking up the hot rays of the
sun. Girls sprayed their wet hair with Sun-In or lemon juice to
lighten it. Ice chests packed with beer and soft drinks sat in
trunks, on hoods and beneath the shade of the trees. Empty aluminum
cans and long-necked bottles littered the earth. Somebody had brought
along a small, portable grill, and the smell of charcoal burning and
of hamburgers and hot dogs cooking permeated the air. Water splashed
as the bolder swimmers dived from the rocks or slid from the old tire
swing suspended by a stout rope from a sturdy tree branch overhanging
the quarry.
Sarah
spotted Renzo standing with some of the members of his band, along
with Krystal, Liz and a couple of other girls she knew, so she had an
excuse for joining them. Renzo had changed from his jeans and tank
top into a pair of cutoffs, and she couldn’t help but admire
his hard, lean body as she approached the little group. He was much
more muscular than a lot of the other guys, his chest matted with
fine black hair, his belly flat and firm, his hips narrow, his right
forearm sporting a big, intricate black butterfly tattoo, which he
had got the summer he was eighteen. A gold chain with a St.
Christopher medal hung around his neck, glinting in the sun against
his dark, bronzed skin.
“
Hey,
Liz, Krystal!” Sarah smiled and waved. “Sarah!”
they cried in unison. “Come join us.”
They
introduced her to the others she didn’t know, while Renzo
unobtrusively handed her a beer and made sure she wound up standing
by him.
“
Damn
it, Sary!” he muttered in her ear, his eyes smoldering
dangerously, like twin embers about to burst into flame. “Were
you deliberately trying to drive me mad with lust and jealousy,
coming out here in that suit you’re wearing?”
“
You-you
don’t like it?”
“
Like
it? I
love
it!
What I
don’t
like
is all these other guys seeing you in it! The next one who looks at
you with his tongue hanging out of his mouth is going to feel my fist
in his face, I swear!”
“
Shh!”
she hissed nervously, at once thrilled, excited and horrified at the
prospect of him really carrying out this threat. “The others
will hear you!”
“
Well,
frankly, I don’t give a damn! I’m tired of sneaking
around, Sary. Tired of acting as though the fact that you and I love
each other is something to be hidden, to be ashamed of. I don’t
care anymore what people will think. I want these guys to know you’re
taken, that you’re mine.” “How can you say
that—especially after what happened at your folks’ house?
After what they thought, seeing us together?”
“
Do
you honestly think your own folks are going to be any different, that
they’re going to accept me any better than mine accepted you?’’
“
No,”
she confessed reluctantly, “although before today, it wouldn’t
have occurred to me that my folks would object to you because you’re
an Italian Catholic, but only because you’re five years older
than me, and in college. Now, I find it terribly ironic to think they
might disapprove of you because you
are
an
Italian Catholic, while your own folks disapproved of me because I’m
not!” She sighed heavily, pressing her arm against Renzo’s.
Even tanned, she was lighter than he, but what difference did that
make? “What’s wrong with people, Renzo? Why should the
color of anybody’s skin be so important? It’s an accident
of birth, that’s all. It doesn’t make you any smarter or
stronger or better. And why should it matter that you’re a
Catholic and I’m a Protestant? Don’t we both believe in
one God, the same God?”