LUNA RISING (Volume 1: The Circle of Conversation)

Chapter One: The Butterfly Bush

The blue flowers of the butterfly bush, my first memory; I must have been three or four, furiously pedaling my new bike down the drive of our family home in Bedford, New York.

I saw it coming, the butterfly bush, and I just couldn't avoid it. I was going too fast. Papà had warned me many times. "Tony, the curve, slow down!" he'd yelled when I gained too much speed. He'd taught me to ride the bike, in two months I was a pro. Papà was proud of me and so was I. Yes, Papà, that's how I called my Dad. He’s Sicilian and my Mom is American. That makes me something in between. Grownups are funny that way.

I lost control and flew head first in the bush. I shut my eyes tight and the twigs scraped my face and hands. You could hear several branches snapping under my weight even though I was still small and light. Everyone thought I was barely out of babyhood, very annoying. Yet I could read. And I was really good with my computer, better at it than my Mom – no need to mention Papà; he never got near one… Right now, I felt foolish. Mom would be furious. She loved her butterfly bush. She never tired of telling her friends how the lovely blue blossoms attracted hummingbirds and butterflies.

A branch tore at my knee and the pain was unbelievable. I lay on the ground, clutching my leg, as the blood gushed out of the wound. I yelled, desperate for help. Both my parents rushed out of the house and that was a consolation. I watched them run down the drive and I yelled harder.

Mom took me in her arms and kissed me. She didn't seem to mind about the bush and that was a relief. "My knee," I cried. She responded just as I’d hoped she would. "My poor love, it must hurt terribly! We've got to clean this out."

Then she turned to my father and ordered him to carry me to the kitchen. It was nice to be in his arms and listen to him talk to me, whispering in my ear, "Don't cry now, that's a good boy, Mom will take care of you". I slowed down my sobs, savoring the moment, just the two of us while Mom hurried back into the house.

"First, we've got to stop the bleeding", she announced when I was seated on the kitchen table and my jeans had been removed. "Here we go," she said, taking a clean cloth and pressing it against my knee. She held it there for several minutes with all her might while I started screaming again. "Sorry, love," she murmured. "That's a nasty wound."

When I paused to catch my breath, my father thundered. "Tony, basta, a Luna never cries!" That was news to me. "You and I belong to a family of soldiers that conquered Sicily, fighting back the Arabs nine hundred years ago!" Nine hundred years? It sounded like a long time.

I caught my breath and bawled again.  But it didn't stop Papà. When I paused next, I heard him say sternly, "We're proud people, we never cry!"

Mom started to wash my wound with warm water and soap, telling Papà to hold a basin under my legs. "There you go," she said. More blood came out and soon the water in the basin was pink. That made me cry some more. My father reacted, shaking his head of white hair and growling "Tony, what did I just say? You're a Luna, and we never cry. Pain does not matter! Pretend it's not there."

I slowed down, letting big sighs replace my sobs. Imagine my pain away? It was an interesting idea and I honestly tried. But a sob now and then escaped me. That infuriated my father. "No Tony, I don't want to hear another sound from you, silenzio!"

For a while, everything was almost quiet in the kitchen. "There," said my mother looking satisfied. "Now I'll just put on some hydrogen peroxide, I know there's a bottle somewhere. Wait, it must be in the medicine chest upstairs, I'll get it." She was off like a shot and my father began talking again about the Luna family. He told me how they had been barons coming down from Germany, how they had united with the Normans and sailed to Sicily to liberate the island from an Arab domination that had lasted over three centuries. When Mom came back with a clear plastic bottle full of a liquid that looked like water, I had stopped crying. I eyed the bottle with suspicion. "Don't worry,” she said, imbibing a cotton pad with the liquid, “it'll burn a bit, but it'll be over in a matter of seconds."

When the liquid hit the wound, the pain tore through my leg and I screamed as hard as I could. My mother quickly stopped and blew over the knee. Her soft breath calmed the burning. Then she dabbed some more, the pain exploded again and I shrieked.

I was taking pleasure in the high pitch of my voice, pushing it as far as it would go, but suddenly my father's voice overpowered mine: "Tony, stop this now! What did I just tell you about the Luna family?"

My mother reacted like a tigress. "For God's sake, Antonio, will you leave the child alone? You and your Luna family, I swear I can't stand it!"

"He's a Luna and that's a fact. He's got to learn how to act like one."

"Stop your nonsense. He's just a kid, and an American kid at that."

"American? You're his mother, you're American but that doesn't make him an American."

"That's ridiculous. He was born here, in New York."

"He's my son, he's got Luna blood. That makes him a Sicilian."

"So what? All of us Americans come from somewhere else..."

"I don't think you get my point. We, the Lunas, have fought many battles over the centuries and we won every time because we were brave. Tony must learn to be brave."

"Don't be ridiculous. He's a kid who fell off his bike and hurt himself. This is no battleground!"

"You're wrong, it is. Everything in life must be fought for, every pain must be overcome. He's got to learn that!"

My mother stared at him and shrugged. Then she dabbed some more at my knee and I howled again.

"See what I mean?" said my father, his black eyes flashing. "You're turning him into a sissy!"

"You're absurd."

"This is the way you are, you Americans. You pamper your children far too much. You don't teach them self-discipline."

"Why do you have to turn everything into a discussion between us and you, we Americans and you Sicilians, remarkable and unique, with a thousand year history behind you? I'm fed up."

Papà frowned. "Fed up? You weren't fed up when we met in Florence."

"I was young and stupid. It was my junior year abroad, everything looked wonderful. I was easily impressed. You misled me. I took you for someone else."

"What do you mean, someone else? I'm me."

"Yes, you're you and that's the problem. You're useless. You can't even hold an easy job in our family business."

"Has it ever occurred to you that I don't want to work in your family business? You make pizzas, for goodness' sake."

"That's what's wrong with you. Damn Europeans, you always have to look down on everyone around you."

My father stared at her without replying, the muscles in his cheeks working. He turned to leave but he stopped by the door and asked, "Are you saying our marriage was a mistake?"

"I'm not saying anything.  Just consider what happened here, today, now. Your son cut his knee falling off the bike. It hurts, he screams. Why don’t you let him get it out of his system? It's therapeutic."

He walked back to her. "You haven't answered my question. Was our marriage a mistake?"

"Not in front of the child, please!"

Her tone was sharp. He glowered. I could see he was hopping mad. He clenched his teeth. And he also clenched his hands into fists. Was he going to hit her? I went completely silent, I didn’t move.

I was afraid.

I need not have been. He shrugged and walked out banging the door behind him. I was left alone with my mother.

"Don't worry, my darling" she said, her frizzy red hair catching the light of the afternoon sun that was now streaming into the kitchen. It looked like a halo around her face. She smiled and said in a soft voice, "grownups can get into nasty fights but they don't matter.” She kissed me on the forehead, “We love you."

I didn't reply. There was a feeling of loss in the pit of my stomach. I couldn't figure out which of the two was in the wrong.