Hearing Things “How old are you?” I held up 5 fingers. “Have you ever seen a gun before?” I smiled up at the big man in the black uniform with the shiny badge. He reminded me of the green giant standing in a corn field with his hands on his hips. Only, this giant had red hair and freckles and was standing in our living room. He caught me staring at the gun handle sticking out of his holster. The gun was blacker than a licorice whip. The holster didn’t look anything like my brother’s Roy Rogers one. This gun looked real heavy sitting in that holster. The kind of heavy I wanted to touch. Then the giant looked over at my little brother, Johnny, and big sister, Carla, sitting on the sofa with Mama. “Nice family you have here, Mr. Corsi.” He didn’t sound like a giant. He sounded friendly. “Yes, sir,” Papa said. Papa’s voice came from far across the room. He was sitting on the ottoman. I never saw Papa sit on the ottoman before. He always sat in his big brown chair. The one in the corner by the bookcase next to his ashtray stand. That chair rocked and went all the way back when Papa asked me to pull the handle. Then he’d close his eyes and let out a great big, “ahhhh.” Us kids always laughed. Next, he’d take off his slippers and put his feet up on the ottoman. That’s where I sat when we watched TV after dinner, right next to Papa’s stinky ol’ feet. This redheaded giant called “officer” was standing in front of his chair. So, Papa sat on the ottoman with this funny look on his face. Our dog, Tiny Tim, had the same look when Mama yelled at the poor thing for peeing on the carpet. Mama yelled so hard for so long Papa finally threw his slipper at Tiny Tim, just to shut her up. Mama was always yelling. Not the kind of yelling my Aunt Mary (Mama’s sister) and Uncle Pete do next door. My Aunt forgets to turn on the kitchen fan before frying veal cutlets. Uncle Pete always yells at her,
“Why can’t you remember to turn on the fan?” Then, he turns it on. My Aunt fusses back, “Crimini, Pete” Mama yells about everything - all the time; “Who put the empty milk carton back in the refrigerator?” “Who didn’t ring out the wet washcloth in the bathroom? “Who’s got my scissors?” “Who’s got my comb?” “Don’t wake up your father!” “Don’t ask for anything this month. We’ve got bills to pay!” “Don’t come in here when I’m trying to think!” Mama sounds so mean, like the Wicked Witch in the Wizard of Oz. Once she gets started, she just keeps going, especially when she’s yelling at Papa. Sometimes she yells in Italian. Her voice gets deeper and stronger and louder and louder. When she doesn’t sound like herself anymore, my sister calls her “The Banshee.” I’m glad Aunt Mary comes over when Mama gets in her moods. She walks in real cheerful like nothing bad is happening. Papa says she’s better than a physic! After she has Mama calmed down, she takes us kids next door for dinner. My favorite is her Swiss steak and with homemade biscuits. I always turn the fan on whenever I walk into my aunt’s kitchen. Today was the worst. Papa’s neighborhood buddies always come by before dinner for a “little cicchetto” (shot of whiskey). The men sat around our big wooden table in the kitchen while Mama tried to cook dinner. They talked about mushroom hunting, making grappa, and how the new neighbors in the rental house across the street aren’t Italian. The more cicchettos they drank, the louder they got. The louder they got, the more I worried because Mama doesn’t like to be bothered when she’s trying to think. Today was a real hot day. The kitchen was crowded and noisy. I could tell Mama was cranky because she threw a frying pan on the stove. The men had too many cicchettos to notice. I tried to help Mama, but all I knew how to do was turn on the fan. Somehow, that bothered her. So, I went through the whole house opening windows like she does when she wants to cool the place down. I started clearing dirty glasses off the kitchen table, hoping the men would take the hint.
“Time for dinner, Sussie girl?” Papa said. The men started getting up to go home. Papa’s best friend, Frank Pardini, is always the last. He lives across the street next to the rental with the new neighbors the men nicknamed “Americanis.” “One more cicchetto.” Frank poured himself another shot and drank it standing up. He didn’t see Mama stick her tongue out at him. After the men were gone, I helped my sister set the table for dinner. We did our best to stay out of Mama’s way. She wasn’t talking to Papa. He carried the big pot of boiling water with the spaghetti over to the kitchen sink for her. “Where’s the colandario?” he asked. He waited patiently while Mama banged around in the cabinets looking for the colander. “Who’s been turning everything all upside down in my cabinets?” Mama hollered. Nobody said a word. Mama found the colander just where she put it last. Papa drained the spaghetti, and put it all back in the pot. When he reached for Mama’s spaghetti sauce with the icky mushrooms I hate, she barked at him, “That’s enough - go, sit! I’ll do it!” Papa shrugged his shoulders and backed away with his hands up. Mama lifted the steaming hot bowl of spaghetti off the counter. She wasn't using potholders. I wanted to say something, but remembered how bothered she was when I turned on the fan. She barely made it to the table before plopping the bowl down in front of Papa. She fell into her chair shaking her hands and blowing on her fingers. We waited, and watched, afraid of what was coming next. Papa looked at Mama,
“The spoon?” I closed my eyes, and felt my stomach tighten. Mama always forgot the big spoon. How can Papa dish up anything without the big spoon? I should have remembered it for him, but I was too worried about the pot holders for Mama. Either way, having me under foot would have bothered her. Why didn’t Mama ever remember the big spoon? I wish it was the kind of not remembering like Aunt Mary not remembering to turn on the fan. I know this will not end with a simple “Crimini, Primo!” After dinner, the yelling and hollering went on for hours. Mama ranted and raved in the kitchen, slamming doors and cabinets - screaming like a banshee. We watched TV, and tried to act normal. Papa sat up with us until bedtime, then tucked us in. I worried that he wasn’t going to get enough sleep before he left for work at 2:00AM. I could hear Mama hollering to herself in the bathroom as I fell asleep. A little while later, the phone rang. It was Papa’s voice I heard first. “Dirty, son-a-ma-bago,” Papa said. A little while later, the doorbell rang. We heard Mama and Papa whispering at each other as they scurried down the hallway to answer the bell. Me and Carla put our ears up against our bedroom door. I knew Mama’s and Papa’s voices, but there was a man’s voice I didn’t know. I held my breath so I could hear better. “Good evening folks. I’ve had a complaint.” “Sorry officer.” Papa said. “Come in.” “Good evening.” Mama almost sounded normal. Us kids came out of our bedrooms even though Papa gave us strict orders to stay put after he got the call from Frank Pardini. The new neighbors were scared of all the yelling. Frank tried to
tell them everything was OK, but they went and called the police, anyway. There was a black and white car with a flashing red light on it parked in front of our house. The light came right through the big pane glass window in the living room. It lit up the whole room like the inside of a Christmas tree. It didn’t feel like Christmas. “Some people aren’t used to hearing all that ruckus. Capisce?” The officer said. “You a Paisan?” Papa asked. “My mother was Italian. My father was Irish.” The officer winked at Mama sitting on the sofa. Her face turned redder than a red vine licorice. He turned to Papa, “You might want to keep your windows closed for the sake of your new neighbors.” Papa shrugged and nodded. He agreed with the officer. “Americani.”
Pdf Entry Information Exhibitor Name: Sue Barizon WEN: B09563 Division: FA - 355 - Memoir Class: 02 Lifestyle Memoir Title: Hearing Things Description: A child recalls the night the police were called to her home for a domestic disturbance.
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