Black Rabbit and Other Stories Read online

  Black Rabbit and Other Stories

  OTHER WORKS BY THE AUTHOR

  POETRY

  What Happens at Canals (Mansfield Press)

  CHAPBOOK (STORIES)

  Outside (Black Bile Press)

  ANTHOLOGY

  Particle & Wave: A Mansfield Omnibus of

  Electromagnetic Fiction

  Black Rabbit

  &

  OTHER STORIES

  Salvatore Difalco

  Copyright © 2007 by Salvatore Difalco

  Anvil Press Publishers Inc.

  P.O. Box 3008, Main Post Office

  Vancouver, B.C. V6B 3X5 CANADA

  www.anvilpress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, with the exception of brief passages in reviews. Any request for photocopying or other reprographic copying of any part of this book must be directed in writing to access: The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency, One Yonge Street, Suite 800, Toronto, Ontario, Canada, M5E 1E5.

  LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

  Difalco, Salvatore

  Black rabbit & other stories / Salvatore Difalco.

  ISBN 978-1-895636-78-9

  I. Title. II. Title: Black rabbit and other stories.

  PS8557.I397B53 2007 C813'.6 C2007-901757-6

  Printed and bound in Canada

  Cover and interior design: HeimatHouse

  Author photo: Bruno Crescia

  Represented in Canada by the Literary Press Group

  Distributed by the University of Toronto Press

  The publisher gratefully acknowledges the financial assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP), and the Province of British Columbia through the B.C. Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  For Giuseppe D. & G. & the other ghosts . . .

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:

  Some of these stories first appeared, in various forms, in the following magazines and journals: Armada Quarterly, Broken Pencil, Carousel, Collectanea, Dalhousie Review, dig, Fiddlehead, FreeFall, Grey Borders, Hammered Out, Johnny America Online, Kiss Machine, Malahat Review, Nashwaak Review, paperplates, Skive, Stationaery, subTerrain, Switchback, Transition.

  Many thanks to Brian Kaufman and Anvil Press; William Morassutti, Matt Firth, Kent Nussey, Carmela & Celestina G., Angela Difalco, Brandon Sunstrum, the PYC crew, and, of course, Alexandra Leggat.

  stories

  Black Rabbit

  Two Cups

  Pink

  Alicia

  Miss Alligator

  The Dream of Giraffe

  The House

  Country Road

  Reckoning

  Love in Time

  The Skunk

  Lion Days

  The Venetian

  Ham and Eggs

  Maid of the Mist

  Rocco

  Coop

  The Dog Went Out and Sat in the Snow

  Grassy Brook Trail

  Outside

  The Fishhouse

  About the Author

  Black Rabbit

  Uncle Toto took my hand in his and led me through the crowded parlor. The tail of his black scarf flapped in my face. It smelled of onions and ashes. People touched me as I passed them, their hands falling on my head, and murmured things I could not understand. A woman I did not know with a long neck and red eyes pulled her hair and started screaming when she saw me. Uncle Toto jerked me away from her, squeezing my hand until I felt the bones. My father, in a tight black suit, stood by a casket on wheels lighting a candle. He looked at me and smiled. His eyes rolled back.

  Someone had died. People wept. Three old women in black occupied a brown velvet divan against one wall, nodding and weeping as they wolfed down tomatoes and tripe. One of them dropped a fork. I stepped over it. Uncle Toto pulled me into an unlit back room, leaving the door open. A wedge of yellow light spilled through, only to thin and disappear as a draft shut the door. I stood still as Uncle Toto fumbled with something in the middle of the room. I could just perceive his outline as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, the large head, narrow shoulders. He was talking to me or to himself, I could not understand a word. It was too fast. He was dry, he sounded dry. His silhouette thrashed. Then a naked bulb flickered on, shedding amber light.

  Uncle Toto stood at one end of a heavy wooden table examining the contents of a brown paper bag. He gestured for me to join him.

  “Hurry up,” he whispered. “What’s wrong with you? Don’t you want to see?”

  “What is it?”

  “Come and see.”

  In the dim light Uncle Toto’s missing eyeteeth looked like black fangs. His white forehead gleamed. I hesitated.

  “Come on,” he said.

  “I don’t want to.”

  “You’re a donkey.”

  I tried to move my legs but could not. I slapped my thighs and felt nothing. What was this? Uncle Toto pulled at something in the bag. Then he turned to me and moved his mouth as though he were speaking. But I heard nothing. Was this some kind of game? I wondered. His wide-eyed, braced expression suggested that he wanted an answer to whatever he had asked me. But my tongue felt like a piece of paper and my vocal chords refused to issue any sounds. Uncle Toto struck the table with both hands and appeared to be shouting, but again I heard nothing. He hurled a shiny object in my direction. It missed me and struck the wall, shattering into silvery shards. Uncle Toto clapped his hands and brayed with laughter. Then he picked up another object and reared his arm, threatening to throw it also. I gathered myself, and with a great pull lifted my right foot off the floor and heaved it forward. The left proved more difficult. I found myself in a ludicrous lunging posture, my arms spread for balance. I tried to straighten myself out but my feet felt cemented in place, the left foot far back from the right.

  His face hidden in shadows, Uncle Toto continued handling the contents of the bag, at one point punching it. Voices registered just outside the door. Cousins, perhaps, other mourners. No one told me who had died. My grandmother was still alive, I had seen her earlier in the bathroom, removing her dentures. I wondered where she was now. With all my strength, I forced my left foot forward and it flopped beside the right. The legs lacked all sensation. I sat down and stretched them out. Sawdust covered the floor and several empty brown beer bottles stood under the table, labels peeling. Uncle Toto appeared at my feet. He waved his arms and hoofed me but I could not get up. His lips moved but I heard only the rustling of the brown paper bag on the table.

  Uncle Toto grabbed me under the armpits and lifted me to my feet. Then he guided me to the table, forcing my chest against the edge. I caught a glimpse of something dark in the bag before Uncle Toto’s shadow covered the table like black cloth. I could feel his hot breath on my neck and his hands buried in my armpits, fingers wriggling. I pushed against the table, into his chest, and he released me, moving to my side. I glanced at the bag. It rocked back and forth a few times then rolled once.

  “She’s angry,” whispered Uncle Toto.

  “What is it?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  His hands reached inside the bag and removed from it what at first looked like a black cat. But then a floppy ear popped out and I saw it was a rabbit, its limbs bound in twine. Its upper lip looked torn, its choppers exposed and blood-streaked. Uncle Toto slapped the rabbit’s haunches and it kicked some. He told me to touch it. I refused.

  “Touch it,” he whispered. “For good luck.”

  “I don’t want to touch it.”

  “You’ll die, then.”

  I tried to ste
p back from the table but Uncle Toto’s hand held my shoulder firm. The door flew open and a wave of sound—chattering, laughing, crying—flooded the room. Then the door shut with a bang. Uncle Toto laughed. He removed the scarf from his neck and formed a circle with it on the table. In this circle he placed the bound black rabbit. The rabbit twitched a little but had lost its will to fight.

  “People have to eat,” Uncle Toto said. “The tripe is almost finished. It’s almost finished and what will the people eat when they come to pay their respects? They have to eat. Rabbit is the best thing. You like rabbit, I know you do, I’ve seen you eat it. You like the leg. Look at the leg. Do you like it now? Touch it. Touch the leg.”

  Uncle Toto grabbed my hand and pulled it to the rabbit, forcing my knuckles against the warm haunch fur. The rabbit stirred to my touch. I wanted to cry out but when I opened my mouth Uncle Toto’s hand covered it.

  “No screaming,” he said. “If you scream I’ll kill you.”

  His hand fell away from my face. He fished around in his pocket and produced a small curved knife. He held it up to the light, his shoulders shaking. He waved the knife under my nose. It reeked of garlic. Then he seized the rabbit’s rear feet and lifted it above the table. The rabbit squirmed. I could hear it panting. Pink foam dripped from its jaws.

  “Kill it,” Uncle Toto said.

  “I won’t.”

  “You’re afraid.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “You’re afraid.”

  Without another word he jabbed the rabbit in the abdomen with the tip of the knife. The rabbit bucked like a fish. Blood trickled from its wound. Uncle Toto jabbed it again, this time in one of the legs. He turned to me with glittery black eyes, a smile twisting his lips. Then, while the rabbit was still alive, he started skinning it, cutting a slit along its spine. Just before he tore away the black fur he held the knife to me again. I took it and without hesitation pierced one of the rabbit’s eyes. Blood spewed. The creature yelped once and fell silent. Uncle Toto grabbed the knife from me and plunged it into one of the black haunches, working with a sawing motion until the right rear leg came free. He held it out to me, blood dripping off his knuckles.

  “There’s a leg for you,” he said.

  “I don’t want it.”

  He slapped me. “You think you’re smart, eh? You’re not smart. You did a good thing though. In the eye. Nice.”

  “Shut up.”

  He slapped me again, harder. I could taste blood. He slapped me a third time across the ear and I felt something pop and then I heard nothing from that ear but a roaring sound. Uncle Toto now flayed and quartered the rabbit carcass. He pushed aside the black fur, scooped up the watery blood with his hand and licked it off his palm. He ordered me to do the same but I refused. He went to slap me again but stopped in mid-motion as the door flew open. My grandmother stood there, dressed in black with a black veil covering her face, tiny, severe.

  “Come here,” she said.

  I thought she was talking to me but when Uncle Toto stepped toward the door I relaxed. He walked with his shoulders hunched, shuffling his feet. He kept some distance from my grandmother, shaking his head as she addressed him. I could not hear what she said. When Uncle Toto started speaking, rubbing his hands together and bowing his head, she lunged at him, slapping his face so hard she knocked him backwards over a stool.

  My grandmother now called for me. But I could not move. Uncle Toto stood up and brushed sawdust off his trousers. My grandmother called me again, and with great effort I shifted my legs and dragged my feet toward the door where she stood waiting with her hands on her hips, her face hidden. She cupped her hands and stirred them before her breasts. I stopped well out of reach, but she insisted I come closer.

  “Are you afraid of me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t be afraid of me. Did Uncle Toto hurt you?”

  “He slapped me.”

  “Did he kill the rabbit?”

  I looked at Uncle Toto who leaned over the table. He winked at me as he picked up the scarf from the table and draped it across his shoulders.

  “I killed the rabbit,” I said.

  “Don’t be afraid of him,” she said. “He’ll pay for what he did. He’ll pay. Come with me.”

  My grandmother took my hand and led me to the bathroom. She told me to wash the blood off my face. I washed my face and toweled it dry.

  “Are you afraid?”

  “No, I’m not afraid,” I said.

  She took me back into the parlor. We passed the three old women sitting on the divan with their legs spread and their hands on their swollen bellies. My father still stood by the casket. This time he held a wreath of red flowers at his chest. With his mouth wide open and his eyes shut tight, he looked like he was singing but I heard no song, only the rumble of the people, some weeping, many eating from steaming plates.

  “Are you hungry?” asked my grandmother.

  “No,” I said. “I’m not hungry,”

  Two Cups

  On the morning of his sixtieth birthday, Mike Crea got out of bed early and shaved off his moustache. Except for the time he shaved it to remove a growth on his upper lip, he had sported some sort of moustache since he was twenty. When he went down for breakfast, his wife Mufalda noticed nothing out of the ordinary. She wished him a happy birthday. He thanked her. Then, after a moment, she realized what he had done.

  “Jesus, Mike. You shaved it.”

  He said nothing. Truth was, he felt self-conscious about it. His upper lip looked too long. It was one of those lips that suited a moustache, that invited one.

  “You look ridiculous,” she said.

  “Oh, be quiet.”

  She bared her teeth and let out a laugh.

  It wasn’t right, her reaction. How could she laugh at him? He didn’t laugh at her the day she plucked her eyebrows and pencilled them back in. He didn’t say anything.

  “You’d better grow it back,” she said.

  “Never.”

  Her laughter reverberated in the kitchen.

  He went upstairs to the bathroom, but though he sat on the toilet for half an hour he couldn’t perform. Mufalda had sunk him like a bloated porpoise, and his bowels weren’t moving as they should have been after breakfast. He stood up from the toilet, did up his pants, and looked at himself in the mirror. He wasn’t going to grow back the moustache, not under any circumstances. He didn’t look bad; he looked younger, yes. But of course he had doubts.

  He went to visit his mother Filippa that morning. She was eighty-three years old, crude and pungent. When she noticed the missing moustache she let fly the pepper.

  “You were never good-looking. Not like your brother. He took after my side. You took after your miserable father.”

  Indeed, relatives in private joked about how much Mike looked like his mother. The two were virtually twins, said some. Like mother like son, said others. He himself didn’t note the resemblance, and perhaps not much should be made of it, but Mike’s upper lip had been inherited from his mother and not his father, as evidenced in every family photograph. Mufalda had long ago stopped caring that Mike looked like his mother, though it must be said the moustache had much to do with this. Free of the moustache, the lip cried out its provenance.

  “Ma,” Mike said. “Leave it alone. I don’t need this today.”

  “What you need is a good slap in the face to wake you up.”

  “Ma—”

  “You want coffee?”

  “Okay.”

  “Make it yourself. You know where everything is. And grow that damn moustache back. You make me regret you. That’s the problem these days. People are vain. Even men. Men more than women these days. You’re vain. You were never vain, and now that you’re an old sack of shit you’re vain. You think that you look younger without the moustache. But without the moustache you don’t look younger. You look like a jackass. My son, the jackass. Go make the coffee, jackass. Go now.”

  Mike walk
ed away grumbling. He made coffee. He saw his reflection in the mirror over the kitchen sink and, turning his head this way and that, thought, I don’t look so bad. I don’t. I look good. Not bad at all for my age. My mother is senile. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

  When he brought his mother a cup of coffee, she was laughing, her toothless mouth open and wet. Tears erupted from her small hard eyes and trickled down her leathery cheeks.

  “Ma,” he said. “Enough.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Enough.”

  “Shut up. Don’t talk to me like that. Not to the woman who bore you without the assistance of a doctor. Dio, you had a head like a Sicilian eggplant. I don’t know how I did it. And you talk back. Bend over here, let me slap your face, come on.”

  “Ma—”

  “You’re a jackass.”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “Leave then, go on.” She smiled. “By the way, Happy Birthday. Happy Birthday, Mikey.”

  After a week without the moustache, Mike got accustomed to the naked lip and ignored Mufalda’s hectoring. Who did she think she was? He didn’t bug her to let her leg hair grow, though he thought of it. He liked the hairy legs of a woman. He was sitting at the kitchen table one afternoon, eating a pear with a hunk of bread. Mufalda stared at him with her dark, dry eyes.

  “What is it?” he asked. For a moment he thought she was about to riff on the moustache again. She’d been merciless. But by mocking him she just solidified his resolve. Nothing in the universe could make him grow it back, nothing.

  “Joe Garzo passed away.”

  “Joe?” The news startled him. He felt as though someone had punched him in the stomach.

  Mufalda trembled and began weeping.

  “My God,” said Mike. “I just talked to him the other day.” Joe had been in hospital several weeks with a diseased liver. Mike had visited twice, the last time three days ago; he’d found Joe jaundiced and bloated, but in good spirits, joking about the nurses and such. Mike couldn’t believe it. His jaws arrested. He couldn’t believe that Joe was dead.