The Family(70)

“I can’t,” he tells Joey.

“Well, you’re going to have to explain why,” Joey says.

Saul feels suddenly that he might cry, and the thought of that is so reprehensible that he presses his mouth shut and closes his throat and digs one of his fingernails into the soft skin of his palm until the urge passes. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me,” he says. “I can’t even begin to thank you for giving me this—this family. But I can’t participate in any more wars. I can’t—the violence, Joey, I can’t do it.” In his heart of hearts, of course, Saul knows that the violence doesn’t bother him as much as it should. But he feels guilty. How can he accept a promotion from a man whose trust he has betrayed?

Joey nods. The air in the room is silent, heavy, waiting. “Do you know the story of my parents, before they brought me here?”

“No,” says Saul. “Well—I know you were a baby.”

“My father was an orchardist,” says Joey. “He grew oranges and lemons. He loved those fucking trees. My whole life, he complained about the citrus in America.” Joey picks up his cup, realizes it is empty. Turns back to Saul. “I’m trying to cut back. So, my father grew oranges and lemons. When he was a boy, they kept the fruit on the island, or they shipped it to Rome. They traded boxes of fruit with neighbors who grew figs, or eggs, or chicory. They traded for fish, or they brought fruit in a cart to a small local market.

“But then,” Joey continues, “after the unification of Italy, the rest of the world discovered the oranges, the lemons. And suddenly, they needed boxes of lemons on ships all around the world, to prevent scurvy. They needed to marinate their meat; they needed lemonade, they needed to eat oranges all winter. The price of oranges went up. The demand went up. And no one in Sicily could afford them anymore. My father’s father had to ship his oranges out on a schedule, boxed and packaged. He wasn’t making much more money, but there were new middlemen, who would jack the prices up when ships came to port, or during holiday seasons. All over the world, people were eating Sicilian fruit. And it was in such high demand that it started to be stolen. My grandfather would wake in the morning and trees that had been dripping with fruit the night before would be empty, stripped of all their fruit and even their leaves. Their branches would be broken; the earth around them would be destroyed. This was happening to farmers all over the island.

“Can you guess what happened next?” asks Joey.

Saul shakes his head.

“Yes, you can. But I’ll tell you. A new market emerged. People who offered to protect orange and lemon groves, for a cut of the profits. Networks of citrus bodyguards, if you will. It was usually peaceful, but there were people—would-be thieves, mostly—who were hurt, even killed, in that time.

“Our profession has gotten a bad reputation,” says Joey. “And to be sure, it has changed. We are not renegade orange soldiers anymore. There are ways we have been corrupted. There are people—there are people I have hurt, Saul, who I wish I had not. But I applaud the men who guarded those orange groves. They saved the livelihoods of whole families. They allowed children to come into the world, and old people to be cared for. They defended small farmers against the conflict and violence and desperation caused by powerful and faraway leaders. They took care of their own, rather than trusting the government to do it.

“You’re right, Saul, that war is a cancer. It is an ugly stain on the earth. It is the expression of deep human cowardice and fear. It is the whims of men in power, men who have rarely earned that power, sending children to fight their petty conflicts. It is the adult version of fort-building, pitting people against one another. They made Italy out of separate peoples, told us to speak one language, expected us to defend their borders for them. They made up those borders. They make up all borders.

“I know that you lost your home. I know that you lost your mamma. Saul, I am so sorry that happened to you.” Joey pauses. Saul is breathless and rapt. He can see his whole life running like a river from one end of his brain to the other. His mother, bending to hold his face.

“This is your choice, Saul. But please hear me when I tell you. I would never ask you to fight a war. I am asking you to be a part of a family. To build something, not to destroy it. To protect our oranges.” Saul cannot speak, but he overflows with gratitude toward this man, who has acted so like a father toward him. Who has, he realizes, taken Saul in, and who must have faced extreme opposition from his own community. Saul has always blamed Joey for taking his culture from him. He has never understood the magnitude of what he has been given in return.

Joey stands. He puts a small brown paper bag on the table. He nods to Saul, and presses his lips together. He says, “Let me know what you can, when you can. And please, pass this along to Sofia. I’ve kept it for her.” And then he walks out of the room, the door closing behind him like a sigh.

Saul already knows he will say yes. His head is buzzing; the afternoon light is beaming through the dusty window in otherworldly planes; the air fairly echoes, as though it remembers Joey’s booming voice.

Saul stands and walks to the table, wobbling like he has been at sea.

There is a note pinned to the outside of the brown paper bag. It says, Sofia: I think I always knew this was for you.

Saul unfolds the top of the bag and peers inside.

Sitting at the bottom, naked as a baby, is a gleaming pearl-handled revolver.