A Season For Figs
Geraldine Winters

 

Nicodemus surveyed the yellow sky, took a deep breath and closed his eyes, taking it all in. This was a test, he knew the air and temperature had to perfect for growing figs. Loudly, he called towards the cellar door "Carmella, get out here," unsure, if she was listening. All around him the garden was coming to life after a cold spring and he had much work to do.

He stood before his solitary fig tree that was wrapped like a mummy, bound up tightly with a tarp and rope. It sat like a projectile missle in the midst of his small backyard garden, surrounded by wooden frames that would hold tomato vines. The tree had rested for two years, an effort to get it bear succulent fruit, the type of fruit he remembered growing in his boyhood fields back in his homeland of Sicily.

Growing figs would be a difficult task being his yard was in the middle of Newark New Jersey, in a polluted industrial area. There were only two inhabited streets left in the area, both streets were dotted with small rundown homes. His house sat on a block that was now facing a super highway entrance.

Carmella, his wife, stuck her head out into the yard from the doorway "You calla me?" she asked in her broken English.

"Get out here and help me, now," he glared at her, his order being given.

"Uno momento" she motioned holding up a finger and retreating back into the cellar. He examined the tarp covering the tree for rips. He’d managed to get the tree to bear fruit before, primarily because he was a determined man. Against the proclomations of the Cirello's, his neighbors and their neighsaying, against all odds, the tree had bore fruit again and again. It went through it's cycles of growth and rest, tended closely by his keen eye. He looked over at the Cirello's barren empty yard, it was already badly overgrown with weeds.

"Son of a bitch" he muttered aloud, knowing that his already rock bottom property, would somehow be further diminished in value by the neighbors weeded backyard. For now, nobody was there to clean it up. Nor, would there be anyone coming there soon.

The house that was home to the Cirello's for fourty years was dark and vacant.The Cirello's wouldn't be here this summer, poking their faces over the fence. Patsy Cirello, had suffered a heart attack and died, and his wife "Mildred" had moved to Italy, three months later. Unable or unwilling to sell the house she let it sit empty its garden lay fallow.

Nicodemus missed "Patsy" somewhat, but was glad his wife Mildred was gone. He’d believed that she had been filling his wife Carmella's head with thoughts of "womens rights" and preaching about "domestic vilioence." Domination by men, was a fact women tolerated, one that was common and accepted in his culture. His beliefs being, the man of the house was the ultimate ruler, period. What he said went, or else mayhem ensued.

So far, he’d carefully controlled his wife Carmella and tried to keep her from any outside influences. She barely spoke English after forty years in America. There were set times she could watch television and he controlled that carefully too.

"You don't need this garbage," he would yell at her and quickly shut off the television if he walked in on her watching it. He took control as he had seen his father do back in Italy, his father was a ruler no one would dare and question. Carmella would sulk and get quiet for a few days, than get over it. She was hopelessly dependent on him.

In the early years of the marriage, before they came to America, Carmella had gone back home to her mother seeking refuge from her husbands brutality. Her father had sent her right back adding that she had to learn to accept it as a way of life. She realized her mothers own lot in life was no better.

"I'm the boss Carmella, you listen to me or else." Nicodemus would rage around their house. She could never be sure of what would set it off, even the most innocent event could trigger his temper. His ultimate act was to turn over the fully laden dinner table, leaving Carmella crying on her knees and having to clean it up. He had done this on a few holidays and nobody would accept her invitations anymore. It had been ten years ago the last dinner guest sat at her table, never to return.

After these outbursts, he would lock her out of the bedroom, multiplying her unfounded guilt, that she was somehow to blame for this behavior or worse, she was an unfit as a wife. He knew how to compound her suffering.

They had one son who died in infancy, she felt incredible guilt over this. Even after the doctor assured her it was due to a congenital defect. Nicodemus would torment her when he drank too much wine, insinuating if she were of any value their son would be alive. Those nights became torture for her already aching heart.

"Carmella, bring me the scissors, hurry up" he called from the yard.

She dutiffly found scissors and cleaned them on her apron, and ran out, handing them to him appeasingly. He took them and held them like a dagger, making a plunging motion towards her. She cringed and jumped back. When he saw her terror he laughed wickedly.

"Ha ha, you stupido" he chuckled, pleased with his unflagging power.

Carmella stepped back. "You sure it's a good season for figs?" she asked in a soft voice halting to question him about anything.

"I know what I'm doing, I raised figs since I'm a little boy don't question me, get inside and get me the ladder."

Carmella did, and emerged with the ladder dragging it over towards him. The fig tree had gotten quite tall, and it was necessary to stand on the upper ladder steps to cut the rope and tarp off. Carmella held the ladder and thought for a moment about what would happen in her husband fell. She smiled thinking about it.

It took Nicodemus half an hour to carefully unveil his prize. Sweat was darkening his shirt as he worked. The tree had survived another winter, delicate green buds were sprinkled on it's branch tips.

"See, I know how to keep a fig tree alive anywhere" he praised himself as he lovingly pruned the tree.

It was truly amazing and there were moments Carmella forgot his how brutal he was and admired his talents. She wanted to be able to love him. He wouldn't allow it, and she had remained withdrawn and afraid, figuring it was best to protect herself. He handed her the scissors, the tree stood proudly, it’s branches unraveling against the sunlit sky.

She suggested they have lunch outside in the garden. Carmella prepared some bruscetta with olive oil and cold meat cuts with a vegtable salad. She brought it out on a Venetian tray she kept from her early marriage, its mosaic inlay of wood pristine and polished. She admired how lovely the food looked set out on it and she placed one crystal wine glass for her husband in the center. He grabbed it. Nicodemus lifted the wine jug that sat at his feet, and poured a hearty glass. He gulped it down.

"You know Carmella, when I drink enough of this, you almost look pretty again," he smiled through his gold front tooth.

She lowered her head and arranged his dish with food, hoping he was not intending to try and touch her. Placing a tomato on the tray he began to slice it and eat it.

"No cut the tomato on the tray" Carmella gasped and ran to place a dish to use as a cutting board instead. Nicodemus ignored her, pushing her hand away, and went on cutting, staring at the fig tree.

When he was done, she saw the tray had large gashes, right in the center of its lovely inlay. Her heart sank, but she said nothing as he smirked. She ate in silence and after a while she cleared their dishes, bringing everything back into the cellar kitchen. Nicodemus wiped his sweaty head with a napkin resumed gulping his wine.

The sun beat down a harbinger of a hot summer to that promised to follow. By late afternoon, Nicodemus still sat baking in the chair as she watched from the window. Purple drops stained his shirt as he swigged the wine. Carmella herself never drank since he forbid that too. After another glass, he started to close his eyes. If he drank enough, he would fall asleep in the chair where he sat.

Carmella watched his head droop and she came outside, coming closer to look at his eyes. He snored and startled her. Now, may be a safe time to use the phone and she slowly backed away from him and went inside.

They had built an entire kitchen in the cellar that opened out onto the small yard. Most Italians did in those days. One kitchen for show, and one for cooking. It stayed cool. especially in the summer when the garden yeileded an ample supply of peppers, squash and tomatoes. Carmella would can a fair amount to keep for meals in the fall and winter. An aromatic spicy smell hung in the air when she canned vegeatbles. She used to give some away to neighbors who were amazed at the tasty treats, but everyone she knew had since moved out of the city or died. Behind her husbands back she threw the excess out and she knew he’d be angry about that.

There was only one phone in the house, on the kitchen wall, it was an old rotary phone, that Nicodemus refused to replace. "Who's gonna call you?" he asked and then dismissed her requests. There was one person she longed to call.

Her neighbor Mildred from next door was no longer there. She was Carmellas solitary link to the outside world and now she was back in Italy. They had worked out a signal together, to get Mildred to call her back so no phone charges would appear on her bill. "Bona cera, Gino?" she spoke to the operator in Italy. Mildred would respond that she had the wrong number and then promptly call her back. This was done behind Nicodemus’s back.

Mildred missed Carmella's friendship and the two women were like sisters after forty years. The secret calls took place at least once a week. That's how Carmella had managed to exist with some sanity until now, owing much to her friends love and comfort.

Mildred sounded so happy, and said she was hoping Carmella would come and see her soon, maybe take the trip back to the old country at least once. Carmella giggled "maybe soma day." They were her last words as Nicodemus pulled the phone out of the wall. He stood with his hands on his hips, smirking at a shocked Carmella.

What followed was a terrible night, he kept her up till morning calling her no good and "puton" which is the worse thing any religious woman wants to be called. She held her rosary and just prayed it would end with no physical punishment. Then she locked herself in the bathroom. Nicodemus tugged at the door. She heard him stumbling around for a while and when it was finally silent, she opened the door to find him sleeping on the floor outside the bedroom.

She got an afghan she’d knitted from the couch and was about to cover him when she looked down at him and changed her mind, she threw it back on the couch. The next morning he whistled while he removed the phone from the kitchen wall and then locked it in his tool box. The yellowed wallpaper now surrounding an empty rectangle of white, where the phone had been. Carmella covered it with a calander. The days ticking away over the quiet space on the wall.


As the summer days passed the little fig tree bore it's amazing fruit. Nicodemus was retired and had no friends to speak of, so he was always home. It was so tense in the house Carmella barely spoke except to ask him what he may want to eat. He had started canning and drying the figs himself, and she was glad that he'd had found something meaningful to do with his time. He was out in the yard all day now, and had set up an area to work. The little fig tree became her salvation.

It was especially dry those months, the yard was growing cracked and parched. The tomatos no bigger than apricots. The city had issued a draught emergency and its citizens forbidden to use any water for gardening and such.

"I don’t give a goddamn," he cursed when Carmella reminded him of the restrictions. Ignoring her, he dragged the hose over to the foot of the fig tree. He positioned it over a trowel.

"Water the tree and shut it off in an hour, too much water and it'll die, you hear me?" he directed at her. "Screw the city," he added.

She simply nodded and turned the spigot on, as the cold water came gushing out. Nicodemus adjusted his suspenders and put on his dirty hat that sat on the patio table.

"I'm going to work for Joe Fisco, just for today, I'll be home at six." She was surprised by this. He left without further explanation through the back gate. Carmella looked at the hose, then headed inside the house, going upstairs.

In the bedroom, she had a small statue of The Virgin she kept on her dresser. Neatly arranged at the feet, were some old photographs of her parents and sister, all of who had passed away. Behind the statue, she hid a picture of a smiling Mildred, that was taken on the Amalfi coast where she now lived. She missed her friend and glanced over at the empty house next door. She walked to the window and suddenly remembered her task with the fig tree, and ran out to the yard.

The ground near the tree was soggy and she had to run in to get shoes before stepping in the mud. She opened the hall closet to get her old rubber boots. The bell rang at the front door and she wondered who it could be since she never had visitors. She looked out the etched glass window. Carmella thought she was seeing things.

She opened the door and Mildred jumped in and hugged her. Carmella was overcome with surprise and started crying. "Come in bella" Carmella invited her. The two hugged eachother tightly.

The two sat for the afternoon crying and reminiscing. Mildred was worried after not hearing from her all summer. "I've been worried sick" she told Carmella.

Carmella told her of Nicodemus's increasingly brutal and crazy behavior. Mildreds husband had been quite sweet and she pitied poor Carmella and her situation with Nicodemus. It didn't surprise her, for she had heard them fighting for the forty years she’d lived next door. Carmella directed the conversation, feeling she was burdening her friend talking about her problems.

"Tell me about your life eh?" she edged closer to Mildred.

"Italy is so wonderful, I feel like I'm just begginning my life," Mildred gushed.

She talked about nightly walks in the town square, meals by the palazzo and the wonderful seaside views. Carmella sat mesmerized and dreamed of maybe being there herself someday.

"You must come away, huh?" Mildred held Carmella's hand and they looked into each others eyes. Carmella just broke down and sobbed into her friends shoulder. Mildred felt terrible and helpless.

The summer sun was beginning to go down and Mildred knew she better get going back to the hotel. She had come alone and was here to make a decision on what to do with the property next door. When the real estate agent told her she'd be penalized with huge capital gains tax she made the decision to let it just sit vacant as a loss.

"This property isn't worth anything" she told Carmella.

That made Carmella ask about her own home. "Is it worth anything?" she asked.

"I think yours is worth at least enough to decently retire with" Mildred said. "At least in Italy?"

The friends laughed. There were no plans for that, Carmella realized, Nicodemus said he'd live here forever. He had saved a considerable sum of money over the years and that would be their retirement. He never much counted on the value of the house seeing the decline of the neighborhood as it were. The thought crossed Carmellas mind that she would probably die here.

A clattering arose from outside in the yard and both women jumped up and ran quickly out there. Nicodemus stood there trashing the lawn furniture.

"Goddamn puton' you drowned my fig tree."

Without warning, he angrily threw a garbage can lid at Carmella's head. It caught her by surprise. She fell back, with a gash opening on her forehead, and red blood pouring down her face.

Mildred stepped forward."What is wrong with you, you bastard!" her breath heaving. Nicodemus raised a shovel over his head, he swung at Mildred, she moved away fast. He then turned, aiming to strike the unconciouss Carmella as she lay on the ground.

He raised the shovel higher, a horrible twisted look on his face. Something made him stop. He threw the shovel and he grabbed at Mildreds shoulders dragging her towards the backyard gate.

"Get out you bitch, leave my wife alone, no come here no more." With a shove he pushed her out and slammed the gate shut.

Carmella rose behind him, watching everything he was doing as she slowly sat up in her woozy state. He went into the house. The sounds of breaking things shattered the air but she didn't move. It continued, growing fainter as darkness fell.

She sat in the yard until the stars began to appear. Her mind numb, a blank dark void in contrast to the light of the moon as it swept the yard. Forms and sounds of unseen life emerged from the shadows. When she finally stood up, she wiped the dried blood from her head with the edge of her apron, then pulled it off and threw it in the dirt. Everything in the yard was illuminated, as she had never seen it before. The twinkling sky framed the fig tree, its branches reaching for her, embracing her.


Carmella came out on the terrace savoring the breeze and looking out to the Mediteranean sea. The warm Italian sun beat down, nourishing her array of plants and fragrant blooms that lined the patio wall in terra cotta pots. In a clay pot on the table, a small fig tree sprouted. She had been in Italy for two years now, enjoying her life and the company of her friend Mildred who lived a few doors away. They would take lunch at the pallazo this afternoon as they had began to do every Friday. She went to get dressed.

The house in Newark had been empty since she left in the early morning hours after the last fight with Nicodemus. Everything still sat as she had left it. Dishes piled in the sink, an empty wine jug, now moldy, just as they were placed that night. The garden in the yard was now an overgrown untamed jungle. In it's center an oddly bulging fig tree, that sat wrapped tightly with a tarp and rope, it's season forever over.

 

 

Copyright © 2003 Geraldine Winters
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"