I had nothing to say back, not even a muttered hope that I would see him again. That was the last thing I wanted. For all these years I had known only what C.J. and Daddy had told me of him, and he had been something to dream about. It was a good thing to live on the land, to respect it and to hate anything that would tear it down. But Dillon was hoarding the land like a miser his gold, and he had nothing to give anyone. It seemed to me he was no longer among the living.

I dreamed of two men that night. Of C.J. alive and walking with me among the miners’ tents. Of Dillon dead, a burnished skeleton lying on its back, the fingers of one hand curved and twined through the rib cage.

Sixteen

ROSA ANGELELLI

FRANCESCO IS BACK FROM THE DOCTOR. HE SITS BESIDE MY BED and talks with me. He brings me oranges.

Senore Davidson is not here. He goes to Carmello and Luigi, to see why they stay so long with the doctor. I stay in his house to watch over the butterflies.

The butterflies weep. Let us out, they cry. The glass case is so hot.

Mama tugs at my sleeve. Break the glass, she says. Let them go. They have been here so long.

I break the glass. I hit with the lamp. The butterflies scream. They are so frightened, but I whisper to them and they are quiet.

I cannot carry them all but Francesco helps. We must hurry, he says. When the butterflies are gone this house must burn.

But Chi Chi, I say, this is Senore’s house.

It is God’s house, he says. Smell. Like the incense.

Bambino, I say. He puts his arms around me. He doesn’t speak.

Baby, I say in the inglese. You are my baby.

We run with the butterflies. Help them to fly, mama says.

Oh, mama, I cannot touch the wings. I hurt, I break.

But Francesco, ah! He picks up with his fingers, he is so gentle.

He throws and the butterfly is gone.

Again, I cry, again. Save them all.

He flings and they leap from his hand like purple and gold fairies, their wings shine like precious jewels, they flash like the wine the priest pours. They go, fast.

Where do they go, I wonder.

Francesco smiles. To the angels, he says.

My mama is with the angels, I say. But she visits me. I squeeze his face with my hands. Bambino, let me wash your face. It is so dirty, and no one washes like your mama.

We kneel beside the river. The smoke does not choke us here. He gives me his red scarf and I dip it in the water. I clean the folds beneath his eyes, the tender skin.

I kiss his forehead. He presses my hand against his cheek.