Page 6 of Sweet Prison
And to write silly letters to my stepbrother who’s in prison.
It all started a couple of years ago, while I was still in middle school. My seventh-grade teacher gave us an assignment to write a letter to a friend or family member living abroad. Initially, I considered addressing mine to an imaginary aunt or cousin, since I don’t have any real relatives that qualify. But it felt kind of stupid, writing to someone who doesn’t exist. But then, for some reason, Massimo popped into my mind.
My stepbrother was arrested for killing the man who murdered Elmo when I was three years old. I have no memories of him. Neither Nera nor I have seen Massimo since the night Elmo died. Massimo won’t allow anyone other than my father to visit him in prison, and Dad hardly ever tells us anythingabout our stepbrother. Despite ustechnicallybeing family, he is a virtual stranger to me and my sister. But since Mom died, I’m not even sure if that thread is still whole.
Before her death, I asked Mom about the picture she kept on her dresser, the one of her and a guy in his late teens. His hair was dark, just as hers had been. I was curious about the boy, and she told me he was Massimo and shared a couple of stories from his childhood. I liked hearing them, but it made her sad to speak of my stepbrother, so she rarely did. She tried to bury the sorrow of having her child stuck in prison for so many years by showering Nera and me with all her love. Laura Veronese was a warm, affectionate woman, and the best mom anyone could ask for. But even as a kid, I saw the anguish in her eyes. The pain was always there. She died of embolism when I was nine. And even though the doctor said it was a massive clot in her bloodstream, I’m certain the true reason was her broken heart.
People say that it’s not technically possible to die from heartbreak, but I disagree. I’m certain of it because that’s what it felt like when Dad told Nera and me that Mom was gone. We shut ourselves in my room and cried, clutching at the matching dresses she made for us. Although we had lots of money, and Mom could afford to buy us anything we wanted, she preferred to make most of our clothes herself. That’s why I started sewing soon after. It makes me feel closer to her somehow.
With Mom gone, Massimo was the only family member, aside from Dad and Nera, I had left. He wasn’t living abroad, but he wasreal. That was why I took a sheet of paper from my notebook and wrote to a stepbrother whom I didn’t even know. He might as well have been living on a different planet, which seemed ideal for the assignment.
He must have laughed when he received that letter. I don’t even remember all the things I wrote in it. There was somethingabout me claiming a set of fancy pens I found in a box with his name on it in the basement. I think I phrased it as a question first—asking if I could have them—then crossed the sentence out and rewrote it as a statement, so he couldn’t tell meno. I kind of expected him to write me back, but he never did. Eventually, I figured he must have thrown my unsolicited mail away.
I never intended to keep writing him letters.
With the school assignment over and done with, I forgot all about my unsolicited, and probably unwanted, written word vomit and carried on with life. Until a few months later. Until I was bursting at the seams to spout my frustrations to someone; someone who would not judge or look at me with pity. Or worse, tell me I was overreacting to what must have been just an accident.
Having juice spilled all over my new dress at Dania’s birthday party by a jerk-of-a-boy who laughed behind my back after was not an “accident”! So, once I got home, I wrote to Massimo again and raged about how stupid boys were for three entire paragraphs. Then, feeling better after confessing my troubles, and so he wouldn’t think I’m a negative person, I added some nonsense about a field trip and how one of the girls threw up on the bus after eating too much junk food even after the teacher warned her to take it easy. I thought he might find that funny.
But there was no reply.
Still, I kept writing. I penned a letter every couple of months filled with dumb, unimportant things. Like, who came to a fancy lunch at our house and what food was served. Or how the plumber who was fixing our blocked sink ended up flooding the kitchen. I also ranted a lot about school. Math especially. And because I was so proud of my accomplishment, I even sent Massimo a sketch of the first dress I sewed for myself.
Since I’ve always been too anxious to talk with other people or be open about my feelings, over the last two years, writing to Massimo has become a sort of stress relief. It might sound pathetic, but those letters were the closest thing I had to a friend I could talk to about whatever was on my mind. It felt safe. I knew he would not criticize me or judge me. Because, obviously, Massimo wasn’t reading my letters in the first place. He never responded to a single one.
I really need my friend now, as I’m staring at the tattered lace in my hand. My mind starts to buzz with all the things I want to say to him.
“Everything alright, Miss Veronese?”
I look up, meeting Peppe’s gaze in the rearview mirror. He might wear a nice navy suit, but there’s an unmistakable air around him. A roughness, and maybe even a little danger. He doesn’t seem like a plain old driver to me, even if he’s been working as one as long as I can remember.
“Yes, all good,” I mumble.
When he looks back at the road, I pull out my violet notebook and flip to a blank page, one that follows the sketch I’ve been working on of a blouse with beautiful lantern sleeves. Fishing out a pen, I start my letter withDear Massimo, as usual. It’s not that he’s “dear” to me or anything, it’s just a common way to start letters, I guess, and I’ve addressed them all like that so far.
I spend at least ten minutes describing the intricate details of the blouse—starting with the difficulties of getting the pattern just right, then the complexities of the cuffs and the hidden button at the back. After that, I switch to rambling about the fabrics I’m considering for when I eventually sew it, listing the pros and cons for each one.
Then, I let Massimo know about the barbecue Dad threw earlier this week, with most of theLa Famigliamembers in attendance. It was a big event. I write two paragraphs describing the outfits, as well as the gossip I overheard in the fifteen minutes I spent among the attendees.
As the words land on paper, I’m starting to feel better, but the situation with Kenneth is still heavy on my mind. Reeling from the encounter, and without really meaning to dump another pile of my woes at my stepbrother’s feet, I add a couple of brief sentences about what happened. I don’t go into much detail and finish up by calling Kenneth Harris an asshole who deserves a swift kick in the rear.
I sign the letter as I always do—Zahara.
I like my full name, but other than my teachers, no one calls me by it. I’m always Zara to everyone around me. When I was little, I couldn’t pronounce Zahara. I tripped over the syllables and ended up saying “Zara” instead. It stuck. I love my name, but at this point, it feels silly to ask everybody to call me Zahara. So I don’t bother.
“Peppe”—I tap the driver on the shoulder—“I need to make a quick stop at the post office.”
***
By the time we arrive home, rain is coming down in sheets. I don’t wait for Peppe to open my door, just dash out of the car and across the driveway to the front entrance. I don’t think he noticed my torn sleeve and I want to keep it that way. If he tells my dad, I’ll be accosted and I’ll have no choice but to provide an explanation. And I’m not in the mood to make up any more excuses today.
Running inside, soaking wet from my short sprint through the downpour, my eyes fall on a pile of mail on the antique console table in the foyer. Dad must not be home. He always takes the mail straight to his study when he arrives. As I pass by, I notice an unusual-looking white envelope among the typical bland utility bills and bright-colored invitations. It has a printed label of some kind in the upper left corner.
I pull out the envelope to take a better look and almost drop it. It’s addressed to me. And the return label is the name of the correctional facility where my stepbrother is serving his time.
Looking around to make sure nobody saw me, I race up the stairs, directly to my room. No one knows I’ve been writing to Massimo other than our maid, Iris. And I would prefer to keep it that way.
Something tells me Dad would not be pleased if he found out about my letters. Whenever he mentions my stepbrother’s name, there’s an odd pitch to his voice. It’s subtle, but it feels like his tone carries a bit of animosity. At my stepbrother? At the situation? Whatever the cause, it makes him cranky, and I’m afraid he’d forbid me from writing to Massimo if he knew.