Burned Stories

Families pass things down; some inherit generational wealth, while others inherit debt. If you're lucky, you get good genetics; if you're cursed, you get their trauma. The Cronaca family relinquished stories.

Not willingly, of course. No loving family wakes up one morning with the mission to forget their dead. It's a gradual progression: an omitted name in a photo album, or a letter burned to ashes before the recipient even knew it existed. An argument that ends with, "We don't talk about her anymore." By the time the granddaughter asks questions, the people who might have answered them are already covered by dirt and being eaten by worms.

By the time Papa turned fifteen, Nonno and Nona Cronaca were buried together in a family plot. He used to say some families have a story to tell at dinner and another by breakfast, except ours, because someone undoubtedly wouldn't wake.

That motto first inspired the idea to write a story. Not just a story, but our family's story, our history, who we are, and how we got here.

Papa lived states away, on Long Island, in the same house he'd grown up in, and I called him every Sunday, like we were having dinner together. We talked about the weather, his work, my work, and the neighbor who kept raking leaves into his yard. Then, inevitably, he'd share something from the past.

We often circled back to the same stories: how two of my uncles got their nicknames, Fro and Frizz, while listening to swing jazz on their carpeted floors, or how his mother once chased him in her wheelchair with a broom because he disobeyed her. He relayed them with a smile and wistfulness in his eyes.

My Papa remembered the names of cousins I never met, the color and pattern of his mother's favorite dress, and even where he hid his first pack of cigarettes. Those memories were at the forefront of his mind. Others sprang only from my questions, which is when I sent him the tape recorder.

Actually, Papa had gifted the device to me first. It was old and bulky, and it didn't fit easily in the pockets of my denim pants. I wanted to be a print journalist, so it was my graduation gift. He called it a relic when he gave it to me, yet I loved it even more.

The eject button was stiff from wear, and a strip of electrical tape held the battery compartment shut. When I pressed PLAY, the cassette spools turned slowly with a steady hum, then clicked when the tape reached the end. Papa had shown me how to use it at the train station before I left for college, telling me to listen on the way.

"Testing, testing," came my Papa's booming voice. " You've either become a famous journalist or just learned how to follow instructions." He laughed so hard he started coughing.

I'd kept that tape for years. Never adding to it.

When I decided to write our family story into a novel, I dug the recorder out of a box from the back of my closet, added a new tape I ordered online, and mailed it off with the rest of the unused cassettes that came with it.

He had given it to me to record other people's stories, but I needed it for his, mine, ours most.

He called me when it arrived, scoffing, "You know they make these things on your cell now, right, kiddo?"

"Not the same, Papa."

"No, I suppose not." I could hear him turning it in his hands. "This thing is older than you are, you know?"

"Then it has lots of experience."

He laughed deeply, from the belly; I remember that.

For the next several weeks, the tape recorder became a third participant in our Sunday calls. I'd ask a question, he'd tell a story, and afterward record whatever else came to mind. I was so impatient to get those tapes.

Then one Sunday I asked him about the fire.

I had only ever heard the story in fragments. My great uncle had been a very wealthy man. One bit of lore claimed he owned the original properties of Little Italy in New York, while others stated he stole a fortune from the 'Ndrangheta, a mafia in Northern Italy, then fled the old country. Maybe both were true, maybe neither; regardless, he was rich.

After decades as a bachelor, he settled in America with a widower. They had no children together, and according to every version I had been told, my great aunt inherited everything after a fire destroyed his office, destroying his life.

"Papa, do you think that's how it started?"

"What did?" He answered so swiftly I don't think he fully processed what I was truly asking.

"The curse."

Papa didn't respond. Silence and several clock ticks passed before he spoke. "Who told you about that?"

I told him I couldn't remember. I might've heard it from one of his brothers, or one of my older cousins who knew more. The details had always been hazy.

"There's a reason we don't talk about that side of the family," he answered after what seemed like hours.

The word "curse" had followed me since childhood, though I couldn't place who said it first. At family gatherings, people repeated it in hushed conversations and half-warnings around the dinner table. Someone had cursed our family; I had pieced it together like a puzzle. Members of my family died. Fading like a tree that shakes its leaves in the fall. One by one, the chairs around the table emptied. The myth became a little more convincing.

Exhaling into the speaker, my Papa laminated, "That's a story for another day, amore."

"But Papa," I started to say before he interrupted, saying he was tired, so begrudgingly I said goodbye, assuming we'd pick up next Sunday.

By the time I had showered, dressed for the day, and was about to eat my waffles, I got a call from Nassau County saying Papa had died.

Most might assume someone with so much loss would be accustomed to death. Truth is, it doesn't get easier. It doesn't become some energy you can easily harness for a positive shift, and, as far as I can tell, it means nothing for the loved one left behind. Grief sucks.

Days blur into weeks, months, and even years. Time moves on for everyone except the mourner.

I don't recall much after the conversation with the medical examiner, or what I did immediately after. All I know is the sadness; how I didn't want to speak; being mute was easier than describing the pain I felt, and I stopped eating, food tasting bland while turning my stomach. My comforter was a warm hug I craved.

For days I paced aimlessly in that blanket while I answered calls from relatives and friends and made arrangements for his burial. When I slept, my dreams were nightmarish, the curse taunting me there too.

On day nine, one of my nightmares reminded me of the recorder.

In the dreamscape, I stood in a room engulfed in flame. It crawled up the walls, the heat burning my cheeks, turning them crimson. A desk sat in a corner; despite the inferno, I walked toward it, one arm shielding my face and the other held out for protection. As I advanced, I saw a tape recorder, almost indiscernible, dust quickly settling on it. Then I woke.

The tape recorder was at Papa's house, along with the empty tapes I sent him. I worried about getting it back and called my remaining uncle to retrieve it. He sorted through Papa's things and didn't find it. Afterward, I hurt not just for losing him, but for the words I lost.

Deaths continued, and each time I thought of why. Could one ancestor really have brought all this destruction due to money? I couldn't understand it. Sure, we all need money for the essentials, but I've never craved that sort of wealth. Nothing was worth inflicting heartbreak like that.

I resigned myself to the unknown. We had a history, though I had no idea what that entailed. Not really. With Papa gone, and so many of the elders too, I resolved to accept what we didn't fully comprehend, and never would. I told myself, and my siblings and cousins, that anything that sounded believable would do.

The story I was writing became another file taking up space on my hard drive. The legal pads with the interviews with Papa replaced the tape recorder, moving to the box in the back of the closet. My lust for stories reduced to only reading gossip magazines. I took on a new career, and to some extent, a different, quieter, more introverted personality.

After returning home from work, my breath was stolen from me on the tenth anniversary of his death. A package arrived at my apartment: no return address, but my name was written in my Papa's half-cursive, half-print script. Unmistakable misspellings and smudged ink confirmed it.

Sharp shears pierced through the package, exposing the ancient tape recorder. It looked exactly the same.

For a long while, I sat flipping it in my palms. The battery compartment was still fastened with silver tape, and the eject button protested just as it had before. A tape sat inside, and I could barely make out the label #1. I looked in the box and found other labeled tapes.

My pulse began to race, and a tingling sensation spread through my left arm. Sweat ran down my forehead and beaded, disgustingly, under my breasts.

"Great," I anxiously said aloud, "I'm gonna die of a heart attack!" How very on theme, I thought. But after doing breath work I'd learned in a support group, I was able to eventually convince myself I was just having a panic attack and not really dying.

I put the recorder back in the box, unsure what to do. Part of me wanted to listen to the tape immediately and chastised myself for not doing so, but another, more desperate urge screamed, leave it alone. I had learned long ago to listen when my gut told me something, so I did, folding the corners of the box up and placing it, along with the notes, back in the back of the closet.

Work had picked up, and I was thankful for the distraction, which kept my curiosity from opening the box again. All my clothes were in the same space, and I smiled at myself, satisfied that I barely thought about what was said on those tapes each time I grabbed a garment. More time passed without the temptation, and I nearly forgot it altogether.

One rainy afternoon, I was searching for my umbrella. It wasn't hanging on its usual hook in the mudroom, and after checking my car and using a parka to keep dry, I couldn't find it there either. The next logical place was the closet. I moved hanging dresses and pants to one side of the rack, then to the other side. I rearranged shoe boxes and other miscellaneous items, then tripped over the box with the recorder and tapes.

Instead of letting doubt talk me out of it, I knew in that moment I had to open it. Quickly, I worked the box open, dove in, and pulled out the contents. I felt like I was that kid caught shaking presents under the tree before Christmas morning. Eager and greedy. I hit PLAY.

"Mi Amore," Papa's voice, that stereotypical New York Italian accent pop culture portrays so accurately. "It was so good talking to you today. Well, it always is, but today was special. I miss talking about my family, and until today I thought I had done a good job, but some of your questions brought back memories I'd forgotten. It's almost like you've given me back a part of my story. I don't know, kiddo. Does that make sense?"

He continued. That day, we must've been chatting about his mom, given how often he brought her up. There was a story about visiting Disney World, not Land; apparently, she was a stickler for making that a point, which I get- two totally different parks. She had already suffered a stroke, maybe several by then, and was in her wheelchair. Allegedly, she asked to be left in the Hall of Presidents all day so she wouldn't interfere with the family's fun. I think I would have countered him if he'd told me that story while he was alive; surely she wanted to see more. Then there was another account of my uncles taking her to the top of a street hill and releasing her to see how fast she could go. The last story was about how she could still clean, cook, and be an overall badass; I'd agree, even with one working hand.

Hours passed with one story after another, each one sprouting directly from questions I had asked him earlier, years ago, causing me to pull out my own interview notes. He told me about his inspiration for joining the Army; his father was a mechanic. I had thought he sold hot dogs, but that came after retirement.

"I know," that belly laughter came from Papa, "you're sitting there thinking, well, how come you never taught me how to change my oil or my tires? Well, kiddo, I didn't know when I joined I would be working on tankers, not real cars. Stupid, yeah, probably, but I saw MECHANIC listed and thought it was my chance to be like him; little did I know tanks and cars are two unique vehicles."

Hearing Papa's voice and stories made me laugh out loud, cry hysterically, and it inspired me to binge whatever he had left to say. I drank energy drinks and occasionally ate handfuls of popcorn as I listened, resigning myself to no sleep until I heard the very last thing.

One tape remained, and as I glanced down at my legal pad, dread and eagerness pinged in my chest. I knew the last topic would be the "curse."

Papa's breath started the tape. It was louder than usual, like he was using the same breathing techniques I practiced, and it took minutes before his voice came through. Instantly, I joined in, knowing this was probably the most important story he was about to tell me.

"Ah, so, uh, kiddo, sorry about how we ended our last conversation. It's difficult to, uh, understand even myself. I guess I don't, to be honest, but uh," Papa cleared his throat, a thick substance hacking. "You've obviously heard about the 'curse' and heard the story of where it originated from. I. I have a confession: I already gave you the story; it was on that first tape I gave you. For. For, uh, graduation, and I was seriously relieved when I realized you didn't listen to it. Do me a favor? I'm the last one to hear what that tape had to say... so uh, if you haven't already, get rid of it. Destroy it! Put it in your fireplace and never think about it again. That's the only way."

The tape cackled, then fell silent. My hands shook as I held the recorder, and tears trickled down my cheeks. Papa didn't make any sense, and he didn't sound like himself. I had listened to my graduation gift. What the hell is he talking about?

Sometimes we should stop, assess, and plan, but other times logic goes invisible in the face of our emotions. Instead of taking the moment, I began a frantic search for the original tape. I wish Papa had given an additional, more pointed warning, but even then, I probably still would have done the same.

"To Mi Amore," the label, worn but still clear, stated. I placed it in the recorder and pressed PLAY.

"Testing, testing," Papa's voice still boomed even after ages of wear," You've either become a famous journalist or just learned how to follow instructions."

I had no reason to listen beyond his greeting when he first gifted it to me, but this time I knew I needed to, so I listened as the tape whirled and whined. For the first minute, maybe more, there was nothing but the equipment's groan; then, softly, a commotion started.

An unfamiliar man's voice rose loudly, though it was indecipherable, followed by a woman's. She was just as hard to understand, but sounded pleading. Though in Italian, I knew they were arguing. The man seemed to be winning, only because he was more commanding. A loud smack rang out across someone's flesh, followed by the echo of objects falling and catching on fire. Her voice rang loud in my ears, as if she was next to me, first in a language, Italian, I didn't understand, and then in English.

"YOU," she shouted, "and yours will never know what a true legacy is! I prayed once for a future that would outlive us! Now I pray I survive YOU and what you have done. If there is any justice in this universe, may the grief you've planted in my heart take root in the blood that shaped you. May it follow your name, though I never even whisper it. Let it find your line, though I never send it. And let it end when what was taken from my soul, that beat for you, is returned."

A click came from the tape, signaling its end, before I hit STOP, Papa's tentative voice came back, "The story ends or continues with you. Which monster do you feed? The one that nourishes the hex, or the one that starves it?"

I ignored his advice, published our story, celebrated success, until the next relative passed. The noise started after, coming from my closet: "You fed it, Amore." Papa whispered.

A woman laughed through the static.