Niccolo Capaldi

Sixteen

Niccolo Capaldi

“Dad! What the hell are you doing here?” I demanded. “You should be in the hospital. I thought you were half dead.”

He had gathered us around the big, dining room table inside. It wasn’t warm enough to eat out doors like we normally did. Giuseppe Capaldi was tall, and frail, with wrinkles upon wrinkles and grey hair. He used a cane to get around. My Pop was the kind of man that used to having people scurry when they saw him. In many ways, he was an imposing figure still. But after his heart attack, I was painfully aware of how old he was. And I hated the idea that he had traveled so long to get to us when it could have hurt him.

My Pop laughed. “I’m a Capaldi, son. Death doesn’t come for us. We go looking for it because we’ve sent them too many souls.”

“Mr. Capaldi,” said Audrina, “I’m a little confused about why you want me to be part of this conversation?”

He smiled at her. “Audrina, you have always