Regifting
I sat upright in bed, straining to hear the sound that had stirred me from my slumber. I hadn’t been fully asleep, otherwise the soft scraping sound wouldn’t have woken me. I’m a fairly heavy sleeper, which is a good thing when you sleep next to a human-shaped chainsaw with clogged sinuses and sleep apnea.
There it was again. The soft scraping sound. I elbowed Giacomo roughly to wake him up, then elbowed him again when the first rough poke failed to stir him. Finally the snoring stopped, and I knew he was almost conscious.
“Babe,” I whispered. “Babe!”
Giacomo rose up on his elbows and blinked at me, sleepily. The sheet fell away from his chest, revealing his pecs and a perfect dusting of fur. The sight filled me with lust, but I had more immediate concerns on my mind.
“Are you horny?” he asked, a twinkle in his jet-black eyes. “Again?”
“No!” I hissed. “I mean yes. But listen!”
The scraping sound floated upstairs again, and concern crossed Giacomo’s handsome face.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Do you think I’da woken you, if I knew the answer to that?” I put my hand on my hip and raised an eyebrow at him. Sassy, I know. English was Giacomo’s second language, but he now spoke Black sass fluently, as well.
Giacomo slipped out of bed and pulled on some underwear. I watched intently as the sheer material slid up over his muscular ass, and - as he turned to me - framed his perfect package. My eyes paused at his abs, marvelling at their chiselled perfection, then continued up to his face. His eyes twinkled back at me, and his dimples showed his pleasure at being admired. I decided that if the scraping sound ended up being a home invasion by homicidal maniacs, I’d die a happy woman.
“You stay here and be ready to call the police,” he said, heading to the doorway.
“Uh uh, fuck that shit. I’m coming wit’ you.”
I threw on one of his discarded t-shirts and met him at the door frame, then the two of us crossed the landing and started working our way downstairs. Slowly, one step at a time, our hearing strained for any further sounds.
When I, Charitee, a buxom Black American woman with curves and more junk in the trunk than a garbage truck on trash day, met Giacomo on the Gold Coast, Australia, there had been sparks. Literally. We had both reached for the same door handle at a store in Pacific Fair, and a buildup of static electricity had arced between us. We laughed, had coffee, and went back to his hotel to fuck. We emerged from the hotel room three days later, sated and exhausted, knowing we were destined to be together.
Now, six months later, five days after we moved in together, my Italian Stallion was leading me downstairs to confront our first unknown danger together, as a couple.
“Babe,” I said. “This is our fifth night living together.”
“I can count,” he countered, whispering. “Sshhh.”
Giacomo is a permanent resident of Australia, but I’m on a working holiday visa. We decided to take each day as it comes. He bought a town house in Surfers Paradise and we planned to live there for the final six months of my visa, vowing not to make any plans beyond that.
He’s Sicilian, and I’m from New Orleans. I’m brash, loud, and opinionated. He’s demure. We couldn’t be more different if we tried. But we work.
I chuckled as I remembered the time I told one of my co-workers that Giacomo was Italian. He had mock-glared at me, as though the descriptor ‘Italian’ was an offensive word. Like the f-word to the LGBTQ+ community or the n-word to a person of colour. He couldn’t have been more offended if I’d broken up some spaghetti before cooking it.
“I’m Sicilian,” he had said. At least, in my memory, that’s what he said. In reality, he shushed me again. He needs to learn that you never shush a Black Woman. And I’m just the woman to teach him.
Suddenly, a soft scraping sound came up the stairs, and I remembered where we were and what we were doing. Giacomo froze, straining to listen.
“Is that… sweeping?” he turned to me, colour draining from his face. “What day is it?”
“Babe -” Sassy words came to mind, but Giacomo interrupted me.
“Seriously,” he said. “What day is it?”
“January 5th.” I said, concerned. “Almost the 6th.”
“She found me,” he said, heading downstairs. Questions flooded my mind, but I’d never seen Giacomo so worried and scared. Some sense of self-preservation prevented me from voicing those questions. I followed in silence; for what felt like the first time in my life.
Giacomo flicked on the light switch as we swept into the living room, and I gasped in shock. An elderly woman stood in the middle of the lounge, sweeping the tiles with what appeared to be an old-fashioned broom made of twigs. The broom made a scraping sound as she brushed it over the floor, and I stood there, frozen, in shock. The woman was ancient, wearing a tattered lace shawl, charcoal in colour, over an indistinct black dress. She paused her domestic routine and pointed a gnarled, withered finger at the coffee table. A box sat on the coffee table; an ornate carved box.
“My gift to you,” she rasped.
“Nonna,” Giacomo said. “How did you find me?”
It takes a lot to stun me into silence - and I mean A LOT - but this situation managed that herculean feat. Not only was I speechless, I was also immobile. My feet wouldn’t move. Otherwise I’da marched across that room and slapped that ol’ hag across the face for scaring the shit outa us. Some distant part of my brain acknowledged the fact that, when I’m scared, my thought processes revert to my Southern roots. And I’m good with that.
Here’s where things take a strange turn. An even stranger turn, I guess. Because they were pretty fucked up, already. Somehow, Nonna and her broom turned into a black mist and disappeared into the HVAC unit (or whatever they call those things on the wall, here in Australia). Then I noticed a stocking hanging off the HVAC unit. It had a branch or a piece of wood sticking out of it, in some parody of a Christmas stocking hung by a fireplace.
I stood there, frozen, waiting for Giacomo to speak. The colour slowly returned to his features, and, finally, he turned to face me.
“Charit-” he began.
“What the actual FUCK was that?” I cut him off, unable to hold it in any longer. “Talk to me, Babe.”
“That was-”
“And don’t you be lyin’ to me,” I continued. “I can sniff out a lie like a bloodhound.”
“I’m trying-”
“Talk to me!” I said. Giacomo looked at me patiently, waiting for me to stop and breathe.
“Can I have a turn now?” he asked. I nodded. “Why don’t you make some drinks while I tidy up?”
I made some nightcaps - a highly addictive cocktail called a Sicilian Kiss, naturally - while Giacomo took down the stocking and checked the rest of the town house, making sure we were alone. Finally, we were ready for story time.
“This is going to sound impossible,” Giacomo started, “but I swear to you, every word is true.”
“Babe, I just saw an ancient stick figure turn into black dust and get sucked up by the HVAC. I’m ready to believe anything.”
Giacomo nodded and took a sip of his cocktail.
“That was my Nonna,” he said. “My grandmother. Or my grandmother’s grandmother. She enters and leaves homes by the fireplace, and our A/C unit is the closest thing we have to a fireplace.”
Now it was my turn to sip at my cocktail. I downed it in one go.
“Nonna’s actually an ancient figure from Italian mythology, called La Befana. She’s like our equivalent of Santa Claus. Every year on Epiphany Eve, which is the 5th of January, she and her minions leave presents for children all over Italy.”
“And they use fireplaces?” I needed clarification. Giacomo nodded.
“Or A/C units. Or windows. Any opening, other than a door.”
“And she came all this way to give you something? Aren’t you a little old for presents from Santa?”
“This gift is special.” Giacomo pointed at the box on the coffee table. “It’s called the Caesar Configuration, a special puzzle box. She uses it to control her army of ogres.”
I sat there in silence for a few moments, then stood up to prepare more drinks. I needed more drinks. Many more drinks.
“Ogres?” I asked. “There are ogres in your Christmas tradition?”
“The Orcos,” Giacomo said. “An invisible army of Ogres, bound to the Caesar Configuration over two thousand years ago.”
“This box contains an army of invisible monsters?” I reached for the ornate box and weighed it in my hands. It felt electric, alive. A vibration came from the box, which wasn’t entirely unpleasant.
“You should put that down,” Giacomo said, “in case you accidentally open it.”
“What would happen if I did?”
“You’d become La Befana. You’d live for thousands of years, commanding an invisible army.”
“That doesn’t sound all bad,” I mused.
“If it’s a positive thing, why is she trying to palm the duty off onto me? It’s a curse that’s run in my family for millennia.”
“Why don’t you want to be La Befana?” I asked. “It sounds like you’d make a lot of kids happy.”
“It’s a burden… a curse. I don’t want it. Besides, I don’t have time. I have to paint the back fence, and lay down some sod. I have work tomorrow at Pie Face. And I have a new girlfriend who’s very demanding in bed. I really don’t have time to be a powerful witch.”
So many questions swirled around in my head.
“What’s with the stick in the stocking?” I pointed at the stocking containing the piece of wood.
“That’s just to show that La Befana has been. It’s the first thing kids look for when they wake up on Epiphany.”
“And what about the sweeping? Was she judging my housekeeping skills? And judging me poorly?”
“No,” Giacomo shrugged. “That’s just a Sicilian thing.”
Eventually I ran out of questions, and we both grew tired. Bed beckoned, so we went upstairs and slid between the sheets. Before long, My Italian Stallion’s snoring filled the town house.
I don’t know how he fell asleep like that. My mind was still whirring with tales of witches, and ogres, and magical boxes.
“Fuck this shit,” I muttered to myself. I climbed out of bed and headed downstairs. I had to open that damn box.