The Olive Jar

70 The Olive Jar Kristen Keckler I’m squatting in an olive grove in Montelepre, Sicily, searching the ground for caterpillars. It is quiet except for whistles of redwings, the clip-clop of horseshoes. Some workers climb up and down ladders shaped like tepees, the letter A, while others haul baskets on their shoulders. My great-grandfather, Niccolo Riccobono, and his brother, Giuseppe, survey their trees, discussing the rain. They pause to examine the fruit: unripe green among mottled purple. As Niccolo strokes the silver underside of a leaf, he cocks his head. He glances over his shoulder , sees shadows big as clouds. Three Mafiosi swoop by on horseback, overtaking him. They aim their guns. They shoot Giuseppe, then Great Grandpa, three bullets each, their legs and backs and necks. I gasp, covering my eyes. The workers scatter, shouting words I don’t understand. And as he lies wounded, his blood pooling like salsi, sauce, my great-grandfather whispers to his brother, “Are you okay?” But Giuseppe is dead. When the Mafiosi hear Niccolo, they shoot him once more, through the head. You see, Niccolo has refused the Mafia’s offer of protection. He hasn’t paid them off. My grandmother, as always, ends the story with the sweep of her hand and a cruel, if not practical, lesson. “My father, he shoulda kept his big mouth shut.” Decades later, when my sister loses her keys in the Atlantic Ocean, Grandma wades in to retrieve them. She pushes through the water, her arms like five-pound Arthur Avenue salamis. Kara calls out to her, but Grandma doesn’t answer, perhaps because she can’t hear over the breaking surf. Or perhaps because Grandma is dead. I’m in Texas, sitting on my front porch, listening to my sister’s dream. On the edge of my yard, the mimosa tree wears its blossoms 71 Kristen Keckler like a big pink boa. Kara (Grandma’s favorite picciotta, little girl) is in Westchester, New York, where we both grew up. We haven’t lived in the same place for more than a few months since she was thirteen. I’m five years older. Though we don’t look alike (she’s blond, blue-eyed, curvy; I’m brunette, brown-eyed, wispy), I’m always struck by how similar our voices sound, especially over the phone. “So that’s kinda weird, right? I mean, what does it mean?” she asks. “I guess I’d be worried if Grandma was doing, like, some normal grandmotherly thing. Knitting freaking booties or something.” My sister laughs. We both know it’s totally in character for Grandma to be fending off jellyfish and sharks in search of a tangible symbol of freedom. So I tell Kara my theories. Using the canvas of a dream, Grandma is relaying another one of her stories. We both know that it’s got to do with the accident, Kara hit head-on by a school bus: car flattened, jaws of life summoned, EMT shocked to find her alive. Though she would have several shoulder and knee surgeries, her pretty face was unmarred. I tell her that ocean waves point to something tumultuous, could be the accident. Grandma is sending her a message, perhaps that she was looking out for her the day of the accident. “Maybe she’s trying to recover something you’ve lost. I mean, literally, your car, but maybe also something abstract, like courage?” My sister listens intently, interjecting an occasional supportive “Uh-huh.” She’s a classic younger sibling, assumes I know more simply because I’m older. An approaching freight train bellows like two notes on the organ played at a giant’s funeral. It shakes my porch and briefly drowns our conversation. We pause until it passes. I usually don’t care about other people’s dreams, but there’s something about my grandmother wandering through my sister’s psyche. I can’t help but feel spurned, ignored. When it’s quiet, I ask, “Why doesn’t Grandma visit me?” “I dunno,” Kara says. “But you’re gonna tell me, right?” “Maybe it’s that you’re the dreamer,” I say, “and I’m just the...