Vincent Panella is the author of the memoir The Other Side, the novel Cutter's Island, and a short story collection called Lost Hearts.
Now the pirates step back to let their chief through. He vaults onto the ramp and swaggers across, small and monkey- like, wearing a pitted bronze breastplate embossed with a gorgon's image. His long, black hair hangs out of an old pot helmet and blows in the breeze like a stiff piece of cloth. He carries a curved sword in one hand, while the other, held out stiffly from his body, ends at a stump covered with an elaborate working of gold.
Jumping onto our deck, he pushes Secondini against the mast, pointing the sword to hold him there. Then slowly, his boots striking the deck like hammer blows, he comes directly to me, stops at some distance, looks me up and down, and bows with the flourish of a stage actor. When I fail to respond he comes closer, walking a circle around me and looking down at my boots, which are dyed red and carved with figures of lions' heads. In perfect, mocking Greek he says, 'Young man, those are beautiful boots.'
Vermonter by Choice by Deborah Lee Luskin
Vermont has long been a refuge for writers like my neighbor Vincent Panella, a Vermonter By Choice, who says that Vermont allows him the quiet and solitude he needs to write.
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Read Vincent's conversation with Works in Progress Journal, as they discuss Vincent's story, Canada.
This was the measure of his days. He sat at the window and watched the street, the single tree, the patch of garden, the two garbage pails his son Angelo would take in later. Below him people walked briskly to the subway, their heels clacking on the sidewalk. A half block away an el-train passed and vibrated the house slightly.
"I'm going to visit your town, Grandpa."
"Your town in Italy."
"Why you wanna' do that?"
"To see where you and Grandma were born."
He laughed and said, "There's nothing there!"
Later he gave me some things for his brother: twenty dollars, reading glasses, and a pair of galoshes because it snows in his part of Sicily.
His last words were, "Watch out for thieves."
After cleaning the kitchen, Charlie sat down next to his mother again. This was their time together, not much to say, a few old memories, plenty of dead time, the air conditioner humming. He turned on the TV and clicked the channels with the sound off while his mother picked up one of the few books she read, a coffee table volume called Sinatra!, a praise of the singer's life.
Here were full-page photos of Frank in classic poses: crooning at the Paramount; wearing his fedora and that cocky smile, a cigarette in his mouth; with Ava at the Copacabana; with Mia on a yacht; Frank in a Tux with JFK; Frank with the other women he'd skewered, and of course his wife Nancy, the damaged one, abandoned when Frank hit the big time.
"Men are such pigs," the mother said. "The way he left her, that was terrible."
"Not all men are pigs," Charlie said. "Not me."
Because he was her son, he knew she'd agree.