No Lies Live Forever

By Catherine Fatica Compher

No Lies Live Forever tells the captivating story of Sal Casalino. Seemingly successful and a family man, his long-hidden secrets begin to resurface and threaten to uproot his happy life. With the untimely death of a beloved family member, Sal must come back and face his own demons, make decisions that will forever change his family, and take them on a journey that they can never turn back from. No Lies Live Forever weaves family loyalty and corruption through twists and turns spanning forty years and two continents. It shines a light on the immigrant experience as it explores the universal themes of family loyalty and love, and the cost of secrets—even those kept with the best of intentions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781645755227

Catherine Fatica Compher

This is Catherine Fatica Compher’s second novel. A lover of travel, good books, and family, she has lived all over the country and been fortunate enough to meet very interesting people along the way. Originally from Cleveland, Ohio, but raised in North Carolina, she loves a great southern story and finds her inspiration from so many she’s picked up along the way. She is a proud graduate of North Carolina State University. Go Pack! She lives in Chicago with her husband, Jeff.

Book preview

Christmas

About the Author

This is Catherine Fatica Compher’s break-out novel. A lover of travel, good books, and family, Catherine has lived coast to coast following her husband’s career and picking up stories along the way. She is originally from Cleveland but was raised in North Carolina. She is a proud graduate of North Carolina State University. She currently resides in Chicago with her husband.

Dedication

For my family

Copyright Information ©

Catherine Fatica Compher (2020)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Compher, Catherine Fatica

No Lies Live Forever

ISBN 9781645755203 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781645755210 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781645755227 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020917634

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published (2020)

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 28th Floor

New York, NY 10005

USA

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Acknowledgement

I would like to thank my brilliant and supportive husband, Jeff, for continuing to encourage me throughout this entire process. He was the voice that pushed me to climb out of my comfort zone when I didn’t believe I could. I’m very grateful to him as well as my son CJ and his wife Andie, and my son David. They read through the first draft and gave critical feedback that was invaluable to the final draft. I am one lucky mom to have such amazing and talented children. CJ, I am thrilled that you love George as much as I do. Andie, thank you for pushing me to make Anna more authentic. David, I love that you have the vision to see these characters as living, breathing people who could bring this novel to life. And Nicole, thank you for listening to hour-long conversations about the characters. The constant dinner conversations over the characters brought them into our family on many occasions. I am so grateful to my beautiful dog, Cammie, who spent countless hours on my office floor listening to the clicking of my laptop keys and to me chatting with her about each character. I wrote, cried, and debated with you the intricacies of the story. I love you, girl, and know your walk over the rainbow bridge gave you freedom from the constant pain. Thank you for hanging on until the bitter end of this project. I hope that you and Nana are up there with a basket of unlimited tennis balls and a great glass of red wine. I wish you were both here to share this with me.

Thanks to my publisher Austin Macauley and every team member that put their hands on this book. I am so grateful for your belief in the story. Thank you for putting Sal’s story out there.

Special thanks to two very talented and special writers in my life, Marybeth Mayhew Whalen and Kim Wright. They added insight beyond measure and gave me valuable help not only into the manuscript but into the writing world. Many thanks to you both. Thanks to my long list of friends who muddled through the first draft: Sara, Christina, Alison, Carolyn, Barb, Kelly, and Cassie. What would I do without my tribe? You ladies define what it is to support women in this world today.

And finally, thanks to my mom and dad. The road was not always easy but it pushed me to be who I am today. For mom, who read the book in a night and cried proclaiming that she loved every bit of it. You will always be my Elizabeth. And for dad, though you never saw me grow up, meet my husband and kids, and grow old with mom, I know you would be very proud. You opened the beautiful window into Italian culture and gave me a love of family, food, and friendship. This story has lived with me since your premature passing and it’s all yours. Your illness and death gave me the inspiration to tell the story. You will always be my Sal.

Prologue

October 29, 2002

Waite Hill, Ohio

Anna stood at the large Tuscan windows of her family home looking out over the fallen leaves, quieting gardens, and sleepy tree limbs. She was happy. That is until she could no longer tell where the lies started and the truth ended. The recent events in her life that forced her to come home also forced her to lean over the bridge of her life and watch everything float away. She inhaled, and could feel fall run up her nostrils as the taste rolled over her tongue. She stood, arms crossed over her body, staring out at the gardens. She was home to attend her mother’s funeral. I’m an orphan now, she spoke to no one. Dad’s been gone for several years and now, well, this is even more complicated. She felt a dark, stormy distance from herself. Coming home means so much than saying goodbye to Mom. Why did my parents have to be so complicated?

Anna was an accomplished professor at a large university in North Carolina. She had traveled and spent time on archeological digs in her favorite city in the world, Naples, Italy. And she thought she finally found a relationship that may be the one, but after only four months, that went sour. I loved looking out these windows. Until I discovered there is pain in the world and realized that the life I created for myself was not what it seems.

She stood quietly, visited by fears and feeling them with the same intensity of many years ago. If I forgive, I will have nothing to hold onto, she thought as she tightened the vice grip of anger, hate, and resentment in her mind, longing to sweep the ashes away that smoldered in her heart. I have forced myself to that which I hate the most. She felt a tear slide down her face. Yet, here I stand, still afraid. She found herself paralyzed at the grand windows at the back of her family home. She felt all those same feelings, waiting in anticipation for the chaos to begin.

She looked out across the sunny grounds and remembered the darkness that would come with the summer storms. Just like my life, great one day and chaos the next. Her view was partially obstructed by the never-ending gardens and meticulous tree lines that framed the length of the boundless property. Darkness, only illuminated by the dancing beams of light from the barns and buildings, fighting for their turn to shine, but just the same she would wait. She watched summer storms roll in and out over a quickly graying sky like riding Icarus’s wings to the sun. I loved standing right here when I was little.

Anna felt a calm as she stared out the window. Thank goodness, my wings are not made of wax and it’s not summer. It’s good to be home, she thought to herself as she continued to watch a small bank of gray clouds roll over the sun. I’m now a grown woman. I worked hard for my career and love what I do. Her mind traveled, but I missed all the warnings. She trembled, crossing her arms tighter and pulling her sweater closer.

Standing at the grand windows some twenty years later, her commitment to fear has grown even stronger; something she can’t seem to let go of. She watches the same battles with renewed loyalty. Anna remembers how the storms in her home have paralyzed her here forever. Sometimes she carries so much fear she doesn’t even know what fear feels like, so she continually runs to what is most dangerous: herself. She knows that her devotion to fear is tangled with the anger she carries. But letting go seems scarier because she has nothing else to hold onto. Letting go will force her to a mirror gazing only at her own reflection. Just days before returning home, her life was in order. But now, standing at the large glass windows, remembering, the cloudy confusion is becoming ever so clear.

Chapter 1

Sal

October 28, 2002

Raleigh, NC

Sal Casalino, his slight frame and graying hair, sits low in the dark corner at the back of the dark auditorium, hiding from but listening to his daughter, Anna, lecture to her students. He shuddered when the door slammed behind him when the young man’s sweaty hand slipped after his girlfriend raced in before him. They took open seats in the fourth row of the class. The beautiful young woman’s hair, tousled and dripping, stuck to her damp face.

Anna stopped her lecture and looked up as she waited. No, sorry. No, excuse me, nothing. And class is more than half over, she thinks to herself. She waits as the couple gets settled.

Notice the picture of the young lovers. Anna stands with her back to the dated podium with her dark wavy hair loosely tied back in a low ponytail and her petite frame dressed in dark jeans. Her crisp, white shirt is neatly tucked. She discusses the history and rich civilization of life in Pompeii prior to the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius.

She turns to face the students after the first interruption and watches the young couple shuffle papers, pull out books, and drop a few items as they prepare for the almost dismissed class. Are we ready? Anna shakes her head as a few loose strands fell across her face. She pauses, looks at the young woman, and fans herself. My, my, it’s warm outside on this fine October day, isn’t it? Her empty hand sweeps the hair off her own sticky cheek.

Sal lowers in his seat, his heart racing while he watches his daughter from his hidden corner. She really is a good professor. And she’s funny. He shakes his head to acknowledge his thoughts. I bet the kids like her.

‘The House of the Chaste Lovers,’ which takes its name from a wall painting found within the property depicting a couple in a gentle embrace, was discovered by an Italian team several years ago, she continues. I have been at the dig and it was thrilling to see such an incredible work of art come to life. Conservators have been excavating the exceedingly well-preserved residence for some time and are working hard to keep the sites intact for visitors.

Anna talks about the painting for a few more minutes and then shifts into art style. She moves back behind the podium and slips her penny loafers off her incredibly warm, sockless feet. The preserved Pompeii comes alive when she discusses the four styles and distinct periods defined by the art from which many frescos were unearthed.

Each style has specific meaning from the symbols within the mosaics. The meaning of life in the four Pompeian styles explain the different eras associated with periods of life in Pompeii. Her voice is steady, clear, and easy. Each word builds, showing the encrypted city as she moves her pointer to each fresco.

She points to the slide and says, Like many of you, the young lovers in the upper left-hand corner are stealing a kiss while much of life is going on around them like many of you today.

Anna continues, It would seem, many young people were more interested in their relationships and social life than in their studies. She clears her throat, Um hum, as she glances back at the same young couple in the fourth-row caressing each other.

Several students turn around to see where she is looking. The young couple realizes they are now on display and sit up a bit. They quickly press their clothes and wipe their moist faces. Chuckles and another loud interruption of throat-clearing scatter throughout the lecture hall as the young man confidently speaks out, Continue, with a coy smirk on his face. Anna forwards to the next frame.

With little delay, the same young man’s hand shoots up, not waiting for her to call on him, Excuse me, Professor Casalino. When you look at art and make your interpretation, aren’t you really asking us to believe that to be the truth?

Anna answers, Interpretation of art is for the individual. But today I present facts from what was discovered at the dig. She pauses. But you make a good point. I would love to hear your interpretations. She steps from behind the podium, forgetting about her shoeless feet. Thank you so much, Mr. Thomas, for giving me an idea. I would like everyone to write a five-page paper giving their opinion about the content of the lecture today. She turns away, as a grin spreads across her face.

The classes’ eyes are all on Mr. Thomas. A young woman in the back raises her hand. I don’t see that assignment on the syllabus, as panicking papers shuffle loudly and a quiet hum runs down the lecture hall from the stunned students’ shuffle.

She turns back. Oh, you won’t. That is an assignment that Mr. Thomas was happy to suggest for all of you.

Well, my opinion is, I think you are an amazing professor, Mr. Thomas immediately responds. Shrugging his shoulders, he hopes Anna will relent.

Thank you and I’m sorry for calling you and your girlfriend out in the classroom. But Mr. Thomas, be on time to my class. Anna turns from her students, laughs under her breath and flips to the next group of slides but decides to stop. Class, I will let everyone make the assignment optional for extra credit. Please review your syllabus on chapter five and again, if anyone wants extra credit, feel free to write the paper. Now take a few minutes before you go to meet with your groups. She looks down at her notes, talk amongst yourselves, her voice trails off as she continues to review her summary from today’s lecture.

As the students write their last notes, Anna scribbles a few to herself, Despite Mr. Thomas’ tardiness, he would be a good candidate to travel abroad this summer. Many students quietly discuss the lecture.

At the top of the hall, Sal cautiously slips out of the room hoping to go unnoticed. When the door accidently snaps shut, the only person that looks up is Anna who catches a faint glimpse. Umm, I didn’t realize I was being observed today.

Sal makes his way out of the building and down the steps. What an interesting lecture. She certainly knows how to handle her students and really cares about them. He heads toward his car as he notices everything around him. Every student walking to class, every professor moving past him, and all the conversations in the courtyard. He stops for a minute to watch one young man cracking peanuts while sitting under a shade tree. Oh, to be so young and carefree.

Sal tries to sneak in and out of her class a few times a month. He is careful to sit in just the right place. I’m sure she didn’t notice anything when I left. I’m lucky she moved so close to me, Sal thought as he opened his car door. He slips inside and looks all around him. He inhales deeply, holds his breath as he turns the key, and feels his heart jump while the motor starts. My heart races every time, but the need to see her far outweighs the risk of being seen. He hates playing How did I get here? He settles and watches visions of each of his adult children from a distance, never driving forward without his eyes affixed to the rearview mirror, hoping he can one day go home.

I want to see her, talk to her. He thinks, but he knows it’s too dangerous for all of them. So, he follows his instincts and keeps his distance. Besides, Anna would never believe it was him. In her world, he died several years ago.

If traffic is light, Sal can make the drive to Anna’s school in several hours. He drives home in silence and relishes the time he has with her. He cannot stop laughing about the young man that came to class late. Oh, to be in love. Reminds me of my younger days with Elizabeth.

The drive home takes longer than usual with all the trees down from the storms that blew through the valley. When he left this morning, it was hot and humid and the sky was clear. The weather can be so fickle in the fall in North Carolina. He fumbles with the mess on the passenger seat next to him, looking for his cell phone. He finally realizes he left it where he does most often: on the kitchen counter, turned off.

As traffic slows, he makes his way through the rain and thinks about Elizabeth, You must be so proud of our daughter. The past is always Novocain for his present state. He could see Elizabeth like it was yesterday, stealing kisses in stairwells and holding hands while they crossed her college campus. Sal was not a student at first, but an employee. Elizabeth kept him a secret from her parents. We never fell out of love.

Sal pulls into the muddy drive, opens the gate and parks his car in the small barn. The ground is wet and the leaves slippery from the storms that have swept over the mountains. Sal rarely misses his early morning walk. Today was different, he had to be up and out the door early to see his daughter. He was happy he went to see Anna.

Welcoming the fall colors, he feels a calm spread over him. He stops briefly and watches a brilliant cardinal make its way up toward the setting sun. Limbs are scattered along the trail to his house and trees are down in the distance. A lone branch, much like himself, lies beside the path as Sal stoops and gathers the perfect crutch in his palm like a dear old friend. I can use this tomorrow when I go for my walk. He strolls up the long-winding gravel path, crushing the colorful leaves underneath his steel-toed boots. He misses his family, his wife. The separation has taken a toll on him.

She’s good, she’s good, he mumbles the words out loud to the goldenrod standing at attention in his garden. With a sigh of relief, he repeats the mantra. Elizabeth did a great job with our children, he beams. He enjoys looking in on them, particularly on his youngest child, Anna. I can tell the students like her, he speaks again to the tall pines, validating the risk of his visit and enjoying the cadence of his own soothing voice. He exhales long and hard and watches the sun slide down the gentle slopes after a day of storms. Perhaps tomorrow will be clear. He cherishes the routine of his walks that keep the black burden at bay. Sal rambles along the footpath lined by the stacked rock fence. Walking into his yard, he knocks the dirt off his boots as he clomps up the stairs, purposely hitting them hard to ensure there is no more debris. He sits down on the sturdy white cushioned chair while he gently pulls each foot out of his wet boots. He is tired from the day. Before he can set the shoes on the rack, the phone rings. He leaves the newspaper on the chair, walks through the living room and reaches for the receiver. Hello, his soft voice, low and apprehensive.

I tried to call you all day, George said.

I drove to see Anna, Sal explained.

Sal, I don’t know how else to say this.

What is it?

This is very difficult for me and I’m sorry, but Elizabeth died today.

The words rocketed out of George’s mouth so quickly that Sal did not have time to duck and protect his vulnerable heart. George heard a gasp at the other end of the line. Sal, are you okay?

I have to go, George, Sal whispered and hung up the phone. The pain was so deep, he did not think to ask what happened.

Since his feigned death, George was Sal’s only connection to his family. It was George’s connection that kept him sane. But this news was more than he could grasp. He gripped the phone as he slumped into the chair still holding the ear piece to his face. What have I done? he whispered while the painful words followed from his ear down to his heart. He dropped the receiver in his lap while he sat in shock and tried to catch his breath.

The only way to keep everyone safe was to disappear. I thought my death would only be temporary. Tears streamed down the deep lines etched on his cheeks from years of work and worry. Sal pressed his head against the back of the chair, black and gray curls twisting against the fabric. And now this. I was coming home, Elizabeth, you knew I was coming home, he cried out. I just needed you to hang on. Now I can never make all this pain up to you. I thought I was taking care of you and the children. I just wanted to protect the family. Sal spoke to her as if she were sitting next to him. He cried as beautiful memories of Elizabeth collapsed around him.

Memories of young love. Stealing kisses in stairwells and holding hands walking across Elizabeth’s college campus when they were young. Of forbidden love and finally marriage. Of hard work and babies, and a small cottage home that turned into an estate filled with guest houses and the offices that provided a foundation for their life. They built their life hand in hand. Until Sal’s past made a decision that would forever change his future.

Reaching back into that place, a situation long before Elizabeth. How he felt seemed unexpected. A quiet sadness slid from his wife to his beloved mother, Lucia. Sal chastised himself for thinking of her at this time. But he could not stop the memories. It was Lucia who showed Sal beauty. She provided him with an example of love.

The smell of freshly-baked bread coming from his mother’s oven from so long ago. His mother humming to the tunes of her favorite songs. He can still hear the soft sounds of her radio playing Emilio Livi’s soothing music. Lucia’s reliable percolator brewing up coffee each morning while she arranges an assortment of homemade pastries for her family. Her long, dark hair always twisted into a tight bun at the base of her neck. Her face, soft and round with its wonderful curves and full lips, never saying a cross word. Her warm brown eyes swimming in a sea of clear white welcoming everyone that walks in her door.

"Buongiorno," her soft voice would whisper as she held out a cup of coffee and leaned in to give a gentle kiss to each of her children. Her life, although never easy, was filled with joy.

"How did you sleep, amore mio?"

It was her smooth, hardworking hands that Sal thought of now. They told his mother’s story. They were well maintained with neatly cut cuticles, trimmed nails, and soft to the touch yet they were strong just like her. They moved quickly, working magic in her kitchen, gently caressing and kneading dough into a wonderful masterpiece of delicious nourishment for more than just the stomach.

She would mold pastries, spooning delicious fillings into the center and watch the bubbly goo flow up like lava from a volcano into works of art. The process looked effortless yet the outcome was incredible. She baked loaves of bread, filling her kitchen with the warmth of home.

Sal chokes back tears as he plays the memory over and over, longing to bury the painful ghosts of his past. He loved his mother and the home she tried to create for her family.

Nonetheless, his body tensed as memories of his father, Antonio, wormed their way in. There’s more to me than all the mistakes I have left behind. He heard his father’s harsh words and saw his finger shaking in indignation at him. This is all your fault, Salvatore. His father’s anger with its rude, domineering, highly destructive spirit moved into his parents’ home the day they were married. Antonio was hard and demanding and withheld love like the government withheld food. The war had taken its toll on the family. They often sold their personal possessions just to eat. With the departure of Fascism and the movement of the Allied Liberators, it was a time of total confusion. The patriarchal society shifted to an industrial one as men lost their self-respect while they moved under a veil of confusion, especially to an already unstable Antonio Casalino. He was unable to provide before, and now with all the changes he plummeted further into a hole of depression and anger. Most days were spent at the local bars drinking himself into nothingness.

As soon as Salvatore was old enough, he went to work to keep the family, his older sister, Sofia, his brother, Fabrizio, and his mother fed and keep a roof over their heads. It was the work he chose that kept Sal living in the tombs just now.

Salvatore could hear his father’s raging words, Under fucking Fascism we are fed once a day; under the damn Allies, we are fed once a week. He shook his hand in the air to a God he begged to listen. There is no help, no help. I can do nothing, he cried out to his family. There is a shortage of food. How do I feed this damn family? Anger spewed from his dirty lips. No work, he made continued excuses as he whipped his head in shame veiled by anger.

Sal could feel the aches and sweat pouring off of his body as if it were just yesterday as he sat comatose in the chair of today. In his memories, he woke up to a damp bed and a dripping faucet. He could hear his mother’s cries and a door slam. He slowly lifted up onto his elbows and rubbed his aching head. He threw his legs over the edge of the small bed, grabbed his pants, pulled them over his well-worn undershorts, and sat on the edge for a minute collecting himself. He wanted a cigarette, but his mother forbid smoking in her house. Another night tangled in sticky sheets, sweating, fretting dreams in too small a bed. All of this in a house that he was trying to keep glued together with very little means and too much ignorance.

He stood over the toilet holding himself with one hand while the other reached up to the stinging bruise on his unshaven face. He fought again last night for his wages. Salvatore slipped out of the bathroom and walked to his mother in the kitchen. She gently patted his face. "Ti amo."

"Ti amo, Mamma."

Salvatore was out again, stealing, robbing men blind to put food on his parents’ table and a roof over their head. He was nineteen years old and looking for any way to help out even if it meant breaking the law.

Salvatore sees the fish man holding his hand out to his father, waiting for his parents to pay for the fish Salvatore stole. He looks at them both. They have nothing. Salvatore does. He always leaves money in his mother’s cookie jar. She never questioned where it came from,