The Scent of Lemons, Part One: A Sicilian Journey: The Scent of Lemons, #1

By Anne Licata-Solaas

A Sicilian Journey.  The Scent of Lemons Italian saga begins in 1897 in Sicily, Italy. Hunger.  Mafia. Unemployment. Divided families. Twelve year old Maria Liotta and nineteen year old Baldassare Licata travel to America to pursue their dreams, but they encounter opposition from padroni, American schools, personal betrayal, the Mano Nera and a system that exploits the vulnerable for a quick profit.  Discover life faced by Sicilian immigrants in turn of the century New York and how Maria and Baldassare, together with their siblings, Gaetana and Domenico, overcome the obstacles dragging them down. Based on a true story, The Scent of Lemons, Part 1: A Sicilian Journey initiates the compelling saga of the Licata family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lemon Tree Press
• Release date: Jul 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201072513

Anne Licata-Solaas

Anne Licata-Solaas resides in Southern California with her husband and four children. Currently she writes fiction in English, creates Spanish readers for language learners, and teaches Spanish at Chapman University.

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Copyright © The Scent of Lemons, Part 1: A Sicilian Journey by Anne Licata-Solaas

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Julian of Norwich

Ma tutto sarà bene, e tutto sarà bene, ed ogni sorta di cosa sarà bene.

But ALL shall be well, and ALL shall be well and ALL manner of thing shall be well.

—Julian of Norwich

Each in His Own Tongue

Like tides on a crescent sea beach

When the moon is new and THEN,

Into our hearts high yearnings,

Come welling and surging in—

Come from the mystic ocean,

Whose rim no foot has trod—

Some of us call it Longing,

And others call it God.

William Herbert Carruth Each in His Own Tongue

Foreward

Between 1880 and 1920 over four million Italians immigrated to the United States. My father’s parents were two of them. This work is technically a work of fiction. I was able to retrieve a basic timeline of my grandparent’s life: birth certificates, immigration papers, marriage documents, births, moves, jobs, city directories, newspaper articles, and addresses. However, the details within this framework were left to my best speculation based on activities of Italian immigrants at the time. Please read with generosity.

Contents

Famiglia Calogero Eterno Licata

Famiglia Anonio Liotta

Famiglia Baldassare Licata

Famiglia Domenico Licata

Maria's Journey

1.Another Big Move

2.Maria’s Family

3.Baldassare Finds Work

4.Calogero Meets the Abruzzis

5.Hope for Maria

6.Rumors of the Abruzzi

7.News from America

8.Final Memories

9.Maria Leaves Sicily

10.The Trip to America

11.Steerage

12.New Orleans Arrival

13.Train Ride to New York

14.Trouble at the Abruzzis

15.Antonio's Story

16.Settling in Williamsburg

17.Community in New York

18.Baldassare Must Decide

19.Tenement Life

20.Sweatshops and Settlement Houses

21.The Licatas Flee to the New World

22.Maria Goes to School

23.The Padrone

24.Baldassare Gets Brave

25.Reacquaintance

26.Independence

27.Now or Never

28.Marriage

29.Nicolò in Camporeale

30.Troubles in Brooklyn

31.The Far West

BookClub Questions

Other works by Anne Licata- Solaas

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one

Another Big Move

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York, 1911

When Father Benedetto created the Anti-Mafia Society of Sant’Antonio, he received multiple death threats. He even received his share of Mano Nera letters. At tonight’s meeting, Father stressed to the congregation to stand boldly against evil: Whoever knows the right thing and fails to do it sins.

After the meeting, Maria Liotta and Baldassare Licata followed their neighbors through the wide wooden church entry doors of Our Lady of Pompeii Church. The conversation buzzed about how to battle the current crime wave in their neighborhood. Suddenly, a series of sharp pops rang through the air as two men rushed away from the church steps. Smoke curled as if in slow motion, and immediately, a powerful explosion shook the building. Confused parishioners scattered, some inside, some outside, but all dashed in all directions. Maria grabbed her children and dragged them back into the church, shouting to Baldassare, Find Father Benedetto.

She clasped her children tightly in fear. When Charlie wouldn’t stop wailing, she pulled him away and discovered blood splattered across his torso. She lifted his shirt, and to her horror, she saw that shrapnel must have grazed his belly. It appeared to be a surface wound, but he bled profusely. She clutched her babies tighter. She decided then and there to waste not one more day living amidst the fear and violence of New York City. She looked up to see a young mother kneeling close by, weeping, a limp toddler in her arms. When Baldassare returned with Father, he approached the young woman and, putting his ear to the child’s chest, he listened for a heartbeat. Father administered a final blessing, weeping with the child’s mother while scouring the surroundings for further signs of violence.

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Days later, the perpetrators sent a clear message to Father Benedetto: the Abruzzis were in New York and wouldn’t tolerate Father’s intervention in their business. They gave an ultimatum: either Father stop meddling, or he should expect further reprisals. No one believed that anyone, not the Mano Nera, not the amici, would dare harm a priest in his own church, least of all gentle Father Benedetto.

That night, after he turned off the bedside lamp, Baldassare turned to Maria, "This bombing has me thinking. If we want a future for our children, if we want to get away from the violence, we must leave. We either continue this vita maledetta, or we go to Wyoming. If it doesn’t work out, we can always come home. If it does work, maybe the rest of the family will follow."

Maria smiled in the dark.

"Whatever you decide, caro. You are the man of the house, and you know what is best."

She crossed herself and grabbed her rosary, as she had each day since Mario mentioned Wyoming. This time she prayed with gratitude. Her whole life, Maria had been driven by the desire to learn to read, but now, all she cared about was her children's safety. Priorities are different with children.

She thought of her dream back in Camporeale of the little white house with the fence. Maybe Wyoming was where that dream would come true, a place where they would find peace, safety, fresh air, and good schools. As she plummeted into a deep, peaceful sleep, for the first time in a long time, she dreamed of that white house, the scent of lemons pervading its tiny space.

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The next day, Baldassare applied for the job at the Union Pacific office in New York.

Welcome! Right this way!

What a change from the capi he worked for all these years. He was surprised, though skeptical, at how eager they were for him to take this job.

We will train you to be a boilermaker.

He didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded good. "Fantastico!"

As a boilermaker, you will have special training to operate heavy equipment for the railroad. You will be part of the union and learn skills no one can take from you. Your training will begin in four weeks.

He nodded. No more simple manual labor. He would now be a skilled laborer. Baldassare returned home and boasted of his assignment to his brothers. Domenico decided he would move to Cheyenne as well.

His wife Gaetana crossed her arms, Domenico, we're not rushing into anything. We must think this through. Here you have a good job. And your parents are coming soon.

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Weeks later, in June 1911, Maria Liotta would make the third great move of her life.

In a rare moment of silence, Maria stood in her vacant tenement apartment, forcing her mind to focus on the future. She felt as if she and Baldassare were floundering through a fog, but they threw their arms out and moved forward, gladly leaving New York behind for clear skies and fresh possibilities.

Separation from her family, again, was unimaginable to her. She wasn’t sure where her courage came from. She was now twenty-six years old, a married woman, a mother of two, with another on the way. Leaving her parents would be painful, and separation from her sister Gaetana and other siblings even more unbearable, yet somehow, she knew this was the right decision for her children. And for their future. Her dreams now centered on her children, and she knew this move would make those dreams achievable. Their children would never struggle to go to school, read, or communicate as she had. They would speak fluent English and use their brains instead of their hands.

Her children enjoyed a close relationship with their double cousins. Her older sister Gaetana was married to Baldassare’s brother, Domenico, and the two families cherished their special bond. She couldn’t bear to think they would no longer have each other nearby. Yet their good friends, Lucia and Mario, who were like a sister and brother to her, would accompany them to Wyoming and would certainly start a family.

Baldassare peeked his head in the door, wondering what was taking his wife so long, "Cara, we leave in ten minutes. Your parents have the children downstairs."

I’m coming. It’s just . . . so many memories here. Our children were born here, and she stroked her pregnant belly, it will be strange not to have Mamma or Gaetana to help with the delivery. Are we making the right decision?

Maria, you convinced me that this was the right choice. I have a job with the railroad, I have our train tickets in hand, and the Milazzos are preparing our home in Cheyenne. We are making the right decision. I’ll meet you downstairs.

Moving brought memories from her transatlantic journey fourteen years ago—she couldn’t believe how time flew. When she had sorted and packed their scarce belongings, she thought about how much she had changed during these years in New York: school, work, marriage, and children. La mano nera, u mafiusu, gambling, drinking, deception: all experiences here that changed her. Life in New York was nothing like life in Sicily. And she was certain that life in Wyoming would be nothing like life in New York. New York was built by Sicilians, but New York was not built for Sicilians. She had convinced Baldassare to make the move to Wyoming. And yet . . . reflecting on the past brought Maria bad memories. Very bad memories. Why did they leave Camporeale? Maria thought back, not nostalgically, but painfully, to the months leading to their departure. She remembered rising from her bed alone before sunrise, alone in the dark . . .

two

Maria’s Family

Camporeale, Sicily, 1897

She would never forget that Sunday in May fourteen years ago. Maria was twelve-years-old. After she rose, she swept away the straw and feces from the goat. She sent her six-year-old brother Giovanni to empty the night pot and put the goat to pasture. She washed her face at the dented white enamel bowl and stared at her image in the small shard of a mirror, her brown eyes glazed with anxiety, her gaunt face lined with fatigue and tension, unseemly on a child. She looked away and scraped the last of the coffee grounds from the tin to prepare a watery brew and heat pieces of leftover bread for breakfast for her and Giovanni.

She stood in the tiny kitchen, hands on her hips, her dark eyes alternating between her bedridden mamma, Francesca, and her nonno, her grandfather. It had just been the four of them living here for the last few years. Mamma and Nonno had both been sick for some time, but this weekend, neither roused at all. She had little life experience and no one to direct her. She hated to bother her sister, as thirteen-year-old Gaetana worked in service and had her own problems. Service, where Papà said they would never work. Service, attending to wealthy families meant cleaning, washing, and caring for children, but since those who worked in service lived in, they lost their life, their independence, and their dreams.

She fixated on the pale face of Nonno, his raspy breath wheezing, his forehead burning with fever. Her mamma Francesca lay near him, inert and unresponsive. Maria didn’t feel like she had a mamma. She didn't have much of a childhood. Maria didn’t mind helping, but taking over the entire household at her age was overwhelming. All she wanted was to go to school and learn to read, like Papà promised.

When her Papà, Antonio, left for America, Francesca seemed to leave them too. She no longer looked Maria in the eye, distracted with cares Maria didn’t understand. Maria looked at her again, hoping she’d wake and tell her what to do, but she continued to sleep. Maria was alone. Always alone, trying to figure out life, alone.

Maria looked with embarrassment at her layers of tattered clothing, the shift that doubled as an apron, and her bare feet. She absently tugged at the bright kerchief that pulled back her hair, pondering whom she could call for help. She could call the doctor but had no money to pay him. The signora who lived next door? What could she do? The neighbors already attempted a variety of charms and prayers on Francesca’s illness: intercession to the images of the saints, the Madonna, San Calogero, Sant’Antonio di Padova, even curative coins, wolves’ teeth, and bones of toads. Francesca’s parents lived in Castelvetrano, caring for other family members, ignorant of the gravity of their daughter’s illness. Perhaps her former teacher could help? She probably wouldn’t remember her. Maybe Father Benedetto? He always cared, even if he couldn’t do much. Yes, Father Benedetto.

She looked around the room absently. The broom leaned against the wall near the stove, where wooden vegetable crates ordered their belongings, and the galvanized bucket for the well hung next to them. Maria tried to keep their one-room home clean, but with all her responsibilities, it was impossible to keep up. The scarred hearth, with the iron pot hanging over the fire, brought the only available warmth to their home. A row of shelves held a few chipped plates and bowls and an ancient, chipped statue of the Blessed Virgin. How many times had she prayed to that Virgin? Did she listen?

A rough green curtain on a clothesline divided the room in half, separating the sleeping area from the living space and the front door. Behind the curtain lay her parents’ lopsided bed, heavy with unwashed sheets and illness, occupied by Nonno. Francesca and the children slept on the hay-stuffed mattress filling the tiny space on the raised loft behind it.

Maria picked up the empty slit-mouthed bank in which her mother had hoped to store the money Papà would send from America. Papà. Maria missed Papà. Papà made everything possible. She thought back to when she and Gaetana were young and the promise he made to send them to school.

"A great future awaits you. You will have the opportunity for the education I never had. You will learn to read like Mamma. You will hold your head high, and grocers and tax collectors will never cheat you the way they cheat me. And you will never go into service."

Maria thought with nostalgia of their first day of school. Francesca washed and starched their best clothing and tightly braided their clean, shiny hair. The girls donned their new undergarments, the one prerequisite for sending girls to school, a capricious garment at which the older generation scoffed. She and her sister Gaetana felt that world of possibilities as the teacher taught them letters and sounds.

But Antonio struggled to find work, keeping him away for days, even weeks. After baby Giovanni was born, Francesca became weak and only sporadically completed household tasks. Maria and Gaetana would arrive home from school, Francesca still in bed, the front stoop unswept, the hearth cold, the table empty, and Giovanni crying, unattended. When Antonio would come home, he shouted at Francesca about the disarray, calling her lazy. Francesca would dissolve in tears, describing the mysterious pains afflicting her. With guilt, Antonio suspected something might really be wrong with her. He scraped together a few coins to pay the druggist for what he said was a certain cure. Though Francesca remained in bed, indisposed and complaining of her pain, each night, she gathered her children before bed to read them folk stories and pray the rosary. Maria glanced at the one book they owned, Sicilian Folktales, sitting on the side table next to Francesca, covered with a thin layer of dust. It had been months, maybe years, since Francesca opened that book. Maria recognized a few letters and words but still couldn’t read.

Maria looked at Nonno. She thought back to when Nonna, Antonio’s mother, died and Nonno, Giovanni Liotta, came to live with them. Nonno was always happy. He had many friends and could always find odd jobs that brought in more money for food. Better nutrition and Nonno’s company drew Francesca out of her illness. But work slowed down. A few days of seasonal harvesting and sporadic day labor was all Antonio could find. The mafiusu gradually appropriated most small parcels of land, including their own, and all but controlled the western side of Sicily. Antonio decided this was the time for him to leave and find work in America. Nonno assured him he would care for the family until he sent money home. In 1891, Antonio scraped together the funds to make the trip to New Orleans, his ultimate goal was to reach the plentiful jobs in New York and return with enough savings to get Francesca care and to purchase back his land. Life would be good.

But after Antonio left, Francesca fell into a deeper sadness. At bedtime, Francesca neglected her children, turning her face to the wall and staring in silence at the powdery whitewash. Nonno tried to lift the spirits of the three children. When they came home from school, Nonno surprised them with a toy he whittled or a piece of candy. When Francesca stayed in bed all day, Nonno would cook one of his delicious dishes and take them for a walk or tell them stories. But one day, four years after Antonio’s departure, when the girls came home from school, the house was unusually quiet. Nonno wasn’t around. No work had been done, and Giovanni sat quietly by Francesca’s bed, gnawing on a knotted rag.

Then the girls saw him. Nonno was also in bed, feverish and wheezing. The girls panicked. They knocked at the neighbors’ doors, asking for help. The neighbors cared, but no one had food or money to spare. They spoon-fed him a bit of wine or olive oil. Gaetana and Maria even tried what Nonno called his foolproof abracadabra charm. But the triangular medal lay limp around his neck, feebly staring at them. The two young girls were frightened, not sure where to turn. They left the dream of school behind.

Six years had now passed since Antonio left. Still, no news.

Maria gathered her courage and decided to confide in Father Benedetto. He would help her. She walked out her front door, the scent of lemons from their lone tree following her down the dirt road. She marched bravely to church without a glance at her neighbors, not even as their hands slipped through the windows, emptying the contents of their chamber pots onto the narrow streets. She passed the older men who sat playing domino and the women who gossiped at the fountain with pitchers perched on their heads. She hadn’t been out much since her family became ill, but now she crossed the plaza with confidence and climbed the steps into the dark interior.

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In the Sant’Antonio Church, Father Benedetto limped to the podium, adjusted his steel-rimmed glasses, and turned to the readings for the day. Maria, with her tidy black braids and raggedy pinafore, entered the sanctuary and crossed herself with holy water. She genuflected and sat, staring straight ahead, her dark features betraying her troubles. Father Benedetto made eye contact and gave her a slight smile.

Maria cast her sights over the congregation, which was sharply divided between the gay kerchiefs and black coats of the contadini, peasants, who sat near the back, and the light suits and slick new boots of the upper class. The wealthy women wore newly fashioned dresses with matching hats, sitting in their customary rented pew in the front. They attended Mass each morning, their daughters, with intricate hairstyles, sitting primly in their freshly pressed dresses. The Abruzzis, presenting a bella figura to the congregation, sat in the front pew. Her gaze continued to the Licata family, whose papà was in town. The Licatas had so many brothers!

The church, which traditionally held the community together in small towns like Camporeale, was now losing traction in society. Parish priests like Father Salvatore had always supported the aristocracy, and many new priests sold out to the mafiusu due to fear or desire for power. Maria knew Father Salvatore organized his parish obligations around the sons of the moneyed class. Despite his limited intelligence, he offered them Latin lessons and stayed after to enjoy a lavish supper of heavy food and rich wine.

Father Benedetto, however, attended to the parish poor and avoided the wealthy who controlled the priests in their search for absolution. Father respected his orders of poverty, chastity, and obedience, though he constantly fought his pride, realizing his ego was just as bad as Father Salvatore’s greed. When Father Benedetto first came to Camporeale, Francesca and Antonio welcomed him. He seemed so alone, so humble, so different from the other priests. They invited him to a simple dinner, making him feel at home. In the beginning, they enjoyed a special relationship. With Antonio leaving, Francesca’s illness, and Father’s parish duties, he hadn’t visited in quite some time. Did Father Benedetto know how sick Francesca became after Antonio left for America?

Father Benedetto read a passage about Jesus identifying with those who suffer. When one oppresses the poor, he oppresses Jesus. When one serves the poor, he serves Jesus. After reading Matthew 25, he concluded, God closely identifies his heart with those who suffer. Any action against the poor and lonely is an action against Him.

Maria pondered his words. Though he frequently preached words like these, this time, they pierced her heart. Tears pooled in her eyes and spilled onto her cheeks. She wiped her nose with her sleeve. After Mass, Maria waited patiently as Father stood at the back door, shaking hands with the parishioners as they exited. Finally, he was alone, and she approached him.

"Buon giorno, Maria. What is troubling you?"

Father, I’m sorry to bother you, she looked down, her hands trembling. Mamma and Nonno are so sick they can’t get out of bed, and Nonno has been burning with fever for days. I know they need a doctor, but we don’t have money, her voice broke. I’m afraid. Gaetana is away working, and I don’t know what to do. Her words mixed with sobs, pouring out the tension she’d held inside.

Father Benedetto embraced her tightly and guided her toward her home. Maria, I thought your mamma was improving. Let's go right away. Just a moment . . . He ducked into the rectory quickly and emerged with a basket of sandwiches. Glancing behind him, he put his finger to his lips, The cook will make more. Let’s go.

Maria felt relief as Father Benedetto took her hand and walked her home. She cringed with shame as the laundry she washed yesterday still hung out front, the stoop unswept and dirty. Her brother Giovanni and other neighbor boys were playing the new game, calcio, soccer, with a wad of rags made into a ball. Their torn clothes hung on their thin bodies, their faces smeared with dust and sweat.

Giovanni, did you finish your chores? she asked with impatience, not waiting for his answer.

Yes. Mamma made me go outside! he complained, his forehead perspiring in the heat.

Mamma’s awake? Maria asked with expectation.

When they crossed the threshold, her hope deflated. The room was dark. Francesca was in tears, holding Nonno’s head in her arms, his mouth slack, his hair matted, his face pale. Maria approached the bed, looking at Francesca in fear, her lips quivering.

He’s gone, Francesca explained.

What do you mean he’s gone? Maria panicked, closing her eyes to the image of Nonno before her.

Let me take care of him, Father Benedetto placed the basket of sandwiches on the table and gently pried Francesca’s hands from his lifeless body. Father Benedetto gave Nonno his final anointing and closed his eyes.

"Tutto sarà bene. All shall be well," he whispered.

Francesca drew Maria to her on the bed and embraced her. She recoiled in horror as Francesca began a loud lament, a call to the neighbors. Sicilian women turn into furies in their grief, and Maria dreaded when the neighbors would come and pounce on Nonno’s body, strip him naked, wash him, and dress him in his marriage suit before his body even stiffened. They would begin their ritual of mourning, crying and wailing, tearing their veils, scratching their skin, and beating their heads against the wall with sobs and moans.

Maria stared at Nonno in disbelief. A lock of hair covered his pale forehead, Maria's sole thought was to remove it from his eyes. The eyes that no longer could see. Maria knew exactly what this would mean for her.

three

Baldassare Finds Work

Camporeale, Sicily, 1897

That day in Williamsburg, New York, as Maria reflected back on her life, Baldassare’s mind also traveled home to memories of his hometown, Camporeale. It was hard to believe he was the same person that met Maria when they both worked at the Abruzzi home. He winced, thinking back to when he fled to America; he swore he’d never pronounce the Abruzzi name again. He never wanted to relive those harrowing days, but strangely, uprooting his life here in New York placed his mind squarely back at the Abruzzi estate. How excited he had been, fourteen years ago, only twenty years old, when he and his brother Domenico nervously approached the sprawling Abruzzi mansion for the first time, hoping to initiate a chapter of prosperity and stable work for their family, not knowing what to expect, but willing to take the risk. He’d heard rumors about Abruzzi's involvement with the amici . But he and his brothers decided to give the job a chance if it meant their papà Calogero could return home from working in Palermo. It all started that crucial day . . .

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A visitor who changed their fate forever knocked at the Licata’s front door, shouting, in a deep guttural voice, Licata!

Baldassare and Calò, were returning home after sending off their papà, Calogero, back to Palermo after his monthly visit. They rushed to see what the visitor wanted. The elegant young stranger, wearing the hat of the gentleman class, leaned on a slender cane, confident and arrogant, in front of their home on Via Pollari. Their mamma, Vita, opened the door, baby Nicolò balanced on her hip. Nicolò’s eyes shone as he reached toward the handsome stranger, who regarded him with narrowed eyes. In his modern cut suit, expensive shoes, and slicked-back hair, the stranger took the liberty to reach out to Nicolò and slip him his last slice of orange. Little Nicolò clapped his hands in delight at the unexpected sweetness of the fruit.

Baldassare stepped forward, inquiring, "How may I help you, Voscenza, your excellency?"

My name is Don Romano Abruzzi. I want to speak with Calogero Licata.

I am Calogero! Calò, the son, stepped toward the stranger. Baldassare’s brother Domenico, curious, joined the group behind Vita.

I was expecting someone a bit more . . . mature, Don Romano explained, frowning, scrutinizing Calò.

Baldassare interrupted, moving Calò aside. You must be looking for Papà. He’s already on the road back to Palermo.

Observing the decaying exterior of their home, the stranger turned and studied Baldassare, stating, I am the son of Luciana Abruzzi. She met your father last Friday on the road home from Palermo. She sent me to offer your father, Calogero, a work proposal.

He explained that his father, Don Osvaldo Abruzzi, employed Calogero’s brother Leonardo and was impressed with Leonardo’s work ethic. Donna Luciana saw the same shrewdness in Calogero and needed someone to help on the family estate.

Of course he will! interjected Calò. When would he begin?

Wait a minute! cautioned Baldassare, What kind of work? What’s the pay?

Vita interjected, "Che vergogna figlio! How shameful! Don’t speak about money! Scusate, signore."

Baldassare jutted out his chin and looked at his mother, Mamma, I’ll handle this!

Don Romano pulled the unlit cigar from his mouth and continued, I need to speak to Calogero in private about the details. When will he be home?

Baldassare replied, Not until the end of the month.

Calò intervened, I’ll take the job. I’m smart, and I learn fast!

Three of us here can work, Domenico added.

Don Romano screwed his eyes, sizing up the brothers. Gesturing toward Baldassare, the most astute of the three, he stated, You. Come by first thing tomorrow morning. The Abruzzi estate, just outside of town. Be punctual. If there’s anything she hates, it’s waiting.

He spun on his heel and left without a reply. Another brother, Leonardo, rounding the corner, stared hard at Don Romano as he passed.

"What was he doing here?"

He offered us work, Calò responded.

"You can't work for them! They are amici. They will only bring us trouble," Leonardo warned.

We don’t know that for sure. That’s gossip. This might be our golden opportunity to bring Papà home. He said they need help on their estate,