The Dawsons

Chapter 2 - Morte

Sicily; January 1950

In Catania, not that far from Calatabiano lived a young, poor married couple named Domenico and Lucia Dawson. They had three beautiful children. Their eldest, who was four, was named Derrick; Teresa was two years old; and they named their newborn son Francesco.

The Dawsons were on a holiday with their entire family, camping on a high hill on the the far eastern border, in Catania. For the Dawsons, the trip was a family tradition that went back centuries. They camped in the same place at the same time every year.

The large Dawson family sat by a hefty campfire holding bowls of soup, which half of the women had cooked. The other half would clean up when everyone was done. Domenico's grandfather, Francesco, stood and positioned himself in a spot where he could face his family. He looked into the eyes of every Dawson there before he began his usual speech.

"Here we go." Domenico groaned, rolling his dark, liquid blue eyes.

Lucia smiled up at him.

Their children were spread across their parents' laps.

"I heard that," Nonno Francesco stated, shaking his sturdy index finger, and most of the family giggled behind their hands.

Domenico grinned mischievously at Nonno Francesco's sea-blue glare.

"Leave your grandfather alone," warned Domenico's father, Carlo, who was seated on the other side of his son holding a bowl of soup in his hands.

"Yeah, Domenico, you'd better be a good boy this year, or you might get a spankin'," a cousin around the fire mocked playfully.

"Shut up, Mario," Domenico shot back.

"All right, all right. Calm down." Nonno Francesco spoke softly. When he had everyone's attention, he continued. "Now, I know you boys all like to get up to mischief, especially you young ones, though Domenico never ceases to surprise me." Nonno Francesco lowered his brow and smiled at his grandson as he proudly high fived Mario. Mario's wife, Trella, who was seated next to him, rolled her eyes. Nonno Francesco spoke again, raising his voice. "This year, I don't want any trouble. We almost lost our rights to this place because of the fire that occurred last year."

"Zio, I told you that was an accident," a young boy named Franco, around eighteen interrupted.

"I haven't forgotten, Franco," Nonno Francesco reassured him, crossing his dark muscular arms. "Where was I? Oh yes, no trouble-"

"Yeah right. We're Dawsons, Papa. That's going to be a bit hard," Nonno Francesco's daughter, Melissa, cut in.

"Don't be silly, Missy,"

"I'm not being, silly," Melissa muttered under her breath.

"Of course not, baby," Melissa's husband/third cousin, Luca, said wrapping his arm around her thin waist and feeling her strawberry blonde curls brush his arm.

"If I get one more interruption, the interrupter will be sent to bed early-"

"Oh come on. That's not fair." Franco frowned.

"Bed," Nonno Francesco said crossly, pointing his finger in the direction of the boy's tent.

"Are you for real?" Franco gaped.

"You heard your uncle. Move along," Franco's mother, Marcella, ordered, lifting him off the ground. Franco kicked the ground angrily and stormed off.

"Sucked in," Franco's brother called out.

"Jake!" Marcella growled.

"What? He'll get over it."