“Be right there, papà!” I call in Italian.
I shove the shoebox into the back of the closet and cover it with an umbrella and a stray scarf that I first run over my face and lips to remove any traces of makeup. With my hat hung and my purse in place, I check to make sure the business card is still hidden in my waistband. Then I smooth my hair and walk into the kitchen in my muddy shoes.
“No late shift tonight?” he asks with a sarcastic bite.
He knows. I don’t know what exactly he’s found out, but he’s uncovered at least one of my lies.
“Not tonight, papà.” I remove the green-and-white apron from its hook next to the icebox and tie it in a tidy bow around my waist. The chicken in the icebox should still be good, and we have tomatoes and basil from Aria’s garden.
I take out the chicken. One breast remains, and if I hammer it thin and add lots of bread crumbs, it can serve all three of us. A loaf of bread from Marco, the chef at the POW mess hall, is in the breadbox, borderline stale, but it will make a nice bruschetta.
I know a confrontation is coming, but food calms papà. It’s not just the food—it’s seeing me working in the kitchen like mamma and his own mother, perhaps reminding him of another simpler time. Plus, I’d rather have my back to him when he’s angry; then I don’t have to see his anger, and he can’t see my fear.
“Viviana, do you think me a fool?” he asks, sounding mournful rather than ferocious.
“No, papà,” I say innocently, lining up the ingredients and washing my hands.
“You think I don’t see you paid your mamma’s bill? And the rent. And my doctor. And the grocer?” He hits the table, building up to a crescendo.
“I have a job now, papà. You know that.”
“Being a secretary doesn’t pay so well. I know this. I’m not the idiot my daughters take me for.”
It’s the job. He knows I don’t work for Mr. Miller’s company. Papà, notoriously suspicious of the phone, has been isolated for going on six months between his injury, surgery, and the lingering infection. But nothing stays a secret for long in a small town.
But does he know where the money is coming from? How could he? Unless . . .
“Where’s Aria, papà?”
“She’s watching Mrs. Brown’s baby. The other one, the boy, broke his arm,” he says like it’s no consequence. I find the explanation comforting even if the news isn’t exactly good.
“Timmy? Oh no.”
“He’ll be fine. Boys fall all the time at that age. Not so delicate as girls.” He pauses, and I wonder if he’s thinking of Tony and all the things he missed. “When Mrs. Brown came to fetch Aria, she and I spoke.”
I use a small knife to cut the stem out of a tomato. The fresh and sweetly acidic aroma has a palliative effect that keeps my dread from rising to a point of crisis. I say nothing, knowing it’s better to let my father continue without interrupting.
“She told me she saw you last Friday night arguing with a military man in front of her house. Thought about calling the police. She asked if I knew the man, and I had no answers for her.”
My grip tightens around the knife. Tom. I knew someone would hear him, and of course it had to be Mrs. Brown—the street busybody. I grab another tomato and remove the stem, letting my father see me as calm and reserved and giving me some time to figure out what to say.
He continues talking, and I keep chopping.
“She said you sing and dance with men for money at the USO. Her father’s mechanic plays a trumpet or some such thing and told her about you. At first, I thought she must be mistaken. But then I think of all the bills you pay. All your time away. And I wonder if it’s true. So, I call Cummins engine company and ask for Mr. Irwin Miller. Ask if you are a good worker, and you know what he tells me?”
I dump the second tomato into the bowl and start peeling the paper-thin skin off three cloves of garlic, imagining my father shouting broken English into the receiver. My hands are shaking so badly now that I lose my grip.
“He says you don’t work there. Haven’t ever worked there.” Another crack against the table and then a scrape of metal against linoleum tile. “So, I ask again,” he says, his voice strained, panting. “Do you think me a fool?” A clunk and a scrape followed by his thick, reddened hand on the counter beside me. “Because you make me look like one.”
I put the knife down and step to the sink to get some space from my father. It’s all happening too fast, and I haven’t come up with a plan. I take out a large serrated knife and start slicing the bread.
“Like this bread,” he says, yanking the loaf out of my grip and shaking it in front of my face as I clench all my muscles tightly and close my eyes to his aggression. “Where did you get it? Never before have I seen such bread in the house since your mamma grew sick. My daughters don’t make such things. Last week—sweet rolls. Where do you get such things? Where do you go during your days?”
I don’t answer, holding my breath when I smell the scent of alcohol as he speaks. My father isn’t an angry drunk, but that’s only because he’s angry whether he’s sober or sloshed. But when he indulges, he gets louder and forgets the pain in his leg, which makes him more mobile.
Usually, I’d calm him with platitudes or food or a funny story. But that won’t work today. This is what I imagine Judgment Day must be like—being faced with all your sins and unable to deny them.
“Viviana—” he starts, eyes narrowed and his voice dripping anger. But it’s a quiet anger this time. “Are you a mantenuta?”
I nearly laugh at his accusation despite my intense worries. A kept woman? He thinks I’m a mistress. Perhaps a prostitute who sleeps with men for money and favor. The Old World shows in him once again. He’s unable to grasp that a woman can make a livable wage in a respectful manner, so he makes sense of it the only way he knows how.
“Oh, papà, no.” Forced to face him now, I turn around, holding the knife across my chest like a sword. His face is red with rage and also from what looks to be a nearly empty bottle of Grappa Stravecchia I spot on the table. He must have been keeping it hidden somewhere in the house.
“Then what, Viviana?” He hits the bread on the counter with a heavy thunk. “What?” He hits it again. “What?” One final slam breaks the bread in half. My heart races. I know better than to cry. It’ll just make him angrier.
“Sit, papà. I’ll bring you wine and some bruschetta—”
“No playing your female games with me, passerotta,” he says, calling me my pet name. He hasn’t called me his sparrow since mamma left.