Aria and I only spent a week in the pretty white bed before mamma was put away. Papà traded beds with us, saying his was too big without mamma there.
“There’re some changes we can’t stop, Ari. You’ll blossom soon enough, whether you like it or not.” I push her hair back, wild and unbrushed from her afternoon outdoors. I see the walls of the prison our parents have created for Aria more clearly than I see the walls of my own, I’m sure, but I wish she’d pound on those barriers, test them occasionally.
“You be a flower, and I’ll be a carrot. How about that?” Ari asks, giggling.
“With this hair, you sometimes look like the top of a carrot. Heavens!” I grab my horsehair brush and pull it through her tangled strands, finding two sticks, a blade of grass, and one unidentified bug that makes us both squeal.
By the time the doorbell buzzes, Aria is smiling again. She puts her hand on my cheek.
“Back at ten?” she asks like I’m her mother leaving for a glamorous night out.
“Back at ten.” I kiss her cheek before putting on a quick coat of red lipstick, knowing papà won’t say anything to cause a scene in front of Tom. I blot the color with a tissue, pin on my hat, then buckle the shoes Tom gave me, check my teeth for any stray smudges of lip color, and then pose for my sister.
“He’s gonna fall in love with you,” she says loud enough that Tom could possibly have heard.
“Aria!” I gasp, and toss a tissue across the room.
“What? Who doesn’t fall in love with you?” She laughs and rolls off the side of the bed onto her feet. “Now, get out there before papà takes out his pistol.”
“Oh, heavens. Don’t even joke.”
I blow Aria another kiss and rush out to the front room where papà stands, leaning on his cane, and Tom sits on the floral love seat. I know papà must be in immense pain standing upright, but I also know he’s showing his strong presence to the young soldier, letting him know that Anthony Santini is not to be messed with.
“I’ve been with the Eighty-Third Infantry since August last year.” Tom points to the black inverted triangle on his shoulder and then to the other patch with stripes and an embroidered T, signifying “technician fifth grade.”
“è a Camp Atterbury da agosto, papà,” I translate, surprising both men with my interruption. “Tecnico di quinto livello.”
My father has no way of knowing what any of this means.
“What does this even mean? Technician? I don’t care,” he says in Italian, and makes a face like he’s tasted something sour, which Tom misses as he rises and greets me with a small wave. He holds a bouquet of flowers and smells of a rich aftershave. After a quick search of his eyes and the color of his cheeks, I’m relieved to see he’s sober.
Papà continues his line of questioning with me. “What matters more is what does he do when he doesn’t have a rifle in his hands?”
“Tom, this is my father, Anthony Santini. Papà, Corporal Tom Highward,” I say in English without acknowledging my father’s question. I’m sure papà performed his own introduction while I wasn’t in the room, but I can’t rely on his version of hospitality in this situation.
“So nice to meet you officially, Mr. Santini.” Tom extends his hand, which papà looks at with disdain for a moment before asking in broken English, “Where you from?”
“Papà, sii gentile.” Papà, be nice.
“No, Viv, it’s okay.” Tom drops his hand and chuckles like he’s entertained. I don’t interrupt again, also curious after my conversation with Lilly and Sue the other day.
“From? Pittsburg, Pennsylvania.”
My eyebrows rise; one detail matches the outrageous story Lilly told.
“East Coast?” Papà asks, keeping up well enough with the conversation.
“Yes, sir. East Coast.”
“You job? Not this.” He gestures to Tom’s uniform, and I wonder if he understands.
“He wants to know what job you had before the army,” I say in a low whisper, similar to how I translate in meetings with Gammell.
“Sa cosa sto dicendo. Lascia che quest’uomo parli,” papà orders. He knows what I’m saying. Let the man speak.
“Scusa, papà,” I say, my cheeks hot.
“I think I get the drift,” Tom reassures me, and then hands me the bouquet of roses with baby’s breath wedged between the large fragrant blossoms. “By the way, hi.”
“Hi,” I say, taking the flowers with a restrained smile. Papà stamps his cane to get Tom’s attention.
“My apologies, sir. Yes. I have a job back home, but I’m also going to school. Law school.” He speaks slowly, which makes it easier to continue listening as I take the flowers into the kitchen to put them in a vase.
“Law school? For policeman?” Papà asks, and I understand the confusion. I return to the front room and position myself between the two men in case I’m needed.
“Lawyer? Attorney?” Tom explains.
“Ah—avvocato?” Papà asks to confirm.
“Yes, papà. Avvocato.”
“Ah-ha,” he says, proud of himself for figuring it out on his own. “This is good job, no? Your father—is he also a—” He gestures at me to help.
“Lawyer?”
“Si. Lawyer.”
Tom, hands behind his back now, shakes his head. “No, he’s more of a . . . businessman.”
“Business is good. And you—Italiano?” he asks like it’s the last item to check off his wish list. I can see his sense of humor shining through, but I’m not sure Tom picks up on it.
“Italiano?”
Papà gives me the look, and I fill in again. “He wants to know if you’re Italian.”
“Ha. Sorry, no.” He addresses papà. “My father’s from Ohio? Does that help?”
“Eh?” Papà says, clearly having no idea what nationality this “Ohio” would fall under.
“It’s fine. He was joking. He knows you’re not Italian,” I clarify to Tom, even though I know it was only partially in jest, and then turn to my father.
“Papà, Tom e io dobbiamo andare presto,” I say, letting him know we need to leave soon. I’ve done my due diligence as a good daughter. Tom’s been far more impressive than I’d expected, and it’s better to cut our losses now and leave before something starts to unravel.
“Okay okay okay,” he says in English but so rapidly it sounds like he made up a new word. “Home by ten,” he says to Tom, pointing at him with his crooked left index finger.
“Yes, sir,” he says like a good soldier. He turns to grab his hat off the love seat, and papà whispers to me in Italian.
“What is on your mouth? You look like a street walker.”
In the haze of the interrogation and distracted by Tom, I forgot about the lipstick.
“Sorry, papà . . . I . . .”
“Excuse me, sir,” Tom interjects, and papà turns away from the blazing red paint on my lips. “I almost forgot. My uncle sent this last month from Cuba. I thought you might like them.”
Tom gives him a paper-covered box that papà hands over to me, leaning into his cane, which tells me he’s tiring quickly. That’s likely why he’s not pushing back harder on my lipstick or interrogating Tom about his intentions. I open the hinged cover, revealing stacked rows of rolled cigars; the earthy smell fills my nose. It hits papà a moment later, and he grunts.