“Stai bene?” Are you all right? one asks.
“Sei ferita?” Are you hurt? the other inquires as they crowd around me. I hold my wrist and nod my head.
“Sto bene,” I say, insisting I’m fine. Tom is storming up the stage stairs, and I don’t want them to get hurt, so I urge them away once they’ve helped me to my feet.
“We’re leaving,” Tom says, grabbing the same arm I hurt in my fall. I wince.
“I can’t leave. I have work to do.” The room is a disaster, and after the abrupt and premature ending to the dance, the trembling girls lined up along the back wall need to be reassured before they’re sent home. Then another realization rushes in. “Besides, aren’t you on duty?”
Tom growls, and his brow furrows as he pulls me off the stage and down the stairs. He drags me toward the side exit through the locker rooms.
“That’s none of your goddamn business. Just because they let you run things over there at the summer camp doesn’t mean you get to question my assignments.”
I open my mouth to voice my suspicions that this has nothing to do with “orders” and has more to do with bitter feelings that’ve been brewing for some time, but this isn’t the time or place for a domestic dispute.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly, hoping to calm him.
We push into the boys’ locker room, and a heavy scent of sweat and mold assaults my senses. Tom pulls at me, and a stab of pain in my left arm shoots all the way up to my shoulder.
“Baby, you’re hurting me,” I whimper.
“I’m hurting you?” he asks, stopping for a moment, his question imbued with sarcasm. I can see pain mixed with the anger in his eyes. “I told you what I thought about this mockery, and you came anyway. Don’t you think that hurt me?”
My fear is rising.
I’ve seen papà get angry, but never uncontrollably. And I know how to calm papà—an apology, a nice meal, a refill on his drink. But Tom—I know so little of my husband. I don’t know the rule book for his anger yet, how to manage it or avoid it. I wonder if all men are like this, bombs waiting to go off if handled improperly. I ignore my own pain and instead work to defuse the situation.
“I didn’t think about . . . It was an assignment . . . from work. Lieutenant Colonel Gammell . . .”
“I don’t care what Gammell told you—I’m your husband. You listen to me now,” he orders, and then holds up my already swelling left hand. “Where’s your ring? Clearly you don’t need the one I ordered after all. Do you want to look like you don’t have a husband? You know what they call women who get paid to entertain men, don’t you?”
“Tom, you know it’s not like that. Papà doesn’t know yet, so I took off my ring . . .”
“You have an excuse for everything, don’t you?” He sighs like I’m the biggest idiot he’s ever run across. His eyes are sunken as though he’s been drinking, and he looks like he’s about to cry. “I thought I was in love with you, Vivian, but you’re a little whore, aren’t you?”
The word “whore” hurts more than anything he has done to me physically.
“Excuse me, signorina. Are you all right?” A heavily accented voice bounces off the walls of the locker room, and I recognize it immediately. Trombello.
“What the hell? This guy?” Tom says under his breath, and then speaks directly to Trombello, who stands by the swinging locker-room door. “She’s fine. You’d better get outta here, or you’ll be in for a lot of trouble, Padre.”
“Miss Snow. They call your name. Come to see.” He’s working hard to find the right words in English. I know what he’s trying to say, but Tom is irritated and confused.
“Can’t you see my wife and I are having a conversation? Get the hell out, or I’ll make you get out.”
“I not leave fino a che Miss Snow leave too.” Trombello’s fists are clenched at his sides, and the veins in his neck bulge. He’s always seemed a peaceful man, but now I see Antonio Trombello isn’t inherently passive or wary of conflict. He’s a man with strong ideals who chooses to contain his antagonistic instincts. But the aggression remains beneath the restraint, and it seems Trombello knows exactly how to release it when he needs to.
Tom lets go of my arm and steps toward Trombello. Reaching into his pocket, he withdraws a small rectangular object that flips open into a blade.
“I told you to mind your own business and get out of here, you greasy fascist dago.” I flinch at the nasty slur as though he said it about me as well as Trombello.
“Signorina. You go now?” Trombello asks without acknowledging Tom or his weapon.
“Hey, don’t you talk to my wife, you hear me?” Tom says, holding the knife up threateningly.
“I’m all right, Padre. You can go.” I urge him to leave with a trembling voice, hoping to save him from injury and save my husband from doing something I know he’ll regret when the heat of passion has worn off.
“Non è sicuro.” It’s not safe, he warns in Italian this time. “Per favore vieni con me.” Please come with me.
“Hey, hey! No. None of that.” Tom slashes at the air between them. “I get it. You have a little crush. You’re a priest, but I’m sure your little dick still works.” He gestures with the blade. “But she’s my wife, okay? Get the hell out of here, or I swear to God I’ll cut your throat.”
“Tom . . . ,” I start to reason, but he stops me, yelling loud enough that his reverberating voice feels like it will burst my eardrums.
“Shut up, Vivian. Shut the fuck up!” He waves the knife at me now, hurrying over to where I’m standing, holding my damaged wrist. I stiffen as he presses the knife against my throat.
“I’m sorry, Tom. I’m sorry,” I repeat over and over, but it doesn’t work. It doesn’t turn off his rage. The knife starts to dig into the delicate skin on the side of my neck when a loud thump and an audible “oof” send Tom reeling away.
Trombello stands behind him with a bat in his hands. He drops the makeshift weapon and takes my hand.
“Correre!” Run!
Tom writhes on the floor, the wind knocked out of him but seemingly fine otherwise. I take Trombello’s hand and rush for the door to the gym, but we don’t get far. Tom catches his breath and regains his footing. Using one of the wooden benches as a booster, he leaps across the tiled floor and tackles Trombello, who falls to the ground still holding my hand. I trip, and our hands break apart. Tom lands a blow on the side of Trombello’s head, and I scream, thinking he’s still holding the knife. But his hands appear empty.
Tom pins Trombello to the ground with both knees on his chest. The priest twists from side to side, trying to free himself but unable to budge an inch.