William nodded. He knew Sylvie was thinking of Julia; she often was. She wrote about her sister in the middle of the night; a spotlight shone on Julia in every memory she put on the page. Sylvie cared about her older sister as much as she ever had, and if she could save Julia from more pain, she would.
Kent studied them from across the table. He’d picked William up at the Northwestern gym before dinner, and the two friends had shot baskets for old times’ sake. They’d shown Nicole the laundry room in the sub-basement where they worked throughout college. Sareka had already gone home for the day, so Nicole couldn’t meet her. When the weather was nice, William sometimes ate lunch with Sareka on a bench in the quad. She told him about her three kids, and he told her everything he’d been through. She listened carefully, her head tilted toward him. Like Cecelia, Sareka clearly appreciated getting to know him after all this time. William felt sorry for his younger self again, because he had missed out on real friendships like hers. He remembered how he used to try to get out of every conversation as quickly as possible so Sareka wouldn’t have a chance to realize he was barely holding himself together. Now he told her all the ways in which he had been broken, and she told him about her husband’s unemployment and how her middle son had the most beautiful singing voice she’d ever heard.
“Are you trying to hide your love, by not making it official?” Kent addressed Sylvie. He was still the self-appointed watchperson for William’s mental health.
She took a sip of her margarita. “I don’t think so. We just don’t need that label or certificate. And I don’t want to do anything more that might hurt anyone.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Nicole said. “But I feel like you forget the fact that William and Julia had already broken up when you got together, so technically you didn’t do anything wrong. You chose honesty, which was brave. And you chose to be happy, instead of heartbroken and miserable.” She paused and gave them her clinical gaze. “You two are adorable, the way you light each other up. I bet you never fight. Kent and I fight all the time.” She smiled when she said this. “We’re feisty, but you two are always gentle with each other.”
This hadn’t occurred to William, but it was true that he and Sylvie had never fought, never even come close. Every morning, they ate breakfast together: toast and eggs that Sylvie cooked. Then they both went to work and were grateful to see each other at the end of the day. Sometimes they slow-danced in the kitchen to a song that was on the radio. On garbage nights, Sylvie showed William all the treasures that people left on their curbs. He loved how excited she got when she found a brand-new toaster or a pair of sneakers in Izzy’s size. What in the world would they fight about? Who takes out the garbage? Or how much money one of them spent at the grocery store?
“You should get married,” Kent said. “Everything you went through to be here…deserves to be celebrated.”
“We’ll do whatever Sylvie wants,” William said.
“How about this,” Sylvie said, with a smile. “We’ll get married after you do.”
“Careful,” William said. He eyed his friend, who had already cracked a wide grin. “Kent’s competitive. He’ll go to the justice of the peace tomorrow morning, because he’ll see that as winning.”
* * *
—
MOST SUNDAYS, SYLVIE READ, and William studied for his classes. Sometimes he studied with Emeline, who still had a year of college classes left. “I do want my degree,” she would say, when she was exhausted from working full-time while attending classes at night. “It’s important for the daycare, but I know I’m really just doing this for Mama, even though she doesn’t talk to me anymore.” Her sisters would hug her tightly in response, because they understood completely and knew there were no words that could help. When Emeline did eventually graduate, they would bake a three-layer chocolate cake—her favorite—and shower her with confetti.
Late on Sunday afternoons, William and Sylvie went for a walk. No matter what route they took, they made sure to pass Cecelia’s murals. Pilsen had been known for colorful murals since the 1960s, but a local arts commission had set about cleaning the old murals and hiring more artists to create new ones in the past few years. Nearly every corner featured a three-story depiction of Martin Luther King, Jr., or Frida Kahlo, or a painted quote from the Bible. Whenever Cecelia finished a new mural, Sylvie and William attended the unveiling, which usually consisted of a cluster of people standing on the sidewalk and a sheet being dropped from the top of the building to the ground below. There would be photos of the mural in the local paper the next day. When Cecelia was allowed to paint whatever she liked, she painted women’s faces. The painted women—some tucked into the corner of a wall, others spanning a full three stories—looked fierce and beautiful. Sylvie laughed at each unveiling, because William always said the same thing: “She looks like you and your sisters.” Sylvie would tip her head back to study the woman’s face. “They can’t all look like us, William. We don’t look anything like this fifteenth-century saint.” William shrugged, because he disagreed. He saw all four Padavano sisters staring down from numerous walls in the neighborhood and remembered the sisters showing up at his college basketball game, turning their collective gaze on him.
* * *
—
WILLIAM BEGAN TO FIGURE out how he could be more effective at work. His understanding of the physiology of the athletes was better informed now, and he was able to diagnose injuries and vulnerabilities with accuracy. He developed a program in which he interviewed the Northwestern players three times per season—at the beginning, middle, and end. He created a list of questions to find out their injury history and whether they were confident or floundering. He wanted to know where the ice was weakest beneath their feet so he could keep them from falling through. He shared the information he gathered with the coaches, and they all worked to address the needs of each student at this particular moment in his life. They built up the player’s physical weak points and tried to build the player up mentally too.
“I knew how to be good to the players after they graduated,” Arash said, once they’d finished the first season of the program, “following up and lending a hand if I could. But you built us an infrastructure of kindness.” The results had been positive and almost immediate. After several years with a losing record, Northwestern had climbed to the middle of the table in their conference—considered by all to be a big step forward—and William was able to lie down next to Sylvie at night awash in gratitude for his life.