The Burning Side(6)

Billy appears on the front porch and hollers. “You planning to sit out there all night?”

I chuckle and turn the car off.

Inside, it smells delicious, as Deb’s cooking always does. The Russos don’t entertain, they welcome. There’s always jazz on the stereo and just enough clutter to make it comfortable: bicycles propped on kickstands outside, board games on tables, shoes kicked off willy-nilly, tubes of toothpaste on bathroom counters. But beds are tidy and appliances sparkle, and—though it took me a minute to acclimate to the square footage—I admire their pride of place. Even a slight rip in a throw pillow receives a proper patch.

“Come in, come in!” Deb sets a lid on the Dutch oven. “Cameron has a scrimmage tonight, but he said to tell you hi.”

I set a bottle of chardonnay on the counter. “Sorry to miss him.” I uncork the wine. When I look up, both of my girlfriend’s parents are grinning. They know exactly why I’m here.

We take our seats at their antique trestle table that is set with three steaming bowls of tortellini soup, and I take a deep breath. “So…” I clear my throat. If I’m this nervous now, I can hardly imagine asking April. They nod as if to say, You can do this.

“I’m wondering if I might get your blessing to ask April to marry me.”

Their smiles could downright break their faces. Billy says jovially, “Absolutely you can.” William Russo is not a pull-out-my-shotgun type. He’s a dentist who fixes smiles with his hands, wins them with his humor, and sustains them with his loyal care. He wants people to be happy, and with me, he says, his daughter is the happiest she’s ever been. He stands and pulls me up for a hug. He smells like spearmint. I turn to hug Deb, who is almost a foot shorter than I am but has a grip to confute it. She looks up at me, beaming. “We just love you two together.”

When we all sit back down, my pulse slows to normal speed. I show them the simple solitaire ring, not letting on how much it drained my savings. Deb fawns over it. If April says yes, she will be the first of the Russo kids to get engaged. After a few bites of soup, I joke that the only reason I’m proposing is for a lifetime guarantee of Deb’s food. As their chuckles fade, Billy asks more seriously, “Is there anything you need?”

I frown and look between them, trying to decode. Their warm faces are so much like April’s. I clear my throat. “Um, what do you mean?” This must be a test, their way of telling me that I lack something necessary to deserve their daughter. It’s no secret that I come from nothing.

But Deb sops her soup with a piece of bread and says, “It’s just something we ask our kids when they do something big. We want you all to have what you need.” A wave of slate-gray hair falls in front of her face, and she tucks it behind her ear.

Our kids. I replay her words. We want you all to have what you need. I can’t remember the last time a parent was concerned about what I need.

“Thank you.” I inhale. “Actually, there is one thing.”

I dab my mouth with a napkin, and I confess that I want to bring April home to a modest house of our own—and that I’m about five thousand dollars short of a down payment. I ask them to consider a loan, something I had considered doing, but not tonight. I tell them to think about it, of course. Zero pressure, of course. My heart races again: I’ve never asked anyone for money. Will it just serve as a reminder that I’m from a different tax bracket?

But Billy grins. “We were actually planning to bring this up. It can be hard starting out.” The two of them squeeze hands conspiratorially. “We want to cover that gap as a wedding gift.”

“I—um—” I look into my empty bowl. “Wow. Thank you.”

I’ve never known anyone like Deb and Billy. Never.

And with them, I don’t feel like a charity case. I feel like a son.

Over second helpings, they ask for the inside scoop on my proposal plan. I smile and disclose that I’m going to slip the ring into a book of Ada Limón’s poetry. They don’t know her poetry, but they love my plan.

We go on to talk about what April was like as a child, Josie’s latest theater production, whether one can substitute floss for cooking twine, and my favorite things about teaching history. I leave their home full and filled, but not before turning and saying, “Oh, obviously do not tell Josie.” I love April’s sister, but her mouth is as big as her personality.

From their front porch, Billy makes a lip-zipping motion as Deb says, “Obviously.”

We chuckle, and I pat the ring in my pocket.

Two years ago, I had not met April.

In two weeks, I will get down on one knee.

And as I walk from the Russo home out to my car, life bursts with promise.





LEO


The Day After the Fire

I SHIFT THE CAR INTO park and kill the engine. We don’t speak as we take in the sight of our home. The roof is blackened, concave above the kitchen. A shutter is in the flowerbed. With the electricity cut and everyone cleared out, it seems like the house has been abandoned for years, not inhabited only yesterday when I tightened a knob on a dresser drawer, letting Sadie “help” with the screwdriver.

Slowly, I get out.

April is still in the car, hand over her mouth.

“Kitchen fire” doesn’t do justice to the sight in front of us.