When We Were Enemies: A Novel(22)
He ignores my reasoning and continues. “And . . . you’d put too many miles on it. Your mamma will cry when she comes home and sees her car with thousands and thousands of miles on it.” He’s waving his hands now. I know as soon as he brings up mamma, it’s time to stop trying to convince him. At times, I think he’s as delusional as she is.
“Yes, papà,” I say, and kiss him on the head. He still has a headful of hair, and though it’s more gray than brown, he looks at least ten years younger than his fifty-six years. He could easily find someone to marry if he were a free man. But divorce is a sin, and no one believes that as deeply as papà.
“The bus is safer for work.”
I nod, not wanting to fight anymore and leave Aria to pick up the pieces before she walks to school. Why God gave us two broken parents, I’ll never know. But with men fighting and dying overseas, I shouldn’t wallow in my personal woes.
Aria comes in from the backyard, her cheeks red, hands covered in dirt and caked under her nails. With summer creeping in, my sister will spend more and more time outside tending to her garden. She got mamma’s green thumb, seeming to pull life from the dirt. I think she finds as much escape in the tidy rows of beans and cabbages as I find singing into a microphone. Even though she’s a junior in high school, she seems younger, preferring saddle shoes and cotton dresses or a pair of mamma’s old coveralls.
“Bye, Viv,” she calls out in English, wiping her hands on a towel by the sink. “Don’t forget we have confession tonight.”
“Ah, yeah, confession.” I nod knowingly. I should be concerned with how easily Aria fibs around papà. We do go to confession at least once a week, but we also use it as an excuse to go into town. Aria usually sneaks into the cinema, and once a month I go to my singing lesson with Carly.
“Basta! In italiano!” Papà shouts. “Niente inglese in casa” is one of his rules, and like any other edict in the Santini house, we can only get away with breaking it for so long.
I quickly shift back into Italian.
“Confession tonight, papà.”
“Yes. My good girls.”
“You want to come too, papà?” Aria asks innocently, knowing he’ll say no. Papà hasn’t been to Holy Trinity since Tony’s funeral. I’ve always thought that seeing the tiny box with his infant son lying inside made it impossible for him to go back. But he still wants us to go, insists upon it.
“No, no.” He waves away the question like he always does. “But you can take the car this one time for church, Viviana, if you must drive,” he says, as though the joy of driving the car were the only reason I’d want to take it out of the garage.
“Thank you, papà.” I change the subject to food. “Chicken’s in the icebox for dinner and tuna fish for a sandwich at lunch. I left two beers in there too. But no more than that. Remember what the doctor said. You can’t take your pain pills with alcohol. So, either drink an hour before or an hour after, okay?”
“You say the same things every morning. I broke my foot, not my ears.” He’d sound frustrated to anyone listening if they understood Italian, but I can tell by the softness in my papà’s eyes that he appreciates my care.
“Love you, papà,” I say, grabbing my light coat from the closet. I get it buttoned up, pin on my felt cloche hat, wriggle on my kid gloves, and sling my purse full of contraband makeup over my shoulder. He grumbles out a goodbye as I rush out the front door.
I can see why Aria’s cheeks had such a lovely color to them. The air is brisk but warm when the sun drifts out from behind one of the generously sized, billowy clouds. The sky is a bright blue, the kind of blue that usually makes my stomach churn, but today I don’t let the color take my thoughts back to that painful day. It’s not that difficult because I have something far more interesting to think about. And that is—Tom Highward.
We danced the rest of the night, last Friday. He didn’t leave my side. I rarely dance with the same man for more than two songs in a row, but I enjoyed the light pressure of his hand against my lower back, and each time a song ended, he placed it there again, making clear to the other servicemen I was taken.
I reach the bus stop a full ten minutes early. The cinched belt on my jacket reminds me of Tom’s arms around my waist during the last slow number of the night. He hummed along, a deep melodic rumble enticing me to lean in with my whole frame, bits of our bodies grazing each other as we swayed.
After one particularly grandiose turn, he flicked his wrist, bringing me back into his gravitational pull so forcefully that we smacked into each other. He gripped my waist to keep me from falling, and I let him hold me so closely that we moved as one until I regained my senses and remembered the rules.
I’m so lost in my daydream when Mary honks her horn I nearly scream. The two women sitting on the bench and Mr. Thompson, standing on the opposite side of the bus stop reading a newspaper, all look up.
“Mary! Hush!” I reprimand with a gloved finger over my lips. “Sorry!” I address the others. Mary waves me over frantically, and I run around the front of the vehicle to hop into the front seat.
“Get in, already.” She’s tapping the steering wheel and looking around like we’ve just completed a heist and the police will soon come after us. Her flawlessly curled hair peeks out from under the folded silk scarf she always wears while driving. Her sunglasses give an added air of glamour and mystery, and the fresh coat of red lipstick makes her skin look like painted porcelain. Civilian employees at Camp Atterbury don’t have to wear uniforms, but the dress code requires us to wear modest attire. Mary pushes the rules with her bright lipstick and a flash of color in each outfit.