When We Were Enemies: A Novel(81)

“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?”