“I know, Mom. I know.” Angelina put her head on her mother’s arm, and her mother, with her other hand, briefly touched her daughter’s face.
Who leaves a marriage after fifty-one years? Not Mary Mumford, that’s for sure. She shook her head. Angelina asked, “What, Mom?” Mary shook her head again. They were still lying on the bed. Who leaves a marriage after fifty-one years?
Well—Mary did. She waited until all five girls were grown, she waited until she recovered from the heart attack she’d had when she found out about the secretary her husband had been having an affair with for thirteen years—thirteen years with that woman who was so fat—then she waited while she recovered from the stroke she had after her husband found the letters from Paolo—almost ten years ago now—oh, he had yelled, red in his face, that awful vein on the side of his head just about to burst, but it burst in her instead, she supposed that was part of the marriage, she took on his bursting veins, and then she waited until he did not die of the brain cancer he seemed to get right after she told him she was leaving him; so she waited and waited and dear Paolo waited as well—and so—here she was.
How did you ever know? You never knew anything, and anyone who thought they knew anything—well, they were in for a great big surprise.
“You were so good to me.” Angelina slipped off her flat black shoes while still lying down; they fell to the floor with soft sounds.
“What do you mean, honey?”
“You were so good to me, Mom. You put me to bed until I was eighteen.”
“I loved you,” Mary said. “I still love you.”
“This is your side of the bed, right?” Angelina sat up.
“Yes, honey, I promise.”
Angelina sighed and lay down next to her mother again. “I’m sorry. I’ll be nice to him when he’s back tomorrow. I know he’s nice, Mom. I’m being a baby.”
Mary said, “I’d feel the same way if I were you,” but she thought this was not true. She glanced at the clock and said, “Come on. It’s time for my swim.”
Angelina got off the bed, smoothed her hair over one shoulder. “You’re so brown,” she said to her mother. “It’s funny to see you so brown.”
“Well, it’s the seaside.” Mary went into the bathroom and put her bathing suit on, and put a dress on over it. “Let’s go. Now, you don’t have to do anything in the water but sit. It just holds you up, I swear.”
At four o’clock the sun was vastly bright and the houses built up high on the hills were lit by it, the pale colors, the bright yellow flowers, the palm trees. Mary walked in her plastic shoes across the rocks and down to the beach. She pulled her dress off, put it on her towel, found her goggles.
“Mom, you’re wearing a bikini.”
“A two-piece, honey. Look around. Do you see one person wearing a one-piece? Except for you?” Mary put her goggles on and walked into the water, in just a moment she pushed off and paddled along, seeing the small fish below her. Every day when she swam, that was her favorite part of the day, and it was now, even with her daughter here to visit. Splashing made her stop. Angelina was there, her hair wet. “Mom, you’re so funny. In your yellow bikini. And your goggles. Oh my God, Mom!” So they swam and laughed and the sun sliced down on them.
Sitting on a sun-warmed rock, Angelina said, “Do you have friends?”
“I do.” Mary nodded. “Valeria is my main friend. Didn’t I write to you about her? Oh, I love her. I met her in the square. I’d seen her sitting by an old lady—why, she, Valeria, has the sweetest face, Angelina, the sweetest face I’ve ever seen. Other than your own. She was sitting by the sea with an old woman who had legs that were dark with about one hundred years of sun. I just stared at that woman’s legs, the veins were purple inside these dark, dark encasings, like sausages, really, and I thought: What a miracle life is! These old legs still pumping up blood. I was thinking this, and then I glanced at the woman who was talking to her. Tiny little thing, Valeria is, almost sitting on her lap, and the sweetness of her face— Why—” Mary shook her head. “And then by the church two days later, this tiny lady walked right up to me. She knows some English, I know a little Italian. Yes, I have a friend. You can meet her; she’d love to meet you.”
“Okay,” said Angelina. “Maybe in a few days. I don’t know.”
“Whenever you want.”