“Are you warm enough?” Olimpio asked.
“I have more blankets on me than my mama used on the tubs to raise the Easter bread.” The memory of kneading the dough, placing it in tubs, and covering it with baker’s paper followed by layers of blankets, where it would rest in a sunny window until the dough rose, was inseparable in Matelda’s mind from the memories of her mother, Domenica. “I still miss my mother. Isn’t it funny? You forget plenty, but never your mother.”
“Maybe that’s all you need to remember,” Olimpio said quietly, remembering his own mother, Marianna.
“Did your mother like me? You can tell me now. They’re all gone,” Matelda teased her husband.
“My mother thought you were a fine girl.” Olimpio caressed Matelda’s hair. “She thought you were blunt, but she appreciated your honesty. Most of the time.”
“I’ll bet she did.”
“Nonna, do you want some water?”
“Please, Anina. I am up to my gills with water.”
Anina’s face fell. Matelda changed her tone. “But there’s something to all the guzzling. I’m improving.”
“Do you think you’re ready to take that trip around the world?” Anina asked.
“Maybe.” Matelda winked. “Where do you want to go?”
“Everywhere.”
“You’ll have to work hard.”
“I’m working hard, aren’t I, Nonno?”
“You’re doing well. You could apprentice anywhere you wanted.”
“Better she does well at Cabrelli’s,” Matelda said. “I hope my family keeps the business going after we’re gone.”
“I’m the fourth generation in the shop. Don’t worry about the future, Nonna,” Anina assured her.
“I will always worry.”
“And there’s good reason for that. The family business is forever in peril, a delicate operation,” Olimpio offered. “There’s a danger of going under every morning when you turn the key in the lock. The success of the family business lies in the ring of the cash register: how many times a day it rings, and how many times a day it doesn’t. But I don’t want you to think about it, my love. I want you to relax.” Olimpio kissed Matelda.
“I want to learn the wheel.” Anina looked at her grandfather.
“You want to cut stone?”
“Yes, Nonno, I do. Do you think I can do it?”
“Of course you can,” Matelda interrupted. “Haven’t I been telling you that for years?”
“It takes seven years to master the wheel,” Olimpio reminded Anina.
“That’s seven years I’d like to give to Cabrelli’s.”
Olimpio placed his hand on Anina’s. He reached down and held Matelda’s with the other. “You have a deal, Anina.”
* * *
“Yoo-hoo? Matelda?” Ida Casciacarro stepped off the elevator and into Matelda’s apartment. Ida looked all around, giving the apartment the once-over. The room was so bright, Ida did not remove her sunglasses.
“She’s on the terrace, Signora,” Anina called out.
Ida poked her head into the kitchen. “How is she?”
“She’s getting stronger.”
“Thank God!” She handed Anina a bag. “Sesame cookies. I made them myself. They’re still warm. Whatever you don’t eat today, freeze.”
Ida joined Matelda on the terrace. “You look good, Matelda.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You’ve lost weight.”
“A little. Big deal. Everybody is thin in the end. And what good is it then?”
“Exactly.” Ida laughed. “The sun is helping, isn’t it? The healer in the sky.”
Matelda whispered, “Where’s my family?”
“They can’t hear you.”
“I’m going down the pipe, Ida. The end is coming soon.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t have the breath to get those balls in that plastic box to jump.”
“The breath machine.” Ida clucked.
“Whatever the hell they call it. Those balls lie in the bottom of that cup like they’re made of lead.”
“I hate gizmos.” Ida sat down. “Who wants to play breathing games at our age?”
“How’s your grandson?”
“Lorenzo got another tattoo to celebrate his six months of sobriety. He’s running out of limbs to cover. Do you remember, when we were kids, ever seeing anyone drunk in Viareggio? Never! What is wrong with my family? Thank God the Metriones are dead because the Casciacarros have hit the skids.”