“Viviana, do you think me a fool?” he asks, sounding mournful rather than ferocious.
“No, papà,” I say innocently, lining up the ingredients and washing my hands.
“You think I don’t see you paid your mamma’s bill? And the rent. And my doctor. And the grocer?” He hits the table, building up to a crescendo.
“I have a job now, papà. You know that.”
“Being a secretary doesn’t pay so well. I know this. I’m not the idiot my daughters take me for.”
It’s the job. He knows I don’t work for Mr. Miller’s company. Papà, notoriously suspicious of the phone, has been isolated for going on six months between his injury, surgery, and the lingering infection. But nothing stays a secret for long in a small town.
But does he know where the money is coming from? How could he? Unless . . .
“Where’s Aria, papà?”
“She’s watching Mrs. Brown’s baby. The other one, the boy, broke his arm,” he says like it’s no consequence. I find the explanation comforting even if the news isn’t exactly good.
“Timmy? Oh no.”
“He’ll be fine. Boys fall all the time at that age. Not so delicate as girls.” He pauses, and I wonder if he’s thinking of Tony and all the things he missed. “When Mrs. Brown came to fetch Aria, she and I spoke.”
I use a small knife to cut the stem out of a tomato. The fresh and sweetly acidic aroma has a palliative effect that keeps my dread from rising to a point of crisis. I say nothing, knowing it’s better to let my father continue without interrupting.
“She told me she saw you last Friday night arguing with a military man in front of her house. Thought about calling the police. She asked if I knew the man, and I had no answers for her.”
My grip tightens around the knife. Tom. I knew someone would hear him, and of course it had to be Mrs. Brown—the street busybody. I grab another tomato and remove the stem, letting my father see me as calm and reserved and giving me some time to figure out what to say.
He continues talking, and I keep chopping.
“She said you sing and dance with men for money at the USO. Her father’s mechanic plays a trumpet or some such thing and told her about you. At first, I thought she must be mistaken. But then I think of all the bills you pay. All your time away. And I wonder if it’s true. So, I call Cummins engine company and ask for Mr. Irwin Miller. Ask if you are a good worker, and you know what he tells me?”
I dump the second tomato into the bowl and start peeling the paper-thin skin off three cloves of garlic, imagining my father shouting broken English into the receiver. My hands are shaking so badly now that I lose my grip.
“He says you don’t work there. Haven’t ever worked there.” Another crack against the table and then a scrape of metal against linoleum tile. “So, I ask again,” he says, his voice strained, panting. “Do you think me a fool?” A clunk and a scrape followed by his thick, reddened hand on the counter beside me. “Because you make me look like one.”
I put the knife down and step to the sink to get some space from my father. It’s all happening too fast, and I haven’t come up with a plan. I take out a large serrated knife and start slicing the bread.
“Like this bread,” he says, yanking the loaf out of my grip and shaking it in front of my face as I clench all my muscles tightly and close my eyes to his aggression. “Where did you get it? Never before have I seen such bread in the house since your mamma grew sick. My daughters don’t make such things. Last week—sweet rolls. Where do you get such things? Where do you go during your days?”
I don’t answer, holding my breath when I smell the scent of alcohol as he speaks. My father isn’t an angry drunk, but that’s only because he’s angry whether he’s sober or sloshed. But when he indulges, he gets louder and forgets the pain in his leg, which makes him more mobile.
Usually, I’d calm him with platitudes or food or a funny story. But that won’t work today. This is what I imagine Judgment Day must be like—being faced with all your sins and unable to deny them.
“Viviana—” he starts, eyes narrowed and his voice dripping anger. But it’s a quiet anger this time. “Are you a mantenuta?”
I nearly laugh at his accusation despite my intense worries. A kept woman? He thinks I’m a mistress. Perhaps a prostitute who sleeps with men for money and favor. The Old World shows in him once again. He’s unable to grasp that a woman can make a livable wage in a respectful manner, so he makes sense of it the only way he knows how.
“Oh, papà, no.” Forced to face him now, I turn around, holding the knife across my chest like a sword. His face is red with rage and also from what looks to be a nearly empty bottle of Grappa Stravecchia I spot on the table. He must have been keeping it hidden somewhere in the house.
“Then what, Viviana?” He hits the bread on the counter with a heavy thunk. “What?” He hits it again. “What?” One final slam breaks the bread in half. My heart races. I know better than to cry. It’ll just make him angrier.
“Sit, papà. I’ll bring you wine and some bruschetta—”
“No playing your female games with me, passerotta,” he says, calling me my pet name. He hasn’t called me his sparrow since mamma left.
“You sit, and I will tell you everything,” I say simply, and point to his chair while keeping the knife over my heart.
I don’t know that I’d ever be brave enough to fight back if my father hit me. I’ve always convinced myself he’d never raise a hand to me or Aria, but when he gets this angry, I can’t help but worry I’m wrong. Instinctively, I usually flinch or back away when he’s lost to his rage. But I’ve been growing stronger as I’ve worked at Camp Atterbury and performing at the USO in front of so many strangers.
He must see something new in my demeanor because he returns to his seat and drops what’s left of the loaf on the table in front of him. He’s not resigned or friendly, but I can tell he’s moving toward a gradual diminuendo. As he lowers himself into his seat, he stumbles a little. I reach out and steady him, and he lets me. I prop his bad leg back on the other chair and fluff the pillows underneath.
“No food. No wine. Only truth,” he orders, gesturing to a chair on the other side of the table.
It’s time to face judgment. I sit and straighten the off-white linen tablecloth before starting.
“I work at the army base,” I say, deciding that if I must endure the pain of revelation, then it might as well be a full confession. “Camp Atterbury.”
He shifts in his seat with a grumble.
“One of my friends told me about the position. I know how you feel about the internment camp, and I really didn’t think I’d be placed there with my last name what it is, but . . .” I swallow, wishing I had a drink in front of me too. Papà’s jaw tenses, and his lips turn white with the strain of holding his tongue. But I’ll hear what he has to say eventually—there’s no doubt about that.
“Do not tell me you work for the camps, Viviana. Do not tell me this.”