* * *
—
Antonia is not unhappy in her marriage.
There are many days she has everything she can imagine.
Those days Paolo gets home early enough that she is not run ragged and he is not so grouchy he spends the evening raging monotonously about how much use he could be in a different position. And she does not think about her papa, and she does not wonder if she made the right choice, and her mamma’s voice saying don’t speak to anyone with slicked-back hair does not echo in her mind.
Those days her baking turns out and she feels connected to Robbie, who still needs her desperately, from a wordless place in his small body, and who hangs and drags and claws against her until she lets him in, which some days she feels open and strong enough to do and which some days she is sure will destroy her. But some days Robbie practices his letters and they walk to the park and they joke with one another, and Antonia can see in his flawless face the man who will emerge, strong and sweet like his father, like his grandfather.
Those days she reads, in the patch of light that pours like liquid gold into their kitchen from ten to eleven in the morning as the sun passes overhead. She comes back to herself as the shadow of the next building over crosses onto her page and she feels exquisitely raw and preternaturally strong in those moments.
Those days she calls Sofia and Sofia is home, and she might go over there with Robbie, and drink coffee or wine with Sofia, and watch the sticks of dynamite that have replaced their children go spinning and spinning around the apartment, and she and Sofia might have an hour where because they are together, they can access themselves as children, and they can imagine themselves as old women. Paolo thinks maybe when Robbie starts school full-time, I might look into classes at the college, Antonia says. And so when Sofia responds, I am hoping to be able to take on more work, then, Antonia is having such a good day she does not respond, you leave Julia with me so often it’s as though she’s in school already. And as they leave, Antonia might be able to catch Julia and hold her close and smell her and look in her eyes and see Sofia flashing around their crinkled corners when Julia squeals and tries to get away.
Those days she starts dinner on time and the kitchen is filled with steam and spice, and Paolo rumbles in as she’s chopping and slides his hands around her and pushes his face through her hair to her neck, and Antonia leans into his weight and feels warm electricity pulse down from Paolo’s mouth through the center of her body.
A different life does not enter Antonia’s thoughts.
But of course, the veil between different lives is thin. The alternate path is there. It is creeping up on Antonia; it is catching her scent. And soon, she won’t be able to escape it.
* * *
—
The pox have faded almost completely from Julia’s and Robbie’s legs and Saul finds himself uncharacteristically restless on the fifth day of their seclusion in Antonia and Paolo’s apartment, so in the afternoon he takes a walk. Paolo has gone to his office and Antonia and Sofia are curled together on the couch like tightly furled leaves and Julia and Robbie are wreaking quiet havoc in Robbie’s room.
Saul turns left as he exits Paolo and Antonia’s apartment and walks toward the water. It is one of his privileges: to walk where he wants without fear. Most everyone knows who he works for.
Saul feels the car before he sees it, coasting behind him as he walks. The hairs on the back of his neck and his forearms quiver. He does not turn around: the subtle dance of power in this neighborhood forbids him from acknowledging the car. He dares the driver to interrupt him; to ask for his time; to figure out whether to start with excuse me or Mr. Colicchio or please pardon the intrusion, but—but just then, someone from the car says, “Saul, right?” which is not what Saul was expecting, but which he can use to his advantage, assuming, as always, that there is an advantage to be had and lost in every conversation.
“That depends on who’s asking,” says Saul. He does not turn around; will not bend himself to look through the sliver of car window that has been rolled open.
“My name is Eli Leibovich. I think it’s time you and I had a little chat.”
Saul stops. He is surprised. He has lost any advantage he may ever have had in this interaction. He looks at the car, which rolls to a stop next to him. The door opens. Eli Leibovich is a little younger than Joey, with a dark strong brow and a mouth that turns slightly downward as he looks up at Saul. There are deep lines carved into his cheeks, from frowning and from laughing. He looks as though he has a lot to say.