Fair Play by Deirdre Martin Page A

so.”
    â€œEnjoy the rest of your afternoon,” Theresa said, thinking, Just give him your number, fool!!!
    â€œYou, too,” he answered. He walked halfway up the hall, then stopped and turned around. Theresa held her breath. Please ask me out for coffee, pleeeeasssee.
    But whatever it was he planned to say, clearly he thought better of it. Looking sheepish, he turned back around and continued down the hallway.
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    Two days later, Theresa found herself enjoying a crisp, fall breeze as she descended from the subway platform atop the Eighty-sixth Street station and walked east to her parents’ house on Bay Twenty-sixth Street. Before leaving Manhattan, she had gone crosstown to Balducci’s to pick up the special Pernigotti soft nougat her father loved. It was out of her way, but Theresa didn’t mind, since it seemed to make him so happy. If she couldn’t please him by marrying a nice Italian boy and having kids, at least she could bring him his favorite Italian candy.
    Going to dinner at her parents’ house always made her anxious. It wasn’t that she didn’t love seeing them, because she did. And you’d never hear her complaining about her mother’s food; it was the one time each week she actually enjoyed a home-cooked meal, being somewhat immune to the kitchen herself. But it was hard to see the robust man her father had been wasting away with cancer. Hard, too, to deal with her family’s unwillingness to validate all she’d achieved professionally. Deep down, she knew they were proud of her. She just wished they’d throw her the occasional bone by coming out and telling her so, rather than teasing her in a way that made her feel defensive.
    Still, it felt good to be out walking her old stomping grounds. All over Bensonhurst, families were preparing their post-Mass, Sunday afternoon meals. Theresa passed house after house that looked just like her parents: small brick homes with wrought iron fences and postage stamp-sized front yards. Theresa liked the way each house strove to make itself unique, whether by painting the fence, creating an ornately sculpted topiary, or putting a statue of the Virgin Mary or St. Anthony on display. Her parents had broken with tradition somewhat, their front yard featuring a row of waist high, perfectly shorn hedges and a statue of St. Francis, whom her mother loved because of his kindness to animals. When Theresa was young, the statue had mortified her; she saw it as proof of her parents’ failure to fully assimilate despite being second generation Americans. Now it comforted her in an odd way she didn’t really want to think about.
    Rounding the corner of her parents’ street, she recognized her brother’s Explorer parked outside their house and frowned with disapproval. Phil lived ten minutes away, tops. Why couldn’t he, Debbie and the kids walk over? It was gorgeous outside, a perfect day for a stroll. But she knew her brother: If she brought it up, he’d accuse her of being a “wacko environmentalist.” That was the problem with Phil—with all of them, actually. They couldn’t understand why anyone would think differently than them, never mind lead a different kind of life.
    Passing through the gate, Theresa walked the six steps up to her parents’ tiny stoop and pushed open the front door, which was never locked on Sunday. There in the living room, her father sat in his Barcalounger watching the Giants game, a canister of oxygen on the floor beside him.
    And on the couch were her brother, Phil, and Michael Dante.
    Theresa stared at Michael, dumbfounded.
    â€œUm . . .” She struggled to find her voice. “No offense, but what are you doing here?”
    Michael looked to his left, then to his right, then back at Theresa questioningly. “Are you talking to me?”
    â€œWho are you, Travis Bickel?” She turned to her father. “Dad?”
    â€œMmm?”