going to do about the boys?” Alice whispers back. The boys do look terrible; they are sitting in the living room, catatonically staring at the TV.
“I could kill him myself,” Uncle Tommaso declares. “He puts us through one thing after another. The problem with Enrico is he thinks only of himself.”
Uncle Tommaso can say that again. Enrico is a bad egg. How could he do this to any of us? I mean, fine, he is a womanizer; a selfish, narcissistic womanizer. But how could he do this to his boys? What kind of a father invites his children to his own wedding thirty minutes before it happens? What kind of a father causes so much turmoil in his relationships that one girlfriend feels the need to shoot him on the steps of City Hall as he is attempting to marry his other girlfriend? Did he think of his boys when he was messing around with two women at the same time?
“But I mustn’t think about Enrico right now. What I need to do is concentrate on the boys. I think they may need to see a psychologist. They were very close to Federica,” I mutter out loud. Alice and Uncle Tommaso nod their heads in agreement which demonstrates the gravity of the situation. As an American, I have noticed that many Italians feel psychologists are superfluous. After all, why would somebody pay to talk about their feelings? That’s for crazy people, and no Italian wants to admit to being crazy. In this situation, however, Alice murmurs that she knows an excellent child psychologist in Baveno whose specialty is art therapy.
“Great, then that is the answer to the first part of my problem. The next thing I need is a lawyer. I won’t put up with anymore nonsense. I agreed to share custody at the time of our divorce, but now I want the boys away from Enrico. He’s always been a terrible person, and now he’s become a terrible father. I can no longer abide by his thoughtless actions.”
My words hang over the three of us like a weight. Alice and Tommaso exchange a glance, and I expect them to disagree—this is their precious nephew we are talking about. But to my surprise, they don’t argue. Instead, they stare at me resolute. We are united. We all want Enrico out of our lives.
It’s ironic then, that as that exact moment, it is Enrico himself who comes striding through the back door of Uncle Tommaso’s kitchen. At the sight of his disgraced nephew, Uncle Tommaso sails across the floor and begins to beat Enrico around the ears with a large straw hat he has removed from his head. How ironic that Enrico should be assaulted by both a bouquet of flowers and a straw hat in the same day. Goes to prove you reap what you sow.
“Ma come’ hai potutao fare questo!” Uncle Tommaso roars, asking Enrico how he could have committed such a selfish act.
I, too, am moved to action. I am about to assault Enrico with all the force of the Visigoths sacking Rome when I stop short. Enrico has been crying. There are traces of tears down his cheeks. “They let you out of the hospital so soon?” I ask after Tommaso stops brandishing his chapeau as a weapon.
Enrico shoots Uncle Tommaso and me a wounded look before shuffling over to poke his head through the kitchen door. Dejectedly, he stares at Luca and Matteo who are busy watching a Sponge Bob marathon on the television. “Hey sports,” he calls as if in a daze, “bet you thought your ole dad was done for, but I’m fine. It was just a little disagreement.”
“It was more than a disagreement,” I say, tugging on Enrico’s sleeve until he reluctantly closes the kitchen door. “We need to talk, out in the garden!”
No sooner do we step out into the cold night air then Enrico breathes, “You saved my life, Lily. You stopped her from shooting me a second time. Who knows where the second bullet would have gone? I could be dead.”
I stare up at the darkening sky. “Are you kidding me? I didn’t save your life. She couldn’t have killed anything with a gun that shoots bullets smaller than a BB
“I could kill him myself,” Uncle Tommaso declares. “He puts us through one thing after another. The problem with Enrico is he thinks only of himself.”
Uncle Tommaso can say that again. Enrico is a bad egg. How could he do this to any of us? I mean, fine, he is a womanizer; a selfish, narcissistic womanizer. But how could he do this to his boys? What kind of a father invites his children to his own wedding thirty minutes before it happens? What kind of a father causes so much turmoil in his relationships that one girlfriend feels the need to shoot him on the steps of City Hall as he is attempting to marry his other girlfriend? Did he think of his boys when he was messing around with two women at the same time?
“But I mustn’t think about Enrico right now. What I need to do is concentrate on the boys. I think they may need to see a psychologist. They were very close to Federica,” I mutter out loud. Alice and Uncle Tommaso nod their heads in agreement which demonstrates the gravity of the situation. As an American, I have noticed that many Italians feel psychologists are superfluous. After all, why would somebody pay to talk about their feelings? That’s for crazy people, and no Italian wants to admit to being crazy. In this situation, however, Alice murmurs that she knows an excellent child psychologist in Baveno whose specialty is art therapy.
“Great, then that is the answer to the first part of my problem. The next thing I need is a lawyer. I won’t put up with anymore nonsense. I agreed to share custody at the time of our divorce, but now I want the boys away from Enrico. He’s always been a terrible person, and now he’s become a terrible father. I can no longer abide by his thoughtless actions.”
My words hang over the three of us like a weight. Alice and Tommaso exchange a glance, and I expect them to disagree—this is their precious nephew we are talking about. But to my surprise, they don’t argue. Instead, they stare at me resolute. We are united. We all want Enrico out of our lives.
It’s ironic then, that as that exact moment, it is Enrico himself who comes striding through the back door of Uncle Tommaso’s kitchen. At the sight of his disgraced nephew, Uncle Tommaso sails across the floor and begins to beat Enrico around the ears with a large straw hat he has removed from his head. How ironic that Enrico should be assaulted by both a bouquet of flowers and a straw hat in the same day. Goes to prove you reap what you sow.
“Ma come’ hai potutao fare questo!” Uncle Tommaso roars, asking Enrico how he could have committed such a selfish act.
I, too, am moved to action. I am about to assault Enrico with all the force of the Visigoths sacking Rome when I stop short. Enrico has been crying. There are traces of tears down his cheeks. “They let you out of the hospital so soon?” I ask after Tommaso stops brandishing his chapeau as a weapon.
Enrico shoots Uncle Tommaso and me a wounded look before shuffling over to poke his head through the kitchen door. Dejectedly, he stares at Luca and Matteo who are busy watching a Sponge Bob marathon on the television. “Hey sports,” he calls as if in a daze, “bet you thought your ole dad was done for, but I’m fine. It was just a little disagreement.”
“It was more than a disagreement,” I say, tugging on Enrico’s sleeve until he reluctantly closes the kitchen door. “We need to talk, out in the garden!”
No sooner do we step out into the cold night air then Enrico breathes, “You saved my life, Lily. You stopped her from shooting me a second time. Who knows where the second bullet would have gone? I could be dead.”
I stare up at the darkening sky. “Are you kidding me? I didn’t save your life. She couldn’t have killed anything with a gun that shoots bullets smaller than a BB
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