droves of dandelion and sour-grass seeds to spread in the wind and multiply all over our land. Let them take over. Why should I care? ‘Oh! And Paige shows up? Really? Now? After three years of, uh, let’s see . . . that would be nothing ? “Hi, I’m Annie and Zach’s mother ”. What in the hell is that about?’
A car door slammed. Over my hissy fit I hadn’t heard Marcella’s Acura pull into the drive. I took deep breaths to calm myself down while Callie cocked her head at me, held her ears back, and asked with her eyes if I’d gone raving mad. I wondered if Marcella had seen my tirade, as I watched her take careful steps down the path. Everything about Marcella was big: her meals, her zest for cleanliness and order, her body, her voice, her faith, her heart, her love for her family, and – everyone knew it – especially her love for her sons. So now it was sadness that was the biggest part of her, and it showed in her slower walk and, as she got closer, in her face. She’d tried putting on lipstick, but it looked as futile as a painted-on smile – too bright and artificial against the pale sorrow of her skin.
‘Ella, honey . . . I’m sorry about Paige. I tried to call you. Did you get my message?’
I shook my head. Elbow was the Bermuda Triangle of cell phone reception.
She took a deep breath. ‘Auntie Sophia had one of her episodes. I didn’t know what to do. Paige offered and I –’
‘It’s okay.’ I shrugged. ‘It’s okay.’
‘She – Paige – seems so different now.’
‘Different how?’
‘So . . . capable. She was whiny. Spoiled. She drove me crazy. She was no mother at all – all she did was whine and complain and mope around. Certainly no wife to Joseph.’
His name came out like a squeak. She said, ‘Oh no. I wasn’t going to do this. I’m sorry, honey. You have your own tears.’
I put my arm around her. ‘You,’ I said, ‘of all people, are entitled to cry. We’re going to get through this. Come on. Let’s eat.’
She patted my hand. ‘You sound so Italian when you say that.’
Marcella had brought minestrone and I made a salad with the lettuce from our garden – one thing I’d picked and managed not to trample into the ground. Joe’s dad came over too, carrying a warm loaf of cheese bread from the bakery in Freestone. When the subject of the store came up, I got busy putting ice in Zach’s soup.
‘One thing about our son,’ Joe said. ‘We were proud of the way he carried on that store. In this day and age, it’s not easy. Those big-box stores. Everybody’s gotta have fifty rolls of toilet paper just because it’s cheaper? Then they gotta build bigger houses to hold all that toilet paper? All those tree huggers living in these parts should know better. They put solar panels on their goddamn mansions.’
‘Joseph. Your grandchildren.’
‘It’s craziness. But Capozzi’s lives on.’ He poured more wine. ‘Not many years after my father opened, we almost lost his store.’ He and Marcella shared a long look. I knew exactly what he was referring to. The unspoken internment camp. ‘But we persevere. I was worried that Joey didn’t have what it takes. When he was younger, always off snapping pictures, head in the clouds.’ He thumped his chest. ‘But he did the right thing. That boy loved my father. He honoured his grandfather’s name. Joey made us proud.’ Marcella dabbed her eyes with her napkin, and Joe Sr changed the subject, asking Annie what she’d done all day.
Annie looked at me before saying, ‘I played with Mama.’
Joe Sr asked, ‘In the garden?’
‘No . . . not Mommy. Mama. ’
‘Mama, Mommy. What’s the difference. Mamma mia, that’s what I say.’
‘No, Grandpa. This is Mommy.’ She poked my shoulder. ‘But the other lady is Mama. You know what I mean, silly.’
As much as I loved Marcella’s soups, especially her minestrone, each bite sizzled in my stomach, threatening anarchy. And the bread would
A car door slammed. Over my hissy fit I hadn’t heard Marcella’s Acura pull into the drive. I took deep breaths to calm myself down while Callie cocked her head at me, held her ears back, and asked with her eyes if I’d gone raving mad. I wondered if Marcella had seen my tirade, as I watched her take careful steps down the path. Everything about Marcella was big: her meals, her zest for cleanliness and order, her body, her voice, her faith, her heart, her love for her family, and – everyone knew it – especially her love for her sons. So now it was sadness that was the biggest part of her, and it showed in her slower walk and, as she got closer, in her face. She’d tried putting on lipstick, but it looked as futile as a painted-on smile – too bright and artificial against the pale sorrow of her skin.
‘Ella, honey . . . I’m sorry about Paige. I tried to call you. Did you get my message?’
I shook my head. Elbow was the Bermuda Triangle of cell phone reception.
She took a deep breath. ‘Auntie Sophia had one of her episodes. I didn’t know what to do. Paige offered and I –’
‘It’s okay.’ I shrugged. ‘It’s okay.’
‘She – Paige – seems so different now.’
‘Different how?’
‘So . . . capable. She was whiny. Spoiled. She drove me crazy. She was no mother at all – all she did was whine and complain and mope around. Certainly no wife to Joseph.’
His name came out like a squeak. She said, ‘Oh no. I wasn’t going to do this. I’m sorry, honey. You have your own tears.’
I put my arm around her. ‘You,’ I said, ‘of all people, are entitled to cry. We’re going to get through this. Come on. Let’s eat.’
She patted my hand. ‘You sound so Italian when you say that.’
Marcella had brought minestrone and I made a salad with the lettuce from our garden – one thing I’d picked and managed not to trample into the ground. Joe’s dad came over too, carrying a warm loaf of cheese bread from the bakery in Freestone. When the subject of the store came up, I got busy putting ice in Zach’s soup.
‘One thing about our son,’ Joe said. ‘We were proud of the way he carried on that store. In this day and age, it’s not easy. Those big-box stores. Everybody’s gotta have fifty rolls of toilet paper just because it’s cheaper? Then they gotta build bigger houses to hold all that toilet paper? All those tree huggers living in these parts should know better. They put solar panels on their goddamn mansions.’
‘Joseph. Your grandchildren.’
‘It’s craziness. But Capozzi’s lives on.’ He poured more wine. ‘Not many years after my father opened, we almost lost his store.’ He and Marcella shared a long look. I knew exactly what he was referring to. The unspoken internment camp. ‘But we persevere. I was worried that Joey didn’t have what it takes. When he was younger, always off snapping pictures, head in the clouds.’ He thumped his chest. ‘But he did the right thing. That boy loved my father. He honoured his grandfather’s name. Joey made us proud.’ Marcella dabbed her eyes with her napkin, and Joe Sr changed the subject, asking Annie what she’d done all day.
Annie looked at me before saying, ‘I played with Mama.’
Joe Sr asked, ‘In the garden?’
‘No . . . not Mommy. Mama. ’
‘Mama, Mommy. What’s the difference. Mamma mia, that’s what I say.’
‘No, Grandpa. This is Mommy.’ She poked my shoulder. ‘But the other lady is Mama. You know what I mean, silly.’
As much as I loved Marcella’s soups, especially her minestrone, each bite sizzled in my stomach, threatening anarchy. And the bread would
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