about MaineCatch—select details, anyway—they think I’m a little out of my mind, and more than a little desperate. “You met him how ? You’re moving where ?”
“I’m not moving there. I’m just”—I remember Rich’s wording—“taking a little trip.”
“Trip? You mean vacation?”
“Yeah.” The truth is, I have no idea how long I’m staying. I haven’t thought much about the particulars beyond arriving onRich’s doorstep, falling into his arms, and living happily ever after.
“You’re not thinking clearly,” Dad snaps, silhouetted in the door of the garage like a killer in a horror flick. “You met this guy on the Internet, for Christ’s sake. Who knows what kind of deviant—?”
Kneeling on the cement floor, I am writing “ANGELA RUSSO—BOOKS,” “ANGELA RUSSO—KITCHEN,” “ANGELA RUSSO—BEDDING” in permanent black marker on the front panels of a stack of boxes. “Don’t you trust my judgment?” I ask.
“It’s not you I don’t trust. It’s him .” My dad jabs the air for emphasis.
“He’s a nice guy. He runs a sailing school.”
“Never trust a sailor,” he says.
My dad is always issuing bombastic declarations like this. About Korean food: “They eat dogs over there.” About protesters: “If they don’t respect this country, they should leave and never come back.” When I was a teenager it made me light-headed with fury, but the years have mellowed me. “Some people say never trust an accountant,” I say.
“Very funny,” he says. “You’re making your grandmother sick with worry. The screwup at the museum. Getting fired. Now this.” He shakes his head.
“Nonna wants me to be happy.”
“Not exactly,” my dad says. “Your grandmother wants you happy—here. She doesn’t want you moving six states away. It’s like the whatshisname, Wizard of Oz, said. Everything you need is right here in your own backyard. And if you can’t find it here, sweetheart, maybe there’s something wrong with you.”
“Well, maybe there is,” I say. “Or maybe I just want to try something else. I’m a grown-up, Dad. I can do that.”
“I don’t know,” he says, frowning. “Frankly, this strikes me as pretty juvenile. What are you going to do up there?”
“I have a little money saved,” I say, smiling up at him. “I’m not going to starve; I’ll find something.”
“Pah. This is the time in your life to be settling down, not traipsing off in search of—I don’t know what.” He shrugs. “But I suppose it’s your life.”
“Yep. It’s my life.”
In the kitchen my grandmother puts her hand, as cold and bony as a chicken wing, over mine. She says, “Stone soup? I made it this morning.”
“Thanks, Nonna.”
She ladles up a bowl of minestra, a soup of winter vegetables. Since I was a child, she has called it stone soup, after the folktale about a village that was going hungry until a stranger, passing through, said he could make soup from a stone. He put a rock in a pot and covered it with water, then began calling for scraps of vegetables that the villagers had lying around—an old turnip, a rubbery carrot, wild herbs. Eventually the pot was full. The villagers thought it was a miracle. I did, too; Nonna would send me outside to choose a small stone, which she would wash carefully and place in the bottom of the Dutch oven before adding the rest of the ingredients.
“It’s cold in the north,” she says. “You’ll need stone soup up there.”
“Why don’t you come with me, Nonna?” I ask playfully. “We can make it together.”
She sets the bowl on the counter and leans closer. “Your father,” she says. “His nature is conservatore. He settled here, and can’t see any other way. To him, this is how life is. And the way it should be. You work hard, you make a decent living, that should be enough.”
I nod. I know this is true.
“But you are not your father. You are young—”
“Not that young.”
“Young enough. And
“I’m not moving there. I’m just”—I remember Rich’s wording—“taking a little trip.”
“Trip? You mean vacation?”
“Yeah.” The truth is, I have no idea how long I’m staying. I haven’t thought much about the particulars beyond arriving onRich’s doorstep, falling into his arms, and living happily ever after.
“You’re not thinking clearly,” Dad snaps, silhouetted in the door of the garage like a killer in a horror flick. “You met this guy on the Internet, for Christ’s sake. Who knows what kind of deviant—?”
Kneeling on the cement floor, I am writing “ANGELA RUSSO—BOOKS,” “ANGELA RUSSO—KITCHEN,” “ANGELA RUSSO—BEDDING” in permanent black marker on the front panels of a stack of boxes. “Don’t you trust my judgment?” I ask.
“It’s not you I don’t trust. It’s him .” My dad jabs the air for emphasis.
“He’s a nice guy. He runs a sailing school.”
“Never trust a sailor,” he says.
My dad is always issuing bombastic declarations like this. About Korean food: “They eat dogs over there.” About protesters: “If they don’t respect this country, they should leave and never come back.” When I was a teenager it made me light-headed with fury, but the years have mellowed me. “Some people say never trust an accountant,” I say.
“Very funny,” he says. “You’re making your grandmother sick with worry. The screwup at the museum. Getting fired. Now this.” He shakes his head.
“Nonna wants me to be happy.”
“Not exactly,” my dad says. “Your grandmother wants you happy—here. She doesn’t want you moving six states away. It’s like the whatshisname, Wizard of Oz, said. Everything you need is right here in your own backyard. And if you can’t find it here, sweetheart, maybe there’s something wrong with you.”
“Well, maybe there is,” I say. “Or maybe I just want to try something else. I’m a grown-up, Dad. I can do that.”
“I don’t know,” he says, frowning. “Frankly, this strikes me as pretty juvenile. What are you going to do up there?”
“I have a little money saved,” I say, smiling up at him. “I’m not going to starve; I’ll find something.”
“Pah. This is the time in your life to be settling down, not traipsing off in search of—I don’t know what.” He shrugs. “But I suppose it’s your life.”
“Yep. It’s my life.”
In the kitchen my grandmother puts her hand, as cold and bony as a chicken wing, over mine. She says, “Stone soup? I made it this morning.”
“Thanks, Nonna.”
She ladles up a bowl of minestra, a soup of winter vegetables. Since I was a child, she has called it stone soup, after the folktale about a village that was going hungry until a stranger, passing through, said he could make soup from a stone. He put a rock in a pot and covered it with water, then began calling for scraps of vegetables that the villagers had lying around—an old turnip, a rubbery carrot, wild herbs. Eventually the pot was full. The villagers thought it was a miracle. I did, too; Nonna would send me outside to choose a small stone, which she would wash carefully and place in the bottom of the Dutch oven before adding the rest of the ingredients.
“It’s cold in the north,” she says. “You’ll need stone soup up there.”
“Why don’t you come with me, Nonna?” I ask playfully. “We can make it together.”
She sets the bowl on the counter and leans closer. “Your father,” she says. “His nature is conservatore. He settled here, and can’t see any other way. To him, this is how life is. And the way it should be. You work hard, you make a decent living, that should be enough.”
I nod. I know this is true.
“But you are not your father. You are young—”
“Not that young.”
“Young enough. And
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