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Square One
MASSIMO
“DADDY, WHO WAS THAT LADY?” Lucio asks me.
“A friend, buddy,” I tell him.
Lucio and Leandro are my two boys. They both have dark hair, thick eyebrows, and crooked smiles—undoubtedly my kids. Although Lucio is four years old, he’s an old soul. He likes to listen to classical music, play the piano, play basketball, and I’m teaching him to play chess. Leandro is three and imitates his brother every chance he gets, except he also likes the guitar, and I’m excited for him to start learning better when he’s a little older. Both of my guys are musicians at heart.
“Come on. Let’s finish getting the groceries we came for and go see Nonna. She’s waiting for us,” I tell them.
Seeing Lena at DeLuca’s has my head spinning. I cannot believe she’s back! Her beauty still takes my breath away. Her ringlets were cascading around her square jaw, and her full lips were colored in with vibrant lipstick. Sadness and regret smoldered from her green eyes hidden behind her blue frames. When I grabbed her hand in mine, her skin was on fire just as it was the day I met her, and memories rushed through me. She’s back, and just like that, my world has tipped on its axis again.
I need to see her. Talk to her. Understand her. She said she needed to settle into her apartment and work, so it should be easy to find her. Despite it being nine years since Lena disappeared from my life, I never stopped thinking about her, even if I eventually gave up searching for her.
There’s a piece of me that’s missing, a part of my heart that will always belong to Lena. Now that she’s here, she owes me an explanation, and I intend to get it.
Images of her crowd my thoughts during our walk from DeLuca’s back to the apartment. We’ve been spending most of our days with my parents for the past two months because my mother’s cancer has spread, and she stopped treatment. I want the boys to spend as much time with her as possible, create as many memories as we can.
“Hi, Pa,” I say as we’re entering the house.
After moving here from Italy, my parents bought a building in the North End because it’s where many Italian families lived after migrating to the United States. They settled in this neighborhood and made a home for their family here. It’s the only home my parents have known.
My father has aged tremendously over the past year since my mother was diagnosed with cancer, and the doctor recommended that her treatment be aggressive. The lines around his eyes have increased three-fold, and the circles around them are dark. His hair used to be a mix of black and white. Now, his mane is snow-white, yet it’s still thick. My father has always been robust, tall with a belly from years of eating homemade pasta and meats, and drinking a lot of red wine. Since my mother became sick, his stomach has disappeared, and he’s thinned out. My mother may be the one afflicted with cancer, but my father is wasting away at the same rate she is.
“Nonno!” Both Lucio and Leandro run up to my father to hug him.
“Where’s Ma?” I ask.
“In bed. She’s not well today. I called the doctor, asked her to come to the house.”
“And?”
“She’ll be here later tonight. She said after she finishes her rounds.”
“Okay, well, I’m gonna hit the courts with the guys, and I’ll be back later for when the doctor gets here.”
“Okay, son.”
Dom, Nick, and Paulie are already shooting basketball when I get there.
“Always running late,” Paulie says.
Paulie and I have been friends our entire lives. Our parents migrated from Italy together in the late 60s, where they lived in Frascati, about twenty miles southeast of Rome. They’ve been friends since they were teens. Paulie is a year older than me, the older brother I never had. We went to school together at St. John’s and spent most of the holidays together. Even though we’re not blood-related, people constantly tell us we look alike.
“You know he always has to look pretty,” Dom chimes in.
“Assholes,” I say.
We play ball two-on-two for a little over an hour before Nick and Paulie need to leave. Dom and I walk back toward my parents’ place. His apartment is two blocks from them. He and I became friends when we both worked at my uncle’s restaurant together. I was bartending at the time when he started.
He had graduated from Suffolk University and didn’t know what he wanted to do, so he waited on tables. We’d hang out several nights a week after work, whether we sat at a bar and drank or hit up one of the clubs. We became tight, and he fit right in with my crew. He now owns Gemelli’s Liquor Distillery, one of the biggest wholesale liquor distributors in the city.
As we march down Prince Street, I give him an update on my mother’s health. Before we part ways, I tell him, “Lena is back.” Even saying that aloud is surreal. They’re words I never thought I’d say.
“What?” he asks as he stops, facing me. “When?”
“I went to DeLuca’s today to pick up some stuff to bring to the house, and there she was, looking for wine. I couldn’t believe it, Dom. After nine years, she’s back.”
