Page 13 of Stony Point Summer
six
— Then —
25 Years Ago
The Shop
ARCHED WINDOWS, ONE AFTER THE other, line the storefronts along the cobblestone street.
The door of one boutique opens, and the shop owner comes outside onto the stone walkway. Her step is light, as though her heart is, too. As though this dawn of a new day is filled with possibility. After setting down a dripping watering can, she stands to the side of her Milan shop and studies the window display. A straight dress hangs on a svelte mannequin. The cream dress is sleeveless, with vines of flowers snaking up the side and across the bust. Strappy sandals are crisscrossed on a small table beside it. And looking like paper starbursts around the mannequin, large yellow-tissue pom-poms hang from the shop’s ceiling beams.
When a passerby nears on the sidewalk, she gazes at the storefront window and squeezes the shop owner’s hand. “Bellisima, Elsa!” she says, then breezes off while pulling a jangling key ring from her tote. Six steps later, she unlocks the front door of the neighboring boutique—this one selling pottery and crafts.
Elsa, wearing a loose striped blouse tucked into high-waisted lime-green pants—all of it cinched with a thin leather belt—blows her shop neighbor a kiss. It appears this Elsa feels as light and airy as the outfit she wears. She gives a bit more scrutiny to her window display then. Behind the mannequin inside, shelves are neatly stacked with colorful scarves and tops. Knee-length skirts hang from a side rack; straw handbags fill a wall of cubbies. Above the boutique’s arched windows, the morning sun shines on the old building’s second-floor apartments. Ancient stone corbels of ornate feathers and Italian leaves support balconies; potted vines cascade over wrought-iron railings.
Elsa takes it all in, sighs and looks over at a boy sitting on her shop step. He wears a numbered T-shirt over shorts. On his knees, there are shin guards streaked with stripes of royal blue and black. The boy is thin, maybe eleven or twelve, and his skin has a pale undertone.
“Salvatore,” Elsa says to the boy. “Come here.”
“What, Ma?” he asks, fidgeting with a fat piece of chalk.
“Come here,” she says again. “How are you feeling?” When he sidles over, she presses the back of her hand to his forehead. “Okay this morning?”
“Sure.Sto bene.”
“You’re fine? Really?”
He nods.
“And do you see my new window display?” Elsa bends while pointing to her storefront. “You like?”
“I do.”
“Perfetto,” Elsa says with a nod. She looks down at her son then and ruffles his brown hair. “Think you can you help yourmammatoday?”
“Aren’t I going to soccer practice?”
The boy’s mother nods. “Later. After you have a healthy snack inside.”
“But, Ma. Coach says—”
“I know.” Elsa’s fingers lightly brush young Salvatore’s cheek. “Practice makes perfect. But food first. And some work. Then, play. You can water my flowers before we go in.” She points beside the shop doorway, to a round concrete planter spilling with red geraniums. “It’s warm out, and the blossoms look thirsty. Be a good boy and help me?Per favore?”
Salvatore walks to the stoop again and dawdles there. Using the fat chalk in his hand, he first bends and colors in a scrolled design he’d drawn on the stone walkway. Afterward, he picks up the watering can and carries it with two hands to the planter. The spout drips along the way, dribbling on his worn sneakers. At the flower planter, he hefts up the can and pours a drizzle of water around and around the soil, as though he’s often done this before.
And as thoughshe’sdone this before, too, Elsa stands a short distance away and watches the boy. The sun shines on his back; his arms strain with the effort of his task. And Elsa, his mother, briefly presses her fingers to her lips, as though fighting a teary smile.
Finally, she joins her son at the stoop. “It’s time to write the day’s inspiration, Salvatore, before we open for customers. Something happy today, no?” she asks. As she does, she reaches for her dusty chalk bucket and brushes through the pieces. “What color? Yellow?”
“And blue,” he says.
“Blue and yellow it is.” With chalk in hand, Elsa crouches on the stone walkway. She pauses there, as though coming up with just the right words for her customers to read as they enter her shop. With a nod then, she begins. She draws out the day’s uplifting message in bright colors. And her words? They stretch across a long stone slab.
While her hand outlines each chalked letter, her son walks behind her. His shadow falls on the walkway as he reads the words aloud. “Solo cuori felici!”
Elsa sits back on her haunches and looks over her shoulder at him. “In English now.”
He squints, whispers the chalked Italian words again, then recites them in English. “Only happy hearts.”
