Page 79 of When We Were Enemies
“If that’s true, then who was the man you were with late at night? The one in the uniform? Mrs.Brown said you were fighting.”
I think back to that horrible night, and I can only imagine what it looked like from fifty yards away and through the lens of the town gossip. I’ve gotten this far on honesty, but I can’t tell him everything, not about that night and not about Tom. But I will give him as much of the truth as I can.
“I was going to talk to you about that tonight. It wasn’t a fight. Tom—”
“Tom? That’s his name?”
“Yes, Tom Highward—he’s a technician fifth grade at Camp Atterbury.”
“You were alone with this man?”
“No, no, papà. I’d missed my bus and was walking home alone and ...”
“Viviana!” he says, tapping his forehead, which I know means he thinks I’m brainless.
“Tom—and his friends—picked me up and drove me the rest of the way home.”
“These friends. Men as well?”
“No!” I rush to correct the narrative, knowing how dangerous it sounds. “No. My friend from the USO, Pearl. Her brother drives her and a few other girls into Edinburgh every week. They were giving Tom a ride back to the base. I swear.”
“This Tom—is he trying to court you? I told you—no army men. Not to be trusted. Doesn’t even come meet your father and shake his hand. That’s how it’s done. I went to your grandfather and asked if I could take his lovely daughter to the church supper. He said yes. We went. Two months later, she was my wife.”
“It was late, papà. And ... and we aren’t courting ... or whatever you used to call it back then.”
“He doesn’t want to court you? You are beautiful and sing like a bird. He could be so lucky to spend time with you.” His temper is rising again, but this time I find some humor in his words, and I’m touched by the rare compliment. He lifts his finger to the sky. “Ah. It’s because you’re Italian!”
“No, papà,” I blurt. “Hewantsto take me out and to meet you. Tomorrow, in fact. I was about to tell you.”
Papà tears off another piece of bread and then uses it to gesture as he talks.
“This man—is he Catholic?”
“I don’t know, papà,” I say, collecting the bread and the grappa bottle, attempting to act as though his passions, as he calls them, have passed. Which may or may not be the case—I’ll know for certain in the next few minutes.
“He has a good family? A good home?” He continues to ask questions I don’t know the answers to.
“I don’t know, papà. It’s our first date.”
“You know nothing of this man. Stranger. Foolish girl.” He shakes his head, but I’m not discouraged. I know papà wishes he could give his daughter to a man from Italia, but it’s far safer to let me be seen with a GI. This works in my favor. “And this man—where will he take you? You go nowhere till this man shows his face to me.”
“He is coming to meet you, papà. He wants to. You can ask him all the questions you like then.” The last thing I want is for my father to question my date, but then again—it’s Tom. Not only can he take a little ribbing—he kind of deserves it.
When papà reaches for his empty glass, I pour him a mixture of lemon and strawberry that Aria’s made out of flavor packets and fruit from the garden.
“Have this, papà. It’s good for you.”
“What is this mess? Look at this,” he complains without tasting it. But I’m so relieved, I don’t care about his grievances now. I know we’ll speak of all this again. It’ll come up when he’s frustrated or angry or worried about the future. But for now, my father has decided, unilaterally, that we no longer need to discuss the lies I’ve told. And I know why.
It’s not because he approves of even half the things I’m doing outside our house—but he understands something I hadn’t realized until now. If he pursues the conflict, it will ultimately uncover layers of his insecurity. It’ll reveal the real reason I work outside the home—because he cannot provide for his family. And it will be a reminder of how his wife, the love of his life, has lost her mind, placing a heavy burden on us all.
We, his daughters, are his only shield from reality and from a society that doesn’t care if he lives or dies. Fear fuels my father’s anger and encourages my lies. We are not too different in that way, my father and I—he attacks perceived threats, while I dodge them with a smile, a story, and a laugh.
CHAPTER 25
Elise
Present Day
