Page 83 of When We Were Enemies
“Of course, but it’s not always bad.” I hold her out in front of me, her dark lashes framing eyes that look just like mamma’s. “Think about the seasons. Your garden brings many harvests for our family. Sweet strawberries in the spring. Watermelon, tomatoes, and beans in the summer. Pumpkins, corn, and sunflowers in the fall.”
“It’s not the same,” she says, touching her upside-down reflection in the bed frame.
Bronze, not white like the cute little frame papà ordered. When it was finally delivered, it was exactly what mamma wanted, ornate white iron posts and a soft-as-feathers mattress. But it was half the size she’d expected. To save money, papà had ordered the twin instead of the double, and he didn’t seem to understand her gasp of surprise.
“Our little birds have a little nest,” papà said as Aria and I squeezed our small bodies into the twin-sized bed. Mamma bounced Tony as he nursed. She smiled and said nothing about her secret disappointment, but I picked up on it. I’d seen that look on my mamma’s face before, but my father never seemed to notice.
Aria and I only spent a week in the pretty white bed before mamma was put away. Papà traded beds with us, saying his was too big without mamma there.
“There’re some changes we can’t stop, Ari. You’ll blossom soon enough, whether you like it or not.” I push her hair back, wild and unbrushed from her afternoon outdoors. I see the walls of the prison our parents have created for Aria more clearly than I see the walls of my own, I’m sure, but I wish she’d pound on those barriers, test them occasionally.
“You be a flower, and I’ll be a carrot. How about that?” Ari asks, giggling.
“With this hair, you sometimes look like the top of a carrot. Heavens!” I grab my horsehair brush and pull it through her tangled strands, finding two sticks, a blade of grass, and one unidentified bug that makes us both squeal.
By the time the doorbell buzzes, Aria is smiling again. She puts her hand on my cheek.
“Back at ten?” she asks like I’m her mother leaving for a glamorous night out.
“Back at ten.” I kiss her cheek before putting on a quick coat of red lipstick, knowing papà won’t say anything to cause a scene in front of Tom. I blot the color with a tissue, pin on my hat, then buckle the shoes Tom gave me, check my teeth for any stray smudges of lip color, and then pose for my sister.
“He’s gonna fall in love with you,” she says loud enough that Tom could possibly have heard.
“Aria!” I gasp, and toss a tissue across the room.
“What? Whodoesn’tfall in love with you?” She laughs and rolls off the side of the bed onto her feet. “Now, get out there before papà takes out his pistol.”
“Oh, heavens. Don’t even joke.”
I blow Aria another kiss and rush out to the front room where papà stands, leaning on his cane, and Tom sits on the floral love seat. I know papà must be in immense pain standing upright, but I also know he’s showing his strong presence to the young soldier, letting him know that Anthony Santini is not to be messed with.
“I’ve been with the Eighty-Third Infantry since August last year.” Tom points to the black inverted triangle on his shoulder and then to the other patch with stripes and an embroideredT, signifying “technician fifth grade.”
“È a Camp Atterbury da agosto, papà,” I translate, surprising both men with my interruption. “Tecnico di quinto livello.”
My father has no way of knowing what any of this means.
“What does this even mean? Technician? I don’t care,” he says in Italian, and makes a face like he’s tasted something sour, which Tom misses as he rises and greets me with a small wave. He holds a bouquet of flowers and smells of a rich aftershave. After a quick search of his eyes and the color of his cheeks, I’m relieved to see he’s sober.
Papà continues his line of questioning with me. “What matters more is what does he do when he doesn’t have a rifle in his hands?”
“Tom, this is my father, Anthony Santini. Papà, Corporal Tom Highward,” I say in English without acknowledging my father’s question. I’m sure papà performed his own introduction while I wasn’t in the room, but I can’t rely on his version of hospitality in this situation.
“So nice to meet you officially, Mr.Santini.” Tom extends his hand, which papà looks at with disdain for a moment before asking in broken English, “Where you from?”
“Papà, sii gentile.”Papà, be nice.
“No, Viv, it’s okay.” Tom drops his hand and chuckles like he’s entertained. I don’t interrupt again, also curious after my conversation with Lilly and Sue the other day.
“From? Pittsburg, Pennsylvania.”
My eyebrows rise; one detail matches the outrageous story Lilly told.
“East Coast?” Papà asks, keeping up well enough with the conversation.
“Yes, sir. East Coast.”
“You job? Not this.” He gestures to Tom’s uniform, and I wonder if he understands.
