Page 19 of We Could Be So Good
“Cardiologist,” Andy agrees, as if this explains everything.
One of the merely old women says something in rapid-fire Italian to the very old woman, who then turns to Andy, frowns, and says something that makes the other two laugh. For lack of any better idea, Andy smiles, drinks some more, and looks around the room.
One wall is covered in photographs. Most of the recent photos are of Michael and what Andy assumes are Michael’s wife and children. But the older photographs catch Andy’s eye, especially three separate portraits of boys on what has to be their First Communion. Andy guesses he’s looking at Nick and his brothers. There’s also one wedding photograph of a tiny woman and a large man, presumably Nick’s parents. He knows Nick’s father died when Nick was still pretty young.
“Jesus, Andy, there you are,” says Nick. He says something in Italian to the women, which results in the oldest getting to her feet and pinching his cheek and murmuring something in his ear that makes Nick blush.
“You shouldn’t drink what they give you,” Nick says, looking at Andy’s mouth. “They’ve been in training for decades.” He reaches his hand out, as if to wipe away whatever he sees there, but then shoves his hand in his pocket. Andy wipes his own mouth and the back of his hand comes away stained orange.
“What did she say to you?” Andy asks as they leave the room. “You blushed. I’ve never seen you blush.”
“She wants to know when I’m bringing a girlfriend home.”
Andy doesn’t know what to say to that, but it doesn’t matter anyway because now they’re in a hot, crowded kitchen and he’s being introduced to another half a dozen women. Some of them are chopping or stirring or peering into the oven, but the others are just chatting and occasionally sneaking a taste of whatever’s on the stove.
The conversation in this room is entirely in English, which would be a relief except that now Andy knows for certain that everyone is talking about him.
“Don’t they have food where he comes from?”
“The first time you ever bring anyone around and it’s not even a girl, Nicky?”
“He works at that paper? Don’t let Michael sit next to him.”
“Sal,” Nick says to a teenage boy Andy hadn’t noticed, probably on account of the kid lurking in the corner between the refrigerator and the back door and also on account of him being built like a broomstick. “We’re going out back. Want to come?”
Nick leads the way out the back door to a fenced-in yard. A handful of old men are lawn bowling and pay no attention to the three newcomers.
Nick sits on the brick steps. Andy sits beside him on one side, Sal on the other. Nick gets out a pack of cigarettes and lights two, handing one to Andy.
“Can I have one, Uncle Nick?”
“No,” Nick laughs.
“I’m fourteen!”
Nick doesn’t dignify this with a response, just shakes his head. “How’s school, kid?”
“Not bad.”
“Straight As?”
“B-plus in Biology.”
“How’s home?”
“Oh, you know.”
Nick grumbles something unintelligible, then lowers his voice so Andy can barely hear him. “He’s not smacking you around?”
“Shh!” Sal looks around furtively, checking that the door is still closed. “No.”
Nick’s jaw is clenched so hard that Andy can almost hear his molars grinding together. “You know where to find me if you need me.”
“Yeah. Dad doesn’t like those articles you’ve been writing. The ones about the cops.”
Nick takes a puff from his cigarette and taps the ash onto the ground. “Yeah, well, that sounds like it’s his problem.”
“Just thought you should know, if he seems like more of a—if he’s more difficult than usual.”
