Page 126 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
“Most good rules are born in the last five minutes.”
She calls.
Her mother answers on the second ring.
Elisa says the right words.
Her mother says the right words back and adds a jar of sauce as insurance.
Elisa hangs up and looks like the floor just gave her back a little of itself.
I cook because it’s the only thing that cuts through a day like this.
Olive oil.
Garlic.
A handful of tomatoes I cut with a knife that still remembers someone else’s kitchen.
Pasta water that tastes like the sea.
I salt it blindly.
She sits on the counter and watches me taste like that’s the trick.
When I hand her a bowl, she eats and the color comes up in her face for the first time since morning.
Halfway through, she sets the fork down.
“I'm scared,” she says. “Not of the kid. Not of you. Of all the men who think they can move us with a phone call.”
“I know,” I say. “I am too. I just hide it better.”
“You’re not funny,” she says.
“Then it’s good that you are.”
We go back for the small move when the block is loud and the light is soft. Rafe takes the stairs first.
Tino takes the fire escape.
I unlock the door and stand in the jamb while Elisa walks in and decides what still belongs to her.
She fills a bag with the ordinary—a toothbrush, a sweater, two books, the little photo of her mother that looks like a bookmark, a box of crackers.
She waters each plant and whispers something to one of them like it has a vote.
We leave two lamps on timers and take the trash out because normal matters.
Her neighbor sees us on the stair and says she liked the smell of the last loaf.
Elisa promises another.
The neighbor eyes me and then looks at Elisa’s face and keeps her opinion to herself.
Good neighbor.
Back at my place, I hang her coat by the door and put her mug on the rack next to mine.
