Page 111 of Ruthless Daddy
“He cried over themelanzanalast week,” I said. “This is more important.”
She laughed. I felt it in her shoulder, a shake against my arm. I wanted to tell her everything I was thinking, but the words crowded up. So I just stood with her, quiet.
After a while, she said, “I got an email last night. From the Wendell Pierce Foundation.”
She paused, to see if I understood the reference. I did. The man from the bench in Chicago. The first friend she’d made after two years alone, and the last.
“They wanted to let me know,” she went on, “that the Chicago shelter took in nineteen veterans off the street last month. Nineteen. They have a boxing room now. They said they added it because so many of the guys asked for it, and because a fewof the case managers thought it might be good for . . . what did she say . . .” She paused, made herself smile, “. . . for people who needed to punch the world back, even a little.”
I imagined Cora, somewhere, nodding.
She said, “They sent me a picture of the lobby. There’s a photo of Wendell on the wall. It’s the only one they had. The intake file one. He looks so serious. But he has a book in his hand.”
“He would like that,” I said.
She nodded. “They paid for the whole thing with the Maltese recovery. They said so. The audit letter was attached. I clicked it.” She laughed, short and dry. “I’m an addict, I guess.”
I looked at her. She looked back.
“I couldn’t act in time for Howell,” she said. “And I couldn’t save Wendell. But the men who sleep warm tonight, they do it because of what I found. I acted. It was too late for him. It’s not too late for them.”
She held my eyes until I nodded.
The sun cleared the far hill and threw light on the upper third of the field. The vines glowed red and gold. I thought, for a second, about what she had carried in her body all that time—the guilt, the belief that care was only a thing you paid for with suffering. And I saw, in the way she squared her shoulders and took back her mug, that she was carrying less now.
She turned to me, put her face in the crook of my neck. “You smell like outside,” she said.
“You smell like coffee,” I said.
We stood that way until the chill reached us both.
She said, “Come inside. Marco’s going to be herr soon.”
“He’s going to want to show you the grafts,” I said.
“I know. I like when he talks about the vines. It makes him happy.”
She started up the steps. I followed. At the top, she stopped and looked back at me. The look on her face was new. Not hungry. Not scared. Not even grateful. Just there.
The noise of a car on gravel floated up from the drive, way down by the barn.
I looked at her.
She smiled, tucked her hair behind her ear. “They’re early.”
“Marco is never early,” I said. “That means Serafina must be driving.”
“Or the baby’s driving?” she said.
I laughed. We went inside, and I heard her humming to herself in the kitchen while I took off my boots.
Outside, the sun was full on the river, and the buds were opening everywhere.
ThebabywascalledVittoria. She was half hair, half rage, and took after Serafina in both respects. The hair was black, already curling at the ends, and the rage was mostly reserved for her father, who bore it with the fatalism of a man who had given up hope of ever being in charge again.
“Get over here,” Marco shouted, before he’d even killed the engine.
I walked out with Angela. She had changed into the denim jacket I liked. It was warmer now, and the sun off the river made the back porch a good place to stand. She smiled at the baby, but hung back, as if she didn’t know whether she was allowed to touch her. Serafina solved that. She walked straight up the steps, put Vittoria into Angela’s arms, and said, “She’s heavier than she looks.”
