Page 285 of Mario

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I nod.

The food is cold now.

Anna would be furious.

And somehow, for the first time in a long time, that thought does not cut only one way.

It hurts.

But it also brings her back into the room as she was.

Not blood on the floor.

Not silence.

Not an article’s careful wording or strangers’ disgusting curiosity.

Anna.

My wife.

Their mother.

The woman who wanted lemon ice and a daughter and a house full of noise.

I sit back in my chair and look at my sons.

“Then we will talk about her,” I say.

Tomasso swallows. “Now?”

“Now,” I say. “And again. Not all of it tonight. But enough.”

Matteo nods slowly.

Tomasso does too.

For several moments, none of us says anything.

Then Tomasso reaches for the serving dish in the middle of the table and makes a face.

“Mamma would be furious that this got cold.”

I look at him.

Matteo says, “She would blame you.”

“Me?” Tomasso looks offended. “Papà is the one who started brooding over lamb.”

“I did not brood.”

Both my sons look at me.

I pick up my wine at last.

“Fine,” I say. “I brooded.”

Tomasso breathes out something close to a laugh.

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