White Shotgun

features are drawn.

Mom is gone, and the boys are out to play. Somehow they found each other this morning — Sterling, the uninvited guest, lean and buff, wearing camouflage shorts and a black T-shirt with a dragon, and Nicosa, the host, in pajama bottoms and an undershirt. He is unshaven with unkempt hair, throwing sweat, not moving as fluidly as when he played with the flag, but with red-faced determination to stay in the game.

Sterling and Nicosa go at it with competitive abandon. Nicosa has superior control, is good at disguising his moves, but Sterling stays on him, stealing the ball with a sharp inside curve. It rolls toward Giovanni, who gives a feeble swipe with a crutch. His shirt rides up, exposing a pale sunken belly and sharp hip bones.

“Be careful,” I murmur to myself.

Giovanni shouts at his father, “Vai cosi!”—Go this way! — but Sterling swings forward with a powerful strike squarely through the center of the ball and makes a goal between two potted palm trees. It’s a good shot, and everyone high-fives and cheers.

“E uno spettacolo!”

I clap also, yelling, “Bravi!”

The result is that while the two men tussle over the next point, Giovanni’s attention is drawn to the second floor, where I am standing; he looks up at the same moment his father boots the ball. It hits the boy in the chest, the crutches fly, and he collapses.

I run down the marble steps. Giovanni is lying on his back, gasping for air. Nicosa and Sterling squat beside him, talking rapidly and at cross-purposes in each other’s language.

“Posso aiutare!” says Sterling. “Sono addestrato come un paramedico.”

“My boy … he just had surgery, and he has a bad heart!”

I assure Nicosa we know what we’re doing, and he steps back as I take the boy’s pulse while Sterling checks the airways. We lift his shirt, inspect the surgical scars. Intact. No visible contusions from the soccer ball. A nod between us says, All clear. We count to three and gently roll my nephew onto his side. Soon his breathing returns to normal.

Nicosa has been watching with hands on hips, like the boss at a construction site. He smells of musty bedclothes and alcohol.

“How is he?”

“Had the wind knocked out of him is all,” says Sterling. “Like falling out of a tree, right, son?”

“He’s done that, too. Sono cosi spiacente, mio figlio,” he says, repentance in his voice.

“E giusto, Babbo,” Giovanni replies as we help him to his feet.

Nicosa hands his son a rucksack that has been lying in the grass, then slowly walks back into the abbey with his head down.

“Tu sarai giusto; giusto riposa il minuto,” Sterling tells Giovanni.

“I’m okay,” Giovanni assures him. “Your Italian is very good.”

“The army sent me to language school.”

“Are those real army shorts?”

“Nah. They look cool, but they’re not that cool. See this?” He pops a pocket in the waistband. “Yuppie iPod holder.”

“Were you in Special Ops?” Giovanni asks, carefully pronouncing the words. “Is that why you learned Italian?”

“Why not learn something on the government’s dime?” Sterling says genially. “I was just a ranch hand before,” he adds, leaving out a lifelong career in Delta Force.

“He’s a real cowboy,” I point out. “Can’t you tell by those bowed legs?”

Giovanni obediently looks at Sterling’s legs. “Do you have guns?”

“Several.”

“Is it true that everyone in America owns a gun?”

Sterling smiles easily. “Lots of people do have guns. Just like everyone in Italy grows olives; is that true?”

“Around here, yes.”

“Where can we get some really fine olives?”

“Anywhere.”

“I mean, not a store, but where they grow the fruit and cure it. We raise olives in Texas, just like you. My dad’s a rancher, but he’s got a good-sized olive grove.”

“You never told me that,” I say.

Sterling raises his eyebrows, mocking my surprise. “You never had a need to know.”

“Oh, you can see our friend,” Giovanni offers. “His name is Aleandro; he owns the farm next door. That’s where we get our olive oil.”

Honking the horn, a kid driving a small car like Giovanni’s pulls into the driveway.

“Are you sure you’re well enough to go to school?”

“I would rather be in school than here,” he replies bitterly.

Slowly, he makes it to the car, and it is amazing how his manner changes the moment he comes within range of his friend. Suddenly he’s a different person, all jokes and smiles, clownishly climbing inside, despite the weight of the pack pulling him backward, and the crutches awkwardly held in one hand.

“Giovanni,” I call, “you’re not ready.”

“You’re not my mother,” he says sharply.

“If your mother were here, she would say you need to rest.”

“You don’t understand. My father is crazy, and my mother ran away.”

“Is that what she did? She ran away?”

“Yes, of course, to get away from him. So why should I care what she thinks?”

They take off, spraying gravel.

Sterling is waiting alone in the courtyard.

“Giovanni has no idea what’s going on with his mother,” I tell him.

“Maybe it’s better that way,” he says as we head toward the front door. “Does Nicosa always look so wasted?”

“No, usually he’s the king of cool.”

“He still expects to get Cecilia back?”

“He believes he’ll get a ransom call, and he’s waiting. Just waiting.”

“When’re you gonna tell him the truth?”

“Which is?”

“If she was taken by the mob, they’ve most likely already killed her.”

I let that one go by, like a wasp hanging in the air. If you don’t move, it won’t sting you.

“We have no proof one way or another. We don’t have a big enough picture.”

“What are we missing?” Sterling asks, just to humor me.

“Here’s how I see it: there are three separate strands, one for each member of this messed-up family. The FBI believes Nicosa has ties to the mafias because he was sleeping with one of their players, who has disappeared and is believed to be dead. Mom pays bribes to the clans in order to keep her clinics open. And the son is caught receiving cocaine from a British expat who has since left the country. None of them has the slightest clue about what the others are up to — what makes them tick, or where they go at night.”

“The part that braids it all together is the boy,” Sterling muses. “Let’s see what comes loose when we pull that thread.”

We find Nicosa in the kitchen, pouring a long shot of grappa into a short cup of espresso.

“Forgive me,” he says. “I am an idiot.”

“For what happened out there? It was an accident,” Sterling tells him. “Could’ve been me, kicked that ball.”