“Very sure.”
“Because Margherita . . .”
“I know, Mamma, I know.
“Buongiorno, Chiara!”
“Buongiorno, Patrizia! Come stai?”
“Pretty well. Edo watching the bar?”
“Yes, but our walk shouldn’t be too long today, he looks exhausted from moving in last night. I’d like to get back before the morning rush. Let him unpack and get settled.”
“Sure, that’s no problem. I need to do the shopping before this rain comes.”
Chiara tipped her head back, squinting against the sun. “Rain?”
“I know, there’s not that many clouds. But the sunrise was pink, so.”
“Oh, Patrizia, you believe that?”
“Well, funziona!” Patrizia retorted defensively. “It works at least as well as the news.”
“Which is to say, not at all.” Chiara linked her arm through her friend’s. “I’m just teasing, cara. I’m sure you are right. Now, which path today?”
“Let’s do the one with the statue of St. Francis. It’ll take us past both of our uliveti, and I want to check my olive trees for that blasted bacteria making its way up from Puglia. I can’t bear to think what will happen if our trees get hit. I’m already worried that the drought this summer is going to decrease oil production.”
Chiara nodded, “Sure. Remember, though, the trees have stood for centuries. They’ll be okay.”
Patrizia answered, “I want to be optimistic, too, but my cousin’s grove in Salento was hit and it was a disaster.”
As they began walking, Patrizia went on, “Anyway, that way is flatter and my legs are tired from walking to Girona yesterday.”
“All that way? Why in the name of the Madonna would you do that?”
“Well, Giuseppe needed the car to pick up supplies for the macelleria.”
“He’s not carting pig carcasses in your Fiat again is he?”
Patrizia laughed, her snorting cackle bringing the twitch of a smile to Chiara’s lips. “No, no. He hasn’t done that in ten years—since I threatened him with sleeping in that damned display case he’s so proud of.” Patrizia took a breath to slow her laughing, “No, he had to get eggs since Bea’s chickens won’t be laying so much with the cooler weather, and also a few crates of wine and boxes of pasta. You know, the small stuff.”
“Okay, so Giuseppe had the car. But where did you have to go that couldn’t wait?”
“Ai, Chiara. I didn’t want to burden you with this.”
Chiara stopped along the path, and placed her hand on her friend’s arm. They stood, through this touch connected to a friendship that had carried them their whole lives, since they were schoolgirls in pinafores. The olive trees surrounding them like a rolling quilt shimmered dully now in a light that was growing progressively stonier. Heavy clouds threatened to spill over the surrounding mountains.
“Patrizia? What is it?”
Patrizia blinked furiously and looked away, “I swore to myself I wouldn’t talk about this with you.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s Filamena.”
Chiara’s hand on Patrizia’s arm tightened. “Is she okay? Please tell me she’s okay.”
“Yes, she’s okay. I mean, she’s physically well enough, I suppose. She’s worried about little Marco. Frankly, I am too.”
“What’s happening?”
Patrizia sighed. “You know he was never really a normal baby. We kept waiting for him to catch up, but he’s only falling more behind. His teachers at the asilo, his preschool, keep calling Filamena and . . . oh, Chiara, they are saying there is something wrong with him. That he’s special, and not in a good way. He makes strange noises and rocks while waving his hands in front of his face and runs on his tiptoes.” Patrizia took in a shaky breath. “We knew all that, I guess. We hoped he’d grow out of it. But now, the teachers say he doesn’t get along well with the other children. He hits them when they have something he wants, and then he doesn’t seem to understand why he’s in trouble. He howls. It’s too much for Filamena, and to hear that pain in the voice of my own daughter. Oh, Chiara, I’m so sorry! That was thoughtless of me.”
“Patrizia, stop. I love Filamena like she’s blood, I’ve been part of her life since she was born. I’m her godmother, for heaven’s sake! To own the truth, I’ve been worried about Marco, too. I feel like there’s a piece that struggles to be a regular baby, but that part is buried under so much else.”
“Exactly. You understand,” Patrizia assented, before they began walking again. “So yesterday, Filamena called me hysterical. Marco wouldn’t go to school, he couldn’t say why. You know he doesn’t have all that many words anyway. Paolo is on another trip, so she has no help. I had to go.” The rustle of the wind through the olive branches stalled the women for a moment before Patrizia said, “Here let’s speed up, the sky is looking brutto.” She started moving along the path, Chiara beside her so she could continue to touch her friend’s arm from time to time.
“Marco had calmed down by the time my train arrived. Once he knew he wouldn’t have to go to school, he settled right down. And there was this moment, Chiara, I don’t know how to explain it. But there was this moment where I just felt like he clicked. I had pricked my finger on the embroidery I was doing, and he brought me a washcloth, and then he kept coming over and checking my finger. Even one time, resting my finger against his cheek. And I thought, he’s in there! There’s a loving little boy lost in there.” Her words turned jagged, and she pulled a tissue out from her sleeve to wipe her eyes as she walked.
“Oh, Patrizia. Of course there is. How is Filamena?”
“She was glad I came, of course. Made a big deal of my bringing her mortadella from Giuseppe’s shop. I know she misses seeing us every day, but it did make sense for them to move to Rieti. So much closer to Rome for Paolo’s work. But I worry about her, there with no family.”
“I wish she could come here when Paolo is
