Her mother’s voice hardened again. “So this is my fault?”
“What? No!”
“You are trying and failing, so it must be that I’m not providing enough ‘parental support’?”
“What do you mean?”
“Because that’s what your teacher said, Elisa. That I should be looking over your shoulder. Double checking your work. Apparently you are making too much work for him, and so I’m supposed to pick up his slack? Believe me, Elisa, your brothers’ teachers never told me I had to provide more ‘parental support’. So this is not my fault!”
“No, of course it’s not. I . . . I can’t make my brain work right.”
“Oh, I see. And that’s my fault too, is it? Well, I can tell you, Elisa, your waste of a brain didn’t come from me—”
“No! I didn’t mean, I didn’t . . .”
Elisa’s mother leaned forward. “Well, you better figure it out. I don’t have time to coddle you like a two year old.”
Elisa quickly wondered if her mother ever coddled her when she was two. She did have a dim memory of spooning tomatoes on bruschetta to the sound of her mother’s singing. Did she make this up? See it in a movie? Or did that happen? She blinked hard, trying to focus.
“I will, Mamma. I’ll do better.”
“You better. Because if your report card comes and you fail a class, your father . . .” Once again, her voice shook.
Elisa reached for her mother’s hand. “I know. I will. I promise.”
Isotta gripped the phone. Finally!
She hesitated, and then typed:
Isotta swallowed her sigh of relief.
Isotta briefly wondered if she should call him instead. His tone was so hard to read. But then her sisters would hear her, and it would draw attention to the fact that she was locked in the closet.
Isotta paused, thinking.
When Massimo didn’t respond, Isotta added
Isotta tried not to read an edge of threat into Massimo’s words:
Isotta’s fingers slipped as she tried to explain:
Isotta drew in a shaking breath. No dots from Massimo, so she went on:
A pause.
Isotta tapped her fingers on her teeth and exhaled as the three rolling circles indicated Massimo typing his response:
Isotta waited, without what? Without what?
Massimo typed again:
Isotta typed before she could talk herself out of it:
Isotta, her daring increasing, typed:
A pause.
A longer pause.
Something about this seemed wrong to Isotta. She typed dully:
“Zia? Can you hear me?”
Chiara clutched the phone with both hands and turned from the bar. “Edo? What is it? Where are you? I thought you would be home hours ago.”
“I . . . there’s been an, an accident.” Edo’s voice was slurred, but careful. “I don’t know what happened. Can you get me?”
Breathless, Chiara asked, “Where are you?”
Silence.
“Edo? Edo? Are you there?” Chiara was having a hard time containing the panic in her voice so that it didn’t spill out over the bar.
A crackle and then, “Yeah, sorry, I was looking at the signs. I’m close to . . . I think the Autogrill outside of Terni?”
“Why is your voice so strange?”
“Zia? Please, just come get me? Before the cops do?”
“I’m on my way.”
Magda propelled her guest by the arm as townspeople hugged the side of the street, avoiding eye contact. She stopped outside the alimentari and gestured toward the cinghiali heads perched on either side of the doorway, like porcine gaslights. “Now this is our famous grocery store. It’s the best in the region. Truly, people come from Rome just to shop here!”
At the tourist’s incredulous expression, Magda went on, “It’s true! There are special salumi here that you just can’t find anywhere else, even Norcia. Giovanni, the owner, goes to little farms to get the very best, most particular kinds of foods. My guests always tell me this is their favorite shop in all of Umbria. Maybe all of Italy!”
The tourist peeked her head into the darkened shop. It didn’t look like much. It’s true that the shop is a bit on the underwhelming side at first blush, but those who take their time to root through the crowded shelves are amply rewarded by finds almost deserving of Magda’s hyperbole.
Before the tourist could discover for herself the gems tucked alongside the oil-packed tuna, she was pulled out by Magda who had likewise grabbed the arm of a man walking by in an apron. “Oh! Now this is Giuseppe! We call Giuseppe the mayor of Santa Lucia! He’s not the mayor, of course. The mayor is too busy to talk to the people who live and pay taxes in this community. Giuseppe is the butcher. The best in Umbria or Le Marche.”
Giuseppe offered a watery smile and nodded at the tourist, who nodded faintly back. To which Giuseppe grinned more broadly.
“It’s true! People are always sending me postcards from around the world to tell me how much they love Giuseppe’s pork stuffed with sausage, mortadella, and cheese. It’s one of the advantages of renting my apartment, you get to cook with all of our famous local specialties. It is too bad you won’t be here for the sagra next month.” Magda pursed her lips as she launched into her contribution to the tourist’s education. “Sagra means sacred, you see, so ours is a sacred festival celebrating wild boar.
