“But, is it okay if—”
“Go! And put on water for coffee.”
Elisa nodded tightly and sprinted into the kitchen.
It was a disaster. Ants surrounded crumbs on the table, the dishes look like they hadn’t been done since their last visit. Yes, there were bits of Fatima’s Moroccan cookies growing green and sodden in the sink. Elisa focused on the task at hand. Pay attention! She ordered herself. She flung open cabinets until she found a green plastic bowl. She turned the knob on the faucet with a creak, but nothing happened. She tried the other knob. Still nothing.
But she did spy a half-bottle of mineral water on the table. She poured it into a bowl, and then opened drawers, looking for a clean towel. There weren’t any, but she found a napkin shoved in the back of the utensil drawer. She fluttered it open by waving it jerkily, then folded it into crisp lines. She brought the bowl and napkin to the living room, preparing her apologies for not finding a towel. But Fatima simply accepted the offering with a nod, turning her attention to Luciano.
As Fatima began dipping the napkin in water and dabbing Luciano’s face, Elisa whispered, “Fatima? I don’t think he has water.”
Fatima rounded toward her, “What? What do you mean?”
“There’s no water.”
“That makes sense, actually,” Fatima sighed. She dipped the napkin back in the water.
Elisa returned to the kitchen. She found a bag of coffee in a shopping bag filled with rancid parcels of what must be meat, judging from the butcher paper. She shook the coffee into the moka, filled the bottom of the coffee maker with the rest of the bottled water, screwed the base on the top and set it to heat, grateful for the first time that her home life had necessitated learning to make coffee for her mother at an early age.
While she waited for the water in the moka to boil, she found a garbage bag under the sink. She shook it open with a pang of worry that the noise would bother Maestro. But no sound came from the living room other than Fatima’s soothing drone as she whispered words of comfort while washing Luciano’s face and hands over and over. Elisa inspected the contents of the shopping cart and tossed all the rotting parcels into the garbage bag, setting the jar of jam on the counter. She moved through the kitchen adding the stale bread, salami rinds, and half-empty bottle of rancid milk to the growing collection of trash in the bag. Tying the top, she set the bag by the kitchen door, mindful that the water in the moka was beginning to bang against the metal sides of the coffeemaker. With a paper towel she found, she wiped down the table and counters with a cleaner she’d located behind the garbage bags.
Elisa located a cup and filled it with dark, nutty coffee, adding a spoon of sugar before bringing it out to Fatima. As she handed it she asked, her voice pitched low, “Are you okay with him? I want to keep cleaning the kitchen, I think there must be a faucet in the alley where I can get some water.”
Fatima bowed her head in thanks as she took the cup. “Great idea. I’m so glad you’re here.”
Elisa swallowed. “Is he okay?”
“I don’t know. He was so confused when we got here. He’s never not recognized me before. Now he’s a little better. Calmer, anyway. But he keeps talking about Giulia and Margherita.”
“Margherita?”
“Yes, his granddaughter. He used to talk about her all the time before Giulia died. I haven’t heard him mention her in ages.”
Fatima blew on the surface of the coffee, sending the dots of oil swirling across the surface of the cup. Elisa studied Luciano as he moaned and tossed his head. She startled at a sudden realization. “Wait, is his daughter’s husband Massimo the same Massimo that’s getting married next week?”
“Is there a Massimo getting married next week?”
“Yes, I heard it announced at church.”
“It could be.”
“Madonna, just as he was starting to seem happy.”
Elisa reached for Fatima’s hand. Fatima took it and squeezed, then reached for Luciano’s hand. The three of them stood in the dim living room, inhaling the warm scent of coffee, the sharp odor of cleanser that Elisa had sprayed in the kitchen, and the soft childlike sound of Luciano, beginning to weep.
Edo’s bike skirted the edge of the dirt path as he pumped harder to the top of the mountain. Standing, he cranked the pedals with all his weight, relishing the feeling of single-mindedness. There was no space in his brain or his heart for anything other than determination. With a final groan, Edo reached the summit. He planted his feet on either side of the pedals to catch his breath. Panting heavily, he leaned the bike against a tree and walked to the drop-off, his eyes drinking in the view. The hills below him resembled a child’s finger-painting—the silvery green of the olive trees blurred with streaks of golds and reds from the grapevines turning in the autumnal chill. Sometimes he forgot how beautiful the world was, or at least his corner of it.
Spying a stone bench, Edoardo seated himself, stretching his legs with a groan. He tipped his face up to the sun and felt the toxins stored in his body leaching out to evaporate into the crisp air. Sobriety was feeling pretty good. At least right now.
Staying clean was a lot harder when he felt his body itch for the high of the clubs. Looking back at his last few weeks, though he definitely experienced periods of mourning for the sweet
