“What kind of a woman are you?”
“Barb!” Jay said. “We’ve got enough trouble.”
“Jaybird, I swear, if you don’t back me up on this, if you don’t…”
“Then what, Barbara dear? What do you intend to do, to your husband?”
As soon as Barbara let go, the in-law fisted her kimono back together. Its bright threads sparkled against the shadows of her wrinkled neck.
“Both of you. Last thing we need is this kind of playground stuff”
“Jay, how can you let her turn it around like this? How can you let her talk as if today, as if everything were wide open to any kind of way she—”
“But Barbara, you’re the one who’s left something open. First you announce that this man is your husband, eternally, before God. And then you tell us that should he neglect to ‘back you up,’ well — what? What’s the truth?”
“Mom, Mom and, Aw, Aw… Mom and Grandma,” said Paul. “I’m tired of this.”
Jay had gotten a hand on each of the women, under the murmuring fan. He’d taken his mother by her shoulder and Barbara by a hip.
“I’m tired o-of it. It’s, it’s like — I can see this o-on any street corner.”
The Jaybird, with the hand on Barb, lightly aligned a finger with the top of his wife’s panties. Between that familiar tickle and what her middle child had to say, his exasperation, she found herself cooling improbably. She blinked and saw how silly she and her in-law looked.
Silly, a whipsaw a deux, choreography for the end of everything. As if they could! As if either she or Aurora, with no more than a harsh word or two, could erase a way of life this long in place and thick with sediment.
Paul spoke, Jay touched her, and with that Barb pictured the opposite. She saw herself and this woman knocking off the Siren song and instead brokering a whole series of practical solutions. She blinked again and her imagination kept on like this, so sizeable a shift in her thinking that Barbara looked to Cesare. Was this something for confession? The old man hadn’t moved from the couch but he was watching closely, from that angle he could see how Jay was stroking his wife’s hip, and chagrin rose hotly up Barbara’s neck even as she couldn’t stop thinking that she and this old woman had now spit up the filthiest business between them. Now, with that out of the way, they might find what they had in common. They had the city, for starters. No one else in the family had made such intimate connections here as Aurora and Barb.
“You got it now?” Jay was asking. “The big picture?”
Anyway, Barbara asked herself, wasn’t the older Lulucita a natural for this chameleonic town? Couldn’t she stand in for a Neapolitan mother?
“Goodness,” Aurora said. “I thought for a moment there we were going to end up like something from a bad movie.”
“Yeah, yeah like a, a movie I’ve seen a, a thousand times.”
Barbara looked to Paul, square-eyed, refusing to blink again. She thought of the jump-cuts back on Whitman’s screen, the faces altered in an instant. Could she trust this latest edit?
“Owl?” her husband was asking. “We all on the same page, now?”
Then there was Aurora, her little nonna. The in-law’s smile no longer looked so jagged; Barb couldn’t help thinking it looked like an olive branch. A lipstick-red olive branch, a strange image but one Jay seemed to see as well, since he eased back and took his hands off the women. The big son and husband gave himself a breather, while Barbara found herself smiling back at the old woman, guarded about about it but nevertheless finding words for what she’d just been imagining.
Needed to get some things off my chest…get it out in the open…some on both sides, sounded like.
Aurora made the same noises, give or take. In her voice, conciliation took on a greater refinement, the melody of the Alpha. The younger woman didn’t lose her smile, but she cast around for a place to sit. Both the sofa and the nearest chair, however, remained spaces for the handicapped. Cesare’s color was back, but the lines around his eyes had deepened. He looked as if he’d fallen into thoughts as intense and surprising as Barbara’s. And while Paul too was himself again, what did that mean? What, really? The boy had lowered his teeming head, holding his belt in one hand while with the other he poked between pants and shirt, tightening the tuck. The mother went to him, sidling past the displaced coffee table.
“Remember, Mr. Paul.” She squatted before the boy. “It could be any of us.”
Over the child’s shoulder, she saw the priest kick the blanket off his black-stockinged feet.
“That’s what you said, right?” she continued. “These episodes, whatever’s in them, it’s there all around us all the time. It could be any one of us, laying on hands, if we could only feel it.”
The buzzer for the palazzo’s front door sounded, a racket under the high ceilings. The priest sat up, revealing shoulders tufted with shocking white hair.
“I’m saying,” Barbara went on, “you’re not so strange. We’re the strange ones, the ones who don’t ever feel it.”
She stroked his cheek, its hint of hair. Meantime the buzzer kept coming on — the police of course. Police and paramedics both had rushed to the Vomero in response to the American family’s pronto soccorso. But in the ten or fifteen minutes since the older boy had gotten off the phone, a big public to-do had become the last thing anyone wanted. Even Cesare, at the word polizia crackling over the intercom, shook his beaky head. Jay was the first to think of the balcony. He stepped outside, the room’s overhead fan sucking in a fresh dose of the sulfur air. Barbara, hearing her husband call down to the cops, was surprised at how good his Italian had become. The Jaybird reeled off four or five different kinds of reassurance, even working up a laugh as he shouted that the family was fine. Nevertheless he seemed to need reinforcements. He poked back inside and asked Barbara to join him.
Out over the piazza, the sun surprised her, still noon-bright. The wife had to squint, and though she made nice, though she tried to sound trouble-free, her act was out of synch with Jay’s. When the Jaybird said the call was a big mistake, false alarm, she shook her head, and when he asked her whether anyone was hurt she nodded. Below, a camera or two went off, with a scratch and fizz like faulty matches. Against the high railing, the s-curved childproof bars, Barb realized she was the wrong person for this job; she was still too raw from thrashing things out with Aurora. She hadn’t gotten back on her feet, or gotten her head back on its feet. Then there were “the symptoms that generally follow the healing event,” according to Nettie’s recommended reading. Fatigue, disorientation — pretty ordinary symptoms, when you thought about it. In any case Barbara wasn’t much help. She frowned, reminding herself why she’d come back home in the first place; she still needed to sit down with Chris and JJ. But when she waved to the cluster of folks below, she felt like she was doing a high-school version of Evita. She was Evita next to Mussolini, and the act didn’t appear to be working. Down on the spirals of paving-stones, the police and the medics wouldn’t leave. The lights on both vehicles kept flashing, and now they’d attracted additional onlookers, maybe as many as twenty-five. The biggest crowd for the family in days.
Then Cesare joined them, back in uniform. Out in the volcanic breeze, with the Bay visible behind him, the man’s collar suggested some fresh-scrubbed temple on the horizon. He hadn’t yet pulled on his shoes, but the people in the piazza couldn’t see that, and when he spoke he came across in terrific voice. A voice Barbara had never heard from him, it turned out: the local accent and slang. She couldn’t translate the bawling, the abbreviations, but neither of the American’s could miss the old Jesuit’s point.