Worse, Ugo’s disappearance felt as if it confirmed the verdict of Mona’s disappearance: that the fault was somehow in me. Life had given me a parole hearing and found me still wanting. The last I ever heard from Ugolino Nogara was that e-mail. And I thought, because I ignored it, that I had finally learned my lesson.
CHAPTER 27
WHEN I PICK Peter up from the Costa apartment, the first thing he says is, “I don’t want to go back to Prozio’s palace. I want to go home.”
“Did Allegra say something to you?” I ask.
“I just want to play with my cars.”
“We can pick up some of your toys, but I don’t think we’re going to stay.”
“Can I go to the bathroom, too? I don’t like Prozio’s bathrooms.”
His insistence seems less odd now. “I’ll give you a piggyback ride. We’ll get there faster.”
* * *
HOME. WHEN I WAS seven, Simon and I counted the number of stairs to our floor and the number of steps to our apartment. The steps have diminished over the years, but not the habit of counting them. Peter and I do it out loud. He says he will climb the stairs faster than I do when he comes back to live here someday as a world-famous soccer player.
Inside, the plants are wilting. The hake that Sister Helena made for Simon’s arrival is developing smells on a lonely platter in the refrigerator.
While Peter is in the bathroom, I clean up what remains of the mess. The place looks like home again.
“I’m hungry,” Peter announces on his return.
I pull down a box of cereal, the single father’s standby. While I wait for him to finish, I call maintenance.
“Mario, it’s Father Alex up on four. I need to change my lock. Do you have parts for that?”
Mario isn’t known for promptness, but we went to school together, so I know I can trust him.
“Father, I’m glad to hear you’re back,” he says. “Coming right up.”
By the time Peter’s done with his second bowl, we have a shiny new knob and key. Mario has even insisted on installing them himself.
“Anything else you need,” he says, “you call me.”
He musses Peter’s hair. He must know about Simon, but this is his reaction to the news. I miss this place. I didn’t appreciate enough what a family we are in this building.
When he’s gone, Peter brings his bowl to the sink and goes to play with the new knob. “I’ve been praying for Simon,” he says, apropos of nothing.
I try to look unsurprised.
“Me too, buddy,” I say.
“When it’s for Simon, who do you pray to?”
He told me once that praying is like being a soccer coach and calling saints off the bench.
“The Theotokos,” I say.
Mary, the mother of God. The highest power of intercession.
He nods solemnly. “Me, too.” He picks up one of his toy cars and flies it through the air, making artillery sounds.
“Why do you ask?”
He scrunches up his face. “I don’t know. But I think this car is out of batteries.”
He opens the battery drawer beside the phone and decides to tap the button on the answering machine.
“Simon’s going to be fine, Pet—” I start to say.