The Fifth Gospel(146)

            “Wait,” I say. “Have you thought what you would say to her?”

            Without even hesitating, he nods.

            My heart cracks. I never guessed he had a script for this conversation.

            “All right, then,” I say. “Go ahead.”

            But to my surprise, he hands the phone back. “Can we do it together?”

            So with my finger over his, we press Dial.

            I whisper, “Ready?”

            He can’t answer. He’s fixated on the ring tone.

            Mona answers almost immediately. It’s as if we’ve called on the emergency frequency reserved for superheroes. Peter is entranced.

            “Alex?” she says.

            My son’s blue eyes are as wide as the sky. I put the handset on speakerphone. Now I’m just a witness.

            “Hello?” she says.

            Peter is startled. He doesn’t recognize her voice. Somewhere deep inside him, he’s discovering the cement is still wet.

            His lips form a smile. In a small voice he says, “Mamma?”

            I wish I could see her face.

            A sound comes out of the speaker. Peter stares in alarm. He doesn’t recognize the sound of his mother crying.

            “Peter,” she says.

            He looks at me again. Not for reassurance this time, but for material. I realize there was never any script for this conversation.

            “Peter,” Mona says, “I’m so happy you called me.”

            She’s searching for words, too. In this most fundamental act of my daily life, speaking to our child, she is inexperienced.

            “I—did you—what did you do today? Did you have fun with Babbo?”

            Her voice is slow and full of sunny overabundance, as if she’s talking to a child half his age. But Peter’s already recovered. Without answering her question, he locks in his agenda: “Can you come over to our house?”

            We’re both caught by surprise. Mona says, “Well. I don’t know if—”

            “You can come right now. We’re having cereal for dinner.”

            She responds with a pop of laughter that takes Peter aback. He didn’t know his mother contained such noises.

            “Peter,” she says, still laughing, “sweetheart, we would need to talk to your father about that.”

            O naïve woman. Like a fish in his net.

            Peter shoves the phone across the table. “Okay,” he says. “My father’s right here.”



* * *



            SHE ARRIVES TWENTY MINUTES later. I could’ve stopped her. But I’ve never seen Peter so lost in joy. I’d sooner have blown out candles in a church.

            He rushes to answer the door, and it’s like watching a train careen into a dark tunnel. God bless him, he doesn’t even hesitate.

            Mona is dressed in an outfit I’ve never seen before. No conservative summer sweater tonight, but an indigo sundress with bare shoulders. She is beautiful. And yet as she lowers herself to her knees, offering an embrace she isn’t sure Peter will accept, the smile is plastered on her face. Sensing her terror, he is suddenly full of ambivalence, too, and lurches forward weirdly to take the hug. Neither says a word.