The Fifth Gospel(147)

            I’m relieved. Peter’s too young to understand regret, but my body vibrates with the awareness that we’re now playing with those dark materials.

            Mona reaches into a plastic bag on the floor by her feet and says, “I brought dinner.”

            Tupperware. Her answer to our pathetic dinner of cereal.

            “A gift,” she clarifies, “from Nonna.”

            Peter’s maternal grandmother. I recoil.

            Peter looks at the Tupperware and says, as if there’s still time to change his order, “My favorite pizza is margherita.”

            “I’m sorry,” Mona says, crestfallen. “All I brought is some cacio e pepe.”

            Tonnarelli with cheese sauce. The devil inside me smiles. Her mother’s version of the dish will be too peppery for Peter. A fitting introduction to the mother-in-law I always found to be an acquired taste.

            “We already had cereal,” Peter explains. But he takes her by the hand and leads her inside. “How long can you stay? Can you spend the night?”

            Mona glances at me for help.

            “Peter,” I say, stroking his hair, “not tonight.”

            He frowns. If this is a preview of the new chain of command, he doesn’t like it.

            “Why?” he says.

            Surprisingly, this is the moment when Mona chooses to assert herself.

            “Peter, we aren’t ready for that yet. You have to be patient with us.”

            The anger that blooms on his face is beautifully pure. What hypocrites we are. Grant us love, but not yet.

            “I brought something for you, though,” she says, reaching into the bag.

            Peter waits expectantly, only to receive a picture in a frame. It shows the two of us watching soccer on TV. I’m holding his arms in the air to celebrate a goal. I have to guard myself against the emotion that comes with realizing she’s kept this picture for years. But Peter pulls the frame out of her palm and says, “Okay, thanks,” and plunks it on the nearest table.

            I offer my wife a hand. “Let me put the pasta in the fridge.”

            And for the first time, as we make the exchange, our fingers touch.



* * *



            THE HOUR WE SPEND together is bruising, in part because it’s so obvious how wonderful Peter finds it. Mona is awkward with him, but for Peter there’s no transition at all, no slow warm-up to the presence of an unfamiliar adult. He takes her to his bedroom and sits down on the floor, offering her the spot beside him. He tells belabored stories about other boys she doesn’t know, whose escapades she can’t possibly understand, especially in his stream-of-consciousness Italian. “Tino, downstairs? It was Thursday, but not this Thursday? He told Giada that his allowance, if she would show her underpants to him, he would give her all of it. And she said no, but he tried anyway, and she broke his fingers.” All the while he’s playing with toy cars or showing her the new soccer cleats Simon scrimped to buy him. A lifetime of catching up might just be possible before sunset.

            The fury of his mind is painful to watch. It reveals a kind of double existence, as if he hasn’t just been living his life but curating it, preparing the museum of himself for his mother’s return. Even sadder is his insistence on giving the whole tour tonight, as if he’s not convinced he’ll have another chance. Simon disappeared on him two nights ago. The possibility of loss is fresh. When this performance is over, I wonder how he’ll sleep tonight. How he’ll be able to think of anything except whether there will be a next time.

            But for now, he’s effusive. Determined to empty himself to the last drop. Keeping up with him exhausts Mona, who tries to follow everything he says until, deep into the visit, she finally capitulates and just enjoys this time for what it is.