Chapter 22: Burnt Dinner

In October, Ruggero Salerno made dinner for four, and set off the smoke alarm twice.

"It's supposed to be crispy," he said, holding a pan at arm's length.

"It's supposed to be chicken," said Tiberio.

"It is chicken."

"It's charcoal."

"It's blackened."

"It's evidence."

I sat on the floor of my apartment with Rosa between my knees.

I watched a man who had once run a city lose an argument with an oven.

Rosa was seven months old, and she had decided the best thing in the world was her father's tie.

She lunged for it every time he walked by.

"She has a temper," Ruggero said, ducking.

"She doesn't."

Rosa screamed.

"That's hunger," I said.

"It's a little temper."

The door buzzed, and Nerina came in with a bakery box in one hand and her coat over her arm.

She had cut her hair to her shoulders, and she looked older, and lighter.

She was living in a small apartment in Chicago now, three trains from mine, and she had started a nursing prerequisite at night.

"I brought cannoli," she said. "In case the chicken died."

"The chicken is fine," said Ruggero.

"The chicken has been dead a while."

I laughed so hard I had to put my head on my knees.

Dinner was pasta, in the end, which Tiberio cooked in four minutes while Ruggero held the baby and stood in my kitchen being forgiven by nobody.

Nerina ate two helpings and told us about her counselor, who had made her say, out loud, one thing she was glad about.

"What did you say?" Tiberio asked.

"That I have a headstone to visit." She looked down at her fork. "That I'm not alone on the ninth anymore."

Nobody said anything.

Then Ruggero lifted his glass of water.

"To the ninth," he said, "which belongs to the people it belongs to."

Nerina clinked her fork against it.

"I'm still mad at you."

"I'd think less of you if you weren't."

"I'm mad for another year, at least."

"Take two."

She almost smiled.

When they were gone, we stood side by side at the sink, and the lake wind knocked at the window.

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