Chapter 7: Three Questions

Lucia set a dinner table for four and put Marcello at the end of it, facing his son.

She took his phone at the door and locked it in a drawer.

"Tonight you listen," she said. "You can read your email in the morning."

Miles came in with his hair combed flat and his medal pinned to his sweater.

He stopped in the doorway when he saw his father.

Marcello stood up so fast his chair scraped.

"Hi, Miles."

"Hello, Mr. Ferraro."

Lucia put down the bread knife.

"Sit," she told them both.

We sat.

Lucia carried in a dish of baked pasta, and she served Miles first, a spoonful at a time, without asking.

Nobody said anything for a while.

Marcello held his fork and did not eat.

I watched him look at our son and not know where to start.

Miles ate three bites, put his fork down, and folded his hands.

"I have questions," he said.

Marcello sat very straight.

"Okay."

"I'm going to ask three. If you get them wrong, it's okay. I'm just checking."

I put my napkin over my mouth.

Lucia looked at her plate, but her shoulders shook.

"Go ahead," Marcello said.

"What am I allergic to?"

"Pistachios."

"How do you know?"

"Your mother told me yesterday, at my front door." His voice was careful. "I should have known for two years."

Miles considered that.

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