“Enzo.” I turn away from my simmering macaroni and cheese to look at him. “She stole from us. She took the necklace you gave me, and she probably took that money you had in the drawer by the bed.”
“It was only fifty dollars.”
I haven’t told Enzo what Martha said to me before she left. About the way she threatened me. I can’t quite bring myself to divulge all the details, and I’m not sure why. The children might not know about my time in prison, but Enzo knows everything. Yet he doesn’t quite understand the shame I feel over it. He doesn’t understand why I don’t want the kids to know and was in favor of telling them “before they find out on their own.”
Anyway, I’m not handing over a paycheck to a woman who stole from me and threatened me.
Enzo notoriously has a soft spot for women. Possibly because of his sister, Antonia, and how he felt that he could have prevented her death if he had protected her better. That’s why he defended Nico for standing up for that girl. He doesn’t seem to think that women are capable of doing anything bad, but he’s dead wrong about that one.
Frankly, after what we have been through together, he should know better.
“Look.” I take a deep breath. “I don’t know why Martha stole from us. But it doesn’t matter. We already have enough financial problems on our own without somebody stealing from us. Whatever her issues are, I can’t deal with her right now.”
He cocks his head to the side. “What was your blood pressure this morning?”
“Enzo! That’s not the point.”
He hangs his head. “I know. I must do a better job bringing in money for our family. That’s why I’m working so hard to build my business, and then we will have no money worries.”
I feel terrible how much he beats himself up about our money issues. We’re not doing that badly. I wish he wouldn’t dwell on it so much. And I worry the kids will overhear and get nervous too—especially Ada.
“We’re doing fine.” I turn down the stove so I can put my arms around him. He quickly envelops me, and I rest my head on his firm shoulder. “You’re doing a great job. And I bet in another year or two, we’ll be fine.”
“Yes,” he murmurs. “Or maybe… sooner.”
I don’t know what he’s talking about. Even though his business is growing, it’s not growing that fast. One or two years is optimistic. We’re going to be pinching pennies for at least the next several years.
Sometimes I wonder if it was all worth it.
THIRTY-ONE
The whole family is at Nico’s Little League game.
Ada doesn’t usually want to go, but today she was agreeable to tag along. I’m glad she’s here, because Nico hasn’t quite been himself since his suspension a few weeks ago. But she’s very clearly not interested in the game, based on the fact that she is sitting in the stadium with us, holding a paperback on her lap. Ada doesn’t go anywhere without a book in her hand.
“What are you reading?” I ask her.
Her long dark eyelashes flutter. She has olive skin like Enzo, which doesn’t show embarrassment the way mine does. But I can always tell when I’ve made her uncomfortable. “Sorry,” she says. “I’ll put it away.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I think baseball is pretty boring too.” I nod my head at Enzo, who is quite literally at the edge of his seat, watching the game. He loves sports, but even more, he loves to watch Nico play sports. “He likes it though.”
“I’m reading Stranger with My Face by Lois Duncan,” she says.
“Oh, I loved that one when I was a kid. All her books, actually.”
I feel a twinge of sadness, thinking about my childhood and how it all went wrong. What might have happened if I hadn’t attacked that boy and ended up killing him? Then again, I have a good life now. I love my husband, and I have two amazing kids. If I had to suffer a little hardship (or a lot of hardship) on the way to get there, that’s just how it had to be.
I take a swig from the water bottle I brought. It’s only the middle of May, but the weekend is shaping up to be extremely hot. My phone says it’s in the high eighties today. The kids look uncomfortable and listless.
Nico comes up to bat, so I nudge Ada to put down her book. He hasn’t had a hit all day, and he’s got that frustrated look he gets on his face sometimes. He is a pretty good hitter, so he must be getting in his head or something like that. I hope he gets a hit this time.
The pitcher throws the ball right over the plate, and I hear a crack as the bat makes contact. Enzo shouts with excitement. Yeah, Nico! It bounces once and rolls into the field. Nico tosses his bat to the side and makes a run toward first base.
The pitcher manages to grab the ball. With lightning-fast speed, he whips it in the direction of first base. Nico slides onto the plate just as the first baseman catches the ball. I cross my fingers and toes that he’s not out, but then the umpire shakes his head.
“No. No!” Enzo is suddenly on his feet, yelling. “Not out! No!”
Apparently, Enzo thinks this was an unfair call. Which doesn’t necessarily mean it was an unfair call.
Nico isn’t any happier about this decision. The other kid is saying something to him, and he takes off his baseball cap and throws it on the ground. Nico is yelling something—I can make out the word “bullshit.” I hold my breath, willing my son to back off and return to the dugout.
And that’s when Nico throws the punch.
I could tell he was prone to getting angry—he’s gotten riled up during Little League games before. But I never saw him get violent before. He punches the first baseman right in the gut, and the poor kid goes down hard. My heart drops into my stomach as I watch it happening and scramble to my feet.
Enzo witnesses it too. He freezes, falling suddenly silent. He was defending Nico about what happened on the playground, but this is harder to defend. That other kid didn’t do anything wrong, and Nico punched him.
I don’t understand much Italian, but I can tell he’s cursing under his breath.
“Millie.” He turns to me, his brow furrowed. “Nicolas just punched that kid.”
“I saw.”
“Cazzo,” he mutters. “What is he thinking? We have to get him out of here.”
The two of us make our way down to the field. The other kid is on the ground, sobbing. Nico is standing over him, breathing hard. The coach, a man named Ted who is the father of one of the other boys, does not look thrilled. He’s got pit stains under both his arms, and he looks like he is not enjoying being out here in the heat and now having to deal with my son punching another kid.
“You gotta get him out of here,” Ted says to Enzo in his thick Long Island accent. “We got a no-tolerance policy about violence between the boys.”
