Anything Is Possible(29)

Angelina said, “I’m cold.”

“Take this.” Mary handed her the scarf she always wore. “Unfold it,” she directed, “and it will open enough to wrap right around your skinny little shoulder bones.”

Her youngest child did this.

“Tell me about your life,” Mary said. “The tiniest stuff, if you want.”

Angelina rummaged through her blue straw handbag and brought out her phone, which she placed on the table between them. “Well, the twins and I went to a crafts fair, and you wouldn’t believe what we got. Wait, I think I have a picture on my phone.” Mary pulled her chair closer and peered at the phone, and she was able to see the pretty pink sweater that one of the twins had bought for Tammy’s birthday.

“Tell me more,” Mary said. Her desire seemed suddenly as large as the heavens. Show me, show me, cried her heart. “Show me all the pictures,” she said.

“I have six hundred and thirty-two pics,” Angelina reported, after squinting at her phone.

“Show me each one.” Mary beamed at her sweet youngest girl.

“No crying,” Angelina warned.

“Not a drop.”

“One drop and we stop.”

“My goodness,” Mary said, thinking: Who was it that raised this girl?



The sun went behind a cloud as they walked back to the caseggiato, and this changed the light dramatically. The day seemed suddenly autumnal, yet the palm trees and brightly painted buildings were at odds with this, even for Mary, who—presumably—should have been used to it. But Mary felt bewildered at all she had seen on her daughter’s phone, all the life that was going on in Illinois without her. She said, “I was thinking of the Pretty Nicely Girls the other day. The Club, I guess I was remembering The Club and the dances there.”

“The Pretty Nicely Girls were sluts.” Angelina said this over her shoulder.

“No they were not. Angelina. Don’t be silly.”

“Mom.” Angelina stopped walking and turned to her mother. “They were sluts. At least the oldest two were. They totally slept with everyone.”

Mary stopped walking as well. She took her sunglasses off and looked at her daughter. “Are you serious?”

“Mom, I thought you knew that.”

“How in the world would I know that?”

“Mom, everyone knew it. And I told you at the time. My God.” Angelina added after a moment, “Patty wasn’t, though. I think she wasn’t.”

“Patty?”

“The youngest Nicely girl. She and I are friends now.” Angelina pushed her sunglasses up on her nose.

“Well, that’s nice,” Mary said. “That’s nicely. How long have you been friends?”

“Four years. She works with me.”

Four years, thought Mary. Four years, I have not seen my dearest little angel. Glancing at her daughter, Mary thought again that the girl’s jeans were too tight across her little bottom. She was a middle-aged woman, Angelina. Was Angelina having an affair? Mary shook her head slowly. “Well, I was thinking of them when they were little girls, the Pretty Nicely Girls. Your father and I went to the wedding of one of them. They had the reception at The Club.”

Angelina had started walking again. “Do you ever miss it?” She asked this over her shoulder. “The Club?”

“Oh, honey.” Mary felt winded. “No, I can’t say I miss The Club. It was never my thing, you know.”

“But you guys went there a lot.” A small gust of wind raised Angelina’s hair so that the ends rose above her shoulder, straight up.

“We did.” Mary followed her daughter up the street, and after a moment Angelina turned to wait for her. “That one wall they had, filled with Indian arrowheads under glass, I don’t know,” Mary said.

“I didn’t know you didn’t like it,” her daughter said. “Mom, my wedding reception was held there.”

“Honey, I said it wasn’t my thing, and it wasn’t. I wasn’t raised that way and I never got used to it, all the showing off of new dresses and the women so silly.” Oh dear, Mary thought. Uh-oh.

“Mom, don’t you remember Mrs. Nicely? You know, what happened to her?” Angelina, her eyes blocked by her sunglasses, looked at her mother.

“No. What happened to her?” Mary asked; trepidation came and nestled on her chest.

“Nothing. Come on, let’s go.”

“Hold on a minute,” Mary said. She stepped into a tiny shop and Angelina squeezed in behind her. The man behind the counter said, “Ah, buongiorno, buongiorno.” Mary answered in Italian, pointing to Angelina. The man placed a pack of cigarettes onto the tiny counter before him. Mary said, “Si, grazie,” and then something more that Angelina did not understand, and the man opened his mouth in a huge smile, showing teeth that were stained, some missing. He answered her mother quickly. Her mother turned, her huge yellow leather pocketbook bumping into Angelina. “Honey, he says you’re beautiful. Bellissima!” Her mother spoke to the man again, and they went back onto the street. “He says you look like me. Oh, I haven’t heard that in ages. People always used to say, She looks like her mother.”

“Mom, you’re still smoking?”