Vox(41)

Patrick knocks his chin toward the left side of our house. “Next door.”

“He and Julia must be talking again,” I say. “You really need to speak to him about this marriage thing. He’s too young.”

“I will. Oh, and your parents FaceTimed. I said you’d call tomorrow, but your mom wants to talk to you tonight.”

“Can I use your laptop?”

“Where’s yours?”

Mine is currently in quarantine with one of Poe’s computer geeks. “Locked up tight in a building with no name somewhere in Washington,” I say. “Sure I can’t help in here?”

He flicks a dish towel at me. “Go on. Git. I don’t need no jive sous chefs in my kitchen.” We both laugh at his attempt at Southern fry-cook slang.

Well. That’s different.

After a lightning-quick round of old maid with the kids—Sonia manages a few careful words—I go to Patrick’s study, which he’s left unlocked, and call my parents. The Italian comes back slowly at first, then eases into a steady cadence, all vowels and rhyming syllables. Papà has nothing positive to say about the president, or the president’s brother, or pretty much any part of this country; Mamma is more subdued, quieter than usual.

“Tutto bene, Mammi?” I say.

She assures me everything’s fine, just a few headaches recently.

“You need to stop smoking,” I tell her.

“It’s Italy, Gianna. Everyone smokes.”

This much is true. Second to soccer matches, smoking is the national pastime, especially in our part of the South. I let it go for now and focus on happier talk. For a while, I listen as they tell me about the lemon and orange trees in the yard, the vegetable garden, the gossip about Signore Marco, the fishmonger, who is finally going to marry Signora Matilda, the baker. It’s about time—put together, Marco and Matilda must be 170 years old.

The axe falls when Mamma asks if I’m coming for a visit this summer. “You don’t want me to die all alone,” she says.

“Nobody’s dying, Mammi,” I say. Still, a cold current jitters up and down my spine. “Promise you’ll go see Dr. Michele, okay?”

Between the “Ciaos” and the kisses and the promises to talk again tomorrow, it takes a full ten minutes to end the call. If the Italian women had quotas like we do, they’d spend every last word on the goodbye part of a phone conversation.

Only after I’ve shut down FaceTime do I notice the manila envelope with its TOP SECRET stenciling on Patrick’s desk. Whoever came up with the idea of labeling classified documents with larger-than-life red stenciling that advertises—or at least hints at—the contents was a schmuck, I think. You might as well put a tag that says OPEN ME! on it. If it were up to me, I’d hide all secrets in back copies of Reader’s Digest.

Patrick whistles in the kitchen, and the kids are now arguing over whether Sam cheated at cards by swiping one queen of spades from another deck and hiding it in his shirtsleeve.

It would be so easy to take a peek at the contents of this envelope. I can practically feel the weight of that little red devil on my left shoulder, urging me on. Go ahead, Jean. Have a look. No one ever has to know.

So that’s what I do.

The contents don’t surprise me. As the president’s science adviser, Patrick would of course be in the loop on the Wernicke project. What I don’t understand is why the first page inside my husband’s top secret envelope refers to three separate teams: Gold, Red, and White. Lorenzo, Lin, and I are on the White team. Other names, all unfamiliar to me, are listed under “Gold” and “Red.” A few of them have military ranks attached.

“Mommy!” Sonia’s voice in the doorway startles me. “I won old maid!”

Now the sequestered queen of spades that Sam had makes sense. Quickly, I slide the project memo back into its envelope, hoping I’ve left things as they were on Patrick’s desk, which always seems to be organized with the help of a T square.

“That’s super, baby girl,” I say. “How about we go check on Daddy in the kitchen?”

“I love you, Mommy. I love you so much.”

Nine words are all it takes to make my heart skip a beat.





THIRTY-THREE




“Anything interesting?” Patrick says when I’m back in the kitchen.

I’ve always been lousy at secrets. The merest hint of a lie forces my lips into a curl; then my eyes join in the game. Only once did I try to throw together a surprise party for Patrick—his thirtieth birthday, I think—going through his then secretary and a couple of guys from work. When the day finally arrived, Patrick acted as stunned as if a bomb had fallen from the sky.

Success! I thought. Right up until the next morning when Evan King blabbed about what a terrific show my husband had put on.

“Saw it in your eyes, babe,” Patrick said. “Good thing you’re not the one with the security clearance.”

So. No more surprise parties.

He looks up from the stove. “Good news?”

“What?”

“Was it good news? From your parents?”

I feel the weight of terror slide off me and melt into a puddle on the kitchen tile. “Um, I guess. Papà’s sold a store to some chain. So I guess that’s good news.”