and Dad on the front porch by then, when Peter came jogging around the bend, like an Olympic runner at the tape.
Mom actually screamed and managed a small jump in the air. Dad hurried off the porch to meet him. They wrapped each other in a huge hug. Then Peter let go of Dad and ran to give Mom a hug. He lifted her off the ground and spun her around. I flinched, but even when he put her back on the porch she beamed. Dad grabbed my hand and we all went into the house in a whirlwind of greetings, questions, and admonitions about our weight.
It was the first time I’d returned home in years without the burden of history.
“I ’m sinking into a coma,” said Peter.
“A food coma,” said Dad.
We sat on the back porch listening to the sounds of thewind chimes and watching the quarter moon glow stronger as the night darkened the woods behind the house. Our stomachs were full from my dad’s crab cakes and corn on the cob, and we punted lazy, half-finished conversations to one another, content in one another’s company, finishing one another’s thoughts in our heads.
“It’s heaven to have you both here with us,” said Mom. “This is a good, good night.”
“I wish I could bring Zelda here sometime,” I said.
I felt embarrassed for voicing that aloud.
“You’ve grown attached to her,” said Mom. There was no judgment in her voice, so it calmed me. “Have you had to stay many nights with her, like that first week?”
“On and off,” I said. “She has extreme highs and lows. I stay with her during the lows.”
“I always said you should have just set up a room wherever you worked to be on call at all times.”
“Separation does Anna good,” said Peter. “Then she can’t forget to take care of herself.”
“I am sitting right here,” I said, nudging Peter on the arm.
The wind picked up, increasing the symphony of the wind chimes.
“I think Zelda needs to spend more time outdoors,” I said. “She seems to thrive on exercise. And she’d enjoy the chimes.”
“Bring her by on a day trip if you can get permission,” said Dad. “I’d love to meet her.”
“Me, too,” said Mom. “Could she bring her husband? I’d love to meet him.”
“That probably wouldn’t work so well,” I said. “He’s a bit of a stressor for her.”
“How sad,” said Mom.
“It is sad,” I said.
“All I can think of is a flapper with a cigarette and a feathered headdress doing the Charleston up the drive,” said Mom.
We sat with this idea for a moment, each of us imagining the Fitzgeralds sauntering through our woods. It seemed out of place even in a fantasy. Then Dad laughed and changed tack.
“All I can think of is Peter running around that turn like he used to when he was a boy home from school or camp or seminary.”
“I like to make an entrance,” he said.
“It’s a shame you can’t greet the congregation at mass like that on Sunday mornings,” I said.
A ripple of laughter went through us.
“How did someone with your personality size fit into the monastery in Italy?” asked Mom.
He gave a nervous laugh. “Not well at first, I must confess, but I was at my most penitent, since it started during Lent, so they didn’t get my full wattage.”
“You saved that for me,” I said.
“And your neighbor,” he replied.
“What neighbor?” asked Mom.
I shot Peter a look and he let the question die.
“I actually almost stayed at the monastery,” he said.
“I don’t believe you,” said Mom.
“I did,” said Peter. “The friar I spoke of, Padre Pio—he had a profound effect on me. He’s being held prisoner of sorts at the Rotonda by the Church because they want to prove him a fraud.”
“Why?” I asked.
Peter hesitated. “He has the stigmata.”
Dad whistled low through his teeth.
“Did you see it?” asked my mother.
“He wears gloves, but I did see the blood seeping through on several occasions,” said Peter.
“And you believe it’s real?” I asked, unable
Mom actually screamed and managed a small jump in the air. Dad hurried off the porch to meet him. They wrapped each other in a huge hug. Then Peter let go of Dad and ran to give Mom a hug. He lifted her off the ground and spun her around. I flinched, but even when he put her back on the porch she beamed. Dad grabbed my hand and we all went into the house in a whirlwind of greetings, questions, and admonitions about our weight.
It was the first time I’d returned home in years without the burden of history.
“I ’m sinking into a coma,” said Peter.
“A food coma,” said Dad.
We sat on the back porch listening to the sounds of thewind chimes and watching the quarter moon glow stronger as the night darkened the woods behind the house. Our stomachs were full from my dad’s crab cakes and corn on the cob, and we punted lazy, half-finished conversations to one another, content in one another’s company, finishing one another’s thoughts in our heads.
“It’s heaven to have you both here with us,” said Mom. “This is a good, good night.”
“I wish I could bring Zelda here sometime,” I said.
I felt embarrassed for voicing that aloud.
“You’ve grown attached to her,” said Mom. There was no judgment in her voice, so it calmed me. “Have you had to stay many nights with her, like that first week?”
“On and off,” I said. “She has extreme highs and lows. I stay with her during the lows.”
“I always said you should have just set up a room wherever you worked to be on call at all times.”
“Separation does Anna good,” said Peter. “Then she can’t forget to take care of herself.”
“I am sitting right here,” I said, nudging Peter on the arm.
The wind picked up, increasing the symphony of the wind chimes.
“I think Zelda needs to spend more time outdoors,” I said. “She seems to thrive on exercise. And she’d enjoy the chimes.”
“Bring her by on a day trip if you can get permission,” said Dad. “I’d love to meet her.”
“Me, too,” said Mom. “Could she bring her husband? I’d love to meet him.”
“That probably wouldn’t work so well,” I said. “He’s a bit of a stressor for her.”
“How sad,” said Mom.
“It is sad,” I said.
“All I can think of is a flapper with a cigarette and a feathered headdress doing the Charleston up the drive,” said Mom.
We sat with this idea for a moment, each of us imagining the Fitzgeralds sauntering through our woods. It seemed out of place even in a fantasy. Then Dad laughed and changed tack.
“All I can think of is Peter running around that turn like he used to when he was a boy home from school or camp or seminary.”
“I like to make an entrance,” he said.
“It’s a shame you can’t greet the congregation at mass like that on Sunday mornings,” I said.
A ripple of laughter went through us.
“How did someone with your personality size fit into the monastery in Italy?” asked Mom.
He gave a nervous laugh. “Not well at first, I must confess, but I was at my most penitent, since it started during Lent, so they didn’t get my full wattage.”
“You saved that for me,” I said.
“And your neighbor,” he replied.
“What neighbor?” asked Mom.
I shot Peter a look and he let the question die.
“I actually almost stayed at the monastery,” he said.
“I don’t believe you,” said Mom.
“I did,” said Peter. “The friar I spoke of, Padre Pio—he had a profound effect on me. He’s being held prisoner of sorts at the Rotonda by the Church because they want to prove him a fraud.”
“Why?” I asked.
Peter hesitated. “He has the stigmata.”
Dad whistled low through his teeth.
“Did you see it?” asked my mother.
“He wears gloves, but I did see the blood seeping through on several occasions,” said Peter.
“And you believe it’s real?” I asked, unable
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