28. Colt
28
colt
14 years and 2 weeks since Paris.
4 1/2 Months since Gemma died.
What feels like an eternity since I texted Maggie.
The sun streaming through the kitchen windows feels different from Boston and exactly what I’m craving. We’re away from the media circus of Dax’s accident, Gemma’s death, poll bumps, and expectations. Daisy cried this morning and admitted she missed her. Gemma was a patient and kind mother to them, despite the delusional, selfish, myopic cancer thing. She did love them even if she was dismissive of me.
The girls settled on the town of Lucca because they liked the wall around the city. I think they both want to feel protected, and the city feels like a cocoon. We decided on a smaller townhouse inside the city limits instead of a larger home in the outlying areas.
At a large family dinner, we told everyone we were going on a long vacation, but mom and my older sister knew it was a fib. They helped us get six-month visas. They’ll keep our secret until the Colonel pressures them, but by then we’ll be living outside of his immediate reach. Surely he’ll have more important things to do. All the Brothers were pissed about the move except Hayden. He’s a quick plane ride or road trip from us now.
I go back through my memories and realize the only time that was about me when with my ‘brothers’, rowing, the girls, cooking, and the months I was texting Maggie. That’s fucking pathetic but it’s hard to tell the Vice President to fuck off. But it does feel damn good. This past month has been truly healing for us.
Daisy and Sloane picked some camps and classes to take, and there’s a lightness to being here for no reason other than that for them. They’re my reasons. But they can’t be all my reasons any more. I have to find some lightness too.
Hand in hand with Sloane, we walk, feeling the vibe of our little town.
“Daddy, is Lucca in Tuscany?”
“Yes.”
“And Tuscany is not a city? But we’re in a walled city. Was it going to be attacked or something?”
“Actually, it was built like a roman amphitheater. That’s why the giant plaza is called the Piazza dell’Anfiteatro. And Tuscany is the region. It’s like saying a state. Are they teaching you anything in school?”
“They taught me how to ask where the theater is.”
“That’s helpful.”
We turn the corner and the sun hits us as we duck down another street to find the little piazza opening up to her school.
“Arrivederci, mi figilia.”
She shrugs. “Dov e il, un teatro?”
I laugh really hard. “I don’t know, baby girl. Where is the theater?”
“In the banco.”
“The bank?”
She shrugs. “Whatever. Bye, Daddy.”
I wave and head toward our mechanic. The sloppy sisters, as Daisy calls them, spill out of their olive oil shop. It’s one of those places like you’d find in an East coast harbor town selling upscale tacky souvenirs covered in lobsters or fake fishing nets. New things that look old and nostalgic. Smelly lotions that are supposed to look high end. That’s the kind of shop the sloppy sisters have, except everything has an olive or a lemon on it.
“Ciao, Colton!” They waggle their fingers, and I nod back to them. They seem to always act drunk.
“Ciao, ladies.” They like to practice their English on me. The entire town seems to be in each other’s business, and I think the sisters are looking for gossip on the newest residents.
“This is a Tuesday. And on Tuesday there are many things to buy.” I nod.
“Good job. Keep it up. I can’t wait to hear what happens on Wednesday.” They giggle and run back into the store together. They’re like thirty years old, and we secretly believe they’re not sisters but ‘sisters.’ According to Ria, at the flower shop, they moved here together about six years ago and told everyone they were related.
I continue to the mechanics, which is a common occurrence. I’m hoping to get to the Florence markets before the girls come home. But our car is, well, not great but we only really need it to travel outside of the city.
I wave through the open garage door.
“Dov’ e il automobile…” I search for the word broken and he stands up, wiping his hands.
His voice is deep and rough with broken English. “Your garbage car needs oil.”
“Great. Can you do it without the commentary?”
“No. Cappuccino first.”
“Con zucchero, per favore”
“You’re improving. Sit. Sit.” His wife rushes out of the little office and speaks rapid fire Italian at me. I stop translating it because it always means, ‘how are those poor motherless girls.’ She hands me Tupperware full of cookies for Sloane. Lately Daisy won’t touch sugar because it makes her break out. Or that was the story three days ago.
“Grazie, mille.” She kisses both of my cheeks and hustles back to the office as Enzo reappears, holding two cappuccinos he whipped up in the auto bay. He’s head to toe in grease and they’re stunning cups of coffee. “Sit.”
“About football. You like the Boston, vero?”
“Si.” Soccer must be today’s topic. Since he and his wife grew up here, they feel it’s their job to educate us on all things Italian, specifically Lucca. Like we’re never supposed to go to Pisa or give them anything. Especially not our money. Lucca apparently took Florence’s side in a feud from 1287. There’s about 10,000 people who live inside the walls of the city, but this guy wants to make sure we know to hate Pisa.
“Now you like ACF Fiorentina, let me explain.” And he does in broken Italian and English hybrid. Each day I pass by here, whether he has my car or not, we sit at this café table outside of the garage. They’re older but not old, like maybe in their fifties. And each time I pass the garage one of them is sitting with a neighbor or shopkeeper at this little café table. Not sure when the work gets done but I’m honored to be included in their ad hoc coffee shop.
I finish sipping and ask, “And when will the garbage car be ready?”
He slides me my keys. Normally, I’d take the forty-minute train to Florence but driving here is really fun. I salute the man as he disappears, and I pay his wife.
“Bring the girls visiting.” I kiss her on both cheeks and climb into my garbage car. I set about errands and laundry for the day, and things are starting to feel like we’re not vacationing. I gather up the cookies and some day-old bread I’m carting around. I pull the car into a space and walk the rest of the way toward a lovely park. I sit and toss some bread like I’m an old man in the Commons back home.
When a good flock has landed and is pecking around for more, I talk to them. My therapist wants me to journal. I’m not much of a writer so I talk to pigeons who don’t understand English. It helps on days like today where all my simmering issues seem to be boiling over. The pigeons help turn down the burner.
“I’ve lived for my father. I’ve lived for those girls. I sacrificed everything for a woman who I tried desperately to love and didn’t. I hope they never know how much I didn’t care for her. I did care, but I didn’t love her. And to be honest, I didn’t always like her either. There was an apathy to us, and a routine.” I move my foot away from a couple of enormous birds and toss the bread further away from me.
There’s one staring and I address them directly. “We were roommates fighting for fridge shelf space. I occasionally slept by her side and bought her perfunctory jewelry for anniversaries. We’d go to dinner and parties, having fun here and there. We did laugh. It’s not like it was all bad. It was always a half-life because I’ve truly enjoyed being a girl-dad. I’m not cut out to be a boy-dad. I don’t love the newly blossomed teenage attitude from Daisy, and I’m pretty sure this will be the hard part of raising strong women, but I still love it.”
I stand and they scatter, taking my secrets and annoyances with them. I’m stopped every couple of feet by women walking their dogs or shopkeepers wanting to talk. I knowingly sacrifice my side trip to Florence to keep chatting with the town.