29. Colt
29
colt
Daisy’s pasta classes begin this week, and I think she’ll really take to it. She won’t let me teach her how to make pasta. I’m her dad and an excellent pasta maker, but she wants to learn from someone else. Sloane’s favorite classes are Italian dance, which I assume is just regular dance but they’re speaking in Italian.
What I didn’t tell anyone was that I’m taking some classes too. Taking a master class in which I’m going to learn more intricate Tuscan cuisine. I’m very nervous.
I love getting lost in the noise all around me. I sit down at a trattoria café run by a brother and sister team who refuse to talk to each other. She runs the coffee shop and lunch menu up until riposo. I love a culture that values the post-lunch nap. Then he reopens for happy hour and dinner. Chiara brings me ice water and a sandwich I didn’t order. They do that here, just serve what they think you should eat. She also knows Daisy usually meets me here so they set a pastry for her.
“Grazie.”
“You don’t eat enough. This is delicious salami, eat.” The sun is bright, and I sip the water and fidget a bit before settling back in. I move the carcass of a purple pen, that’s missing the ink part, from my pants pocket to my shirt pocket. And there she is again, always just below the surface.
I waited my whole life it seems to be single and now, between the guilt and the fact that she’s married keeps me from her again. I hope Maggie’s happy. I keep her note folded in my wallet. She’s got something going on the way she stopped texting so abruptly, but I don’t dare ask Mak or Tony. That’s a line they try to respect. I both love them more and hate them because of it.
Daisy: I’m home. Felt tired. Sorry.
Dad: On my way.
I leave some money, grab the tart. Transferring the shell of the Reno Elks Lodge pen back to my pocket. I think after a while I didn’t push back against my dad or my wife because of the consequences. They both liked things the way there were, and they kept me under their thumbs with the girls. I absolutely could have raised Daisy on my own, but then I wouldn’t have an insane fabulous eight-year-old Sloane.
I look at the stunning place we’ve chosen to heal, but I can’t see the beauty at the moment because suddenly the thought of not having Sloane levels me. For the first time since my wife died; I sit down and cry for the life I have and the life I could have had and the fucking missed out moments between the two. I’m a bit leveled at how grief lies in wait until you least expect it to hit you.
The fuchsia is spilling over the small boxes that adorn the upper windows on this street and the vibrant buttercup yellow dots the rest of the street in pots and on the tables of cafes. I pick up Sloane after school, and we walk to meet her sister. I can tell Sloane’s in a transition to her new obsession. The white suits stay in the closet lately and there’s been a lot of library visits and google searches this past week. Not sure what the next obsession will be, but I do know it will be well researched.
Slone holds my hand as I slip my sunglasses back on. “Daddy?”
“Yes.”
“What do you know about the sixties?”
“Music? Politics? What do you need?”
“Chicago Seven.”
“No, ma’am. And no Black Panthers either. Find something else. You will not be the only American politicized radical in third grade.”
She kicks some stones ahead of us. Then dodges a crack and finds her stones again, juking left and right not to leave any of them behind.
“Where are we going?”
“The market.”
“Again.”
“Yup. We need to eat. Again. Such a drag, right?”
Daisy’s scrolling her phone leaning against a wall with one leg bent oblivious to anyone noticing her. Her long dark hair is pulled off her face that reminds me so much of her mother. For better or worse, Gemma was beautiful, and Daisy carries it well. I wish I could suspend her in time to this unselfconscious moment, the last vestiges of childhood.
“Dinner!” I startle her and she weakly raises a lip at me while scowls at her baby sister. Six years is quite a gap, but normally she handles it well. “What do you want?”
“Ugh. So sick of that question and I’m tired of your cooking. Mom used to have a plan for the week.” That’s true, Gemma would make me submit a weekly menu so they all knew what I’d be cooking. I’m quite good at it, all ego meant. But I like this idea of letting ingredients talk to me.
“Then you cook.” I say.
Sloane quickly says, “No.”
Daisy says, “I only know a couple of things.”
“I’m sure you’ll fix that at class, then you cook all the time, and I can put my feet up and retire as a dad.” I wipe my hands and gesture to them.
Her face perks up. “Come on. You pick the ingredients and we’ll figure out what we’re eating together.” She shrugs, and it’s as good as a hug.
Sloane says, “I’ve got a good feeling about this.” I grin at my wise little, Slygirl.
“Me too.”
Daisy scoffs and pulls out some grade A sarcasm. “Yeah, who knows where this could lead.”
That’s the point. It’s all unwritten.