3. Some Tuscan Sht
"Some Tuscan Sh*t"
Bianca
Turning the page on my life should not come at the risk of heatstroke, but I am outside. For a limited time. Humidity is enjoying her best life, showing her ass in the worst way.
My breath is deep, drawn through a thick, heated breeze, melting the thin layer of makeup I applied to look cute.
I look like a glazed ham baking in the sun.
I do a quick shimmy for the back of my floral maxi dress to unhand my cheeks.
The straps slashing over my spine are a decorative oven grate at this point.
Summer doesn’t officially start for two weeks, and I’m already planning my affair with the air conditioner. This can’t be the same weather I spent playing with Stephanie Down the Hill before Mama Vee came to take my butt into the house.
Stephanie is somewhere in the sky, heading back to Baltimore from wherever her latest travel nurse contract has taken her.
It feels like years since we’ve seen each other.
She wouldn’t be caught dead in this humidity.
I am fully prepared to do hand-to-hand combat with the heat index to relive a childhood memory.
Little Italy’s film festival was an annual tradition in the Harris household. Mama Vee always found affordable events around the city and took us since the festival first began when I was in middle school.
Our Saturday nights during the summer were the same routine.
A movie cast on the side of a building.
Snowballs with melted marshmallows we’d grab from the ice cream man before leaving Patterson Park.
Baked lasagna with greens gifted in to-go containers.
My visits home became less frequent after I began working at Hamilton Capital.
The festival ended about a decade ago, the same year Mama Vee passed.
The tenth anniversary of her death will occur months after my fortieth birthday.
I’m reclaiming every minute of time wasted to finally live how she dared me to: out loud and without apology.
Tonight’s revival is a homecoming. I feel Mama Vee’s hug stretching the length of the block lined with lawn chairs in front of Italian restaurants. Her hugs were always scented with the soft musk she stocked next to her cocoa butter and collection of unused Avon products.
Little Italy was part of my childhood.
I met Mr. John here.
“You want me to die from a heart attack and heat exhaustion too?”
And him.
Vince barks at a server balancing a tray of meatballs in his hand the size of his body. He doesn’t look older than sixteen and trips when his dress shoe catches on the curb. The metal container tips, but he quickly rights it to save the award-winning meatballs and sauce.
“Che cazzo, ragazzo,“ Vince groans with his fingertips pressed to his thumbs.
“Sorry, Mr. DeStefano!” The server’s black-and-white uniform is one size too big. So are the dress shoes swallowing his bony ankles.
Vince’s shoulders uncoil. “I got it,” he says, taking the tray. “Why don’t you check on Ms. Teresa and grab a seat. You did good today.”
Brown eyes widen under a mop of silky dark curls in need of a trim. “Are you sure, Mr. DeStefano?”
“Yeah, I’m sure, kid. I’ll put a little extra in your pay for you to buy shoes that fit.” Vince nods toward the gelato shop across from his restaurant. “Go on. Scram.”
Behind arms once primed for the boxing ring is Little Italy’s biggest softie. Vince’s bark—layered in a Brooklyn accent—is bigger than his bite. He growls and gets loud, but he’ll feed you with enough to-go plates to last a month. Vince couldn’t stay mad at people he loves if he tried.
“Look who finally graced us with her presence. Here three days, hiding out like you’re in witness protection. Did your A/C break?” Vince tugs me into his chest and kisses the top of my head, coated in sweat. “Come stai, principessa?”
“Sto bene, grazie,“ I say into the scent of his aftershave. I hug him tighter. “I missed your hugs.”
“Missed you too, kiddo.” He clears his throat. “Am I feeding you or are you leaving me to get a chicken box?”
I snicker and swipe a tear. “I’m here for the night if—“
“Yeah, yeah,” Vince huffs, leaving me to walk back to Vinnie’s, his namesake restaurant.
The brick row house twinkles under string lights over a green awning. Vinnie’s is the place where I learned to tie my shoes, ride a bike, and never put ketchup on pasta. It’s my second home, and it’d better have my box of Milk Duds I like to eat while watching movies.
It’s our tradition. He’d sneak me candy when he thought Mama Vee wasn’t looking. She would pop him in the chest before stretching the same hand out for her “Mom tax.”
“Vince,” I call after him.
“How you doin’? Here for the show?” he asks a young couple seated on the patio. Ignoring me.
“Fantastic, as always,” says a woman in a sleeveless top and Bermuda shorts. Her eyes drift toward me. “Is this your daughter?”
“Found her in a basket next to a delivery truck,” Vince answers.
I swat his arm. “You did not!”
It wouldn’t be the first time someone asked if he was my dad. His olive skin is lighter than my amber hue. Where our features differ, there is no mistaking that I inherited his sarcasm, the Italian he’s taught me since I was little, and a stubborn streak the best priest couldn’t exorcise.
“I’ve been feeding this one since her mother brought her into my restaurant when she was a baby.
Bianca is a pain in my ass most days.” Vince chuckles before his eyes soften.
Bags weigh under them from the years, but they still hold the same affection.
“She’s one of the best things to happen to me. Not my blood, but that’s my kid.”
Damn this heat and these tear ducts.
I never knew any of my biological relatives, but I’d never gone without family.
Vince is the main man in my life. The one who picked me up when I was down and taught me to throw a hook when my opponent expects a jab.
I learned grace and joy from Mama Vee. Vince schooled me on taking no shit from anybody, especially men unworthy of me.
I’ve dodged so many bullets by not entertaining the bare minimum.
Every key doesn’t unlock my devotion or my pussy.
“Your Milk Duds are in my office,” Vince says. “I’ll see you soon.” He pecks my cheek before flagging down a server to grab a block of imported cheese.
I skip up the two steps to Vinnie’s and wave at Ebony on the landline at the host station. The restaurant is always busy, and tonight is no different. People come from around the way and out of town to enjoy the best lasagna and gnocchi in Baltimore.
The main dining room is at capacity. Guests sit at tables lined with black cloth. Old photos of the neighborhood decorate cream walls. The oak floor still has its luster, proudly wearing age marks like medals of honor.
Birthdays.
Graduations.
Promotions.
Engagements.
Decades’ worth of celebrations held in this restaurant, my own framed on the steps leading to Vince’s office. Vinnie’s feels like a personal invitation into Vince’s house two blocks away.
The smell of garlic, fresh herbs, and sauce float through the hallway lined in merlot-striped wallpaper as the staircase to the top floor creaks under my wedge sandals.
A small table and dining chair are across from a private room used for special events.
Beyond the single bathroom and elevator is a solid oak door I push open, transporting me back to my childhood.
Vince’s office is a collection of books on shelves coated in dust and the worn leather chair he smokes cigars in whenever he’s alone.
Everything is the same. The rusty filing cabinet leaning to the side that Mama Vee fussed over deserved a trip to the dump.
The desk I played under after preschool until it was time to go home.
It still faces away from the large windows with a clear view of tonight’s show.
Vince never gave his back to the door and complained about the sun until Mama Vee made him custom drapes.
We’d open the window on nights when it was cool enough to watch movies away from the crowd. No one could tell me I wasn’t royalty with my own VIP section and unlimited access to the kitchen. Vince didn’t stick around to watch, but he lingered long enough to make his presence known.
A heated breeze strokes the air, drifting through the window I pushed open. The flare from the sun finally receded toward the Harbor, where it can stay with the tourists. Judging by the standing room only space below, they’ve found their way into the neighborhood.
I smile at the Milk Duds on top of a stack of papers next to a closed laptop.
Two photos rest on his desk. The first is a black-and-white photo of Vince in Brooklyn when he was younger, standing next to two men in long coats and hats.
I swear he was in the mob. There’s no proof, but he looks at people like he only needs to make one phone call.
The second photo is of me, Vince, and Mama Vee.
I’m on his shoulders, my small hands splayed across his temples, a grin stretching from one pigtail to the other.
Two of my front teeth are missing and I’m mid-laughter.
Vince’s face would be expressionless if it weren’t for the smirk creeping up the corner of his mouth.
Mama Vee’s wide smile lifts her cheekbones, smoothed in caramel, as her low stare touches the camera.
She was bad without effort and never veered from the curly pixie cut that required statement earrings.
“Carmine made you lasagna. He wants to see you before you leave.”
Vince stands in the doorway, a hand tucked into his dress pants, the other holding a takeout container.
Gray has settled into his once black hair.
I’ve tried to get him to dress up as Pino from Do the Right Thing for Halloween.
With the salt-and-pepper action, Mauricio is the better option—though Vince doesn’t have a Real Housewife for an ex or a real estate business.
“Thanks.” I meet him in front of his desk to take the food. “Do you know what they’re playing?” My happy shimmy activates at the corner piece of the best baked lasagna blowing kisses at me. I don’t give a damn how old I get. When I’m in the presence of good food, my shoulders shake.
“Some Tuscan shit.”
I snicker and drop into the office chair that still dips to the left. “Under the Tuscan Sun. Those people did not name that movie ‘Tuscan Shit.’”
Vince takes the seat across from his desk. He folds his hands in his lap, bending the compass rose tattoo stretching up the inside of his forearm. “How you doin’ for real? You need money, or for me to blow out your old boss’s knees? The scumbag.”
“I’m alright, no, and whatchu you gonna do at your age?” I laugh at the last part. Vince is sixty-three with a bad hip, depending on when it rains.
A crease burrows between the thick brows that took convincing to get waxed. He cracks his neck. “One phone call, princess. He got a lotta shit witchu, treating you so bad after all these years.”
“And you wonder why I think you’re in the mafia?” I smile at his eye roll.
He waves me away. “I didn’t know you were putting up with that shit for so long.
You should come home. I ain’t telling you what to do.
You got a good head on your shoulders. Think about it, Bianca.
You got a house down here and don’t gotta worry about no rent.
Everybody needs an HR director. Work in the White House for all I care. ”
I huff. “Pass.” I’ve been called a miracle worker, but my powers and tolerance for bullshit only go so far. If there’s one thing Hamilton Capital taught me, it’s not to waste time or energy on people who don’t deserve it.
Tom Cruise got more attention in Jerry Maguire with his goldfish in a bag than I did the day I quit.
My lone cardboard box and I walked to the elevator without one “Where are you going?” or ”All the best!
“ Just lotion-less and focused on themselves.
No one cared that the internal advocate for wellness and raises was leaving.
Except for Jim, who asked if I was taking my snack cart.
It was the wake-up call I needed from Corporate America. I’m never going back.
“I’ll find my way.” The reminder is more for me than for Vince. Thirty-nine and unemployed isn’t the end of my story; it’s a new beginning.
“I never doubt what you’ll do,” Vince says, his smooth tenor the calming balm of a stand-in father. “I’m happy you’re back for however long you’re staying.”
I smile. “Miss you too, Vin.”
The crowd outside quiets as the movie projector comes to life.
Diane Lane’s life flipped on its head before she got the chance to finish the glass of wine in her hand. Five minutes was all it took to reveal a cheating spouse, his demand for alimony, and the level of fucked up he and her spineless attorney had her.
Vince left the office when I started having a one-sided conversation with the screen because ain’t no way!
Women are always expected to take it on the chin; smile through disrespect with understanding to be the “bigger person.” Any reaction outside of appeasement isn’t tolerated.
Had I dealt with a cheating partner and not an unappreciative boss, I’d be serving hard time after skipping to the “until death do us part.” That or be on the first plane to Italy, without my best friend gifting me a ticket a year later.
Just go.
The two words tug and pull in my chest, demanding that I not push them away like I have every vacation while working at Hamilton Capital.
Just go.
I don’t need a Tuscan villa, but I do speak the language.
Just go.