31
CECíLIA
The p?o de queijo had gotten squashed in the backpack.
Bento inspected it suspiciously, turned it from side to side, and asked if it was still the same. Dante, sitting beside him on the picnic blanket, said he thought so.
“Then why does it look like this?”
“It had a cramped ride.”
My son considered the explanation before taking a bite.
We were in a park on a Saturday morning when I’d managed to leave without checking the bakery phone three times.
Joana knew what needed delivering. The schedule was beginning to become something we practiced, beyond a sheet pinned to the wall.
It still needed adjustments, but there were fewer last-minute decisions.
I’d brought fruit, water, and the p?o de queijo that had lost its shape on the way. Dante had brought the blanket after asking if we needed anything. Bento had a ball he’d so far used only to rest his elbow on.
We didn’t have any big plans. The park was nearby, it was a nice morning, and my son wanted to play on the grass.
I wanted a little time without anywhere I had to be, too.
After eating, Bento ran after the ball and came back with dirt smudged on his knees. Dante ran with him for two laps, lost the ball on one of them, and received an emphatic lecture about needing to watch where he kicked.
I laughed from my seat on the blanket.
Dante looked at me with his hands on his hips.
“You could defend me.”
“He has a point.”
Bento nodded in agreement, pleased to find support.
When he tired out, he came for water. I gave him the bottle, but the cap was too tight for him to open. I’d just picked up the fruit container and was looking for somewhere level to set it.
My son turned to Dante.
“Dad, can you open it for me?”
My hand stopped above the blanket.
He hadn’t said it loudly. There was no question about what the word meant. Bento held out the bottle, impatient with thirst, waiting for it to come back open.
It took Dante a moment longer to take it.
I saw the movement in his throat. I saw his fingers adjust the cap, as if that task required all the attention he had.
“Sure.”
He handed the bottle back.
Bento drank, spilled a little on his chin, and asked me for a napkin.
The world carried on.
A bicycle passed by on the path behind us. Someone called a child by name. I found the napkin, wiped my son’s chin, and stared at him as if something visible had changed on his face.
It hadn’t.
My boy wanted some fruit.
I opened the container.
Dante had bent his head to straighten a corner of the blanket. I knew it didn’t need straightening. I waited for him to look up.
When our eyes met, I couldn’t quite manage a smile.
Neither could he.
There was joy there, so strong that I was breathless for a second. Then I remembered little Bento, asking why other kids had dads to pick them up from school. The bottle passed from one hand to the other in front of me.
“Is there any more water?” my son asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
I refilled the bottle and went about my morning.
***
We walked slowly back to the cars.
Dante carried the blanket and the ball. Bento walked beside him, pointing at marks on the path and trying to step only on the light patches. I watched them as I adjusted the backpack on my shoulder.
My son didn’t repeat the word to test its effect on us. He called Dante by name when he showed him a stone. Then called him nothing at all when he needed to hand over the ball again. I recognized a freedom in that mixture that I didn’t want to interrupt with questions.
He was already looking at the grass again. I ran my hand through his hair and let him go.
In the parking lot, Dante put a few things away and came over to say goodbye.
Bento was strapped into his car seat, occupied with a leaf he’d brought. He said goodbye and went back to examining its edge.
We stood beside the car.
“I heard that,” I said quietly.
Dante nodded.
He looked inside the car, then at me. His eyes were moist, and his attempt to keep his voice steady made me want to touch his arm.
I kept my hand on the door.
“I didn’t know what to say,” he confessed.
“He wanted the bottle.”
A short laugh escaped him, almost soundless.
“I know.”
I smiled this time.
“You did answer.”
Dante said goodbye and went to his car, carrying the dirt-streaked blanket. I watched him until Bento asked me to open the door.
On the drive, Bento asked if his dad knew how to make a kite.
I looked at him in the rearview mirror.
“I don’t know. You can ask him.”
“Do you know how?”
“I’ve made one before, a long time ago.”
“Then you teach him.”
The solution was simple for him. I got home, still trying to let it be simple for a few minutes for me, too.
***
Marina stopped by late in the afternoon to return a baking pan she’d borrowed weeks earlier.
She stayed for coffee. Bento showed her the leaf from the park, announced that the p?o de queijo had had a cramped ride, and went to get his toy cars. I waited until he was in his room to tell her.
“He called Dante ‘Dad’ today.”
My sister set down her cup.
“How did you feel?”
I’d rehearsed an answer while washing the fruit for lunch. None of those words came.
“Happy. Very happy. Then I felt like crying. Then happy again.”
Marina nodded.
“That sounds like a lot.”
“It is.”
She looked toward the hallway, where we could hear a toy racetrack being assembled.
“You don’t have to decide anything else today.”
“I know.”
“Do you really?”
I laughed and covered my face with one hand.
“I’m trying.”
My sister stayed with me without turning what I’d told her into a conversation about marriage or forgiveness. She talked about the video she’d finished, asked about the kitchen, and showed me a photo of her plant, which looked less healthy than mine even though it had been bought on the same day.
When Bento came back, we asked him to choose a toy car to show her. He brought six.
That night, I got a message from Dante thanking me for that morning. He didn’t mention Bento’s words. I thought maybe he was trying to keep them to himself for a while, just like me.
I replied that it had been nice.
Then I added: “He wants to know if you can make a kite.”
The reply came faster this time.
“If I still remember how. I’ll have to check before I promise.”
I smiled at the screen.
“Me too.”
For a few minutes, we talked about paper, wind, and the disaster we’d probably have if we left it all to what the adults remembered. When I put the phone away, I realized I wished I’d heard his voice as he laughed.
That desire was mine. It wasn’t Bento who had put it there.