I snort-laugh and almost give him shit for that. Almost.
Yeah, we may be grown men in our late thirties, but if Ma makes it, we eat it. Ma says it, we pay attention.
Hell, I’m about to leave work, thanks to three text messages from my ma, so I don’t have much room to give him a hard time about being a mama’s boy.
“All right,” I say instead and nod. “I’ll be back.”
I take the love of my life, my Harley-Davidson Road King, through town, waving and nodding at the many people I know along the two-mile drive between the shop and downtown Star Falls.
When I finally reach Main Street, I drive all the way to the farthest end of the strip of quaint storefronts and park right outside the bookstore café.
It isn’t even noon yet, so I don’t bother stopping by The Body Shop, the tattoo parlor next door. It’s Tuesday, which means my little sister, Grace, will be opening the shop, but not until one—and that’s if she is on time. Gracie is unpredictable, stubborn, and—more than anything—loves her sleep.
As I pull open the door to Latterature, I’m braced for the string of Christmas bells that normally go off like a wind chime caught in a tornado. But today—nothing. No warning bells, no chimes. No customers.
“Ma?” I call out into the store.
It’s unusually quiet in the place, and I don’t just mean the lack of welcome bells. Given the fact that my ma practically called a three-alarm fire trying to get me over here, I’m not seeing any sign that she’s actually in the store.
I wander past the cash register and note a couple people browsing the stacks.
“Hey, Bob.” I nod at Bob Horton, who’s got his reading glasses at the end of his nose. He’s leaning back in a vintage—and by that, I mean old as shit—plush rocking chair, looking over some figures on a clipboard.
“Frankie.” He greets me but doesn’t bother looking up from his notes. Bob’s always been a little off, but he owns the local electronics store. One of the last in a twenty-mile radius that’s not owned by a big corporate retailer.
“Workin’ or playin’, Bob?” I give the old man a half smile and scan the aisles for my mother.
Bob grunts in response.
I’m used to Bob being a man of very few words, and awkward ones when he does talk, so I give him a nod and keep on moving.
The vibe in Latterature is a cross between an elderly aunt’s attic and somebody’s grandma’s kitchen. I can smell the familiar scents of freshly ground coffee, vintage books, and old upholstery as I walk past bookshelves and head toward the back kitchen.
Finally, the familiar scent of hair spray and perfume greets me. Evidence that Ma was here recently, along with her friends.
“Franco. Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick.”
I turn around and look down at Lucia Bianchi. Matriarch of our family and overall force to be reckoned with.
She’s short but curvy, and despite turning fifty-nine this past spring, Ma’s hair is drugstore auburn, sprayed to within an inch of its life, and perfectly styled around her smiling face.
“Come here.” She holds out her manicured hands, her nails perfectly colored and bedazzled with some sparkly looking things on the ends. She pulls my face close and kisses my cheek, then loops her hand through my arm and lowers her voice. “I wish you’d gotten here sooner. What took you so long? My God, son, I was about to get in the car and make sure you weren’t crushed under one of those cars or something worse.”
“Morbid, Ma, but thanks for the concern.” I look around us, but my mom’s crew of best friends is nowhere to be found, which is unusual.
Lucia was a stay-at-home mom who never went to work even after we grew up, but by God, she made knowing the ins and outs of her kids’ lives more than just her job. It was her passion.
Now that Vito, Benny, Gracie, and I are all in our thirties, Ma makeseveryone’sbusiness her job. And unless she’s with my father, she’s never far from her crew of best lady friends.
“What’s with the urgency? You made it sound like—”
Ma shushes me a little too vigorously and points a red nail toward the lounger where Bob is rocking back and forth. She gives me the universal mom-eyes, half wide and then settling into a frustrated glare, as she huffs, “Come back into the kitchen.”
“In the kitchen? Ma, come on, I got to get back to work.”
My mother ignores me and takes hold of my arm. All five foot nothing of her pedals off toward the back of the store, dragging me with her.
I would stop and argue the point, but when Lucia Bianchi gets her mind set on something, there is only one person who can stop her and that’s my father, Mario.
