The temptation to flip them off was there, but I reached for another cigarette instead. Placing it between my lips and cupping my hand over the zippo flame to light it, I noticed one middle-aged woman watching me just a little longer than necessary.
I flicked the lighter shut, lowered it, and quirked a brow with the unlit cigarette hanging from my lips. She was at the bottom of the stairs at the opposite rail a couple of meters away, waiting for someone to say their goodbyes as she dragged her eyes up from my boots. She examined me with a disgusted, skeptical look in her eyes until she found me watching her right back.
I smiled lazily and winked.
She bristled. Her too-thin eyebrows furrowed and her mouth dropped open.
“How dare you! Henry!” she shrieked to the group at the top of the stairs, her cheeks flushed as she fussed with a strand of blonde hair that had fallen from the tight bun on her head.
I fought down the urge to smile wider. Tucking the cigarette behind my ear, I crossed my ankles and arms and watched a little longer for my own amusement.
Henry, who I assumed was her husband, finished saying goodbye to a group of fellow bingo players when he turned around at the top of the stairs and he looked at his wife with raised eyebrows. “What, Susan?”
She jabbed a finger in my direction. “This boy— This man— He winked at me, and I’d like you to do something about it,” she hissed.
Henry followed her finger. At first, his eyes widened when he saw me, but then he sighed tiredly and walked down the stairs to his wife.
"Susan. He is twice as big as me," he muttered. "What did you want me to do? Step on his foot and hope he didn't throw me across the parking lot? Come along now."
He gently steered her in the opposite direction, shaking his head while she ranted quietly to him. When she turned to give me one last scornful look from over her shoulder, I winked at her again.
"Dean Romeo Moretto.” My name was said firmly with that familiar accent.
Sofia Moretto sat in her wheelchair at the top of the ramp with two cooking trays on her lap. Dressed in faded blue jeans and a soft blue long-sleeved top with her black hair pulled into a messy bun on her head. Her raised right eyebrow was the cherry on top of her unimpressed expression.
I grinned.
“Stop winking at the bingo players,” she warned, shaking her finger at me as I walked up the ramp. “You’ll get me kicked out of the bingo club if they find out my son is flirting with the women.”
“You’re the best baker here. They’d be stupid to let you go.” I stepped in behind her wheelchair and leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Hi, Mom.”
She shook her head in disappointment, but I could hear the smile in her voice. “You have not changed since you were a boy.”
I steered her down the ramp, feigning confusion when I said, “What do you mean?”
“Always changing the subject to avoid trouble,” she tutted.
I laughed softly and turned towards the car. “How was your night?”
Changing the subject to avoid trouble.
She turned her head to glower at me with suspicion but after a moment went straight into talking about how everyone enjoyed the bingo games and loved the Baci Di Dama she baked.
"You should have seen the look on Susan's face when they chose mine first instead of her banana bread," she chuckled.
"I can imagine." The woman, Susan, had looked at me like I was the scum of the earth.
I wheeled her in close to the car, flicked the brakes on the wheelchair, and opened the passenger door, moving the trays from her lap and sliding them onto the dashboard before assisting her. I tucked my hands under her elbows, while she clutched my forearms, and steadily lifted her to her feet. Without the use of her legs, I took all her weight, slowly turned her back towards the car, and lowered her into the front seat.
She never liked that part.
My mother was an extremely independent and headstrong woman who preferred to at least try to do most things on her own. Until it came to moments like this; moving from chair to car and back again or fitting into places that weren’t wheelchair friendly. She accepted help but I could see it on her face. She thought she was a burden, which was far from the truth.
She closed the door herself and I folded up her wheelchair to put it in the trunk, setting it down in the space beside the cash counter and closing the hood with a soft thud. I twirled the car keys once around my finger, ignoring the last of the lingering stares or whispers of the people nearby. It was all the same shit anyway. They gossiped and made assumptions about how my mother came to be in her chair, that maybe I had something to do with it. In a way, they were right.
“How was your night?” Mom asked when I climbed into the car.
She knew I had a different kind of job tonight but never asked for every small detail. Her question was more to make sure I was okay.
