“Explains the wild spray,” he said.
At the sound of his father’s voice, Marciano stood straighter, blinking at him. His little eyes were red rimmed, and his nose matched. Occasionally, he sniffed to clear his airway. Tear stains were visible on his face.
“Were you crying, son?” Brando asked in Italian after Marciano was finished.
Marciano took a shuddering breath, looked away, and nodded. None of them wanted to cry in front of Brando, because they knew he saw it as a sign of weakness. Even though Marciano was only two, going on three, he followed behind his two older brothers. If they didn’t do it, he didn’t want to either. Though it was acceptable for our daughter to cry in front of her father.
“Why?” Brando said.
I gave him a narrow look. He returned it.
“Mamma,” Marciano barely got out. “She gone.”
“Gone?” Brando turned the look on me.
“He fell asleep, and when he woke up, Eva was holding him.”
Brando touched Marciano’s head. “I’ll give you that one. That is a reason to cry. I’d cry for mamma too if I woke up and she was gone.”
Finishing up his business, Marciano turned, and my heart nearly fell into my stomach. For the second time, a whisperedohescaped from my lips and I almost cried. Marciano had turned and held his arms out for his father, just as Brando was known to do for me, for his children.
Brando took him right away, holding him while I used a cool washcloth to wipe his face. After washing up, I asked him if he was hungry. He nodded but refused to take his face from his father’s chest.
“How about something cold, ah?” I ran a hand through his hair. “A popsicle?”
His nod became frantic, the desire for something cool and sweet to eat burning in his eyes. His fever was gone, but it had taken a lot of out him.
“Rawberry, Mamma,pleaseee.”
“Strawberry.” I laughed. “Mamma’s on it.”
Brando took him to sit in front of the television. Our children didn’t watch much TV, so when they did, it had their attention. Especially cartoons.
“Mamma,” Brando called. “Can you bringPapàone too?”
Marciano’s eyes lifted, looking at his father with renewed interest. Brando looked down and smiled at him. Marciano smiled back, cuddling into him even deeper. While taking out the popsicles I had made earlier, smashing Marciano’s to pulp so he could eat it with a spoon, I wondered if we should have put off this little get together for another day.
I could feel the change in Brando. He wanted his house and his family to himself. Marciano’s clinginess had started to make him nervous. I had told him before that when a child was sick, sometimes even before or after, they get clingier. But his worries belied my words.
Marciano was on the mend, though. He just needed some extra love and attention.
Brando’s mouth was working, whispering something to his son, who nodded his head at whatever his father was saying. Then Brando used his hand to wipe Marciano’s tears.
I handed over all the cold stuff, then I gave Marciano his owl.
“You knew he wanted that,” Brando said.
“Of course.” I smiled at Marciano. “He’smybaby.”
Marciano smiled back, his nose scrunching up.
“While you’re both eating, I’m—”
I went to turn, but Brando seized my wrist.
“Tell me, Scarlett.”
Tell him what? After a moment or two, I figured it out.
