Giovanni nods, appreciating my gruff response. He stands up to go, but then my phone pings and I wave him back into his seat.
“Who is it?” Giovanni asks.
“Frankie,” I say.
Frankie was the apple of my eye when he was born twenty-odd years ago. When his mother passed, it hurt him badly. It hurt me too, and for a long time I wasn’t able to appreciate the pain my son was in. I know he’s got a good heart, but he doesn’t focuswell. This law school thing is the latest in a line of activities he’s tried over the years. He tries hard, and I wish we had more in common.
“What’s he say?” Giovanni asks.
“He says he found a tutor,” I reply, reading the optimistic text my son just sent me.
“That’s good, right?” Giovanni guesses, not sure which way I’m going to lean.
“I guess,” I admit.
“Hey, go easy on the kid,” Giovanni suggests.
I sigh. Giovanni’s right. Sometimes I let my parental expectations get the better of me. As a kid, I couldn’t wait to grow up and follow in my father’s footsteps. There wasn’t anything that could stop me from taking my place at the head of this family, not the sight of blood, and certainly not all the work involved. I was expecting my son to be the same, but he’s looking for a different way to help out. He doesn’t want anything to do with leading the family, and he’s been clear about that. I suppose I’m a little disappointed, but I need to get over it. Frankie’s doing his best, and I need to let him follow his own path.
Where’d you find this tutor?I type. The alcohol in my system only partially makes up for my general hatred of texting. In my day, people called each other on the phone or they wrote letters. None of this smiley face, eggplant emoji crap.
Frankie:On the street.
“He says he found the tutor on the street,” I tell Giovanni.
“What, in a dumpster?” my brother scoffs.
I have to chuckle. “I’m sure she’s just some pretty girl he met.”
“More than likely,” Giovanni agrees.
Me:And how much are we paying?
First things first. I need to know how much of my hard-earned money he’s throwing away on someone who hasn’t even been vetted.
Frankie:We can talk later.
I put my phone down carefully. I’ve been known to break things, and I don’t want to go through the hassle of buying a new phone, but I’m pissed. ‘We can talk later,’ means he offered this girl a lot of money. I wish he had a better grasp of economics, but that’s partially my fault. He didn’t want for anything growing up, so he just assumes that money isn’t an issue.
“What’d he say?” Giovanni asks. He can see I’m upset, and he’s trying not to laugh.
“He’s not telling me how much he paid her,” I snarl.
Giovanni shakes his head. “For a kid who don’t want any part of your organization, he certainly knows how to push your buttons.”
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” I complain. This conversation is hitting a little too close to home, and I’ve got more important things to do.
Giovanni knows better than to argue. He gets to his feet quickly as lightning and shoots out the door. I pick up my phone again and glare at the screen until I can come up with something to say. I want to pour out all my frustrations. I want to shout at him that he’s the best thing that ever happened to his mother. Howdare he disrespect her memory by being so frivolous? If Alessia were alive today, she would be mortified.
But I can’t fit that all in a text. Besides, it’s not like the boy doesn’t know how I feel. We’ve had the same argument every day for years. He keeps coming back with, “I’m trying, Dad.” To which I respond, “Try harder.” No matter what I do, it seems like we can’t connect. I know that I’m partially to blame. I wasn’t around to give him the kind of attention he needed growing up.
This tutor thing is just the next step in the same dance that we’re going to be performing until the day I die. And I’m sick of it.
Me:This better be the best damned tutor the universe has to offer, because I’m not paying for anything less.
I barely manage to tap out all the right keys.
He responds almost immediately.
