They shake but Corinne Whitehall’s pale blue eyes are fixed on her stepdaughter. “Hello, January.”
“Hi.” January smiles at Margot but her sister is staring into the middle distance. All her siblings are. Maybe they’re also high on blotter acid.
Corinne takes January’s arm in a pincer grip and turns it to examine the tattoo on the back of her arm. “How perfectly revolting.”
Doc opens his mouth and I elbow him in the ribs. January shakes her arm from Corinne’s grasp. “I like my new tattoo.”
Corinne’s lip curls. “I’m sure you do.”
Eli clears his throat. “You wanted a picture with January and her siblings?”
“I do,” Corinne says, with a smile. “I’ve brought a photographer.”
An older guy springs out from behind the Whitehall brothers, SLR camera at the ready. “Shall we shoot in front of the church?” He suggests. “With the limestone in the background for contrast?”
“Lovely,” Mrs. Whitehall agrees. “Come on, January.”
The four of us reluctantly watch January move to stand among her family, the photographer directing her between Margot and her oldest brother Lachlan. The Whitehalls smile the same way, nervously, with a lot of teeth. Hollywood smiles. I think of my sisters, living safely with their husbands in Ohio. When Parker killed our dad, Eli and I worked hard to bury their connection to me through new names and identities. I don’t see them as often as I want to, but there’s more warmth in one of our quarterly phone calls than there is in this little horror show.
The photographer rearranges the family, the boys on one side and the girls on the other and I watch as Margot shoots January a quick glance. Her face is sharper than JJ’s and her nose kicks upward as though she’s somehow inherited her stepmother’s looks through proximity.
“This is fucked,” Doc mutters.
“Quiet,” Eli says, but he looks as worried as I feel. It’s just a few photos in public for appearance’s sake; January’s stepmother is a bloodless barracuda but what ulterior motive could she possibly have?
“Done,” the photographer announces happily. “Lucky you have such a beautiful collection of children, Corinne.”
Stepchildren, I think.Neglected, abused stepchildren.
Mrs. Whitehall gives him a thin smile. “Thank you, François. Well, January, I suppose that’s it.”
Adriano steps forward to take January’s arm but she moves toward her stepmother. “You, um, told me I could have Zia Teresa’s old things after we took the photo?”
Mrs. Whitehall’s smile vanishes. “So, I did. Frans, go and fetch the box from our car.”
François looks bummed to be ordered around, but he must have a boner for January’s stepmom because he runs to do her bidding.
“Nice weather,” Eli says impassively to one of January’s brothers. He blinks like a stoned deer and mumbles something about the cold. Things get so awkward I’m on the verge of taking January for a walk, but the photographer returns in record time with an old wooden box. He goes to hand it to January, but I step forward to take it. It has Calderoli stamped on the side and the sight of it makes January’s eyes well up. With trembling fingers, she lifts the lid. I don’t know what I was expecting but it’s pretty simple stuff, notebooks with loose pages, an old olive oil bottle with ceramic grapes on the side, and a plaster spoon holder. Metal stuff I assume is for cooking or cutting pasta. January lifts a little wooden thing that I recognize as a hand-carved gnocchi roller.
“Thank you,” she says to her stepmother, pressing the roller to her chest.
Mrs. Whitehall looks away, as though she can’t stand the brightness of January’s joy. “Hmm. Come, Margot. Let’s get moving, Harris, Lachlan.”
January’s siblings, still looking high as kites, turn as François clears his throat. “Corinne… Ma’am?”
“What?” she says impatiently.
“You might be forgetting the other gift…?”
Mrs. Whitehall looks to the heavens. “Oh, that. Go get it, Frans.”
As Frans dashes away again, Eli frowns. “What gift?”
“You’ll see.”
We awkwardly stand around again, looking at either the ground or the sky until François returns with a large, plastic-wrapped platter. It’s loaded with almond cookies, cannoli, profiteroles, and sugar-dusted biscotti. My stomach gives a low rumble.
“I, um, thank you,” January says, as Doc practically snatches the plate away. “…What is it?”
