MAY — THIRTEEN WEEKS TO WIN OVER THE FACULTY
Platesof fried food stretch over the surface of our table, except for one little bowl of pasta in the corner, hoarded by Inez like gold.
Quinn whines across the table from me. “I can’t eat anymore.”
I lean forward, grabbing asupplìfrom the platter and tearing it in half, the deep-fried exterior breaking open to reveal rice and cheesy goodness. The flavors explode on my tongue as I force it between my lips. Our eyes were bigger than our stomach, but we can’t stop. Not when the little Jewish-Italian grandmother who runs the restaurant has already popped over twice to ask how we’re doing. She won’t take kindly to us leaving a ton of food on the table.
Quinn dragged us to the Jewish Quarter, one of the most authentic neighborhoods in the city. For hundreds of years, the Catholic Church forced the Jewish community into this handful of blocks, leaving them with few resources in an area that flooded several times a year when the Tiber rose, until they built a retaining wall in the twentieth century. Those centuries of paingave way to a strong community, identity, and the best food in Rome.
The cuisine is a unique combination of Jewish and Italian foods. Artichokes and rice and fish that all burst with flavor. But it’s almost exclusively fried, a technique started as a way to maintain lower quality ingredients that’s now continued out of tradition. After eating crappy plane food, our bodies aren’t equipped to handle it.
Quinn sends a pathetic little look to Inez. “Help us, Inez. Please.”
Inez pulls her bowl ofamatricianacloser to her chest. “If I eat that much fried food, I’ll be bloated for a week.”
Quinn drops her head back with a little whine. “We’re so fucked, Colt.”
A ringing from Quinn’s purse interrupts our groaning, and she bites her lip when she turns the phone toward me to show my mother’s name.
“Don’t answer that,” I yell, frantically trying to pull my phone out of my pocket. If I can call her back before Quinn answers, I’ll have plausible deniability.
Quinn wiggles her eyebrows at me and swipes to answer the video call. “Momma Miller!”
“Hi, my sweet boo,” Momma says.
“We made it to Rome,” Quinn says, leaning close to Inez and holding up the phone. “Say hi to Inez.”
“Hi, Gerry,” Inez says cheerfully.
“Hi there, sugar. It’s so good to see you! How are you feeling about the program?”
“Wait,” I interrupt, “how do you know my mother?”
“Holiday check-ins,” Inez says with a bright smile for my mother, jumping into her plan for the upcoming week.
Yet another thing I’ve missed over the last decade. The first year I was in Rome, Quinn was alone in Boston. She was newly friends with Inez, but not nearly close enough after only fourmonths to spend Christmas with her huge Puerto Rican family. My fellowship didn’t cover a flight home, and my mom was going to be all alone for the holidays, too. For Quinn’s present, I reserved a rental car and sent her down to Grand Creek. They’ve spent every major holiday together since. Seeing the two of them joking on the screen—often at my expense—was the only thing that got me through those lonely holidays, and I’ve been beyond grateful to be back with them this year, and hopefully for every year after.
“Are you two with my deadbeat son?” she asks, and I don’t need to be able to see the screen to know she has a teasing smile on her face.
Quinn raises an eyebrow at me. “Oh yes, such a deadbeat with his PhD and all those important professorship offers.”
“Anyone can be a deadbeat if they don’t answer their mother’s calls when they promised to check in by a specific time.”
“Sorry, Momma,” I call out, and Quinn hands me the phone. The second it’s in my possession, I say, “It’s Quinn’s fault.”
Quinn gasps. “Traditore!What did I ever do to you?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Your idea to go get food distracted me.”
Quinn moves around the table to the open seat next to me. “Ididn’t know about the call. I’d never forget you, Gerry.”
“I know, darlin’,” she says, blowing Quinn a kiss through the phone.
It’s both weird and wonderful seeing how much my mother has welcomed Quinn into her life. It’s been the two of us as long as I can remember, the sperm donor who helped create me off doing whatever real deadbeats did when they left their wife with a newborn baby and no money.
My mother did everything for me. She took on extra jobs to pay for my expensive SAT prep courses. She drove me to Boston and Philadelphia and New York for college scholarship interviews instead of relaxing on her rare days off. She read dozens of dry books about the college application process soshe could understand a world she never had a chance to explore.
I swore I’d be successful, that I’d be the first Miller to get out of Grand Creek and make enough to support us. I refused to be another man who made promises he didn’t keep.
