“I thought we decided to wait?” I said to him from my side of the bed, and he reminded me that that was whatIhad decided.
“Okay,” I said, slowly. “But since it’s my body, doesn’t it make sense that I should get the final say?”
“Yeah, sure,” he said, and turned over. “Whatever.”
90.
WE HAD BEEN WARNEDthat Carnevale was a big deal in La Maddalena, but nothing prepared me for the explosion of color and sound that descended on the island in early February. There was music and dancing, food and fireworks, and so much paper confetti that I found it in my hair and my shoes and even my sheets.
The parade, in particular, was not to be missed. It took place on Martedì Grasso and stretched from one end of town to the other. The floats were extravagant, and apparently everyone dressed up in costume to watch them go by.
Paul and I went as Sonny and Cher. I made Paul a mustache out of construction paper, and he shimmied into a fringe vest of mine, which he wore with a white collared shirt and a pair of jeans. I decided to lean into Cher’s 1973 Golden Globes look and put together a bikini top and a pair of floral pants, then borrowed a fur coat from Bev. As long as my stomach was showing and I wore my hair down, I figured people would get the idea.
We had made plans to meet up with Laura and Bobby at the Piazza Rossa, but when we got there, the place was crowded, and so many people were either masked or wearing heavy makeup that they could have been right in front of us and we wouldn’t have known.
“Do you know what they’re going as?” Paul asked, but if Laura had told me, I hadn’t been listening.
“Oh my God,” I said, enunciating every word. “Is that them?”
Coming toward us were Raggedy Ann and Andy. Red wigs, white face makeup, triangle noses, the whole nine yards. Andy, who had Bobby’s long stride, wore a red and white gingham shirt and royal blue shorts, and Raggedy Ann was decked out in a blue-and-white gingham dress and white apron. Both were wearing those ridiculous red-and-white-striped tights.
“Laura!” I shouted across the square. “Is that you?” As if to confirm her identity, she rested a hand protectively on her stomach.
“You guys went all out,” I said when we were close enough to hug them hello.
“Do you think the Italians know who Raggedy Ann and Andy are?” asked Laura, and I told her I had no idea, but we were about to find out.
We wandered along the parade route, looking for a good place to sit. All the bars were brimming with people, but we finally found some steps where we could perch.
The parade was a hoot. There was a Popeye and Olive–themed float and another that had some sort of underwater motif. Someone had made a giant globe out of papier-mâché, and another float was shaped like a wild boar. Even the NSO’s float was better than I thought it’d be. Daniel Bornemann had commandeered one of the Seabees’ flatbed trucks, decorated it in red, white, and blue bunting, and hung big glittery letters from the cab that readTHE AMERICAN SPIRIT. In a handsome wooden rocking chair on the truck bed sat Betsy Ross, played by none other than Janine Greer. She wore an old-timey dress, complete with apron and bonnet, and pretended to sew a giant American flag that lay across her lap. Beside her, a guy I’d met once at a wardroom dinner played George Washington. And at the rear of the truck bed sat a very poorly constructed Liberty Bell.
“That’s a stunning piece of propaganda,” said Bobby, and I laughed so loudly that Paul poked me in the ribs.
“Oh, come on,” I said. “It’s funny.”
Bobby raised an eyebrow at me. “No chance anyone on the island will go communist now.” Before we could say much more about it, we were pelted with Tootsie Rolls—that most American of candies—by the command’s fledgling Boy Scout troop.
The parade continued, but Paul and Bobby wanted to get beers. “Bring us back those dough-ball things,” Laura called after them, and they promised they would.
91.
THE GUYS HAD BEEN GONEmaybe ten minutes when Laura let out a sharp gasp.
“What is it?” I said, but she didn’t answer, just pressed a hand to her stomach.
“Is he moving around?” I asked, thinking she’d felt the baby kick. Laura was fifteen weeks along, but I didn’t know that fifteen weeks was too soon to feel so much as a quickening, much less a full-throttled kick.
“Something’s wrong,” she said, and all of a sudden she stood up, her hand still on her stomach.
I took her around the corner to Guido’s, where I told the guy behind the counter in Italian that she had to use the bathroom. “È urgente.”
He nodded, and we darted toward the back of the bar, where the bathroom was mercifully empty. “I’ll wait out here,” I said as Laura slipped inside.
A few moments later, I heard a desperate sob from the other side of the door, and my heart rose into my throat. I pressed my ear to the door. “Laura?”
All I could hear was her choked breathing.
“Laura? Sweetie? Let me in.”
