Page 101 of Enzo

“He's not smiling. He's showing contempt”

Father doesn't smile unless he's making a deal. His thin lips are pressed together into a severe line. He seems relaxed, but I know he's not. He surveys the interviewer with disdain. The interviewer won't know but I do.

I know that look. We all do. My father doesn't suffer fools easily—he doesn't suffer anyone easily—and the media and journalists least of all. He's always tried to keep his life under wraps and he turns into a vicious beast when they start digging.

The interviewer asks my father about his health and the recent speculation about an operation. Father firmly denies that anything’s wrong, and deflects the conversation smoothly as only he could, reassuring the interviewer that there is nothing wrong with him and that everyone who invests in the company is in good hands.

Then, just as I sink back against the soft backrest of the couch, the interviewer asks a question that has me bolting upright again.

“Do you have any comments to make about the viral video related to your son, Enzo?”

“I don’t.”

The interview ends rather abruptly. Father moved on quickly from talking about me. The interviewer asked him again if he had any further comments to make. Father said he didn’t. It’s over so fast.

I turn the TV off.

“They asked about you,” Molly comments.

I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “There is nothing more precious than anonymity.” I divert the conversation. “I told you a secret, now you tell me something about you.”

“Something about me?” She looks away.

“You told me how much you love teaching. Is that why you're always so happy? Because you love what you do?”

Something in her eyes softens, she frowns, like her thoughts are elsewhere. “I want my children to be happy, and I try to make every day at school be a happy day, because …”

She pauses. I wait, not probing or pushing.

“Because we don’t know what’s going on for them at home.”

I tilt my head and sense there’s more to this than just making sure the kids in her class have a fun day at school.

“That’s very perceptive of you.”

“Oh, I’m fully aware that some people look at me like I'm mad.”

I chuckle. “You’re neither of those things, and you shouldn’t let anyone make you think otherwise.”

She makes a face like she disagrees. “I'm not so sure. I'm not for everyone. Some people think I'm too full on. Too loud. Too unfiltered. Too much.”

“You’re not too much for me.”

“Oh … thanks.”

She peers at her lap. Then she clears her throat and tucks her hair behind her ears again. Her eyes meet mine again.

“The point of all this is to say that it's a lottery, where we're born and who we're born to.”

I'm not sure if she's talking about me, or her. But I know what it's like to have people pry, and as much as I want to ask questions, I decide not to.

“That is true … and deep.” That’s all I manage to say, but I wonder what she's not telling me. It feels like there's a part of Molly I don't know.

She pokes my knee gently, but a quiver of sparks shoots through me at her touch and I instinctively flinch.

“Working with children isn’t so much a job, as a vocation, and every moment feels like fun and not work. I think everyone should live their life like that.”

I could listen to her talking, to her views on life and the universe, all day. I could listen to Molly reading an encyclopedia and never get bored.