“Will I see you later?”
Andrew shrugged. “It all depends.”
“On what?”
“Costanza, I guess. And you.” He paused. “Dad.”
“Yes?”
“I think—” Andrew hesitated. “I think she still cares for you.”
He took off. He deposited the garbage bag, the spazzatura, in a large can farther along the street, then broke into a run. An uphill run that was steady, confident, and seemingly effortless.
Henry looked back at the water. Its blue burned into his eyes. If he could just follow one blue scallop until it floated off the scene, beyond the hill. Toward the Punta, Andrew called it. Just one crescent wave. Everything would be clear then.
Henry tried to fix his eye on a single shape, but the more he focused on it, the more elusive it became. He began again and again.
Finally he got up, crossed the street, and approached the gate.
He paused there. As he was staring at the brass nameplates and the buttons next to them, the gate buzzed, then popped open.
Henry looked beyond the open gate, and up the stairs. He could only see halfway. The stairs were old and cracked. Moss was growing in their corners. They were steep.
He tried to imagine himself climbing them. He pictured himself rising up and coming into the sunlight again, in the garden at the top of the stairs. There she would be, thicker and rounder, certainly, following the pregnancy, likely aglow in the way of new mothers. She was likely to look tired too, from the birth, and the feeding. And the nights. But, being Costanza, she was certain also to be beautiful; worn down maybe, but still radiant.
Would there be a table in the garden, and chairs, an arbor to cast some shade against all this bright winter sunlight?
Would they sit there and talk? What could she say, really?
What could he say?
What would he feel, what would he think, when he looked into the baby’s face?
Henry’s imagination, his anticipation, stopped there. All of his body, it seemed, was frozen, paralyzed—except for his heart. His heart was beating, pounding, away.
Then he heard a sound. A baby’s cry. This baby’s cry. He stood there listening to it as though he might listen to it for all time.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In addition to the dedicatees, deepest thanks to: Elisabetta Beraldo, Sarah Boxer, Andrea Chapin, Lindsey Crittenden, Steven Frank, Merona and Marty Frank, Tamara Jenkins, Zev Rosenwaks, Jane Varkell, Ellen Williams, Sally Wofford-Girand, and—of course—Ileene Smith.
ALSO BY MICHAEL FRANK
The Mighty Franks
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michael Frank is the author of the memoir The Mighty Franks, which was a Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers selection, one of The Telegraph’s and the New Statesman’s best books of 2017, and the winner of the 2018 JQ Wingate Literary Prize. He lives with his family in New York City and Liguria, Italy. You can sign up for email updates here.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Ten Months Earlier
Three Months Later
Nine Months After That
Acknowledgments
Also by Michael Frank
A Note About the Author
Copyright
Farrar, Straus and Giroux
120 Broadway, New York 10271
Copyright © 2019 by Michael Frank
All rights reserved
First edition, 2019
E-book ISBN: 978-0-374-71950-0
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