[Iris and Lily 01.0 - 03.0] The Complete Series

by Angela Scipioni

  “Hey, Piccolina! That was some shower!” Gregorio said, walking into the bedroom. “Hurry up and get dressed before you catch cold. Then I’ll tell you all about the conference.”

  “Just a second,” Iris responded without looking up, pretending to fumble with a jammed latch on her suitcase as she struggled to regain her composure.

  “Let me help you,” Gregorio said, walking over to her. “You’ve worn yourself out so, you can hardly see straight. I honestly don’t know about this job.”

  “Thanks,” Iris said, eyes low.

  Gregorio patted her on the head, then took her chin into his hand, and raised it toward him.

  “Piccolina, your eyes are all red! You’ve been wearing your contact lenses for hours on end, haven’t you? And you probably got shampoo in them, too, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, Gregorio. That must be it. Shampoo,” Iris mumbled. She was still safe and loved, still in time to make everything all right again. Gregorio waited for her as she put on her glasses, slipped on a pair of white cotton undies, her favorite jeans and a sweatshirt.

  “You’re home now. You can relax. Let’s go eat,” Gregorio said, taking her by the hand and leading her out of the room.

  “How was Paris?” Franco called out to her one morning the following week when they crossed paths outside the house.

  “What?” Iris asked, stopping on the stairs that led to the parking area on the lower level of the terraced garden, where her red Vespa took up a small spot next to the fleet of practical white cars driven by the Leale family, and Franco’s black Volkswagen Golf.

  “Paris. You know, the capital of France,” Franco replied. “Eiffel Tower. The Louvre. Baguettes and stinky cheese. Sound familiar?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Iris said, averting her eyes as she sidled past her brother-in-law. Franco was dressed in his guardia di finanza uniform, either ready to go to work or just coming home. It was hard to tell, as his perennial five o’clock shadow always gave him a slightly disheveled look.

  “Look, Iris. Don’t deny the evidence.” His words made her stumble; she grabbed onto the wrought iron railing and stood there, her back to him, her heart racing, her hands sweating. “I was on airport patrol monitoring the closed-circuit TV when you and Romeo passed through the other day. I recognized you right off the bat. You and that boyfriend of yours were waiting for your luggage. Which came off the Paris flight.”

  “What are you talking about?” Iris turned to face him. “I was on a business trip.” If she could avoid telling lies, and reply to his accusations with more questions or an abridged version of the facts, she might be able to prevent herself from looking guilty.

  “Funny, I seem to remember Cinzia telling me you were going to London. In fact, all I heard all week from her and Isabella was Iris in London this, Iris in London that. But whatever. London. Paris. It’s all the same to me.” Franco grinned at her from under the thick black moustache that made him look more like a Mexican bandito than an officer enlisted in Italy’s war against financial crime and smuggling.

  Iris replayed in her mind the scene at the luggage retrieval area of the small airport. It had been deserted, save for a handful of other passengers from their flight who were also waiting for their luggage. Claudio had placed a hand on her back as they waited, and gradually let it slide lower and lower, until it was resting on her rump.

  “Claudio. Don’t do that. Please,” she had said.

  Claudio had smirked, in the way that irked her. “No one here knows us, Iris. We’ve already checked.” At Iris’s insistence, whenever they traveled together, they had the habit of scrutinizing all the other passengers as they boarded the plane before them, to make sure there was no one they knew. Claudio never seemed to be overly concerned about being demonstrative in public, unlike Iris, who was terrified of being spotted. She often had to scold him, but he just laughed it off, seeming to derive pleasure from making her squirm with unease. She supposed it had to do with the fact that he was a man, and would actually not mind being seen with another woman, especially if she were well-dressed and reasonably attractive, a bit too tall to be Italian, and a good number of years his junior.

  “I’m just saying,” Franco continued, his bushy-browed eyes roaming over her features, observing her face from every angle, then straying down to take in the rest of her body, scanning her as if she herself were a piece of suspicious luggage. “No sweat. Your secret’s safe with me. This family. These Leales. They’re boring as hell, aren’t they? But you shoulda told me. I woulda been happy to take up the slack for old Gregorio. Coulda kept it in the family.”

  What exactly did Franco want from her? Was he coming on to her? Or did he plan to blackmail her?

  “Relax, I’m just kidding. Thing is, I won’t be around much longer myself. You see, I met someone too. She works as a croupier on one of those Costa cruise ships. She passes through every fifteen days when she disembarks in Genoa. Remember when I went to Rome a coupla months ago? For that training course? It was all bullshit. She took me on a cruise with her. Mediterranean. That’s her gig,” Franco recounted, with more than a hint of pride in his voice.

  “You must be joking!” Iris said, her low voice crackling with incredulity. She had always thought Franco and Cinzia were enjoying a life of cozy domesticity, comfortably installed in the downstairs apartment with their progeny, and Isabella descending from the third floor to lend a hand or word of advice. Wasn’t anything the way it seemed?

  “Nope, I’m dead serious. We got it all planned out. I even rented us a cute little apartment in Genoa,” Franco said. “You keep it under your hat, you hear? I’ll only be as good as you are at keeping my mouth shut. I’m gonna tell Cinzia any day now. Just waiting for the right time. You know how it is. There’s always something.”

  “But Franco, you can’t just leave! What about the kids?” Iris asked.

  “Look Iris, I’ll always love my kids,” he replied through clenched teeth, straining to keep his voice low. He held his uniform cap in his right hand like a tambourine, and whacked it against his thigh for emphasis as he spoke. “But how will they ever respect me if I stay here with a wife who does nothing but complain about me? (whack) Professoressa Cinzia and our Fascist mother-in-law Judge-lady got it all figured out. (whack) They take turns cutting me down, humiliating me in front of my boys. (whack) They got all those rules to enforce, see? They got their Manzoni and their Leopardi to recite. (whack) They got their little Latin proverbs to quote. (whack) But one word neither of them ever learned the meaning of, in any language. And that’s (whack)pleasure. (whack) Voluptate. Piacere. Plaisir. Someone musta deleted it from their vocabulary. Capisci?”

  Iris stared at him in silence.

  “No wonder the vecchio Leale got his goodies on the road,” he said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t be so naïve, Iris!” Franco said. “With a lady like Isabella swimming in his tank, how can you blame her old man for engaging in a little offshore fishing?”

  “Why can’t you just talk straight? You mean her husband cheated on her?”

  “So you don’t know all the dirty, dark secrets of the Leale dynasty? Isabella found out, and dropped enough hints to make damn sure the kids knew, too. Made them want to defend her, stick up for her. He was still going at it when I met Cinzia. Monday to Friday, that man was on the road. That’s why they don’t want to let you or me or anyone out of their sight. Which just kinda makes you wanna run more, don’t it, Iris?”

  Franco ran the fingers of his left hand through his thick, black hair. For the first time, Iris noticed a dusting of gray on his curls, and white bristles in his beard. In fact, it was probably the first time she had actually noticed him at all, as a man, and not merely as an appendage of Cinzia. She told herself he was doing something despicable, but as she looked at him, she could not find it in her heart to fault him. Instead, she sympathized with him, standing there with his soft little pasta paunch and his
greying head full of plans.

  Iris wondered what master of mismatching had thrown him and Cinzia in each other’s paths. She tried to imagine them in the early days of their relationship, before she had ever met them. Perhaps they were neither enough alike nor different enough to be suited for each other. Perhaps the trick was to have everything in common, or nothing in common. To be mirrors or magnets.

  “And what are you gonna do?” Franco said.

  “About what?” Iris said.

  “About lover-boy.”

  Iris was so shocked at Franco’s stories that she had momentarily forgotten about her own predicament.

  “It’s over,” she said. “Really. It was all a big mistake. I told him the very next day, after we came back from Paris. It was too risky. Suddenly, all I could think about was getting caught. I could actually see the look on everyone’s faces. Gregorio’s, Isabella’s, Cinzia’s, yours. And Auntie Rosa’s, and my mom’s, and all my sisters’.” Her voice cracked with emotion; she wondered why on earth she was confiding in Franco, of all people. Perhaps it was because he was the only one there, the only one who asked, the only one who admitted to being as human and imperfect as she.

  “Please, Franco. You have to promise you won’t say anything. It would only hurt everyone. I told you, it’s over.”

  “Don’t worry, Iris. I have enough problems of my own right now,” he answered. “But do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  Iris trembled with relief. “Sure.”

  “You look all prim and proper when you dress in your business suits, but you’ve got this wild side, even a blind man could see it. You were just a kid when you met Gregorio. And he was already pretty boring, even then. Why did you marry him?”

  Iris had the impulse to defend Gregorio, recite a list of his unsurpassable qualities, of his unique gifts, of his impeccable virtues. Instead, she answered, “Because he asked me to.”

  They stared at each other for a moment, then Iris asked him, “And you? What made you marry Cinzia?”

  Franco shrugged, put his cap back on his head, and hitched up his trousers. “She said yes.”

  From: Lily Capotosti

  To: Iris Capotosti

  Sent: Friday, October 29, 2010 at 8:03 AM

  Subject: Speechless

  Dear Iris:

  I’m speechless, really - shocked to read about your affair with Claudio.

  The whole time we were growing up, you were the one who could do no wrong. Even when you did, you didn’t. Do you remember that time we took Dad’s car to the Club Car to go dancing and you backed out without waiting for the windows to defog and put a dent in his rear quarter panel? I agreed to tell Dad about it because you were too scared to do it, and he glared at me and said, “Who was driving the car?” and I said, “Iris,” and he said, “Are you sure?” and I had to swear on the Bible that it was you, although I could tell he still didn’t believe me, even after you confessed.

  Even Dad - the king of blame and punishment - couldn’t conceive of you doing any wrong. His reality was that you were perfect so I guess when trouble happened around you someone had to take the blame. And we know who was always standing nearby, don’t we? I guess everyone likes to believe in a Virgin Mary, which then necessitates the existence of a Mary Magdalene. Can’t have one without the other, after all.

  I can see how stifling your life with Gregorio was, but what I wouldn’t have given for that kind of peace and quiet and stability! (Not to mention financial security...) I would have given my left arm - and probably my right one, too - to have a husband like him.

  Love,

  Lily

  From: Iris Capotosti

  To: Lily Capotosti

  Sent: Fri, October 29, 2010 at 6:38 PM

  Subject: Re: Speechless

  Dear Lily,

  I felt really embarrassed sharing the story about Claudio with you, especially now that I know so much more about what your marriage was like in those days. You turned to your new church for consolation, and you got your baby. I turned to a clandestine lover, and I got nothing, except a massive dose of guilt. Maybe I should have continued lighting those candles to the Blessed Virgin Mary, since you seem to think we are so much alike. Maybe she would have stepped in to keep me clean.

  I know it was incredibly selfish of me, not to mention immoral, to get involved with Claudio. I never told anyone else about it and I still thank God that Gregorio never found out. He did everything in his power to make me happy, even though I was such a disappointment to him. What a prize I turned out to be, huh? A package deal, everything from infertility to infidelity. When I think back on the affair now, it’s as if I’m looking back on another person’s life, not mine. I feel so ashamed, just like I still feel ashamed about putting the dent in Dad’s car (did you really have to bring that up?).

  Like I said before, you weren’t forced to marry Joe any more than I was forced to marry Gregorio. No one forced me to have an affair, and no one forced you to compound your mistakes by sticking with Joe and starting a family. I shared this with you because I wanted you to understand me, not judge me.

  Love,

  Iris

  12. Lily

  “Mommy, what the heck are you doing?” Joseph asked with a laugh, as Lily pulled packages of flour, sugar, baking powder, chocolate chips, and small jars of multicolored sugars, sprinkles, and food coloring from the cupboard, laying them all out on the counter.

  “We’re making cookies!”

  “Yay! What kind of cookies are we making, Mommy?”

  Lily surveyed the heap of bags and jars and bowls and spoons and cartons of eggs and sticks of butter, and replied, “Apparently, we’re making every kind.”

  Lily rummaged through her rag-tag collection of favorite recipes, and then selected four varieties, based on the ingredients scattered in front of her.

  “You want to help?” she asked Joseph.

  “Yes – I want to!”

  “Then go in the bathroom and wash your hands.”

  Joseph spun around and headed up the stairs.

  “With soap!” Lily shouted after him. As Joseph grew into his pre-school years, he displayed a healthy curiosity for new activities, yet was more often than not thwarted by his own tendency to get easily frustrated. Lily was glad to see that he was in a happy mood. It was going to be a good day.

  Lily and Joseph spent hours mixing and matching various colors of frosting and decorations, designing cookies with special themes such as the polka-dot Santa, the zebra reindeer, and the puzzle cookie, which was one huge cookie comprised of the leftover dough from all of the recipes.

  By dinnertime, every surface in the kitchen was covered either with a batch of dough, baked cookies cooling on racks, or partially filled leftover aluminum tins bearing holiday scenes – a couple nestling on a sleigh ride, children building a snowman, the star of Bethlehem shining high above a glowing manger.

  The wonderful mess warmed Lily’s heart: her pile of precisely cut and carefully painted roll-out cookies; the perfectly shaped peanut butter cookies with the signature criss-cross pattern across the surface; the rich and buttery Russian teacakes, and Snickerdoodles coated in a mixture of cinnamon and sugar.

  And then there was Joseph’s work: peanut butter cookies with a peppermint candy plunged into the center; Christmas tree cut-outs with every conceivable decoration on them; tea cakes bonded together as the melted chocolate he drizzled all over them cooled and hardened.

  Joseph licked a glob of green frosting from his finger. “Mommy – I’m sick of making cookies. Can I go watch my Superman movie?”

  “Sure,” said Lily. “Thank you for being my helper - you did a great job.”

  “You did a great job, too, Mommy!”

  Lily passed through the kitchen one last time, wiping down the counters, and turning on the dishwasher. She picked up a candy cane upon which a tea cake had been impa
led, and with a mental note to fit in an extra workout that week, she pulled the cookie off into her mouth with her front teeth, and turned out the kitchen light.

  Joseph was drowsily draped along the length of the love seat, purple frosting in his hair, his pants dusted with flour, his face glittering with red and green sugar.

  “Hey, buddy,” she said to him softly. “Got room for me?”

  Joseph shimmied his small body toward the front edge of the couch cushions, creating enough space for Lily to lie along behind him.

  “Your cookies are just wonderful, my love,” she whispered into his ear.

  “Thanks,” he murmured.

  Lily kissed the top of his head. He smelled of cinnamon and sugar, cooled sweat and little boy. His breathing became quiet and his body still, and once Lily was sure he was asleep, she clicked the television off, wrapped him in her arms, and drifted blissfully off.

  She awoke as Joe placed a kiss gently on her forehead. “Hi, sleepyhead.”

  “Oh, my God,” said Lily. “What time is it?”

  “It’s almost ten,” said Joe, stroking Joseph’s head. He added, with a laugh. “You guys look like you’ve been attacked by the Keebler elves.”

  “Ten!” said Lily sitting up. “I have your dinner in the fridge; I just need to pop it in the microwave.”

  “Don’t bother. I ate. I stopped by OTB for the late double. Good thing, too. I got the money for your overdue loan payment.” He reached into his pocket and extended a small wad of cash to Lily. “There’s four hundred dollars here.”

  Which meant he had another four hundred tucked in his other pocket, at least. Seed money for tomorrow.