Page 4 of Wizard's Spitfire
“It’s me Ma. Where are the girls? I didn't see their car.”
“They’re over at Ronda’s working on a school project. They’re due home any minute now.”
“I’ll wash up and come help.”
I hurry to the hall bath and wash up before heading to the kitchen. Ma is flitting around. Every burner on the stove has a pot and the oven is on. I don’t know what I’d do without her.
“Something sure smells good,” Pops says, walking into the kitchen. He snags a bread stick and pokes it in the gravy. Ma slaps his hand.
“Pops, you can wait for dinner. You’re as bad as the kids, if not worse,” she says, shooing him away.
Pops’ thick, once black hair is now mostly silver. Romeo aka Pops Perillo is in his seventies and as spry as a man in his fifties. He’s my dad’s dad. My grandfather and the girls’ great-grandfather.
My grandmother died when I was six and Dad was killed in a plane crash when I was sixteen. After the divorce, Ma, Pops and I found a moderate three-bedroom home. Ma and I shared a roomup until last year when I turned the garage into an ensuite. One large bedroom for the triplets with their own bathroom. Not that the adults have time to use any of the bathrooms in the morning. The house came with one and a half baths.
Now instead of hogging two bathrooms in the morning, they hog three. The adults have to be out of the bathroom by six-fifteen when chaos descends. The triplets’ alarm goes off at six o’five. They take ten minutes to get out of bed and commandeer a bathroom. Once they go in, forget it for the next forty-five minutes.
“How can I help, Ma?”
“You can make the salad and the dressing. I’ve got everything else started. Oh, and keep Pops out of my gravy.”
“I better go get my gun,” I say with a playful smirk.
Pops laughs out loud, stealing another stick and dipping it in the gravy while Ma is giving me the evil eye.
“You know how I feel about guns in the house.”
“That’s why they’re locked in a safe that needs a fingerprint and a retinal scan, Ma. I did that for you instead of using a normal gun safe. Besides, if you want me to keep Pops away from your gravy, I need backup.”
Pops chuckles as he stuffs a third gravy laden stick in his mouth. These are the traditional crispy, thin breadsticks, not the thick one they serve at that Italian chain and with pizza. I mean, those are delicious, just not traditional.
The girls arriving home interrupts the conversation.
“We’re in the kitchen,” I call out.
“Wash up,” Ma adds.
I head to the fridge to pull out salad ingredients. Romaine, radicchio, arugula, black olives, cherry tomatoes, red onion, roasted red peppers, and a block of Parmigiano Reggiano. By the time I have everything gathered, the girls file into the kitchen.It’s the largest single room in the house and the reason we bought it.
They give each adult a hug and a kiss, starting with Pops, then Ma. I’m always last. Elders first in this family.
“How was school?”
“It's school,” Valentina replies.
“Nice answer, smarty butt,” Francesca adds.
While Lucia saves her grandmother the trouble and smacks her sister in the back of the head.
“Tone,” Ma says.
Out of the three girls, Valentina blames me for the divorce. I blame my lying, cheating, scuzzball ex, but I’ve never said those words around the girls. And I’d never say it to them.
“Valentina, set the table. Francesca, you can help me by taking your grandfather out of the kitchen and keeping him entertained. Lucia, please make the dressing for the salad.” Ma fires off orders.
The girls never talk back to her or Pops and rarely to me, except Valentina. I’m hoping one day soon she’ll open up to me and tell me why she blames me. I’ve asked several times why. She refuses to answer.
I get to work chopping the salad while Lucia grabs olive oil, vinegar and herbs for the dressing.