“You will not continue this,” she commanded, waving the spoon, a general in her territory, the glint in her eye, and the steel of her voice a warning of her own absolute authority. A few strands of dark curls escaped their blue and green head-wrap, exposing a few silver threads as well. The slight disarray underscored her intent; she obviously meant business.
For a bewildered moment, I held my breath, trying to catch up. What was it I was to discontinue? What was the this? How much did Mamma know of my affair, my work, or my political activities? Which should I acknowledge? She might know about the girl, although I certainly prayed not. Was it the mail I delivered? Chances were good she did not know anything the priest and I had spoken about. He was skilled at keeping his own counsel, practiced as he was at hearing sealed confessions, and keeping confidences. I hoped it was the spying she objected to. That was my guess. I knew that when cornered, stick to the truth, as best you could tell it. Tell partially what was true, and you might remember what you said. Hesitating, just a heartbeat too long, I plunged ahead.
“Mamma, you know that I have to do whatever I can. I took a vow, and I must keep it. What I do is helpful to the revolution, and I want to participate, to help build the new Italy. I have given my word too.” I ended somewhat lamely, trying not to say too much, to give away more than necessary.
I looked at her but still couldn’t judge whether she accepted my story. Perhaps, noting her face, as implacable as any mason’s stonework, I had misjudged her concern. Was there ever a good time for such conversations? My throat was dry, and the air seemed dense before the warmth of the fireplace. I didn’t want this talk, but it was now demanded of me. I swallowed, the spit thickening at the roof of my mouth as I tried to speak naturally.
“Tell me what you worry about, Mamma. You worry too much, you know.”