Page 28 of The Vow

“That’s my son. Bravo. I brought you up right, Filippo. What’s his name?”

Crossing my fingers, toes, and legs, I hoped it would be enough to save me from the depths of hell. “Alex.”

“An English boy?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’d you meet?”

“The gym,” I said, securing my seat next to Satan.

“Good. It’s good you already know him. There are axe murderers out there, you know.”

“I know. I’ll let you get back to your show.”

“Okay. Yeah. See you soon?”

“Of course.”

“Ti voglio bene. Ciao.”

“I love you too, mamma.”

Alex had been in her designated smoking area, a.k.a. the garage. I looked up from where I was sitting on the couch to see her standing with one hip against the wall. “Your mom?”

“My mistress.”

“You’re a funny guy. How’d she take it?”

“She thinks I’m a saint for helping a friend.”

Guys from the gym helped us move Alex’s meager belongings, and box up my things that I stored in the second bedroom so we could bring them to Nick’s bar. Nick offered me the space, saying he had ample room in the basement if I didn’t mind that the occasional rat made its way down there in the winter. If it meant helping Alex, I’d probably eat a rat.

“Saint Nick.”

“Nick?”

“Not your Nick. Saint Nicholas. Santa Claus. I nicknamed you that.”

“For helping you?” Jesus, she looked beautiful today.

“For saving me. Don’t get all mushy on me. It’s true.” Before I could say a word, she added, “I’m going out for a bit. Do we need anything from the store?”

“I don’t think so. I defrosted lamb chops for dinner. Do you like lamb?”

“Who the hell doesn’t like lamb?”

“A lot of people. They say it’s too gamey.”

“I eat rabbit, remember?”

Her laughter overpowered Elton John whose voice resounded over the radio. We turned our backs to one another, pretending we were strangers under the same roof, or guests at a hotel who meet groggily at the coffee machine every morning.

I heard the front door close. Seconds later, I heard it open. “Be safe while I’m gone.”

It smelled sanitized, like the stark white hospital room where a wife became a widow. Stickers adorned one crypt – stars, and suns, and moons, meant to guide the deceased home. Sentiments written in crayon on ripped pieces of paper adorned another. Over the years, the woman witnessed a child’s scrawl morph into proper penmanship. The artist’s signature revealed their age: Luv, Alyssa, 3. Next to it, there was another greeting card, Love, Alyssa, 4, and then Alyssa turned 7, and 8, and 9, and then Alyssa stopped visiting.

Thursdays were always the quietest days of the week. There was no rhyme or reason, because it was always silent in a place without warm blood. Every day, except today. The woman’s sobs bounced off the walls, sullying resting places, disturbing the peace; wretched sobs that rotted her insides. Her usual bench remained cold and empty, like she was cold, and empty. Today, she preferred the ground. She kneeled on the hard marble, back straight, legs aching, screaming, and crying until the words died in her throat.