Flour #Wattys2016

CHAPTER 8 - FLOUR

"Damn" Michele had forgotten his keys....again. He rang the bell.

"Ma, its me" he heard the steps getting closer. "Ma its me." He leaned in, his lips almost touching the wood door.

"Chi è?...who is it?" A faint voice was heard behind the door.

"Ma, it's me" he identified himself for the third time.

"Michele?"

"Yes ma, it's me" he leaned his forehead on the door, waiting for his mother to turn the lock, one, two, three, four times.

"Ciao ma" he bent down and gave his mother a peck on the cheek.

"What' the matter with you..you thinking of other things...you in love figlio mio? Three times this week you forget your keys."

"Sure ma, and who is this lucky lady that you say I am in love with?

Michele headed for the kitchen. The house was cool. His mother had kept the shutters closed so that the heat couldn't seep in and music was playing from a small radio.

"Go wash now, I get you lunch" She brushed by him giving him a small pat on the back.

Michele took his watch off, his father's watch and placed it on the credenza counter. He peeled off the sweaty shirt and headed for the bathroom.

In the kitchen,Rosalia stirred the deep red tomato sauce lost in her thoughts. She had no intention of letting the subject of amore drop. She had done something, something that had to remain a secret if it was to be successful and it had to do with amore with a capital A.

She watched her son eat. He was so much like his father. He had the same wavy black hair even though it was now very thin and bald spots had become more noticeable. Deep brown eyes framed by long lashes, a strong chin and full lips. The likeness stopped there.

Michele was sensitive, quiet and solitary, more like herself. He had always been so. As a child he knew how to read the sadness in his mother's eyes. Always attentive, surprising her with small acts of affection, a smile just at the right time, a peck on the cheek when she least expected it. Now he was a man, a lonely man, but he was good and Rosalia loved him dearly.

She had tried several times to push him towards this girl or that but Michele hadn't been responsive.

When he was younger and not as heavy or bald, the girls in the neighborhood would come to the bakery hoping to get a chance to see him. Michele, who had always taken refuge in the back of the bakery, out of the way, out of sight, paid little or no attention to them. They came to buy bread, why else would you go to a bakery? he thought. But his father was no fool and knew why the girls came. It wasn't only for the bread that their mother's sent them to buy but to see this shy boy with his big brown eyes and gentile manner.

"Michele, come here!" Mr. Raguso would bellow. He would laugh and joke with the girls, keeping them entertained. His larger than life ego basking in the false interest of the girls. They would giggle and twirl their hair with their fingers, always keeping an eye on what was happening over Mr. Raguso's shoulder. When Michele would show up, Mr.Raguso would wrap his arm around him, or ruffle his hair as he shoved Michele forward.

Michele was never comfortable. He was stiff, starring down at his feet or hands or whatever else was available, just as long as he didn't have to look up. He heard the giggles and his face burned. Seconds seem to take hours, years, centuries to past. He just stood there, stiff, saying as little as possible, peeking up from under his mass of hair and the girls melted like a fresh cube of yeast in warm water in front of him. But he noticed nothing and did even less.

His father would do his best to get him to make a move but Michele seemed as though he was in his own world. His son was blind to the effect that he had on these girls, blind or dumb or both!

Mr. Ragusso knew when to throw in the towel. He could spot a useless case a mile away. He didn't have to look that far though, he had one right under his nose...his son Michele.

He would send Michele to fetch something from the back...to get him out of the way...back in his hole, to the disappointment of the girls. As soon as he was gone the giggling and hair twirling would stop. Michele wasn't going to make a second appearance so there was no need to stay any longer. They would quickly get on with what they came to buy and leave, leaving Mr Ragusso boiling.

When they would arrive home, Mr Ragusso would vent his anger and his embarrassment on his wife. Rosalia would bite her tongue, continuing to serve lunch or whatever it was she was doing. Michele was always present during these rages, his father made sure of that and every now and then Rosalia would glance in her son's direction. There was no reaction from his part. He sat there taking what his father dished out, no reaction, no sign of hurt, no sign of life.

Once Michele started getting older, he started putting on weight...lots of it. His thick, black hair thinned and so did the line of girls that came to see him. After the death of his father "the girls" came buy for one thing only...to buy bread for their husbands and Michele even though he had become very visible, was invisible to them.

Michele felt his mother's eyes on him. He kept his head bent over his plate so that he wouldn't have to face her, but he could feel those dark eyes burning into his scalp. It was useless, she wasn't going to back down, she had no intention of letting him eat in peace. He slowly lifted his head.

"You like what I made?" She was sitting straight up in a chair opposite him. Her white linen shirt gave a certain light to her face and wisps of light grey hair had broken free from her hair clip.

"Yes ma, it's great.." Michele twirled his fork around in the plate of spaghetti till it made a ball and shoved it into his mouth.

"Busy in the store today?" She was trying her best to pry open a small crack, just enough to get some information.

"As usual" another forkful was shoved in, leaving stains of red sauce on the corners of his mouth.

"Mrs. Rossi stopped by no? You tell her about the mending?"

"Yes ma, I did. She'll be by or send her daughter...or something like that...to pick it up."He reached over for the wine bottle, but his mother had it already in her hand. At the sound of the word "daughter" it remained in mid-air.

"Ma...the wine...." he reached for the bottle but his mother brushed his hand away and filled his glass.

"Her daughter?"Rosalia avoided Michele's eyes.

"Yes ma, her daughter...what's her name?....
Carllita...Carmelita...Car...
something." Michele took a gulp of wine.

Rosalia caressed the bottle of wine and a slight smile appeared on her face.

"Concettina" she pronounced the name slowly, tasting every letter of that name as it left her lips.

"Yeah, yeah, that's it.." Michele shoved another forkful in his mouth.

"Bene...bene..good, good" Now he could eat in peace, she had got the information she wanted.