Page 26 of Supernova

He wants to say more, but just then Walt Wiggins, an engineer known for his cringe-worthy puns and a penchant for wearing pants that are about an inch too short, walks into the big office space and flips on the overhead lights. The fluorescent buzzing immediately drowns out the peacefulness of the quiet office and the beauty of the sunrise.

"Let's throw some light on this situation!" Walt says cheerily, striding across the office with a briefcase in one hand.

As he approaches Bill and Jeanie, she stands and pushes her chair back to the desk where it belongs. "Thanks for sharing the sunrise with me," she says to Bill with a smile.

Bill lifts his coffee cup in acknowledgement, then turns back to his pile of office memos so that Walt Wiggins won't catch him watching Jeanie as she walks away.

Jo has procured the typewriter she'd told him about, and Bill is working to make sure that his interest in her writing comes across as him being impressed--because he is--rather than him being amused. He doesn't feel patronizing towards her for her desire to put words on paper, but he is aware that it's a long-shot that she'll ever get something written and get it into the hands of an agent or publisher. But even still, he wants her to know that he's behind her one hundred percent.

"So, I'd mentioned to Nurse Edwina that I wanted to find a typewriter," Jo is saying as she bustles around the kitchen, pulling a pot from the stove. "And she said she had one in the closet at home that hasn't seen the light of day since about 1942."

"That's pretty specific," Bill says, sipping his morning coffee. He's got the newspaper on the table in front of him, and the sounds of the kids washing up and getting dressed for school comes from down the hallway.

"I thought so too," Jo says. She stirs cinnamon, brown sugar, and raisins into the pot of oatmeal, transferring some into three different bowls for the kids. "And she said that she got the thing in 1942 so that she could type letters to her nephew, who'd gone off to Japan in the war, but then he was killed almost right away,and so she packed it up and put it in the back of her closet, never to look at it again."

"That's horrible," Bill says with a frown. Jo is careful not to say too much about war--any war--to him, as she knows that it can redirect his train of thought, and therefore his mood, in an instant. He's known too many young men whose lives were cut short by the senseless acts of violence that go along with war. "No wonder she didn't want to look at the thing."

"Anyway," Jo says with a sigh. She sets two bowls on the table and then stands there, hands on her hips. "She said it was mine if I wanted it, so I dropped by yesterday afternoon and she put it right in the car for me. It's good as new. In fact, it is new. I tried to offer her money, but she wouldn't have it. She said I should just make sure there's a saucy nurse in one of the books I write, and that if I felt like naming her Edwina, all the better."

This makes Bill's smile quirk up on one side; from all he's heard about Nurse Edwina and her police detective husband, they're gray-haired and close to retirement, and between the two of them, they've seen the worst of pretty much everything that life has to offer. So imagining Edwina as 'saucy' is somewhat entertaining, if far-fetched.

"That's great, Jojo," Bill says evenly. She brings him a plate with a piece of toast and then sets a bowl of oatmeal next to his coffee. "Thank you." He picks up the buttered toast and takes a hearty bite.

As he eats, the children file in, the girls chattering as Jo braid's Kate's hair at the table, and Jimmy eats quietly.He's growing into a fine young man, Bill thinks, eyeing his son.Stoic, a good listener, and a good example for his younger sisters. It's all a father can hope for, really. When he catches Jimmy's eye, Bill winks at him and the boy winks back.

Bill flips through his paper contentedly as the kids eat their breakfast, accept their lunches and a kiss each from Jo, and thenrun out the door so that they aren't late for school. By the time he's ready to leave for work, Jo has the breakfast dishes washed and in the drying rack, and her typewriter is set up on the kitchen table.

"I'll see you at dinnertime," Bill says, leaning over to plant a kiss on the top of his wife's head as she places her fingers on the typewriter keys. "Happy writing."

Jo smiles up at him distractedly and wishes him a good day. Even with the door to the garage closed behind him, Bill can hear theclack-clackof the keys as Jo begins to write.

THIRTEEN

frankie

Allegra Lombardi is laughing sohard that she's holding her stomach as she doubles over in the middle of Frankie's living room.

"And then," she says, waving one hand around as her husband and daughter sit on the couch, hanging on her every word. "I went up to the counter and the woman said--" She stops herself with her own laughter, unable to go on. "I can't," she says, falling back onto a chair and covering her face.

"Oh, Allegra," Enzo says, his eyes dancing as he holds a glass of red wine in one hand. He's shaking his head and smiling at his wife of more than forty years. That's the thing that Frankie has always loved about her parents: they know how to laugh--at themselves, at life, at each other. They have fun together.

"Now tell the story of the time that you guys went back to Italy to visit your grandparents--in 1920," Frankie says.

She loves to hear them talk about their youth. It's amazing to her that two young people showed up in America with their families, working and scrambling to make ends meet. They'd both devoted themselves entirely to raising their children, to making enough money to get by, and to finding the joy in life in any way possible. Frequently during her childhood, Frankiehad looked at her parents' tired faces and known that they were simply summoning the energy to sit at the table with their kids, to help her and her siblings with homework, and to cook dinner or clean up their small apartment in Brooklyn. They both worked so many hours and were willing to take on any extra jobs just to make money, and now, just a generation later, Frankie and her brother and sisters are all living lives of luxury, comparatively speaking.

Enzo sighs, leaning back on the couch with his wine resting on his rounded belly. "Oh, visiting our grandparents," he says with a faraway look in his eyes. “Let's see. Well, I left there as a child and went back as a young man, and my grandmother almost didn't recognize me. When she saw me walk into the village, she said she thought I was a film star who had come to visit."

"Oh, Papa," Frankie says. "You were so handsome."

"Was?" Enzo asks with mock horror. "I am still the most handsome Italian-American besides Sinatra!"

Frankie giggles at this; she's always loved to get her father riled up by teasing him. "Of course you are, Papa."

"Oh, pshhh," Allegra says, waving a hand again and smiling now that her laughing fit is over. "You're alright for an old man."

"What did you see in me when we were young?" Enzo asks her, lifting his chin defiantly. "You must have been charmed by me somehow, young lady."

The golden light of the lamps in the living room spills over Frankie's parents and she admires them for a moment, capturing them in her mind's eye for posterity. They are both incredibly lovely in their sixties: softened by time, but still strong and proud. They can laugh easily and they appear to have far less stress than they had when she and her siblings were young, but there is a gravity to them borne of hard work and determination, and they both radiate competence. Frankie loves them bothfiercely, and having them here has wrapped her in the kind of comfort that she hasn’t felt in years.

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