The Kit-Cat Clock over the industrial-size orange juicer in Angelo’s 24-Hour Diner read 11:48. Mass ended a little over an hour ago. Everyone else went home. Mrs. Calvino and Tony sat in their usual booth at the corner window and ate in silence. It helped that their food came faster than usual, so they could at least pretend the quiet was justified. Mrs.Calvino only ordered coffee; her usual hefty appetite had failed her for the past two weeks. Tony still ordered scrambled eggs and white toast, but he prodded the eggs with his fork more than he ate them. Tony stared at the clock as it changed to 11:49, and watched two more oranges fall to their demise into the machine. Their black formalwear made the pair even more uncomfortable.
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Like Mrs. Calvino’s appetite, Tony’s big mouth had fallen silent recently. He hadn’t said anything for two weeks except responsorial prayers at Saint John of God’s. Mrs. Calvino had been trying to get her son to talk to her for weeks, and she refused to give up on her pursuit. “Tony, did you hear me?” Still nothing. Mrs. Calvino didn’t know the right thing to say. Recalling the speech she rehearsed in her head after reading that New York Times article about the dangers of repression, Mrs. Calvino took a deep breath and gripped her coffee cup. “Do you… want to talk about it?” Tony’s eyes glanced up and met her gaze for the first time in weeks. “No.” His reply barely registered to her, just the fact that he spoke was enough to convince Mrs. Calvino to power through. Full steam ahead. “I just want you to know that your father loved you so much and I—“ “Please, Mom.” His eyes reddened. Her mouth shut. “No.” She sat back into the red cushion and stared into her lap. “Ok.” She felt defeat seep into her bones and weigh her down into the hardwood bench. She managed to fight back the tears. “Thank
Like Mrs. Calvino’s appetite, Tony’s big mouth had fallen silent recently. He hadn’t said anything for two weeks except responsorial prayers at Saint John of God’s. Mrs. Calvino had been trying to get her son to talk to her for weeks, and she refused to give up on her pursuit. “Tony, did you hear me?” Still nothing. Mrs. Calvino didn’t know the right thing to say. Recalling the speech she rehearsed in her head after reading that New York Times article about the dangers of repression, Mrs. Calvino took a deep breath and gripped her coffee cup. “Do you… want to talk about it?” Tony’s eyes glanced up and met her gaze for the first time in weeks. “No.” His reply barely registered to her, just the fact that he spoke was enough to convince Mrs. Calvino to power through. Full steam ahead. “I just want you to know that your father loved you so much and I—“ “Please, Mom.” His eyes reddened. Her mouth shut. “No.” She sat back into the red cushion and stared into her lap. “Ok.” She felt defeat seep into her bones and weigh her down into the hardwood bench. She managed to fight back the tears. “Thank