Free The Edge of Lost by Kristina McMorris Page B

translation. Affording his son barely a glance, he set down the decanter with a little extra force. “Borrow means you pay back.”
    “Yeah, I know. And I will. Just need a chance to save up some dough.”
    “And you think this dough will appear from nothing.”
    Nick remarked just loud enough for Shan to hear, “I was hoping it would appear from your pocket, actually.”
    Shan dipped his chin to hide a smile as Mrs. Capello reminded her husband not to speak of finances at the table.
    “This is not finance,” Mr. Capello said. “This is life.” Then toward Nick, he pinched invisible coins in the air, his hands strong and toughened from his trade as a plumber. “You want money? You work. For five generations, this is how Capello men survive. Capisci? ”
    Across from Shan, Lina observed the scene in her usual way—head tilted, an artist surveying her subjects—until Mrs. Capello scooped a heap of polenta on the girl’s plate. “ Basta, Mama. I’m full.”
    “Eat,” Mrs. Capello said, then returned to her own meal.
    Nick slouched in his chair. “Look, Pop. I already talked to Mr. Sarentino. He said there might be an opening this summer to help out at the bowling alley.”
    Mr. Capello took a gulp of wine and nodded. “ Va bene . Then soon you will have enough money for Coney Island.”
    Nick started to roll his eyes but apparently knew better. He poked his fork at his remaining food, and silence reclaimed the room. Not a single call rang out from the phone, set on a table near the entry. Though Mrs. Capello would grumble whenever customers interrupted supper—at which her husband would insist, “Pipes do not break on a schedule”—tonight she, too, might have welcomed the distraction.
    Shan had once heard Italian family meals were as lively as a circus. But here, the majority of the sounds came from chewing, sipping, and the clinking of silverware, all magnified in the seclusion of a house.
    On Maywood Place, in a modest neighborhood not far from Prospect Park, the rented home had two floors and three bedrooms: a small one for Lina, the largest for her parents, and one of moderate size for Nick—shared with Shan for now. A private bathroom and real bedroom doors were luxuries Shan would never again take for granted. There was a sitting room for guests, complete with furniture, and a kitchen with cabinets and drawers.
    Shan could only hope that his own father’s dwelling would be just as lovely.
    Mrs. Capello caught Shan’s eye and gestured to the last slice of eggplant. “You want more? Uh … yes?” She struggled, as they all did, to know what to call him. As if an immigration officer might be listening at the door.
    “I’m just fine. Thank you.”
    “Prosciutto?” She lifted the plate of salty ham.
    “Really, no, but thanks. My stomach couldn’t fit another bite.”
    Shan could feel Mr. Capello watching. The intensity of his eyes could eliminate the heartiest of appetites. How long will this go on? the man wanted to know. Or more aptly, with all this talk of money and earning one’s way: How much longer must I support a stranger’s child?
    “Mr. Capello,” Shan said finally, “I’ve been meaning to tell you. I found a bit of money from my uncle. If it’s all right, I’d like to contribute in some way.”
    Mrs. Capello waved this off. “Nonsense. You will need money until you are living with your father. Mm?” Her gaze dodged that of her husband, who simply finished off his wine.
    It went without saying that the predicament was more burdensome than what the couple had agreed upon. If Shan could do anything to speed up the process, by all means he would.
    “I should be hearing from the Navy office any day, now that they’ve got the photograph to help.”
    Mrs. Capello smiled, but not without effort.
    “Say, Ma,” Nick chimed in. “Anything for dessert?”
    “ Certo, ” she said with an air of relief. Rising again, she directed Lina to gather the plates.
    Soon every person had a