“I have it.” I slide it out and get my hands under the bottom, but the box is shorter than I expect and when it clears the shelf too soon, I lose control. Envelopes bounce everywhere.

Massimo laughs.

Like kids playing in grown-up stuff while their parents’ backs are turned, Massimo and I are on the floor, surrounded by every last scrap our father kept secret. The future dates box has been scoured and found wanting, so we went back through the closet. Now that I’m here, the search is organized. Accounting in a pile to the left. Lists of mysterious names to the right. Things we can’t make head or tail of but seem important on the chair. That’s the biggest pile.

My stomach rumbles. I’m going to have to eat soon.

“What’s this?” Massimo holds up a typewritten list. “Are these names?”

They’re not like any names I’ve ever seen before, but it’s done in the same style as the name lists. I take it and put it on the chair.

“I’m out of folders,” I say.

“Me too.” He grabs his cane.

“Did we find what you were looking for?”

“No. Which means…” He tries to leverage himself on the cane to get up, but strains at it. I scramble up to help him. “Thanks. Which means it’s not here.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Good.” His next step makes him cringe. “Means your husband was lying or uninformed.”

Knowing Dario, it’s more likely the first than the second.

“What was he uninformed about?” I don’t expect an answer, so I’m not disappointed when Massimo shakes his head and shrugs to indicate it’s none of a woman’s business. He hops on his cane. His leg must have stiffened up when he was sitting on the floor. “Did the doctor give you anything for the pain?”

“Tylenol. It’s fine. I don’t want to be foggy.” Two steps to the door.

“I think Gram’s in the kitchen.”

She got back upstairs with the laundry hours ago. Massimo chased her away, and like a good Colonia woman, she obeyed.

“God, I hope she’s cooking.”

“Emo,” I say before we’re in earshot. “Did you hear the part about choof off?”

“What?”

“Choof off. He said you’d know what it means?”

“You sure you heard it right?”

I shrug. I’m sure I did, but it’s always possible I didn’t. “Maybe it’s something like fuck off?”

“Your mouth, Sarah. Clean it up.”

I won’t. They can feed me soap for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. My mouth. My words.