Page 9 of Sweet Prison
“Yes. I snagged it as soon as I picked up the mail.” She pulls the folded envelope from her pocket and hands it to me. “Do you need me to drop off your response today?”
“I’m not sure, yet.”
“Okay. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”
She turns to leave, but I grab her arm, stopping her. “Thank you. For everything.”
Iris is only a couple of years older than me. She’s been working full-time for us ever since her mom—our cook—got really sick a few months ago, and Iris ended up dropping out ofschool. But even before that, it seemed like she was always at our house, often helping the maids with housekeeping or working in the kitchen with her mom. And for the past three years, Iris has been an accomplice in my “pen-pal plan.” When I first started writing to Massimo, she was the one who got me the postage stamps. And now, when I can’t do it myself, she mails the letters for me. She also diligently checks the incoming mail every day. That way, she’s able to pull out and hide Massimo’s replies before anyone else has a chance to spot them in the stack.
I’m so thankful for Iris. For being my trusted ally. My friend. Especially since I can’t admit to Nera about my letter exchange with our stepbrother. I want to, and so many times I’ve considered confessing, but I’m too worried she’ll go into an “overprotective sister” mode and tell Dad. Nera’s concerns for me have been spiking lately, with her bugging me to tell her everything that’s happening at school and wanting to know if anyone has been bothering me. I love her, so much, but I see the strain in her. She’s carrying enough weight on her shoulders without having to worry about mine, too.
“I told you already, you don’t need to thank me.” Iris smiles.
I squeeze her arm. “How’s your mom? Is she feeling better?”
“No. Not really.” Her face falls. “The doctor changed her meds again, and our insurance won’t cover the new ones. I may need to find a second job.”
I clench my teeth. Life is so unfair sometimes. Iris’s dad was a Cosa Nostra soldier, and when he got killed on the job, the Family “compensated” her mother with money. Not that it did them much good. Due to her illness, Iris’s mom can’t work at all anymore, so Dad hired Iris as our maid. Now, Iris is solely responsible for taking care of her mother and their mountain of bills.
“Wait here,” I say and rush to my vanity where I keep my jewelry box. Grabbing one of my cuff bracelets, I bring it to Iris. “It’s eighteen-karat gold. Hopefully, you can get enough for it to cover the cost of medicine for a few months.”
“Miss Zara…” she chokes out, staring at the bracelet. “No. Your father gave this to you. I could never accept—”
“Please.” I take her hand and place the trinket on her palm. “No one could save my mom, but maybe the doctors can save yours. Besides, I hate that blasted thing anyway.”
“No. I can’t.” She tries to give the bracelet back, but I just shake my head.
“You can. And you will. I hope your mom gets better soon.”
Iris sniffs and wipes her eye with her sleeve. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
As soon as she departs, I tear open the envelope. It’s been weeks since Massimo’s last letter. Like all the previous ones, it’s written on plain white paper, with ordinary blue ink.
For a few moments, my eyes absorb the cursive text, admiring the way Massimo makes every word and letter look so perfect. I’ve always been amazed by the beautiful, even flow of his writing. There is an elegant uniformity to each stroke. Every capitalAhas the same little curve. EachTis crossed with an identical horizontal line that always seems to be of a similar length. But my favorite is the uppercaseZ. Sharp, boldly written, with a small dash across the middle.
Once I’m done feasting on his penmanship, I start reading the actual words.
Zahara,
I’m glad that school is going well. Education is the only investment that carries no risk. It can never fail, and it can never be taken away from you.
I’m happy to hear you enjoyed lunch at Brio’s with your dad. You can learn a lot from businessmen like them, so you should definitely consider joining Nuncio on other such occasions.
The new renovation project at the Bay View Casino sounds very promising. I discussed the details with Nuncio last week, and it sure seems like there are many variables that need to be handled. For a project of such magnitude, estimating the final costs is very difficult. Things can go wrong in two hundred different ways. And that would be bad. But a skillful project manager can cope with the unexpected. Sometimes, though, mistakes can get pushed beyond two hundred and one, and that would just be one wrong thing too many. I feel very strongly about that.
If you’d like to learn more about similar projects, you should visit your father’s friend, Monet. He used to hang out in Nuncio’s study a lot. Maybe you’ve met him? Bearded guy who’s usually wearing a beret? If you haven’t, you can find him at Harrison Avenue, number 4195. I’d love to hear his thoughts on this subject.
With regards to your question—No. It’s definitely not quiet here during the night.
M.
As usual, I need to read the letter several times to decode it. It took me a while to get used to the way he formulates his requests—enlacing his letters with subtle hints about what he needs me to do. A year ago, I would have just gaped at thismessage, completely baffled by the content. Not anymore. I’ve had a lot of practice.
In one of his earliest letters, Massimo asked if I’d seen theMission: Impossiblemovie. He said that in prison, there’s very little privacy, and he wished messages had a way to self-destruct like in the film. It was an odd thing for him to mention, especially without further context, but after steaming the Tom Cruise classic, I finally understood that my stepbrother wanted to write me something that he did not want others to see.
In letters that followed, he would recommend other movies to me, never mentioning why he thought I would like them but telling me of his favorite scenes. I’d watch them, of course, trying to figure out what it was he was trying to tell me without actually spelling out the words.