it in about two steps. The others followed. “Mom!” The red-haired woman emerged from the house, wiping her hands on the apron that covered her light blue shirtwaist dress. “This is Addie. She’s staying next door.”
The woman smiled with a kindness that said she had heard about me. “Hello! We’ve been summer neighbors of your aunt and uncle for years, though we usually get here a good deal earlier. I’m Doris Connally.”
“Where did you come from?” Robbie interjected.
“From Trieste, in Italy. On a boat.”
“All by yourself?” he asked. I nodded, standing straighter.
“Well, that’s something,” Mrs. Connally said, her voice full of admiration. “I normally wouldn’t even make the trip down to the shore by myself, but my husband had to work and the boys wanted to be here for the fireworks on the Fourth.”
“Who lives there with you?” Robbie resumed his interrogation, pointing up to the screened porch where I had stood minutes earlier.
“Just my aunt and my uncle.”
“No brothers or sisters? Any pets?” I shook my head twice, trying to keep up with his questions. “Boy, you’ll sure be glad to have us around!” His brothers chuckled.
Robbie turned to his mother. “Can we keep her?”
“Robbie, she isn’t a puppy. But I do hope you’ll join us often,” she added.
“Because we really need more kids,” Liam said wryly. His words stung. But he did not sound as though he was trying to be mean, just truthful.
The yellow dog I’d seen earlier bounded down the porch steps and stopped at Liam’s feet. “This is Beau,” he added, face softening.
“Jack and Liam must be about your age,” Mrs. Connally remarked.
“I’m sixteen.” I heard my accent again, the way my voice did not sound like theirs.
“I’m taller,” said Liam improbably.
“Okay,” I conceded, because it seemed to matter to him a great deal.
“Would you like to join us for lunch?” Mrs. Connally offered. “I haven’t much ’til we get to Casel’s, just sandwiches.”
I still could not get over the way Americans spoke so casually of food—something I would never again take for granted. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”
Mrs. Connally smiled. “Hardly. With these boys, I’m already cooking for an army. Come on, everyone. Let’s eat.”
Charlie lifted Robbie across his shoulders like a sack of potatoes and started for the door with the twins at his heels. Inside, the house was airy and cool. There were little touches, like the carved oak bannister and wide windows, that said the house had been built for someone to live in year-round, and not merely as a vacation home.
As we passed through the living room, I paused to admire a chess set which sat already unpacked on a low table. “It’s lovely,” I said, fingering one of the carved wooden rooks.
“Do you play?” Charlie asked with new interest.
I tried to calm the fluttering in my stomach. “I did. My father taught me.” In recent years when he had become broken and withdrawn, it was my one way to still connect to him. Papa had no one to play with him now. I imagined the chessboard sitting unused by the fireplace in our apartment in Trieste. It had been my dearest possession—the one thing I might have brought with me, had I known I was going.
I followed Charlie through the open boxes that littered the floor to the freshly scrubbed kitchen smelling of lemons. Mrs. Connally unpacked a basket of meats and cheeses and began slicing thick white bread. My stomach rumbled embarrassingly. Even after several weeks here, every meal felt as though it might be my last.
The boys whooped and hollered their way to the kitchen table, its enamel top scratched from years of use. Charlie plunked Robbie down in his chair before grabbing Liam and Jack under each arm and pretending to bang their heads together.
“Boys!” Mrs. Connally admonished, but her tone was good-natured, as if the chaos was normal. She turned to me. “Why don’t you sit here next to me where these little rascals can’t bother you.”
“Thank you.” I slid into the chair Mrs. Connally indicated, then looked hopefully at the empty seat next to mine. But Charlie dropped down between the twins on the other side of the table.
Mrs. Connally passed me a plate of sliced tomato. “We just bought these at a farmer’s stand on the way into town.” The piece I took was warm. Biting into it, I was taken back to sun-soaked holiday afternoons at the cottage outside Trieste, filling our baskets with tomatoes off the vine for Nonna to make her thick sauce.
Mrs. Connally handed around the platter of sandwiches and glasses of milk. The kitchen turned quiet as the boys attacked their lunches. Each of them ate differently. Charlie wolfed his meal down in great bites, barely pausing between mouthfuls to breathe or speak. Jack was meticulous, as if auditioning for a part. Liam sat back and nibbled disinterestedly, while Robbie played with his food just shy of irritating his mother. I ate carefully, taking care not to leave crumbs.
From where I sat at the kitchen table, I could see that the house was a bit down-at-heels, the paint peeling and woodwork worn. “It’s been in my family for generations,” Mrs. Connally said, seeming to notice. “It’s a lot to keep up, but I couldn’t bear to sell it.”
“We live in South Philadelphia back home,” Jack offered between bites.
“We do, too, I think. Fifth and Porter,” I said, repeating the location I’d heard from Aunt Bess.
“That’s the Jewish neighborhood,” Liam observed.
“Liam, mind your manners,” his mother cautioned.
“Is it true that Jews don’t believe in Jesus?” Robbie asked. I nodded. His eyes widened with disbelief. “We’re Catholic.”
“Sort of,” Charlie corrected. “Dad is, and we go to church sometimes. But Mom is a Quaker.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s just a different kind of church,” Mrs. Connally replied. “And we Quakers are pacifists, which means we don’t believe in fighting or war.” Still not fully understanding, I made a note to look up the words later.
“Is that why you don’t want America to help stop Germany?” Charlie asked his mother. His voice was rich and resonant. “Because you’re a pacifist?”
“Partly, I suppose. Mostly it’s because I have four sons.” My heart sank. I had heard such talk at the drugstore and among Aunt Bess’s friends. Back in Italy, I’d just assumed that the Americans would come and help stop the Germans, that it was only a matter of time. How could they not? But here people spoke of the war as though it were unreal, a book or movie, or simply someone else’s problem.
“We live about ten blocks from you,” Jack said. I turned to him, grateful for the return to an easier subject.
“You’ll
