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There’s a man and a boy standing at a kitchen sink, pretending that one didn’t cringe in disgust at feeling the other’s hand turn to scales. The man isn’t looking at the boy’s face nor the bandage taped to his chin, just the water reflecting over violet keratin, the once-pink cut on the back of the boy’s hand now a thin line of blue so deep it’s almost black.
ALBERTO presses the rough nail of his human thumb deep into each finger-pad, over and over, unseen.
MASSIMO turns off the water.
MASSIMO. You need to stop trying to pick up Machiavelli; he doesn’t like it.
ALBERTO covers the side of his mouth with his hand and speaks to THE UNIVERSE, to YOU, directly: (I got a little tipsy with a ‘friend’ earlier, who tells me I’m a very touchy-feely kind-of drunk. So today’s lesson is that nothing sobers you up faster than getting socked in the face by a twenty-pound ball of furry fury.)
MASSIMO hears only a mumbled apology.
MASSIMO opens his mouth, closes it, starts again. Alberto, have you ever had a pet before?
This is where the scene shifts: the sink splits in half, the counters and walls fall away, shot glasses and silverware nervously click-clicking together as the world opens its mouth. A gauzy curtain tongue is drawn over the window, tinting the sunlight the same soft brown as a field of wheat. There’s a dog bed made out of old stuffed toys and torn-up shirts smushed between the worktable and the wall.
And chalk-scratched stones for teeth.
ALBERTO climbs up onto the table, onto the microwave his father had been dissembling. Well yeah—I mean, not for very long, but Bruno—my bio dad, I don’t know if I told you—
MASSIMO gives a little nod of encouragement.
ALBERTO. —Well, anyway, when I was about ten, Bruno once found this dog for me. Not a very big dog, she only came up to my mid-calf, so maybe one and like, one-tenth Machiavellis stacked on top of each other. But she was white and really, really fluffy and had all this fur in her eyes.
MASSIMO. Sounds like a Bolognese.
ALBERTO. A what?
MASSIMO. It’s a breed of dog from Bologna. My mamma has one; remind me to find a photograph for you later. But, continue.
ALBERTO turns to YOU with a wide grin. (That’s big for humans, right? The family photo album? Should I ask to see it now before he changes his mind? What if this is some kind of test or something—I don’t want to seem too desperate, right?
Crap. He’s waiting for a response—)
He coughs into his shoulder.
Anyway, Bruno said he found her wandering around the shore, so I guess she got thrown off some guy’s boat and had to swim? Whatever happened, Bruno said I could have her, like, “Hey, now you can put all that extra energy to good use!” I wanted to name her something stupid—like, I dunno, Bonecrusher or something—but Bruno decided to name her Scylla. She was really nice, but she never wanted to play much because it turns out she was pregnant, and I think one of the puppies had flipped or something—I’m not really sure how all that works—but about a month after I got her, she started getting really sick. And Bruno said it was probably something wrong with the puppies, and we didn’t have a boat or anything to go get help, so we had to help her get them out ourselves.
(I remember it in pieces: blood all over the floor, her dirty fur under my palms, the way her muscles were trembling so hard my arms shook as my dad reached up inside of her with his bare hands—)
ALBERTO looks down, pulling his arm back to his side.
MASSIMO’s eyes shift in a way ALBERTO isn’t old enough to see.
ALBERTO. Well, my dad broke the placenta and pulled them all out, but most of them still died pretty much immediately. And Scylla—I mean, I felt her heart stop. I think. All her muscles were twitching like crazy, and then it just kinda...stopped. But this was later, like hours later, because after the birth I was pretty much glued to her. I didn’t want her to be scared. But—
ALBERTO rubs a hand over his cheek.
But uh, yeah. My dad tried to save them, but only two were still alive when he got them out. So he got out an old shoebox and put them in the oven to keep them warm, and— (forcing a laugh) Well, you don’t see me with any dogs, so— A little throw of his hands.
MASSIMO is still standing at the lip of the stage, backlit by the warm yellow light of his own kitchen. Between them drifts the smell of the sea and bubbling cheese. Lasagna in the oven, almost done.
He sees his own hand fall onto ALBERTO’s shoulder.
MASSIMO. I’m very sorry to hear all that. But…
He holds his breath for a second too long. Alberto, did you say your father put them in an oven?
ALBERTO. He didn’t turn it on or anything, but he took one of those, you know, those packs where you break it and it heats up? He put it under the box and then put the box in the oven so that the heat wouldn’t escape.
MASSIMO. Was it closed?
ALBERTO. (Does he think I’m lying or something?) Yeah, it was cracked a little. (I actually don’t remember.) But the puppies were dead in the morning—and I mean they were pretty weak, and we’d tried to feed ‘em but they wouldn’t really eat. So my dad took the box and put Scylla’s, y’know, body in a bag and took them all away.
ALBERTO hasn’t looked up from his hands.
I’m not really sure what he did with them, but he brought me some gelato when he got back and said that I did really good staying with her like that.
ALBERTO blinks, realizing the bandage Massimo had wrapped around his hand while he’d been talking, realizing he’s been picking at it and ripping off scraps that flutter now to the floor like snowflakes.
MASSIMO gently pulls his hand away.
MASSIMO. He’s right. That was very kind of you.
ALBERTO smiles. Thanks! Second-guesses it, forces it down. I mean—
He takes his hand back.
—I mean, it’s not a happy memory per se, but it’s one of my proudest memories with my dad? Would ‘proudest’ be the right word? I don’t know, but it means a lot that he would do all that for—for Scylla, of course, but I think for me, too.
…Why are you looking at me like that?
MASSIMO rubs his hand over the back of his neck, looking away.
ALBERTO. Did I say something wrong?
MASSIMO kisses his teeth and finally says: I’m just trying to understand the rationale behind putting them in an oven. The carbon monoxide that builds up in there—
ALBERTO.—I didn’t smell anything.
MASSIMO. Carbon monoxide doesn’t have a smell, Alberto. Did he at least punch holes in the box?
ALBERTO. Yes —I mean, I’m pretty sure. It was a long time ago and I didn’t really get a good look at it, because, you know, I was kinda busy with my dog dying .
MASSIMO raises his hand up. I understand. (sighing) Well, it’s not really worth over-analyzing now.
The lights all swivel towards ALBERTO, so hot they sting his skin. He stands up, one foot on the microwave like the table was a land he’s failed to conquer.
ALBERTO. (Probably not worth over-analyzing now. But imagine being alone in this room—your whole life, just this room. I went out, of course—"Alberto, get down from there; Alberto, don’t put that in your mouth; Alberto, clean up this beer I just spilled everywhere.” The world was wide, but not wide enough. “Don’t go in the water—what are you, a fucking retard? Do you want them to catch you?” Maybe I do, Dad! Maybe I do.
But, then he brought home Scylla, and he’d never done anything that nice for me before. Not that I can remember, anyway. So he’d tried to work with me, you know? He was trying his best. At least some of the time. And I really tried to be a good kid, but…maybe I just wasn’t good enough. Maybe there’s only so much you can expect a guy to take.
A bubble-pop of joyless laughter. Yeah, well, I know you didn’t sign up for a public therapy session, so you can just pack up your things and head out now.
But YOU'RE still here.
ALBERTO’s face darkens.
Can you not hear? I said get out!)
This is what Massimo hears:
—Can I just go to my room?
—Dinner is almost ready.
—I’m not really hungry.
A look of worry that looks likes pity that looks, to Alberto, quite a lot like disgust. If you’re sure.
Alberto is a very good son tonight: thanking Massimo politely, sweeping the bandage-scraps up off the floor and into his hands, and making sure to slam the door quietly behind him.