The coach, he sit in my kitch. He have big stomach, soft like dough. But he have face like flour. He no eat good. Maybe French fry every day. Americano, they eat like dirty animale.

My son Giacomo, he no sit. He stand by frigidate. Hands in pock. He wear T-shirt. Is too small. I see bones. He look at shoes by door. I always tell no leave shoes by door. Every day three, four pair.

The coach, he say, “Mrs. Cummings, I came over to talk about Jim’s weight.” He point by Giacomo. “You have to understand—”

I check cream puff in oven. If I keep long, they get hard.

“Mrs. Cummings, we had a wrestling match today—”

The tray make hot eh I drop. “Disgraziato!” I yell. “Stupido.” I put cold water. “Disgraziato.”

Coach, he stand. He say, “Are you all right?”

Giacomo, he no move. Hands in pock.

“Are you all right?” Coach say.

“Yeh, yeh,” I tell.

Coach, he sit.

Giacomo say, “She does that all the time.” . . . Read More.