Bridge of Sighs by Richard Russo

By Richard Russo

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Marconi liked that idea but didn’t think her husband would spend the extra money, so we were all surprised when she prevailed. My mother speculated afterward that Mr. Marconi may have been swayed by the fact that St. Francis boys wore uniforms, of which he heartily approved, believing that dress impacted behavior. Cayoga Elementary had been a short block from Berman Court, but St. Francis was a half-dozen blocks farther, in the opposite direction. It was also on the other side of the Cayoga Stream, which we crossed, coming and going, by means of a narrow footbridge.

But for some reason she chose also to read my middle initial. Lou C. Lynch was the name she called, and when she did, I raised my hand. The other children turned to look at me, and I could tell by their puzzled looks that something had occurred, something I alone had missed. Even then all might have been fine if Miss Vincent had simply noted my raised hand and proceeded down her list to the next name. ” After school, I told my mother how everyone had laughed at me, that I’d been called Lucy all day.

But my militant ignorance on the subject of all things Italian has quickly become a game between us, one we both enjoy. “We may need boots,” my wife ventured. ” “Rubber boots. Aqua alta boots. ” She gave me a swift kick under the covers. “To warn you. That the high water’s coming. ” Another kick. ” “Right. ” “No cars,” I repeated. “Got it. Calles where the streets should be. ” Our old friend. Our third musketeer from senior year of high school. Long, long gone from us. She didn’t have to tell me we hadn’t heard back.

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