Grandma nodded. “That explains it.”
My father was already at the table. “It’s after six o’clock,” he said. “What’s the holdup?”
“We were waiting for Stephanie and her guest,” Grandma said.
My father looked up. “Guest?”
“This is George Potts,” I said, seating him in the chair next to me, putting myself between him and my father.
My mother came in with two big bowls of spaghetti, and Grandma and I went to the kitchen to help with the rest of the food. Meatballs in red sauce, Italian bread from the bakery, a bowl of fresh grated Parmesan Reggiano, an antipasto platter, red wine.
Potts took a few pieces from the antipasto platter and passed on everything else. “I break out in hives if I eat tomatoes,” he said. “And I’m allergic to hard cheese and gluten.”
“Is that from the PTSD?” Grandma asked.
“No,” Potts said. “It’s genetic on my mother’s side of the family. We’re all allergy-prone.”
“That must be terrible,” Grandma said.
“It’s a cross to bear,” Potts said.
My mother poured herself a goblet of wine. “God bless,” she said.
Grandma filled her wineglass, Potts and I passed on the wine, and my father kept his head down, forking in spaghetti and meatballs.
“This is very good antipasto,” Potts said.
“You can take some home with you,” Grandma said. “Where do you live? Are you local?”
“I live with Stephanie,” Potts said.
Everyone stopped eating and looked at me.
“Pay no attention,” I said. “It’s the PTSD.”
My father accepted that as a decent explanation and returned to his meatballs. My mother poured herself more wine. My grandmother wouldn’t let it go.
“I understand some of those PTSD people are homeless,” she said. “Are you one of those?”
“Potts lives with his parents on Porter Street,” I said.
“That’s a nice neighborhood,” Grandma said.
My father picked his head up. “Cheese!”
I grabbed the bowl of cheese and passed it over to him.
“Have you had any luck getting the tunnels mapped?” Grandma asked me.
“I’m working on it,” I said. “It might take a while.”
“I don’t know if I got a while,” Grandma said. “I need us to find the treasure soon, so I can get to Hawaii during the whale season.”
My father perked up at that. Undoubtedly calculating if he had enough money to get her on a plane.
“What tunnels? What treasure are you talking about?” Potts asked.
“There are tunnels under Trenton,” Grandma said, “and we think there’s treasure in one of them.”