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The exterior of a typical St-Leonard bungalow, south of the 40, that has seen better daysāmuch better days. The entire house is overflowing with belongings. The yard has a non-functional fountain, patches of dirt with old sticks where a garden once grew, and various objects strewn about. A cluttered basement can be seen off the garage. It is where all the āoverstockā of three generations of an Italian family has ended up. There are elements of the ā70s to it. There is a makeshift bar area, with lots of old bottles.
Mason jars and wine jugs are stacked beside Catholic relics. There is a large canvas painting visible amid the clutter. It is a portrait of a seventy-year-old woman with short silver hair and desperate eyes. The blinds are shut, leaving the room in darkness but for a streak of light on the painting, cast from between a set of broken blinds on one of the windows.
Anthony, an attractive man of forty, enters the basement. He is wearing a tailored suit and looks flawless. He can only make out the painting in the dark.
Anthony: Mom?
Anthony puts down his briefcase and stumbles to a light switch. He flicks it on. Nothing happens. He turns on the flashlight app on his phone and scans the room. Upon seeing the condition of the house, Anthony freezes.
Cristina, Anthonyās wife, enters. She is slightly younger than he is and wears her business chic clothes almost as though they were a costume. She fits the role very well. She gestures to Anthony to show that she is on the phone. During Cristinaās call, Anthony starts to have some difficulty breathing.
Cristina: Oh and send a note to the TLN interviewer. Make sure she doesnāt introduce us as Mr. and Mrs. Di Ciccio. Or god forbid: Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Di Ciccio . . . No, Cecily. You do not give a reason . . . I would hope we were past the point of having to explain such a request. Iām a human with a name. My husband, the candidate, is a human with his own name . . . Yeah. I know what optics are. Iām the campaign manager here . . . No, of course you didnāt mean . . . Okay. Just confirm that we will arrive at the studio at four p.m. Thank you. And, Cecily . . . donāt forget . . . Yes, perfect . . . Bye.
Cristina hangs up. She also tries the light switch. She begins the arduous journey of walking around the mess and raising the blinds on the windows. Anthony still has not moved.
The interview is confirmed for four p.m. That should give us plenty of time to get these papers signed, grab lunch, and go over the talking points. Anthony?
She goes over to him, puts her hands on his face.
Hey.
Anthony wheezes. A bit pathetic.
Oh, honey. I told youā
Cristina fishes an asthma puffer out of her purse.
Anthony: No. Stop. Iām not.
Cristina: Yeah, yeah. You donāt have asthma anymore.
Anthony: I donāt. Itās just the dust.
Cristina: So I should put it away then?
Anthony takes the puffer from her. He takes a couple of hits with his back to her and puts it in his pant pocket.
Cristina notices the painting for the first time.
Anthony: I knew theyād find a way to throw me off my game during the campaign. A classic āmy parentsā move. But this . . . they outdid themselves . . .
Cristina is staring at the painting. Beat.
Who was that?
Cristina: Who?
Anthony: On the phone.
Cristina: Oh, Cecily. She thinks I should take your name. I know that my family name can be a liabilityā
Anthony: Sheās your assistant. You already said no. Case closed. You have this pathological need to be liked by everyo...
