by Mark Rader
Finally, Britta bent forward, as if lowering a biscuit to a dog, and tossed the two quarters as reverently as possible.
“What’d you wish for?” he asked when she was back beside him.
She flashed him a wry smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Yes,” he said, “that’s why I asked.”
“It’s a secret,” she said, and looked at him with sad, bright eyes. “How you feeling, by the way? You want to keep going or go back?”
He was tired, he realized. He could use a nap. “I think go back.”
In his room, Paul took off his shoes, socks, and shorts and drifted off under the cool bedsheet. When he woke, it was too hot. He took a cold shower, pulled down a book of old maps from Amalia’s family library, watched TV with Britta, gathered the gist of the nightly newscast. Around seven, they went out for dinner two streets away. The heat today reminded Britta of her trip with Don and the kids to the Grand Canyon forever ago. How hot it had been at the bottom, her recurring fantasy of the canyon filling with water like a gigantic swimming hole to cool them off. When a breeze snuffed the candle set out for ambiance, a young busser arrived quickly to relight it, his nervous, earnest manner familiar, exactly like something else. An altar boy, he thought. Exactly that.
“Is there a patron saint for people who’re stuck?” Britta asked, as she dropped her credit card onto the little black tray beside her second glass of wine. Paul thought she was referring to him, but before he could answer, she added: “I’m trying to think who Mom would pray to about Maura. Not that I would have told her about it.”
“Saint Dymphna is for anxiety,” Paul said unhelpfully.
“I need one for when you’re having an emotional affair with a painter from Maine and thinking about ending your marriage.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if there was one for that too.”
Paul recalled Maura’s most recent Facebook profile photo: shoulder-length hair, a soft smile, face lit by a morning sun, the top of Ella’s head resting under her chin. Happy seeming. But obviously not so happy. There was something she’d been hiding from the world too—and now, against his will, he imagined his niece pressed against a wall, passionately kissing a man in a black shirt speckled with dust, one hand on the man’s ass. The soft, placid face in sunlight overcome with desire, like a still from a melodramatic B movie. If the specifics he was imagining were wrong, at least the longing was real. And beneath the longing, he imagined, love. Maura was an artistic soul, but practical too. Committed as she was to her kids, as sensitive as she was to the opinions of others (though perhaps not his opinions anymore), she wouldn’t have entertained the thought of divorce unless her desire was grounded in love.
Now Britta found her phone in her purse and swiped at it intently with her thumb.
“Still haven’t heard from her, huh?” Paul asked.
“You’d be the first to know.”
“Shade texted me to wish me a good trip,” he said. “Not sure if I told you that.” The message was short—vintage Shade—but sweet: Hey Uncle Paul—hope you have fun in Rome. Eat some pizza for me. Shade.
“Raised one of them right, at least,” Britta said.
But the joke was neither funny nor true. They both knew that Maura was normally the more thoughtful one. And yet this radio silence. She was preoccupied with her own drama, of course—maybe it was as simple as that. Or maybe it was fear. Or discomfort. Some people, even good, thoughtful ones, simply couldn’t stomach death. Avoided it at all costs, blind to their fear.
“Here we go,” Britta said now, looking at her phone. “Saint Margaret of Cortona, patron of the sexually tempted. Good ol’ Maggie C.”
“That was going to be my next guess.”
“They should really test you guys on this stuff. Keep you on your toes.”
“If they did, I’d be in trouble.”
Their waiter appeared and whisked away her card. Britta crossed her arms loosely over her belly.
“So, is everything how you remember it?” she asked him.
“Well,” he said, “yes and no.” The buildings and the streets were the same, of course—Rome, eternal as ever. But he hadn’t come to merely see familiar buildings, familiar streets. He was after something more. The old feeling, silly as that seemed. As if by simply being physically present in the place where it had happened, the young man he’d been and everything he’d felt so intensely would be resurrected. Here, he’d hoped, in the hectic days they’d spent preparing for the trip, his well-worn memories might be buffed to a shine. Or even better: a few that had slipped through the cracks might be recovered.
Britta was giving him a bemused, concerned look. “Where did you just go?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You drifted off for a second.”
“Oh,” he said. “Maybe I did.”
His sister leaned forward a little, eyes squinted slightly. She was trying to figure him out. Failing, but he appreciated the effort.
That night, they went to bed early. Tomorrow would be a full day and they needed their rest. But when Paul woke, ten hours after falling asleep, he was exhausted down to his bones. It was jet lag, of course, but this was worse than any jet lag he’d had before: jet lag on top of dying, it almost wasn’t fair. Lying in bed, he considered begging off sightseeing altogether, but when he shuffled into the kitchen to find Britta already showered and happily eating the breakfast Amalia had brought up for them—salmon and butter sandwiches, chocolate biscotti, espresso, sparkling water, two huge bottles of blood orange juice—he thought better of it. To fly eight hours to Rome and not see it was criminal. And just look at her—as bright-eyed and eager as he’d seen her since she’d flown in.
He drank his espresso, though he wasn’t supposed to have caffeine. In the shower, he made the water cold and bracing, and as he stood under the spray, droplets streaming off the edges of his face, he prayed for the first time since before Sister Bay: Please give me the strength to get through the day.
A few minutes into their cab ride to the Bone Church—the first stop on Britta’s itinerary—an old Italian love song came on the radio. Flamenco-style guitar, flute, a wistful male voice. He closed his eyes, trying to remember its name. It had played from transistor radios set out on balconies and the radio the nuns in the kitchen listened to for company; he saw railings bound with silver tinsel and placed it: a pretty, melancholy song among the usual cheery Christmas carols, the winter of either ’68 or ’69. And then the name appeared: “Lo straniero.” A memory that only being here could have unearthed.
Remembering the song buoyed him and made him greedy for more. Though of course you couldn’t force it: memories either arrived or they didn’t. When the song ended, another one much like it began: guitar, oboe, another earnest baritone pining for lost love. He didn’t know this one but listened to it intently, sinking slowly into its dream world, his lungs growing heavy and calm…until Britta was shaking his shoulder, saying his name. He’d fallen asleep. The cab’s engine was idling. Beyond the half-open window loomed the church: three stories of white trim and pink brick.
“We’re here,” she said.
“Oh,” he said. “Okay.”
He unbuckled his seat belt, and that tiniest of exertions told him something. He was beyond exhausted. His arms and legs felt hollow, his face thick and heavy, as if caked with clay. Just to enter the church, he’d have to climb a big flight of stairs, then all the claustrophobic wandering underground. He imagined trying to do this and realized he couldn’t. He felt angry. Duped.
Britta stood hunched beside the car, holding the door. “Aren’t you coming out?”
“I don’t think I can,” he said. “I suddenly feel wiped out.”
Britta’s eyes were sympathetic, but her pursed mouth was disappointed. “Do you want to go back to the apartment?”
“I probably should. You should stay here, though. All I’ll be doing is sleeping.”
“No,” she said, a fa
int note of exasperation in her voice. “I’ll come with you. I can always leave after you’re settled in.”
“Okay,” he said. “Thank you.”
Already the indignation of being fooled was giving way to a fear of his own helplessness. Compared to the will of his body, his mind didn’t stand a chance.
“I’m sorry about this,” he said. “I should have just stayed home.”
“No apologies allowed, Paul,” she said. “This isn’t your fault.”
He slept the entire ride back, head rocking gently on the headrest. On the walk up the stairs to their apartment, he grabbed the railing and Britta gripped his right arm to steady him, mirrored his steps. At the kitchen sink, one hand gripping the counter, he drank half a glass of water, collected his breath, then filled the glass to the top and drank it all down. The moment he felt the cool fabric of the pillow against his hot cheek, he fell asleep.
When he woke, his watch said it was noon: two hours had passed. But he didn’t feel much better. His whole body felt heavy as stone, but for the tumor on his right side, which was also on fire. In the bathroom, he swallowed a morphine pill with a palmful of water, then returned to bed. Soon, the drug set in. His heart and fingertips hummed, his jaw unclenched, the sharp teeth gnawing at his side retracted into their gums. For a while, the beginnings of thoughts darted over his head like small, quick birds, but they were impossible to grasp, which made him anxious. To ground himself, he tried focusing on the delicate pinholes and sunbursts in the lace curtains framing the window, the fine white hairs on the knuckles of his folded hands, the ebb and flow of his breath. I’m in a hotel bed in Rome, he thought. I’ve finally come back. I have jet lag but soon I will feel better.
He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing, but sleep didn’t come. When he opened them again, the air in front of him was vibrating. The effect reminded him of the honeybees that sometimes thronged one of their maple trees back on the farm: at a glance, the mass of them seemed still, but if you looked closer, you noticed the way they boiled with energy. Once, as a boy, he’d been stung all over his legs by some of these bees while walking past the tree, and suddenly here he was, lying on his family’s living room couch, his mother beside him, plucking the stingers out with dirt-rimmed fingernails. Then the sofa became his childhood bed; he was sick with fever, and his mother draped a cold, damp cloth on his forehead. And then it wasn’t his mother beside him but Luca, looking at him with soft eyes. Can I lie next to you? he asked. Of course, Paul replied, and Luca moved from his chair to the bed and curled up beside him in his white T-shirt and ill-fitting jeans, one of his thin arms cradling Paul’s head.
The second time Paul woke, his watch said it was two fifteen: he’d been in bed more than four hours. He pushed himself carefully to a sitting position, then slowly rose and shuffled into the living room. In the ornate mirror on the far wall, he caught a glimpse of himself: rumpled khaki shorts, saggy blue T-shirt, hair sticking up in three directions, sleepy, tired eyes—like some doddering fool at a nursing home. Britta was lying on the couch like a fat Cleopatra, head propped up by a tasseled red pillow, watching TV with the sound off.
“He lives!” she said, turning to look at him.
“Just barely.”
“How’re you feeling?”
“Rested,” he said. “Better, actually.” It was true.
“Good,” she said. “I napped a little too. The jet lag started hitting me after lunch.”
“When did you get back?” Paul asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. About an hour ago?”
“Did you have fun?”
“Well,” she said, “I don’t know. I had a weird experience at the Bone Church place. Nothing to do with the church itself, just…there were these two assholes on the tour.”
“Oh,” Paul said. “What happened?”
Britta clicked off the TV. “I’ll tell you, but how about we grab something to eat first. You must be starving.”
The market had been officially closed for more than an hour—most of the tents were already broken down and whisked away—but as they walked to the trattoria Britta had in mind, a few vendors remained, sweaty and stark as they packed up in the midafternoon sunlight. A middle-aged woman set an armful of red flowers onto a bed of burlap in the back of her truck. An old man lugged a crate of artichokes. A sleepy girl sat in her father’s car, sideways on the passenger seat, legs dangling, listening to music with earbuds. Within the hour they would be gone, along with all the little piles of trash. A fleet of garbage trucks would arrive and eat them all up and the place would look pristine again by evening for the tourists. Like magic.
It was even hotter today than yesterday, but when Britta asked him if he wanted to eat inside, Paul said no: he wanted to sit on the square under the faint shade of umbrellas, where he could watch the world go by. And after lying in air-conditioning most of the day, his bones felt cold; he wanted to warm up.
When their waiter arrived, Britta ordered fresh mozzarella to share and deep-fried artichoke hearts and a Campari and soda for herself; Paul chose a small plate of pumpkin gnocchi and sparkling water to calm his stomach. The tour this morning had started off fine, she began, handing over her menu. The guide was this nerdy young guy with thick glasses she’d found immediately endearing and who knew his stuff inside and out. The shrines—built from the pelvises and spines and skulls of dead monks—were just as beautiful and creepy up close as she’d hoped. She’d been having a lovely time, all things considered. But then, near the end of the tour, two young Scottish guys had appeared behind her. How they’d found a way to come down unaccompanied, she wasn’t sure. But within a minute, she wanted to strangle them. They weren’t paying attention to the guide at all; instead they snickered and snorted at their own private running commentary, probably stoned. Fookin’ this, fookin’ that. A couple of knuckleheads. Like the couple ahead of her, who’d frowned at them to no avail, she tried to ignore them. For a few minutes, she’d succeeded. But after one of them made a joke about nun abortions, she couldn’t help herself. Not that she was even Catholic anymore, but still.
“I turned around and I said, ‘Hey, guys. We’re in a church. Show some respect.’ And for maybe a minute after they didn’t say a word. And I thought I’d shut them up. But then, as we were headed to the next spot, I heard one of them make a sound that sounded like ‘Move. Moooove.’ So I turned around again and said, ‘Excuse me? What did you just say?’ And then the tall one just said, ‘We didn’t say anything. Must have been a skeleton.’ And of course his buddy snorts, ha-ha. But when I turned forward again, they said it again, and I realized they were saying ‘Moo.’ To me. As in, Look at the fat cow. Moooo.”
Paul felt his stomach drop. “Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“How dare they?”
“I know. I couldn’t believe it either. I wanted to kick them in the nuts, I’m not even kidding. But what could I do? I didn’t want to make a big fuss and ruin the tour for everybody else. And I didn’t want to leave, because they’d feel like they won. So I just kept going and bit my tongue.” She took a big stuttering breath. “I was so angry though, Paul. My heart was going a hundred miles a minute. And so finally, when the tour was over, I went up to them and I told them, ‘You know what? You guys are real assholes to say that to me. You should be ashamed of yourselves.’ But they just stared at me with these little shit-eating smirks on their faces, like me being angry was somehow funny to them. And then they walked away.”
“This story is pissing me off,” Paul said. His whole body felt tight, as though tensed to spring into action. Though what exactly was there to do?
“Thank you,” Britta said, “me too.” But she wasn’t done. “I told myself as I left the church that I wasn’t going to cry. I didn’t want to give them the pleasure. But as soon as I got in the cab, I couldn’t help it. I kept thinking, Did that really just happen? And then I thought, If Don was with me that would have never happened. And then, well”—and her
e her voice broke—“I started really missing Don.”
She cleared her throat, momentarily overcome. Behind her big Jackie O. sunglasses her eyes were surely tearing up. She was right: with Don there, all six-foot-four, three-hundred-plus intimidating pounds of him, the idiots wouldn’t have dared. And if they had, instead of getting right up in their faces, the way they would want it, Don would have put himself between them and Britta, turned the spotlight on them, and cut them down to size. Carved them up with the sharp blade that was his lawyer’s mind, calm in tone but brutal in content. What an intimidating but gentle man he’d been, what a good man he’d been. Paul imagined him for a moment among them, wedged into one of these small chairs, tree-trunk legs in the wide stance that helped keep his big body stable, a Coke or whiskey set on his belly as he awaited his food. Mischief and an expectation of pleasure glowing in his eyes.
“I’m sorry that happened to you,” he said. “And here of all places.”
Britta sniffed. “I know. Anyway. By the time the taxi dropped me off, I’d decided I wasn’t going to let those pricks ruin my day. So I walked over to Piazza—what’s it called, Navona?—and I bought myself a very pretty, very expensive necklace. And then I stopped for a slice of very tasty pizza and had a couple very delicious limoncellos. And then I bought some postcards and took a nap.”
“You made limoncello out of lemons,” Paul said.
She smiled, happy to hear him joke. “Well,” she said, “I sure did try.”
The food arrived, and they dug in with unusual determination—both of them eager to do something other than talk. Every now and then, Britta looked up at him smiling. “So good,” she said. “Yes,” he agreed. And it was. Small pleasures, the gnocchi reminded him, could still be had. He wasn’t past that yet.