Conducive to gaiety, sunlight sparkles the ice adorning the high woods of Concord, the dazzling trees in merry disregard of the tepid ocean breeze down in Boston. Even Hawthorn’s house seems inviting, and Alcott’s; the two snug against a hill, a path along its crest worn deep by Nathaniel belaboring some dark imagining. And Emerson’s house just down the road, George recounting Thoreau as guest, as handy-man and gardener, as teller of tales to the household’s young and to a world that would someday listen in.
Wending among Lexington’s farms, George’s discourse follows freedom’s trail to the winding hillocks overlooking Fresh Pond, the picturesque lake once affording Bostonians their picnics, its winter surface the ice for their tropical trade.
And on to Mount Auburn, the famous cemetery a visiting Dickens once asked to see before any other New England monument, the hallowed site holding dear to its breast the tombs of New England’s finest - the likes of Channing and Brooks, of Howe and Booth - lamps forever lighting the world by their exemplary lives.
Then, along the widening Charles, to Cambridge, to Harvard Square where the spreading elm once shaded a young General Washington; and around the corner, the pale and stately Craigie House where Longfellow penned Evangeline as he peered over his lyre-shaped garden into the candled window of his famous neighbor’s study - Professor Worcester’s prodigious lexicon provoking the Dictionary War, a pitched battle twixt his own and Mr. Webster’s more spartan edition. A generation of Harvard fellows preferred the professor’s masterly work, George explains, touting Worcester’s dictionary as an erudite choice.
Motoring past where Washington Allston ended his years before his great Belshazzar’s Feast - a vast canvass the artist spent most of his artistic life painting - George brings his car to a halt on Bunker Hill, the view of Boston apropos of the morning’s trek.
Gazing up at the commanding, battlefield obelisk, Vincent is pensive. “Forgetting all its factories…,” he says at last, “its wealth of goods, hope is America’s export of choice to millions of the world’s oppressed. My people would die for such freedom - and have - which makes me feel I’m on hallowed ground.”
“I agree,” Melody turning to address him. “We Americans could do with an occasional removing of our shoes, as well; a looking back at the price of our freedom. As paradoxical as it seems, it’s the very flowering of our freedom that obscures its roots; its heady enjoyment that leaves us forgetful.”
“Yes…like the rose,” George offers, starting his car for the drive down to Back Bay.
“The rose?” Vincent mutters, an exchange of quizzical glances confirming Melody shares his bewilderment.
“Yes, the rose,” their contemplative guide affirms. “Bewitched by its beauty, its perfume…we reach to possess, forgetting the thorns.”
“Sounds more like something for the poet than the soldier,” Vincent observes, “perhaps a romantic lament?”
“We should allow him his expression,” Melody defending a George she’s never known. “There’s something to be said for the freedom of hearts…and the happy choice to yield that freedom when another would make a compact - the thorns unseen, unfelt, till the moment of dissolution.”
“I’m reminded of General Patton,” Vincent taking in Boston’s endless wharves from the heights of a bridge - reminiscing his youth through the long silence of absence, “…the general’s assertion, ‘In war nothing is impossible, provided you use audacity.’ Perhaps what we idealize in our heroes is nothing more than a cavalier disdain for the obvious; a reckless disregard we mistake as bravery.”
“Memory can be capricious, Vince, but how did a delicate rose lead to the rigors of war?” Melody asks.
“Oh…I don’t know,” he muses, “maybe it was Bunker Hill…or maybe the tea party your audacious Mr. Adams supported. Then again, it isn’t a battlefield I have in mind.”
“Oh?” Melody prodding his explanation.
“Never mind him, Melody. He’s off on one of those romantic laments,” George interrupts, playing guard to her innocence, suspecting what manly profession Vincent might make should he find his elusive audacity. “What Vincent needs is a little cheer, a little help to come out of his shell. And I know just where to find it - America’s oldest oyster bar, not far from the old North Church.“
“Oysters?” Vince grimacing in his mobile infirmary, “nothing raw, please…and nothing that smells of the sea. I don’t think I’d survive it.”
“Then it’s the North End,” George counters, eliciting a feeble response from the rear. “There’s nothing fishy about a good Chianti with brick-oven bruschetta, and my old friend Luigi’s mostaccioli.”
“Anything’s better than-“
“My sentiments, too, Vince,” Melody contributes. “I can vouch for George’s choice. You won’t be disappointed.”
“You’ve had the pleasure?” George veering off by Callahan Tunnel to ease through the North End’s narrow streets; its bustling trade appearing mostly out-of-doors: an old-world array of vegetables and fruit, of baked goods and smoked meats, a veritable salmagundi spilling out between junk and antiques, the ubiquitous ristorante suggesting old Genoa - even the maze of shoppers, milling purposefully in the streets, exuding the energy of an ancient, seafaring town.
“I have had the pleasure, thank you,” Melody gushes, “many times…but always with Melvin,” her trailing qualifier spoken as if anything pleasurable requires his accompaniment.
“Then-then you would prefer not to-“
“Oh, no!” her protest cutting him off, “given a choice, I would choose Luigi’s; if only to rekindle the memories.”
“All pleasant, I’m sure,” George mumbles, coming to a stop between two gesticulating youths. “Luigi’s boys,” he tells Vincent, “valet service; though it’s a mystery to me where they go with the cars. As you can see, there’s no place in sight to park them.”
“Maybe a parking barge docked at a wharf?” Vincent suggests, recalling his view from the bridge.
“Now, there’s a thought!” George reacts approvingly, “leave it to a visitor to solve the natives’ problems; the old ‘forest for the trees’ thing, I suppose.”
But once inside, the pell-mell pace of men and machines is forgotten, Mario Lanza crooning You do Something to Me as a rotund Luigi accosts them. The old man’s jocular persona suddenly on guard, a wary enthusiasm twitching his well-manicured mustache as he ponders how George has managed to woo Melody from the gentlemen accompanying her before - Melody unforgettable to a man who makes a habit of women.
“How have you been, Mr. O’Malley?” an astonished but affable Luigi inquires, “…or need I ask?” he adds with a wink, leading the trio to a private booth, his choice suggesting what he would want could he but have the luck of the Irish.
Behind a lattice of ivy, and partially hidden from an intimate, half-moon bar, the booth’s cushioned seats are provocatively dark under a glass-shaded candle, the ivied partition allowing a one-way view of linen-draped tables grouped cozily before a glowing hearth.
“Luigi’s idea of ambiance,” George whispers, noting Melody’s apprehensive eyes. “Expressed simply, he thinks a man should want nothing more than a warm fire, a bottle of wine, and a hot dish – especially if the dish is blonde.”
Blonde or no, George has a problem. Unlike the tables in the adjoining room, a booth has but two sides. If he sits across from Melody, he’ll have her eyes, her attention; leaving Vincent the pleasure of her nearness. But if he sits beside her, Vincent will be the man she addresses, her partner in conversation; making his own proximity seem second-place.
“I-I can’t. I can’t do it,” Vincent cringing under the shadowing ivy. “There’s a patron out there with a steaming plate of mussels. As savory as I’m sure they are, the mere thought of being near them is threatening me with nausea. I’m going back to my room…back to rest. Perhaps you’d allow me the pleasure of your company at dinner? I should make a better candidate by then…I-I
think.”
“But of course,” George volunteers, “and if you insist on leaving us, why not take my car? We’ll catch up later by taxi,” his eagerness to hasten Vincent’s departure prompting Luigi’s offer:
“Good idea. I’ll have my boys bring the car round.”
“But he doesn’t know the city,” Melody objects, sidling closer to Vincent, supporting him with an affectionate, one-armed hug, “and as poorly as he feels, this is no time to send him exploring.”
“You’re right,” Luigi’s admiring eyes taking her in, “and for my good friend here,” he adds, clasping a chubby hand on George’s arm “I’ll have one of the boys drive your…your-“
“Client,” George offers, the word hanging a veil of formality between Vincent and Melody, “Mr. Tenklei is a client, a client of the firm Mrs. Morrison - or, Melody, I should say – will soon be joining. In celebration of that event, we’re showing Mr. Tenklei about town.” The mention of ‘Mrs.’ adding a smile to Luigi’s approving gawk. “Melody and I will accept your kindness…as will Mr. Tenklei,” George taking every opportunity to portray Vincent as a business acquaintance apart and distinct from the friendship he shares with Melody.
“Is there something amiss here?” Melody asks cordially - Luigi waddling off to summon his boys. “This is the second time, Vince, you’ve abandoned our repast by some allusion to ‘nausea’. Is it me, or the choice of eateries that drives you away?”
“As for last night, I put the blame on Bacchus,” Vincent parries, leaning unsteadily against the lattice, “and today, who knows? But of all the immortals, you, my dear lady, are the goddess I would most desire at table.”
Acting quickly to dispel the exquisite tension the remark has strung, George places his big hand on Vincent’s forehead as though checking for fever. “My dear boy,” he says doltishly, “I believe your illness has gone to your head,” his forced laugh drawing the others in.
“Ah!” Vincent recovers, surmising George’s intent, “and how easily am I overcome! But do sit down,” he insists, the aroma of garlic announcing Luigi’s return. “Enjoy your…what did you call it, Melody? your ‘repast’?” the casual use of her given name a parting dig at George.
But with Vincent gone, George forgets the gibe, relaxing in the balm of her presence - Melody regarding him with confidence, her Delft-blue eyes vouching her trust, any manly desire standing in check of her faith, her unguarded acceptance of a friend.
The candlelit privacy of the booth, and the gradual awareness of an accordion playing Hello Young Lovers, recalls George’s moon-struck meeting with Simon; the music in harmony with his willing heart, the very words on his lips as enchanting as the Chianti they share. Revealing what he tries to conceal - his boyish charm, his sudden shyness, his blush at her slightest subtlety - he signals what he doesn’t admit. And as Luigi surprises them with his signature antipasto, George betrays his heart, telling her more with his eyes than his words can hope to hide.
And she, comprehending with feminine clarity what unspoken course he has charted, thinks better to trim the sails than to pray for diminishing winds; her every look portraying contentment, her every word breathing hope; what tension courses between them stretching the net of safety, allowing her time to heal, to revisit the past, to mend the scar of Melvin’s death by whatever means she choses – the diversion of Plainfield an easy digression to take.
“Whatever became of Thelma’s Thanksgiving march?” she asks, George’s flair for the incredible returning as though he possesses the magic to cause it.
“Cancelled,” he declares pompously, his smile a kind of casual nudge to accept whatever comes with it, “…assuming it was ever scheduled.”
“How…how can you be so sure?” Melody queries with the hesitance of doubt. “Thelma Peabody happens to be the subject of one of my most vivid childhood memories; her screaming insistence, one Easter Sunday, that we ‘Little tots of the church should scratch the dust for our Savior’s blood rather than scamper through the grass for pagan eggs’ still haunting me to this day. One can never be sure of Thelma - sure of whether her motives are in agreement with her actions.”
“Are you suggesting Thelma does things against her will?” George spearing a thin slice of prosciutto protruding from a nest of olives. “If so, perhaps we should reconsider the bookstore’s-”
“It’s her will I question, not her faithfulness to it,” Melody interjects, her own antipasto untouched. “Ever since Artie told me of her plan to march for Melvin, I’ve suspected a motive other than what the action suggests – one of her blistering banners, perhaps; one that besmirches rather than lauds.”
“I’ll check it out,” he promises, topping her glass and refilling his own. “I’ll be back a day or two ahead of you…time enough for discovery…time enough to protect the untarnished memory of-of our much loved and-and much missed departed,” he finishes awkwardly - Luigi’s fresh mostaccioli appearing in a cloud of steam, the rich marinara making Melody thankful she hasn’t squandered what little appetite she has; the old man proclaiming:
“A meal without bread is like a bed without sheets. No matter what you spread-“
“Mrs. Morrison,” George hastily interposes, employing the formality of her surname to counter Luigi’s familiarity, “Mrs. Morrison is a native of Vermont, not Boston, and as such, will not fully appreciate your metaphor. But as to your bread…now, that’s something she can appreciate, and no doubt will, as soon as you serve it,” he adds, contriving to praise, even as he reproves his host.
“Thank you,” Melody whispers - Luigi galumphing for the kitchen. “I can’t imagine - and indeed, don’t want to – what he was about to say. But-“ With a moue of distress, she fumbles for her silver, diverting his attention.
“Well?” he prods, his attention on nothing but her, “do go on…don’t leave me in the dark.”
“I…I was going to say,” she admits coyly, “I was going to say, you can be the gentleman when you choose. I mean…it isn’t as though you have erred beyond mending, you know.”
“Erred?” he repeats, his cheeks streaking a trace of guilt.
“Perhaps that depends on one’s upbringing, one’s environment,” Melody advancing a vague apology. “After all, what I may hold in moral question may be another’s fervent creed; and accordingly, who am I to judge? And just because a man doesn’t seize on every opportunity to brag on his newborn son-”
“Allow me,” he breaks in, hurrying to quit his reply before Luigi’s untimely return. “Allow me to address that-that…well…I would hardly call it a problem, now would I?”
“I don’t know…you tell me,” she quips.
“OK. Let me put it this way: if I were to stand trial for my life so far, Melody, it would be you whom I would most prefer as judge. For where you would be blameless, such lack of guile would be the very virtue promising mercy. And mercy…or at least the compassion one regards as mercy…is what my confession requires; what that dear little baby-”
“And is that what you would be expecting from me?” she interposes, her blue eyes bashfully downcast, “…the tender hand of mercy?”
“Just your tender hand would be more than I deserve,” he answers, bringing a deep blush to her high-boned cheeks, “much less your mercy. But regarding the child-”
“Piping hot!” cries Luigi, huffing to the booth with his vaunted bread, “brick-oven baked and cornmeal dusted. My customers tell me, Mrs. Moralson, that it’s the North End’s best,” he brags.
“Morrison,” George corrects, making room for the cloth-lined basket and the generous dish of olive oil, balsamic vinegar and fresh oregano Luigi unfailingly provides, “it’s Mrs. Morrison, as in Van Morrison, the other Irishman of worldly fame.”
“Oh yeah?” a lusty Luigi replies, “but then again, she ain’t no Brown-eyed Girl, now is she?” Melody’s beauty emboldening him. “In fact, Mrs. Morrison’s one of those blue-eyed goddesses, that’s what she is; the kind one migh
t catch sight of in one of those high-flown Greek temples.”
“The reasons I count you as a friend are manifold, but making a move on my beautiful partner is not among them,” George scolds, reaching between candle and bread to pat Melody’s hand.
“Well, you can’t blame me for trying, can you?” the crusty old Italian chuckling as he makes his way past the lattice.
“He isn’t-“
“Angry with me?” George finishes for her, “of course not. And how could he be when he knows he overstepped propriety?”
“Then we’ll leave it at that,” she says evenly, a smile disavowing her tone, “we’ll forget the impropriety of the proprietor and enjoy the delights of his establishment.”
“Beginning with you,” a stricken George retorts.
Looking up, she appears amused. “Yes…a beginning; and one that won’t lead you to harm,” the lush refrains of Al Martino’s Here in My Heart negating any need of reply.
No man is rich enough to
buy back his own past. (Oscar Wilde)
XXI
“Would you look at this?” Aunt Martha prattles, both of us browsing through Artie’s locked and dusty store like a pair of intrepid intruders, two thieves with nothing better to filch than a knapsack of useless trivia. “It states right here,” she goes on, “right here in this old Arcane Facts of New England that the first recorded hanging in Massachusetts was that of a teenager, one Thomas Granger, for the carnal assault of a mare, a cow, five sheep, two goats and a turkey. I dare say,” she chuckles, returning the book to its shelf, only to blow off the dust from another, “you may not have survived the ordeal of a Puritan life had you been a boy of that period.”
“Bestiality is a far, far cry from even the worst of my faults, auntie, and you know it,” I cavil, shooting her a malign glance. “And besides, it’s you who lived among the beasts of Rome, not I.”
“It’s just the weather,” she apologies, thumbing through a leather-bound edition of Bowditch’s Practical Navigator, “just the weather playing tricks on our sanity.”
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