I should sling it across my body, but it was too depressing a sight, a round woman with a purse across her chest emphasizing her stomach and drooping breasts. The only item less flattering was a black waist pack cinched around the thickest part of a body. The waist pack only worked if wore ironically. And even then, only if you are a very thin, very young girl. I am neither.
My encounter with Tiffany must have depressed me more than I realized. My feet were heavy as I laboriously made my way back to the apartment. I put one foot in front of the other—Chris loved that holiday song; we watched Santa Claus Is Coming to Town almost every month.
Hundreds of patient tourists stood in a line that snaked around the Doges Palace, hours under the hot sun for the chance to admire the wavy tile floor and the stunning wall mosaics that lined the interior of St. Mark’s. Grateful I had already toured the church, seen the Doges Palace, climbed the bell tower. I was guilt-free as I ducked into a side street. I planned to snake my way around the main square which was faster than struggling through all the bodies clogging the square.
When my mother wasn’t parroting the latest from FOX News, she discussed how hard my brothers worked and how they deserved more—more money, a bigger inheritance, more love because they were men. I didn’t have much to contribute to that announcement, so I switched to discussing the headlines of the day. I felt a bit guilty that my last conversation with Mom was to disagree that the Nile was being dredged to accommodate big ocean liners that would sail from Luxor to Cairo. It was preposterous and I said so. But Mom remained adamant. She had heard it on the news; therefore it was true. Don’t listen to me, I had only lived in Luxor for two years.
I was so relieved to finally turn off the news that I never did learn if the Nile story was true.
I automatically turned towards Max’s apartment but after a block realized my error and turned back towards Miranda’s. There must be a flotilla of docked cruise ships. Even the side streets circling the square were crowded with tourists. Locals avoided the crush by ducking into cafés, tourists wandered into shops packed with brightly colored pottery in yellow and red. They invariably reemerged not with that beautiful vase, but with a small commemorative coaster. I noticed countless women toting bags emblazoned with cruise logos—Celebrity, Princess, Holland America, Royal Caribbean. All here.
It had been so long since I moved through this kind of humanity, I was unprepared.
I was bumped and jostled but kept a grip on the shoulder strap of my purse. I watched where I was walking, over sensitive to my footing. I didn’t want to fall and break a hip or twist an ankle. Even as I braced myself against the push of the crowd, I chastised myself for acting like my elderly parents instead of a woman who still had some life, who still could easily roll with the punches or a random shoulder bump.
As if to make a point, a man bumped my shoulder and I lost my grip on my shoulder strap. I gasped in pain, but quickly grabbed my strap. But my fingers encountered only empty air.
It was like a head butt to the stomach.
I stopped. My heart pounded; my ears filled with a roaring sound. Three people pushed into me and mumbled obscenities as they detoured around me.
I blinked rapidly and turned to scan the crowd. Heads bobbed and weaved as people barely avoided colliding with me. He was gone, or she was gone, let’s not be biased. They could have ducked away anywhere. I would never find them and calling out wouldn’t help my cause. I couldn’t catch my breath. I should have cross-strapped the purse, ugly or not. I should have clutched the strap more tightly. I should have taken a different street. I blinked back sudden tears. For a second, I didn’t know whether to be upset about the purse or upset that I clearly looked like an easy mark. Damn, Damn, Damn.
My phone pinged. I resisted pulling it from my pocket waving it aloft yelling, “You missed this!”
I took a deep breath and blinked a few times to clear my vision. Tourists jostled me; locals jostled me. I was alone in a crowd of indifferent people. I sniffed. No tissues. They were in the purse.
There are a few things I credit to muscle memory. I used to travel, I lived abroad. I spoke rudimentary Italian. I should be able to tap back into all that. I touched my back pocket; the phone was still secure in my pocket. I had aged out of the grab ass phase, so the phone was safe from harm. I glanced at my old watch. One o’clock. The American Embassy would either be closed for lunch or closed for the day.
I took a deep breath. Police? No, I did not want the police. I had just spirited away six unidentified and possibly valuable statues from my dead friend’s house and hidden them. No police.
I pushed out of the crowds and wedged into a doorway, away from the streaming pedestrians and tried to calm my breathing. In Senior Stretch class we learned to breath. I know. I was skeptical, but deep, long oxygen sucking breaths were exactly what I needed. The door was damp, and I sucked in the miasma of urine with each ragged intake.
The extra key to the apartment was secured under a cherub. But Tiffany had given me a key as well. The key was in the purse, I hadn’t had the time to thread it onto my lucky key ring. Who else had a key to the apartment? Tiffany had taken it on faith that her mother died of natural causes. There was no reason to be suspicious. Except that Miranda’s bedroom was unnaturally tidy, which was always suspicious. There were only two reasons for an organized bedroom: new lover who hadn’t yet become inured to the mess, or a bugler with OCD. Which was it? My head hurt and my heart hurt, and my stomach still protested the violation of the theft.
I bent over, my mouth felt foul, would I throw up right on the street? Like during Mardi Gras? I gulped air and tried to clear my head.
Wallet, passport, hotel room key.
The room key. Did it have the hotel logo? No, and it didn’t have my room number. Okay good. I’d need to apply at the embassy for another passport. Get another credit card. I wondered if I could apply for another life while I was at it. If all the thieves wanted was my identity, they were welcome to it.
I jumped as my back pocket buzzed, jarring me out of my head and back into the street and the situation. I touched it but didn’t have the heart to pull it out. Besides, it was the only thing I owned that was clearly secure.
Hotel first. I needed to re-group and extend my stay.
Which was not to be.
“I’m sorry, signora, we are full tomorrow night, I have you checking out this afternoon.” Fortunately, I was not faced with the same young man who took my “laundry” bag. This desk clerk was a young woman fashionably dressed, eschewing the typical front desk uniform of blue blazer and narrow skirt, for a pink sweater and black leather jeans. She stood remarkably steady on her spike-heel boots. I nodded, more to acknowledge her style than her disappointing news.
Okay. I took a breath. Okay. I can do this, I’m an adult. There is no TV blaring to distract me so it’s much easier to think and make good choices. I trudged up the stairs to my room.
The phone buzzed. It was Tina. I turned it off.
Okay. I banged open the door and regarded the nondescript room.
“Okay.” I said it out loud to emphasize that it would be okay, okay, okay. Breathe, breathe, breathe. I never thought that class would do me any good outside of the gym. Who knew?
I grabbed my suitcase and dumped the contents on the bed. I pulled the phone charger from the wall and tucked it into the suitcase. I pulled out the euros, thank the gods; dinner money.
Something jangled. My keys. I set those aside.
I regarded the small pile of clothes. The packing had not been well considered. I had been in a big hurry, more interested in avoiding Vince, Vance, and Tina, especially Tina and escaping to the airport as quickly as I could. If they had offered even a single protest, my resolve would have crumbled, and I would have cancelled everything and stayed where I belonged. But I couldn’t abandon a friend in need, even if she was past help, I felt responsible. I had missed something, something critical about Miranda and her little blue hippo.
I even felt sorry for Tiffany, who for the very first time since we met, sounded like a seven-year-old. It was midnight. Her voice was small, even scared. I tried to refuse, but the no stuck in my throat. “I’ll be there.”
“Your ticket will be at the desk. SFO 6:00 flight.”
I nodded even as I pulled out my carry-on. I was used to packing light; all the photographic equipment I shipped, checked, and hauled around the world took priority. Clothes we check, cameras we carry. All those practical thoughts ran through my head as I rolled and stuffed anything that fit into my old suitcase.
I planned to text Vincent just as the plane lifted off. The perfect getaway.
It was even kind of romantic. My first adventure in years. But now I had a disaster on my hands. I probably deserved it.
I picked through my wardrobe: polyester slacks, sensible short sleeve blouses, an extra pair of tennis shoes.
I had worn nothing but tennis shoes for three years. That’s the kind of neglect that can creep up on you. When was the last time I dined out in a real restaurant that demanded suitable clothes? When was the last time I wore heels? I didn’t even wear heels to Vincent’s retirement party. What had been the point?
I fully intended on being in Italy for only twenty-four hours, forty-eight tops. I would fly in, comfort Tiffany, eat pasta for breakfast, lunch and dinner and fly home before my whole family fell apart in hysterics. That was the plan, that was what I promised Tina as the plane launched into the rising sun. 24 hours, I texted, I’ll be back before you know it.
I lied. I would be here for a bit longer. At least long enough for another pasta dinner. I counted the euros, and wine. I studied the clothes and packed three pair of underwear and two bras into the suitcase with the keys and money.
I left the rest of the clothes on the bed.
The suitcase was so light it rattled and bounced behind me sounding like a fast approaching skateboard. I was starving, even though it was only 7:00 P.M. Had all this happened that fast? I was not used to fast. I was used to slow. The slow walk to the car. The slow unfolding from the passenger seat. The slow approach to the store/office/Chili’s. Older people move like wind up dolls winding down, down, down. No wonder I was depressed.
When she was in residence, Miranda rarely locked the apartment door, because on the third floor, why bother? She was a fixture in the neighborhood, everyone knew her, most looked out for her, which was why she was found so quickly. Which was why the door had been unlocked. Had it been unlocked? But neighborhoods change, the locals were leaving Venice proper for the mainland and cheaper apartments and homes, away from what was increasingly only a tourist attraction not a real working town. Who wants to live in Disneyland? Don’t tell me, probably a lot of people.
Speaking of living in town. I assumed Max’s apartment had sold or was by now leased as an Airbnb. Miranda told me she had run into one or two of Max’s pretty boys, some were still hanging around in town.
“But never at one of my parties. I didn’t like the way they treated Max.”
I nodded. When Max was healthy and generous, the boys were there, pretending to be helpful, pretending to be loving. As soon as Max’s illness became obvious and scary, all boys disappeared, and it was left to me to care for my friend. The cowards.
Over the last few years I considered looking up the address to see what happened to the estate, but I didn’t have the heart.
Miranda had always insisted that this was my forever home, that I was always welcome. She was right about that. In the state I was in, re-entering the apartment was like coming home; for all the mess, it was a welcoming space. The light reflected off the canal water and illuminated the living room making it look like it was underwater. The growing purple shadows hid the cobwebs and delivered depth as well as the comfort of strong memories.
The phone beeped and buzzed. Feeling a little safer, I finally answered.
“Vic.”
“Hello Tina, you know my data plan doesn’t cover calls, can you text me instead?”
“We’ll pay the difference.” She offered magnanimously. “I’ve been trying to call you all afternoon. The boys start school on Wednesday and we really need you here.”
“I have a small problem.”
“We all have problems Vic.”
“My purse was just stolen. My passport and money are gone. I haven’t even been away for twenty-four hours. Are you willing to help expedite the procedure and wire me cash for the next few days?” I’d have to extend my plane ticket as well. Need to do that right away.
The phone was silent. I quickly followed up. “I’ll email you when it’s all sorted out. And Tina, Matt is sixteen, he has his driver’s license, he can get Chris to school easily enough.” Horrified that I said that out loud, I quickly disconnected and put the phone on mute.
The last of the evening sun highlighted the dust covering the glass coffee table. The white couch looked dingy. The life of the apartment had left the building. I sighed and plopped on the couch, a little pouf of dust rose and settled.
Money. I had enough cash for a couple of days, but not enough for any unexpected expenses.
I scrolled through the apps on my phone. I changed my flight to an open-ended ticket.
I called to cancel my single credit card. The nice man offered to issue a new one.
“Unless you can overnight it, I’m not interested.”
“For a fee, of course we can overnight you a new card.”
I held the phone temporarily speechless. It had been a long time since I depended on the kindness of strangers. It was not a habit my poor parents endorsed. In their world all strangers were predators, and considering my recent loss, they may be right.
The stranger from Chase paused, waiting for my answer.
I let out my breath. “Yes, please.” I rattled off Miranda’s address, firmly embedded in my hard drive. I took another breath, then another.
I scrolled through the phone. I kept a picture of my passport and for good measure, my California Driver’s license, as well as a picture of my AAA card and Costco card. Don’t ask about the Costco card, I was on a roll one morning photographing everything in my wallet.
The embassy opened at 9:00. I’d hike over first thing, back up photos in hand.
I took a breath and regarded the paintings. Five were already gone. Tiffany had mentioned donating to the Met in the hopes it would be her fast track to the First Monday in May. I worked that event one year. It looks more fun from the outside.
The late afternoon sun washed the far walls of the living room illuminating the remaining paintings and turning the empty walls gold. Tiffany had taken the Rothko, but not a small painting of a hummingbird which was likely a Church. I scanned the grouping. If we were showing the house, some paintings would be necessary, but not, contrary to Miranda’s proclivities, all of them. Their value was in their beauty, not their re-sale value.
My brothers were all about re-sale, they were all about value. Vance estimated that the family saved tens of thousands of dollars because I was able to care for Mom and Dad for three years. All that effort, all that savings. The boys promised to proportionally increase my share of the estate but in the end, they didn’t. My parents' estate, such as it was, ended up divided evenly between the three of us. I did see that coming.
I glanced at my watch. They hadn’t stolen that, HA. It was a wonderful old Rolex that no one recognized because it just looked like a watch. It was still early, 7:30, if Rachael was even still in business.
I pushed out the couch and pulled five paintings from the wall.
It was not easy wrestling the paintings down the narrow stairs and out into the street. Fortunately, most of the cruise tourists were gone, all snug in their tiny rooms in the bowels of the enormous cruise ship dressing for their included gourmet dinner.
It was more muscle memory than any conscious memory that led me back to Rachael’s shop. Both Miranda and Max were consistent customers helping her get her start. I hoped she w
as still in business.
I passed by the familiar buildings with new and unfamiliar store fronts. Venice had changed. We all need to change, but as I passed one new shop, another new café, an old family business replaced by obvious and obnoxious international chains, I couldn’t help feeling blue, feel a little of their pain.
To my great relief the gallery was still intact and open for business. Even better, Rachael was in.
“Vic!” Rachael, dark hair, dark eyed, still looked like a former model. She glided across the polished gallery floor, her high heels making no sound. How did she do that? I thought of asking, but not now. “You look,” She kissed me on both cheeks.
“Like a middle-aged woman? My purse was just stolen, my best friend just died suddenly. And all I have are these.” I handed her three of the of five canvases. By the time I struggled down the stairs, I had to leave two just inside the front door. I hoped they’d be stolen just so I wouldn’t have to haul them back up the stairs.
But seeing beautiful Rachael, recognizing some of the Max Peters gold picture frames still on display, calmed my nerves. I didn’t realize how much I needed to see a friendly face. How I needed a friend.
Rachael pulled from me and regarded the paintings.
“You want to sell these?” Rachael picked up and held out the Chagall and tilted it one way and then another as if uncertain which was the top and which the bottom. And she was a trained professional.
“Yes, and I have more.”
“Miranda gave you the paintings?” She stopped. “Oh, I am so sorry. I heard the news of course, but it’s so.”
“Difficult to believe?”
“She was so alive, that last party. It was an Egyptian theme. She covered the floor in sand.”
That would explain the dust and disorder.
“Did you go?”
Rachael shrugged. “I hadn’t seen Miranda in a long while.” In other words, yes.
I nodded. “Her girls are selling the apartment. I plan to stay for two more days to get things organized, then I need to return to the States.”
After I'm Buried Alive Page 7