by Liz Newman
“It’s getting cold out,” Skye said as she turned away. Blaine removed his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders.
“Thank you.”
“Of course. Just doing what any guy should do. Skye, I’m engaged. I hope you will wish me well.”
“Congratulations. Am I getting a wedding invitation?”
“Absolutely,” Blaine said. “The Plaza. On September the twelfth. The best day to make a new start. We’re lighting several rows of candles, to remember our family and friends who were lost in the tragedy. They’d want us to begin our new life together this way, in honor of their memory and our love for them.” His eyes moistened. “Will you come?”
“I’d love to,” Skye said, with a lump in her throat. “I’m going to head back to the office now.” She smiled at Blaine, turned and walked toward the city streets.
Chapter Twelve
April brought a variety of blooms to the gardens of Villa Pastiere, a sprawling estate crowning the top of a hill on the outskirts of Rome. In the fragrant rear gardens, red, cream, yellow and white roses burst forth from the shrubs, flourishing below towering pines. Two attorneys in double-breasted suits stared at the wide open mouth of a depicting an ancient face grimacing in agony. The younger attorney shivered in the unseasonably cold spring breeze.
White clouds floated through the azure sky, the setting Roman sun peeking between them. The click of high heels sounded on the marble of the piazza of Villa Pastiere. Signora Cecilia Luciana smiled widely and joined them, her laughter as musical as the sound of church bells She handed each a highball glass filled with ice and liquor. The elder of the two took a sip. He flinched at the strong taste.
***
“Sal!” called Cecilia. Sal labored knee-deep in wet soil, struggling to plant an olive tree. Giuseppe, a stocky elderly man, attempted to assist him. Sal warded him away with gently spoken words, pressing his hand to his lower back. Giuseppe nodded and smiled, wincing as he stood up straight and hobbled a few feet. Sal brushed his hands off and took a deep swig of water from an aluminum bottle.
The younger attorney, handsome, his hair parted to the side and stiff with gel, opened his briefcase and removed a stack of papers. They spoke in Italian.
“If Mr. Olivieri is willing, we can finalize the agreements,” he said.
“Of course he is willing,” said Cecilia, her voice wavering. “You are; aren’t you, darling? You remember what you promised.”
Sal’s face remained stoic, his square jaw set. “I am anxious to conclude the first part of my life and begin anew. You have helped me see so many things differently, Cecilia,” Sal said, wiping his hands clean with a damp towel. He leaned back onto a wrought-iron chaise lounge and rested his head on a pillow.
“I shall have a cocktail first.”
Cecilia rose to go back into the house, but Sal stopped her.
“Please, sit down. I’ll get it myself.” He opened the French doors and walked into the kitchen of the villa.
Marcellus Aganalli sat in a armchair, in half-darkness, twirling his hat on his finger.
“You are a fool, you know,” he said softly. “And you smell terrible.”
“Perhaps,” Sal said as he poured himself a Campari and soda. “Yet I find this foolishness all so…liberating.”
Marcellus laughed mockingly. “We shall see how liberated you feel a few months after you sign those papers. How glorious your life will be in comparison.”
“We shall see.”
Marcellus stood up and waved his hat. “Oh, for the love of God, do not go through with this. Won’t you for once listen to me? You owe me at least a few days to convince you to change your mind.”
“I’ve had plenty of time to change my mind. My mind is set.”
“So what about the times we had? All the carefree adventures you and I have gone on, since we were boys. Remember the women in Rio?”
Sal spoke the same words with Marcellus in unison. “Yachting in San Marino, the discothèques in London.”
“Stop that!” Marcellus ordered.
Sal remained silent.
“You are giving all of these things up,” Marcellus chastised. “For her. The serpent who speaks.”
“I thought all that through, yes.” Sal remained nonchalant, slowly sipping his drink.
Cecilia stood in the doorway, her hands folded across her chest. “Marcellus. What are you talking about?”
A look of disgust crossed Marcellus’ face, as though she were a stray cat soiling the floor with muddy paws. “Only all that Sal has been through these last few months. I sought to…help him.”
“I know what you sought to do. Don’t you smile at me that way. Don’t you for one minute think I do not know exactly what you are thinking. Get out. Get out of my house!” she said.
“This isn’t your house,” Marcellus seethed. “Not only yours.”
Cecilia smiled and switched tactics. “Indeed you are right, Marcellus. I will always share. You know that, don’t you Sal? I will always share. Everything I have.” She took Sal by the arm. “Come now, darling, and sign the papers. I am paying these gentleman by the hour.”
“Before you suck my dearest friend into oblivion, I ask one thing only,” Marcellus said.
Cecilia lost control, exploding. “If he signs the papers now, he can go anywhere he wants!” she shouted. “What do I care, so long as my needs are taken care of when I need them to be?”
The attorneys appeared, and the younger one stared at Cecilia. Her luxurious mane of blonde hair cascading below the middle of her back contrasted with the ghastly wrinkles of her mottled face. The younger attorney looked at her with eyes wide, his hand reaching into his breast pocket and removing a handkerchief which he used to dab at his brow. He seemed terrified of her. The elder of the two attorneys cleared his throat.
“I am sorry, madam,” he said in his lilting Italian. “It is getting dark outside. Can we finalize the documents in here?”
He looked from the scowling Cecilia, to the agonizing Marcellus, to the calm and collected Sal, and back at Cecilia. Her mood changed as rapidly as if a stage curtain lifted. She walked forward with open arms and a smile.
“Of course, gentleman. Of course. Please sit down. Except for you.” She looked pointedly at Marcellus, the pupils of her eyes as amicable as loaded cannons. “Good night, Marcellus.”
She reached for a pen and scribbled her signature on the lines the younger attorney pointed to. The younger attorney handed the pen to Sal.
“Wait!” said Marcellus, grabbing the pen from Sal’s hand. Sal threw his hands up in resignation. “My request, Cecilia,” Marcellus insisted.
Cecilia’s face remained stoic, her expression unmoved. She reached into a jeweled box on the table and pulled out another pen, handing it to Sal.
“Are you two finished?” Sal asked, tapping the pen on his knee.
“Not yet,” Marcellus said. He paced around the room, pointing his hat as he decreed, “The one thing that you shall do, as my brother in spirit, is join me for one last trip. One last chance to…taste freedom, so to speak. With all the provisions that afford such things. Provided by Cecilia.”
“After he signs the papers,” she purred.
“Naturally. After he signs the papers.”
Sal reached down and scribbled his signature onto the various lines that required it. The attorneys stamped the documents, and Cecilia threw her head back and laughed. “Now, we celebrate! Annabelle! Annabelle!” she yelled down the hallways. No one came. Marcellus lifted a bottle of champagne and five glasses from the wet bar, popping it open and pouring. Sal, Marcellus, the attorneys and Cecilia toasted, and she kissed each of them on the cheek in turn, and Sal full on the lips. He blanched and wiped her scarlet red lipstick stain on a cocktail napkin. Sal shook the hands of the attorneys. They took one polite sip, then packed up their documents and left.
“Where are we going for this grand adventure?” Sal asked Marcellus.
“Bermuda. For as long as
we please.”
“The garden requires a great deal of attention,” Sal protested. “There are olive trees being delivered, peaches…”
Marcellus silenced him. “No time limit will be set. This may be the last time you spend a vacation with me. You owe me this much.”
“Go!” said Cecilia. “Go and enjoy. And I, to Lake Como. I have always longed to see the lake in Spring, and the fresh blossoms reflected on the crystal waters. It will be my last time alone, for after this, I plan to savor every moment of my new life! I shall fix myself as well, finding the finest doctors in the world for it.”
“Only the finest doctors,” Marcellus said, “could perform such a miracle.”
“Even a silly man like you cannot spoil my mood now, Marcellus,” Cecilia retorted.
“Nor do I seek to,” Marcellus replied. “For how does one improve on such a magnificent relic?” He turned to Sal and said, “Have your bags packed tomorrow.”
“Very well,” Sal sighed, sitting down on a sofa and pulling a footrest closer. “With one condition.”
“What is that?” Marcellus asked as Cecilia gazed at him curiously.
“I will spend time in New York.”
“New York? Why would you want to return to that city again? With nothing but the remnants of tragedy, and what led you to make the foolish decision you are making now!” Marcellus chastised him.
“I hold no puppet strings over him,” Cecilia hissed. “He is doing what is in his heart to do.”
“She is right,” Sal said. “I’d like to go to New York, one last time. Perhaps it will help me to find…my spirit. My soul, if there is such a thing.”
“Oh, now this ridiculous talk again,” Marcellus groaned. “Maybe I shall leave you here and take a vacation on my own.” He paced back and forth, stopping to wag a finger at Cecilia. “I won’t leave you alone with your regrets,” he said to Sal. “Not until we return. We leave tomorrow afternoon. I shall send a car for you.” Marcellus strode toward the foyer. The front double doors slammed behind him.
Cecilia turned toward Sal. A smile played at the corners of her lips. “I am pleased with you, Sal. You won’t be disappointed.”
Sal took her in his arms and kissed her forehead. “The pleasure is all mine,” he said softly.
“I will miss having a gentleman in the house. Go on; pack your bags. And please, next time you decide to relax in the parlor, make sure your clothing is clean. Annabelle!” Signora Cecilia Luciana screamed down the hallway for the house servant, but once again, no one came.
Chapter Thirteen
“Perhaps you should pay your father a visit,” said Dr. Carter. Skye lay on the leather chaise lounge in his office, her arms crossed over her chest. “It sounds like they removed the cancer successfully, but maybe a visit will ease your worries about him.”
“The show would fall apart without me,” she replied. “We’re still on five nights a week. I anchor for three nights and Denny for two, while I chew on staples in my office and watch her sink my show. We lost another two points in ratings last week. I start to get cramps and wait for the end to come. All the while, when I’m not editing Denny’s shoddy work, I’m working on a new show that I’m going to produce myself if I have to, after I win the Morrow Award.”
“Your friend, Kleinstiver…” Dr. Carter said. “He took some time off in between jobs.”
“But the show really would fall apart without me. Speaking of falling apart, last night I covered the plane crash in Jersey. The administration denied the crash as an act of terrorism, but I know planes don’t just fall apart right after takeoff. The left engine doesn’t just fall off like a Lego piece.” She held an imaginary mouthpiece to her lips and muffled her voice. “‘Ladies and gentlemen, it appears we’ve lost a piece of the plane. Oops. Prepare for landing.’
“There’s a guy who worked the VTR. I should say DVR, because everything’s going to digital. Anyhow, he’s worked at TBC for about four years or so. His name was Mahakam Rabin. His dad was from New Delhi and met his mom at Brooklyn City College.” Skye swung her legs to the side of the chaise lounge, hopping to her feet and wringing her hands as she paced the plush burgundy carpet, her stockinged feet sinking into the tufts. “His dad died when he was a kid, and his mother moved back to India and he sends her money. No wife, no kids, no friends really. Just works and supports his mother. He used to have such a great sense of humor.
“One day years ago, after I jokingly mentioned that I couldn’t get a decent guy to ask me out, he said to me, ‘Skye,’” she said, mimicking a thick Indian accent, “‘you will never have luck with the men if you are so withdrawn. Remember, you throw the peanut, you get the monkey. You throw the cashew, you get the Brahman!’” She held her hand splayed out in front of her body for emphasis. Dr. Carter smiled and nodded.
“He was a dead ringer for Ziad Jarrah. After 9/11, he hid away in that little DVR room until he got laid off; didn’t say goodbye to anyone. He stood quietly in the shadows during those last few days. He would step out of the darkness and my heart would jump. I’d never feared him before; never had a reason to be. He was a good guy. Used to laugh a lot, talk a lot. Maybe we all just started treating him different. I don’t know.” She looked at Dr. Carter, her eyes momentarily flickering a helpless look.
Dr. Carter crossed one ankle over a knee. “So,” he cleared his throat, “you have a fear of flying. And a fear of those who look like they are of Arab descent. Let’s talk about flying first. What exactly is it about flying that makes you afraid?”
“Have you flown on a plane since 9/11?”
“I have.”
“How do you feel when you get on a plane? When you look around at the pinched faces of your fellow passengers? When you see the panic in their eyes, and feel your own, like your heart is going to burst free from your chest as soon as someone with prominent features and skin with the hue of almonds boards the plane?” Skye bit the inside of her cheek, holding it between her teeth firmly.
“This is your time, Skye. Let’s not stray from the subject of you.”
“No. Really. I’d really like to know how you feel.” Dr. Carter remained silent, his eyes fixed on her.
“It’s the reporter in me,” Skye shrugged. “Other people’s feelings are so much easier to deal with.” Skye linked her hands together and cracked her knuckles. “It’s not flying, per se. It’s checking out of this world. It seems I’m getting a few wake-up calls, and my response to them is ‘great, thanks, so now what?’ What do I do now that I have no friends, a former lover I couldn’t stand, and a medical condition akin to a time bomb? Who values me when I’m not in full make-up and accepting awards? When I’m filthy and grumpy? Certainly not myself.”
“Let’s address people of Arab descent.”
“Funny you should bring up people of Arab descent after I mention bombs. Perhaps you have a few issues about Arabs yourself, doc.”
“Some of my finest colleagues are of Arab descent.”
“Good for you. I don’t mind Arabs, if they’re patted down and searched before coming near me. That goes for everyone else, too.”
“Um-hmm,” Dr. Carter murmured as he scribbled into his notepad with a pen.
“What are you drawing in there? The Rorschach Ink Blot test?”
He laughed softly. “Just taking notes. By what you are saying to me, I think you are feeling disconnected from other human beings.”
“Is that possible? For someone who is surrounded by people almost every waking moment of the day, I feel like I’m walking in a bubble. It’s lonely, it’s sad, but I like it. I like it. It’s so thin, you know. Like someone could come up and pop it any minute and I’d be exposed and lose my mind just to have an audience to listen. But I won’t come out of the bubble; not on my own. To do so would be the death of everything I’ve worked so hard for. I’ve interviewed dozens of people whose friends and family members perished, and they always say the person they knew was the most giving, unselfish, wonderful person in
the world. There isn’t a soul alive in this world who could say that about me, without lying.”
“No doubt people feel magnanimous when speaking of the dead.”
“There’s this vagrant at the subway station on the Upper East Side. He stinks of vomit and urine, and he sits on this dirty army blanket shouting “No comment!” repeatedly. I see him every day.” Dr. Carter nodded at her with encouragement. “He intrigues me. I wonder who he is, where he came from, why he relives a moment in his mind over and over where people are sticking microphones in his face, and he has nothing he wishes to say.”
“Does he remind you of someone?”
“Every tortured actor or criminal who has no comment.”
“Why the interest?”
Skye stared out the window, long and hard as the time passed. The streets were eerily quiet. A group of people in their early twenties passed, laughing over a shared joke, and the laughter caused Skye to clench her teeth. “It would sound odd to you to say I’m jealous of a bum, wouldn’t it?”
“You are safe to say whatever you’d like to, Skye. This is your place to air out whatever is on your mind.”
Skye’s voice rose up from her throat, a hollow whisper spoken from the very depths of her soul. “I…envy him, because he is lost in a past where he can shun those who seek him, those who care about what he has to say. His opinion. Opining about 9/11, for any journalist, on any television show. is a death sentence. Everyone has his own ideas of how the situation should have been handled as well as familiarity with the conspiracies, the propaganda. I live in a world turned upside down, where right is wrong and wrong is right, and anyone who suggests otherwise is crucified. The vagrant and everything around him decays, and still he replays a scenario in which he is sought out. While I grasp for the hands of anyone I can take down to the depths with me.”