by Delia Ephron
“To scuba dive? What a riot. That is the last thing you would do.”
Michael gave me a look.
“Get real. It is. The hotel must supply or sell the names of its guests to local businesses. Welcome to Siracusa.” I leaned in for a kiss.
I suppose that’s where Siracusa began. With me supplying the cover for his lie.
Taylor
SIRACUSA WAS TACKY. I’m sorry to be blunt. While it has a historic section called Ortigia, where we stayed, as well as a Caravaggio, the rest of it appeared recently built, or rebuilt, of the most inexpensive materials in a nondescript manner and time like 1970. I imagined meetings in Siracusa like ones we had in Portland with Mayor Beemer, but in a much dustier room with cracking plaster and linoleum floors where the agenda is, “How can we attract more tourists?” But Portland, Maine (I include Maine because most people think of Oregon when a person says Portland, and this has always been a problem for our visitors’ bureau), has much more to work with. Don’t think I’m a snob, but Siracusa seemed like a tourist destination for people who were lower middle class. The Jersey Shore as opposed to Long Island Sound.
In regard to the name Siracusa, if you want my opinion, Lizzie put that a on the end to entice us into going, to give it romance. She liked to make more of things. That first night when we were walking to dinner in the old section down sad streets lined with decrepit buildings, many shuttered with rusted steel doors, all of them discolored, blotchy, and peeling like a person’s very old skin, I told her, “It’s not called Siracusa. It’s Syracuse.”
“Syracuse is a city in upstate New York,” she said. In fact, she is right insofar as Syracuse is the Anglicized version, and on the autostrada all the signs did say Siracusa, but honestly do we call Rome Roma? No, we do not.
When we got to the small hotel—a glorified B&B where the good views were of a parking lot—I was upset. “This is your fault,” I told Finn. “All the money spent for our big trip and it turns out to be this, here.” So what that it was Lizzie’s idea. Finn should have intervened, not that he ever does. I got even angrier when I saw the room. “This room is a broom closet. You expect us to stay in a broom closet? Lizzie ruined our trip.”
To be sure, by this time I was already halfway to fury. In the car Finn was wondering if he served a spicy calamari at our restaurant, would anyone order it, when I burst out, “Snow is coming into her own, thanks to Michael.”
Finn merely picked his teeth. That drives me crazy. It’s disgusting. He does it with the nail of his pinkie. I think he lets it grow precisely for that purpose.
“Would you ever think Michael could bring her out of her shell? He doesn’t have children.”
While packing the night before, I had found three pieces of silverware, one fork and two spoons, tucked in Snow’s T-shirts. What in the world? Then I remembered what Michael told Snow that first night at Beppi’s about stealing the silverware. She’d done it. It made me laugh. I left it behind in the room and didn’t mention it. No point in making a fuss. No harm done.
“She’s feeling her oats,” I told Finn.
“Nothing wrong with Snowy,” said Finn. “Never has been.”
“You’re jealous.”
Finn poked his tongue around inside his cheek.
The cab reeked of cigarettes. Our driver should have hung an air freshener on the rearview mirror instead of a plastic Jesus. Within a short while I was nauseous. I dabbed Purell around my nose. “I am cursed with an ability to detect tobacco,” I said. “I should be a police dog.”
“Smoking’s not illegal,” said Finn.
“It should be.”
I stared out the window at the unexciting landscape, scrubby dry underbrush, sagging power lines, an occasional dusty orchard, and here and there along the highway a lonely oleander or bougainvillea. Suppose Snow smoked? One thought led to another and the next thing I knew I was thinking about all the ways being a normal foolish teenager might lead her into degrading her perfection. Cigarettes. Tattoos on that flawless skin. “Don’t futurize,” April always says when my anxieties run away with me.
Suppose she pierced her nose? Whenever I see Jessa Partridge, I wince. Jessa, a local lobsterwoman, has a stud in each nostril and five tiny silver hoops in each ear, the top ones so high the piercing must be through cartilage. Otherwise she’s nice, if a bit boisterous, also attractive, if weathered. Whenever I see her, I want to whisper, moisturizer. In a coastal town subject to nor’easters, you see what happens to the houses each year, all the rusting and shredding. Why doesn’t she make the connection—house-skin? My mother-in-law believes in Noxzema and witch hazel, and, for bee stings, toothpaste. Often women tell me, You have such a beautiful complexion, but no one thinks to ask what my skin regimen is. I’ve urged Finn to use moisturizer too, and bought him some for presents, to no avail.
I could smell fuel oil from the tankers in Siracusa bay. What an assault. “You should be grateful to Michael, Finn. You don’t know what it means to be a father. Being a parent hasn’t changed you one bit.”
“It’s changed you,” he said.
That’s the last thing we said to each other on the autostrada.
Thank goodness I was able to move us to a suite and negotiate a lower rate.
Lizzie
THE ROOM WAS SMALL, or I should say big enough. I loved the ridiculousness of having to pass each other sideways. The style was familiar in a good way, like a hotel in Sonoma or Monterey. Piney, cheery, stripy. A queen-sized bed with a wooden headboard, a fluffy comforter, and a rickety armoire painted a sunflower yellow. The floor was tile, cool under the feet. The window looked out into a dim inner courtyard where there was room only for a statue of a centaur. It was all fine. Now I was committed to liking whatever Taylor didn’t. Mostly I was too happy to care.
Michael sat on the bed, slapped the pillow (foam—that had surely bugged Taylor), and said he planned to stay there for the afternoon. When I suggested staying with him, he said, “Sleep, Lizzie. I need sleep.”
I was craving a blow-dry anyway, my hair dirty enough to crawl off my scalp. I had Dani the receptionist book an appointment, left, looped back behind the hotel away from the water, and fell down a rabbit hole into antiquity. It was like opening an old book with beautiful illuminated illustrations. The tattered buildings, many with bow-shaped delicate wrought-iron balconies, were cared for in touching ways: a spiky miniature palm in a terra-cotta pot by a door, flower boxes, plastic windmills on sticks—cheery cheap carnival prizes—stuck between balcony spokes or shutter slats. Everything was sweet and innocent, and proof of how small people were before hormones in milk. No earth, no grass, only stone. It made voices echo, bounced the light, gave everything back. Perhaps that was why the few people I passed spoke softly. Perhaps, like me, they were in awe. That this world still existed, inhabited, joyful, seemed miraculous.
I fell in love with Siracusa, but like my romance with Finn years before, the time between falling in love and being driven crazy was no time at all.
“There’s a Caravaggio here,” said Taylor at dinner. “Tomorrow we’re going to see the Caravaggio, Snow.”
As dinner progressed she rejuvenated, operating once again at full throttle in a skinny long sheath with peek-a-boo slits around the middle. She came armed with guidebooks and plans. Tomorrow could they fit in the Greek theater as well as the Caravaggio and a walking tour? What about the Papyrus Museum? She’d discuss it all with Gina. Gloria, the travel agent, had found Gina through a connection who knew the mayor of a nearby town. Taylor carried on about Gina the way people in New York City brag about their doctors, how they found them, who else goes to them, how hard it was to get an appointment but this other amazing doctor had pulled strings. Snow, across from me, sat next to Michael, eating with her customary efficiency but sliding her eyes around as if she were Michael’s bodyguard.
I clinked my glass with a spoon. “Attention, p
lease, question for the night. Would you give an alibi to someone you loved for a crime they committed? If yes, who?”
“What crime?” said Taylor.
“Whatever. Embezzlement, stock fraud, armed robbery.”
“My mother. I’m helpless around Penelope and feel sorry for her. Also”—she made the tiniest tip of her head in the direction of Snow.
“You would alibi your mother?” said Finn. “You should go for any opportunity to lock her up.”
“Your dad’s joking,” she said to Snow. “There’s always a reason why someone does something.” She scraped a bit of apricot and pine nuts off a sardine before tasting it.
“So you’re saying that no matter what the crime, in your head you would twist it around to justify it?” I said.
“Not twist it around. There is simply always a reason.”
“At least there would be with anyone at this table,” I said. “A good reason. Because no one here is a psychopath.”
“You wouldn’t alibi me?” said Finn.
“No,” said Taylor.
“Wow, that was quick,” I said.
“Why not?” said Finn.
She dusted more nuts to the side of her plate. “I don’t know, but I wouldn’t.”
“I don’t blame you,” said Finn.
“I would never lie to the police,” I said. “Not for anyone or for any reason. I would march to the station and turn the person in. I ratted out Brandon Phillips in the sixth grade. I told the teacher that I saw him cheat.”
“Snitch,” said Finn.
“Yes, I’m a snitch. No, I would say I have a conscience. I would never even say Michael was home when he wasn’t.”
Michael emptied the last of the bottle into his glass, filling it to the brim.
“Oh God, Michael, hold back. I don’t want to have to carry you back to the hotel. Providing a false alibi for a crime is a crime, but obviously all lies aren’t crimes.”
“Like yours?” said Finn to Michael.
“Mine?” said Michael as his wine sloshed onto his hand.
“What?” said Taylor, trying to catch up.
Finn took an uncomfortably long time to answer. I remember wondering if he would, or if he would tip the table over. Finn could upend a table.
“That BS about Yale. If you went to Yale, it was to deliver pizza.”
Michael laughed.
“Snow, see if you can figure out where we are.” Taylor passed her the street map, but Snow wasn’t interested. Her mouth had thinned to a mean line. She scowled at Finn.
“Yale,” said Finn. “That whole Yale story is bullshit.”
“Bullshit,” said Michael. Impossible to tell from his tone or smirk if he was agreeing or disagreeing.
“It is not,” said Taylor.
How strange that it was Finn of all people, Finn so infantile that he still threw popcorn at movie screens, who would smell the rot.
I was the stupidest person at the table, by the way. Just by the way.
Snow tugged Michael’s arm. He leaned down. She whispered.
“Snow wants to know what I think,” said Michael.
“About what?” I said.
“Murder,” said Snow.
You never did know when that girl was going to decide to speak in a normal tone. Murder. She said it as if it were as ordinary as orange, pistachio, or cream, just to mention a few of the ingredients in the dessert.
Michael cocked his head down to speak to Snow personally. “I would give you an alibi for anything. I would swear to the police, ‘No way, she did not do it, she was with me the whole time. Release this beauty.’”
Taylor glowed as if he had bestowed an honor upon her child by swearing to alibi her for murder.
“That’s sweet, Michael,” I said, “but would you alibi me?”
“As long as it wasn’t me you murdered. As I recall, the Italians don’t believe that children commit crimes. You can’t be charged with a crime in Italy unless you are over fourteen years old. They believe children are essentially innocent and can’t understand the consequences of their actions.”
“So do I,” said Taylor.
“Although they might try the parents if they think they are responsible, directly or indirectly.”
“How do you know that?” I asked Michael.
“It’s a lie,” said Finn.
“Everything I know, I know from someone I dated.”
“That’s a lie,” I said. “He reads voraciously.”
“Voraciously?” Finn mocked.
“You would give me an alibi?” said Snow.
“For anything,” said Michael.
She sat back, composed and content, her nail-bitten hands clasped.
Later, when we left the restaurant and walked across the piazza in what we hoped was the general direction of the hotel, Michael strode ahead. Snow hurried—she never ran, I noticed that, she never betrayed that much desire—to catch up and take his hand. Taylor sped to join them.
I could see Michael leaning down to chat with Snow, to hear her breathy words, Taylor straining to hear their conversation, not wanting to be left out. Then Michael swung Snow’s arm in a loop, once and again. He might have been a good dad, I thought. Too late for that.
It would be one of those nights we wouldn’t remember in the morning. The unpleasant part anyway. Kind of invigorating. Finn pugnacious. Michael deflecting.
“Hold back,” said Finn softly.
We waited until the others disappeared around a corner and we could no longer hear their voices or the tap of Taylor’s heels on stone.
“Lay off Michael,” I said.
“You should leave him, Lizzie. He’s a liar.”
“And you don’t know Angelo Gaja.”
“Light this for me.” He handed me a matchbook, pulled a cigarette from his trouser pocket, and waited for me to strike, his face close to mine. “You helpless woman,” he said as I struck out again and again and the matches bent.
He kissed me. It was a chaste kiss, only our lips brushed. I managed to light the next one and we walked on as if nothing had happened.
Taylor
HAVE I EVER DESCRIBED FINN? I don’t think so, and that is probably Finn’s fault. Let me explain. His hair, for instance. It’s that shade known as dirty blond, but on his driver’s license he put brown. Why would anyone put brown when they could legitimately claim blond? He’s unconscious even of his own attributes, of putting his best foot forward. Perhaps that is why I neglected to present him fully. He fades in comparison to, say, Michael, who has such a strong presence and sophistication. Finn takes a backseat to his own life.
The other day Lizzie said to him, “You look like an aging rocker.” That is true. His face is worn like he’s partied a lot, a hazard of running a restaurant and having to keep up with the diners. He doesn’t have to keep up, of course, but he’s a people pleaser. Also, before he met me he spent way too much time on a boat in the sun without sufficient protection. I’m glad Snow didn’t inherit his lank hair. I’m only being honest. It’s shaggy and almost to his chin. The first time I saw him, I was on the dock and he was fiddling with some gear on the water taxi. He looked up, saw me, and grinned. His grin was wicked. It gave me a shiver as if we had a secret even though we’d never met. I felt like someone else—a woman who might inspire a man to wicked thoughts. He wanted to know everything about me; no one else ever did. I was writing poetry then, mostly about loneliness, seems silly in retrospect. “Recite one,” he said. There was a wooden crate behind the empty store he was turning into his restaurant. “Stand on this box and recite one.” I wouldn’t. I liked his friendly face with a dimple in his chin, high cheekbones, and pale green eyes that slant upward, as do his brows.
I was very attracted to him, but once you have a child things change in that department. April and I jo
ke that sex is rhubarb—something I forget I like and then I taste it and remember, I like this, but then I forget all over again.
“Boy, not man,” my mother said of Finn. She doesn’t appreciate how well he runs The Catch, his “joint” as he calls it. I never should have told her that he keeps several shoeboxes full of money in our closet because when people pay cash for their meals, he doesn’t report it. If the IRS shows up at my door, my mother will be the reason. This is SOP in the restaurant business, Finn explained. All the money doesn’t get banked. I believe him. Finn is immature in some ways but he is not a liar.
I love to go into the closet and put my hand in a shoebox and take out a fistful of dollars. It makes me feel like the real housewives of New Jersey, a secret vice.
That first day in Siracusa, Snow and I needed to crash and regroup. At least the air-conditioning worked, although it went off and on every ten minutes and the activating gasp was very irritating. The hotel—it’s a compliment to call it that—turned out not to have Wi-Fi or cell reception, and the only English-speaking channel was once again the BBC. I wondered if the BBC had had cutbacks or if Sicily was simply second-class, because I was seeing news stories in Siracusa that I had already seen in Rome. Once we got settled I had to traipse down and outside to phone my mother.
The balustrade along a narrow sidewalk seemed like a good spot for cell reception. It turned out to be atop a giant seawall that appeared to extend up and down the coast. I hadn’t realized we were way above sea level. I was about to phone when I fell into a conversation with a young American woman, a bottle-blond buxom type in a loose, salmon pink cover-up. I asked her where she got it, not because I wanted it but because there was something screaming about it. Zara, she said. She was from Jersey City, she told me, and she was carrying The Red and the Black by Stendhal. Brainy, obviously, although she didn’t look it. You never do know what someone is going to read on a vacation. Her hair was wet and she carried a towel. “Where’s the beach?” I asked her, and she said there wasn’t one, just an enormous boulder where you can sun and swim. “Close,” she said. She offered to walk me over but I declined. I made a mental note to ask the receptionist about undertows and dangerous fish.