Siracusa

by Delia Ephron

  When I walked into the room, Michael was asleep in bed as if nothing in his life were remotely askew. I shook his shoulder.

  “Lizzie, Jesus, Lizzie,” he shot up.

  “I was just at Lo Scoglio.”

  “Where? Thank God you’re back.”

  “The police were in wetsuits. There’s a narrow canyon formed by spiky rocks beneath that behemoth, that boulder, Lo Scoglio. Do you know where I mean?”

  “Were you with Finn?”

  “Fuck you, Michael. Do you know where I mean?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you ever. Beneath that narrow metal bridge suspended between that sheer wall and Lo Scoglio, there’s a treacherous jumble of rocks.”

  “I’ve never been.”

  “I’m going to break your heart if you have one. She was found there. Your girlfriend. She’s dead.”

  Michael got up, staggered around for a bit, and slumped down again. He clasped his hands and slammed them into his forehead.

  “So you know who I’m talking about? Say her name, please. She deserves that at least.”

  “Kathy Bicks,” he said dully, as if viewing the body.

  “Her hair was matted with stuff, sea stuff and kind of green. She passed by on a stretcher. The police have these stretchers in mesh, it’s weird, like a strainer, they can rescue a dead body and leave the water behind. In less than a night, sea creatures had feasted on her face, eaten her eyes. Her beautiful blue eyes. But it was her. I recognized her shirt too. Your shirt.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I was close when they passed by with her body. What’s with your face? You have a black eye. Why’s your cheek red and swollen? Did you have a fight with her?”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “That she killed herself or you killed her. I hate you. I hate that I could think evil of you. You make me sick. I never imagined you could do any of the things you’ve done already. Although that seems like my stupidity. What do you feel? Do you feel anything?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “My God, I saw her with Snow. I hope Snow’s all right.” I ran out, nearly tumbled down a flight of stairs, and pounded on Finn and Taylor’s door.

  Snow opened it—Snow, her hair tangled from sleep, in screaming-pink shortie pajamas decorated with zebras. “We’re leaving today,” she said in a flat voice.

  Finn turned up behind. Rumpled. Barely focusing. In boxers and a T-shirt. I could see the cot he slept in, opened near the couch.

  “I’m so glad you’re fine, Snow.” My legs nearly buckled. I sagged against the wall. Finn came out, pulling the door closed.

  “I was worried about Snow,” I said. “I was worried something happened to her. On my way back I saw—”

  “Hi, Michael,” said Finn, looking over my shoulder.

  “We should talk. All of us,” said Michael. “Not with your daughter.”

  Siracusa, Day 4

  Michael

  “WHAT ARE YOU THINKING?”

  “That she killed herself or you killed her.”

  Woke to the news. Lizzie shook me awake to deliver it. Kath dead. Frankly, we are being frank, I couldn’t imagine it was true or that Lizzie could believe I had anything to do with it.

  Not possible she was dead. I wasn’t superstitious. Didn’t believe in fate. As a romantic concept, found it idiotic. As powerful as I felt, I knew my fantasizing couldn’t make it happen. Besides, wanting something and getting it were different things. My passion for K had proved that.

  Still, didn’t believe she was dead. Pounded on K’s door, expecting her to open it. Lizzie watched silently.

  Even as I walked to the bench to meet the other couple, I thought, She’s alive, although the passing ambulance was silent, creeping along like all the cars here in case, on these narrow streets, something was coming from the other direction. Why wail a siren when you’re on your way to the morgue? Why did I cling to a shred of hope when there had been that chilling moment with Snow the night before?

  Lizzie had left her suitcase at reception, asked for a second taxi for an earlier departure time, an hour hence, then had followed me to the rendezvous, a bench not far from the hotel. My idea. Always on the lookout for places to hide, I had noticed it at the back end of the market. Outside was better. Discretion imperative.

  It was ugly here, not far from a Dumpster and some trucks. Yet this area had an incongruously knockout view, the open sea in one direction. In the other, a small cove, haven for sailboats and small yachts. Lizzie sat half turned away at the end of the bench. As a favor, sensing her repulsion, I stood. I watched her ignore me.

  We waited.

  “You can’t leave her here,” said Lizzie. “That poor woman dying miles from home. You have to stay.”

  I didn’t answer. The situation was much more complicated.

  Lizzie was trembling. I offered the flask and, in return, got a look of disgust.

  “What you did to me is unforgivable,” she said.

  “Nothing is unforgivable,” I said. “It depends on your capacity for forgiveness.”

  “Is that remark a consequence of this trip?” said Lizzie. “From seeing so many Christs bleeding on crosses? Has it made you think about forgiveness?” She fell silent then. Hearing the cleverness, I guessed. Unwilling to be us.

  “I didn’t bring her here.”

  “Liar. You’re as guilty as if you shoved her off.”

  Saw the Dolans advance, Taylor in a bright, quick stride, Finn, gimpy, a pace behind.

  “Do you want to sit down?” I asked Taylor.

  “I’m fine.” She checked her watch. “I want Snow to have something to eat before we leave. I’m sure the food at the Catania airport is awful, and we’re flying to Naples, and then there’s the drive to Ravello—the Amalfi coast can be sheer terror in a car but quite stunning. I would like her to be able to enjoy it.”

  “I wanted to tell you what Snow said to me. Last night. Awkward, I realize. But if the police question me—”

  “Why would they question you?” said Taylor. “What about?”

  “About the drowning. I knew the woman. Snow was with her.”

  “They’d gone for pizza,” said Taylor, “and shopped.”

  “Your daughter told me—” I stopped, struck by Taylor’s lack of curiosity, her cheerfulness. Finn snuck glances at Lizzie, who kept her eyes low. “Snow whispered to me, you remember I’m sure, when we were all weak with relief and the handsome agenti—”

  “Spit it out, Michael,” said Lizzie. “Don’t make it a story.”

  I remembered every lousy detail—the smell in the lobby from the olives and salami that had been laid out as snacks, the faint musk of wine, Snow reveling in the attention. I had leaned down to hear her breathy secretive voice. She was an efficient child, she didn’t waste words: “‘She won’t be bothering you anymore.’

  “That’s what Snow whispered,” I told them.

  Finn closed in behind Taylor, an instinct like a mobster’s. Family first.

  “How did she know that?” I said. “How did she know Kath wouldn’t be bothering me anymore?”

  “You’re full of shit,” said Finn.

  “Why would I lie about that?”

  “Why do you lie about everything? You do it. Your whole life’s a fable. Lizzie told me.”

  Lizzie nodded, acknowledging her tit-for-tat.

  “I’m only telling you that if the police interview me, I will tell them what your daughter said.”

  “You want to get involved with the polizia? You want a date with the Italian justice system?” Finn snorted. “You’ll spend the rest of your life in a Sicilian jail.”

  “He is involved,” said Lizzie. “He has a moral commitment. He brought her here.”

  “I didn’t bring
her.”

  “Fuck you,” said Lizzie.

  That stopped me for a second. Taylor gaped.

  “‘She won’t be bothering you anymore.’ That is what your daughter told me,” I said. “I’m sure it’s hard to imagine.”

  “You can’t imagine,” said Taylor. “You don’t have children.”

  “Who scratched your face, Taylor? Did Snow do that?” said Lizzie.

  “How dare you?” said Taylor.

  “Are you accusing Snowy?” said Finn.

  “I’m telling you what she said.”

  “I saw them at Lo Scoglio,” said Lizzie. “Kath and Snow together.”

  “They weren’t there,” said Taylor.

  Finn shoved me. “You’re accusing my daughter? You’re crazy.”

  “I saw them at the rock. I told you last night, Finn,” said Lizzie.

  “You were freaked out from this asshole. Drunk as a skunk. You told me you couldn’t think. You sure couldn’t walk.”

  Lizzie flinched as if he’d hit her.

  “My daughter always tells me the truth,” said Taylor to Lizzie. “She wasn’t there.”

  A moment of spontaneous understanding—we could be overheard. We lowered our voices.

  “When did you see Lizzie?” Taylor asked Finn.

  “While you were taking care of Snow,” said Finn. “Lizzie was distraught. I met her at a restaurant. As I said, she was loaded. You were out of it, Lizzie. Like you’d remember anything.”

  “I remember last night,” said Lizzie.

  I heard the betrayal.

  “Kath and Snow shopped,” said Taylor. “They bought inappropriate clothes. Snow had pizza with her and came back alone.”

  Foolish Kath. Befriending Snow. Turning a scorpion into a playmate. No doubt in my mind how it happened. Them sitting together, legs dangling over the edge of the boulder, laughing, maybe Kath reading Snow’s palm, she loved to do that. Told me she did it with girlfriends in high school. Snow scooting back, standing up, giving her a push. Wouldn’t have taken much of a push. Kath mellow and happy, a little sunstroked, maybe even buzzed with her new favorite, Prosecco. She won’t be bothering you anymore.

  Lizzie was crying now, sniveling, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

  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.” I recalled our dinner, Lizzie’s question. I’d alibi you for anything, Snow. I’d say, “Release this beauty.” Had she believed that? Had she taken my theatrics seriously? Were Snow and I conspirators?

  “Lizzie was at Lo Scoglio,” said Finn. “She told me. She saw Miss Indiana. She didn’t say there was anyone else with Miss Indiana. I’ll swear to that. Lizzie knew you were doing her. Maybe you wanted out of the marriage or maybe you didn’t and she put the screws to you. You’re the one with the motive. You and—”

  “And me,” said Lizzie to Finn. “She was sleeping with my husband.”

  Finn ignored her. Spoke only to me. “That’s what I’ll tell the polizia, that Lizzie was at the rock. If they ask me. She killed herself,” he said.

  No one disagreed.

  “They don’t know who she is,” I said. “Not yet.”

  “They won’t for a few days,” said Finn. “Not until she doesn’t check out and the hotel notifies the cops and gives them her passport number.”

  I took out the flask and passed it to him. He took a swig and passed it back.

  “We’re leaving her?” said Lizzie.

  I knelt, looking up into her face. “We don’t know her. She’s barely an acquaintance. Fortunately we’re getting the hell out of Italy today.” I looked at Finn. “You should too.”

  “Fuck Ravello,” said Finn to Taylor.

  “I’ll call Gloria,” said Taylor. “I don’t mind missing Ravello, although I’m sorry about Venice. It’s early. I’ll have to wake her, but no problem. I have all Gloria’s numbers. She won’t mind. This is a good spot for cell reception.” She pulled out her phone. “I hope Snow won’t be too disappointed.”

  “So we agree,” said Finn.

  Lizzie hoisted her purse and dug around in it. “Take my picture,” she said, handing me her phone. “If I ever think of having anything to do with you, I want to remember this moment. Go on, Michael, do it.”

  I snapped her photo and went back to the hotel to pack.

  Portland, October

  Taylor

  IT’S FOUR MONTHS LATER and I am deep in plans for a harvest festival. There are pretty displays of pumpkins on Monument and Longfellow squares and near the historic society on Commerce Street. The air smells piney; the holidays are not far off. This is the last month for tourists. Everything will slow down in November, well, it has already, the turning of the leaves came early this year. The Lil’ Whale Bakery is making pumpkin everything—bread, muffins, cookies, and pies. I have given my notice, however, to a very dismayed Mayor Beemer because it’s become clear that I can’t do my job and homeschool Snow.

  The sixth-grade curriculum is daunting, but there are subjects of great interest to me, like early Greek civilization. Even the science is exciting: electricity, the metric system (it’s about time I learned that), and best of all, the ecology of the Maine coast. Perhaps next year, after studying Greece, we’ll all go to Athens. When a subject is more than I want to handle, I can buy tutorials for Snow to watch on her iPad. I have made contact with other homeschooling mothers on Facebook, and they have advised me to start each day at the same time, with the hardest subjects first. We’ve created a nook in our sunny den where Snow and I can work side by side.

  Snow, so smart and focused, will probably set a record and be in the seventh grade by March. I have enrolled her in some dance and theater classes where she can interact with kids her own age in a supervised environment. Now that she is nearly eleven—her birthday is next month—and still painfully shy, I am very aware and wary of the mean-girl syndrome. In spite of all attempts by that poor dead woman to turn her into a harlot, she remains pure.

  About six weeks after returning from Italy, Snow and I visited New York City to see Penelope, who is having physical therapy, which she hates—especially the ankle lifts with the elastic straps—and to squeeze in some fun mother-daughter shopping. Who did we encounter as we exited the revolving doors of Bergdorf Goodman? Lizzie. She looked like a truck had run over her. She had dark circles under her eyes, sallow cheeks, messy hair. I doubt if she’d washed it in weeks. It had that oily sheen. No makeup of course, but she never did wear much makeup. Her rumpled shirt looked as if it had been plucked from the dirty laundry. The whites of her eyes were red; I noted that especially because it was almost ghoulish.

  Given her wreck of an appearance, I would say her insides were out.

  I will never forgive her for the blame she attempted to heap on my daughter. Truly I believe she is evil or at the very least twisted. Still I was polite. With a Seddley, being polite is a way of life.

  “Hello, what a surprise,” I said. “We’re visiting Penelope. She might have to have another surgery. She may walk with a limp forever.”

  Lizzie made no remark to that, can you imagine? Not a word of greeting. She merely stared at Snow, who shrank backward. Best to remove my daughter as quickly as possible from what was clearly a hostile situation.

  Later I wondered, had Lizzie been on some sort of medication?

  In spite of everything, I have fond feelings for Michael. He’s a troubled man.

  Siracusa ceased to exist the minute we left. We fell back into our old life. The trauma of Snow’s disappearing, the fear it aroused in me, however, has only grown—a bond between Finn and me as he feels it too.

  I often think of that dinner in Rome, Lizzie attempting to perk up our conversation with her hostessy question: Why does your marriage work? Because, I
told her, Finn and I both know, Snow comes first.

  Snow is rarely out of my sight. Nevertheless, sometimes when she is in the back or front yard and I glance out the window and don’t see her, I break out in a sweat. My heart races. Often I dream, nightmares where I can’t find her, and wake up screaming. I keep some Valium and a bottle of water near the bed and take a half when that happens.

  I have never brought up Finn’s smoking. I like knowing something about him that he doesn’t know I know. I like finding the bits of tobacco in his pockets or a cigarette or two in the glove compartment. Sometimes I mess with him by throwing them out. Michael was right. The only power worth having is secret power—how did he put it?—like having an ace up your sleeve or a gun in your boot.

  I bought a beautiful pair of Prada boots, by the way. Navy suede. They help keep that fantasy alive.

  Finn

  DID SIRACUSA CHANGE MY LIFE? Dorothy asked me at my first session when I couldn’t shut up about it.

  Found some good cheap reds. Finally got some respect from Taylor. Maybe it turned me into a dad. Gave me PTSD for sure. Tay says being worried about my kid all the time isn’t PTSD, it’s fatherhood and I’d resisted it.

  Jessa, who caught an eight-pound lobster while we were in Siracusa, wears her dad’s fraternity ring around her neck. He died a couple of years ago, and when she talks, she holds the ring and swings it. I think of Kathy when she does it—how she bounced onto that tour boat and waggled her finger with the forty-pound ring. The flashbacks cooled me on Jessa. You never know what’s going to turn off the heat.

  Sometimes late at night, after I close up my joint, I stop at St. Joseph’s and light a candle for her.

  Now and then I send Lizzie texts, a photo of a flounder, my big toe, something that will make her laugh, but she doesn’t answer. Eventually she will. I’ll wear her down.