“Can I help you?” Lily said through the door.
“Yea - I’m a friend of Joe Diotallevi’s,” said the voice. “I need to have a word with him - do I have the right house?”
The man said “Diotallevi” correctly on the first try, but it seemed odd that a friend would use Joe’s last name at all. Besides, any of Joe’s friends would know that he was at work at this time of the day. Lily’s first inclination was to tell the man that he did not have the right house, but then she feared he would go knocking on Donna’s door, and she was bound to tell him that he had it right the first time. He didn’t look like the sort of man that liked being lied to. Besides, he gave her the creeps. Lily considered telling him that Joe couldn’t come to the door right then, so he wouldn’t know that she was home alone with the children. But if she told him that Joe was there but not available, he might ask to wait.
“I’m sorry,” Lily said finally. “He’s at work.” The man’s countenance was unnerving. Her heart pounded. All she cared about was getting him off her doorstep and away from her house.
“He’s at work, huh?” The man swiped his nose with the back of his hand.
“Yes, that’s right,” said Lily. “My brother is here with me,” she added. “Is there anything he can do for you?” She was stronger now, but she wasn’t strong enough to handle this guy. She was pretty sure God would forgive the lie.
“No, that’s OK,” said the man. He took a step back and leaned toward the living room window, cocking his head first to the left and then to the right. Lily was glad she’d started pulling the curtains closed after dinner. The man finally turned, walked across the lawn, and got into the car through the passenger door. Lily stood watching the distorted image of the car in the street, looking like it was miles away, yet feeling like it was parked on her chest. Please leave, please leave, please leave.
After several minutes, the car pulled away and disappeared down the street. Lily grabbed a cigarette, matches, and an ashtray from the kitchen and returned to her post at the front door, watching in case the car returned, trying to devise a plan for what she would do if it did. She smoked three cigarettes, lighting each one off the butt of the previous one, before her heart slowed down and she felt that it was safe to stop watching.
“Mommy - “ Joseph poked his head out from under the table. “What time is daddy coming home?”
“Oh, my God,” Lily was struck with the realization that she had never called to tell Joe about the man. To warn him?
“He’ll be here soon, my love,” said Lily. “Would you like a fruit roll-up?”
“Yay - fruit roll up!” cheered Joseph.
Lily pulled a foil wrapped treat from a box in the cupboard over the sink and handed it to Joseph. “Help your brother open his, OK? Now go on back into the fort and don’t come out until Daddy gets here, OK? You can surprise him.”
Lily picked up the phone and frantically pounded out the number to the La Casa Bella.
“Good evening, thank you for calling La Casa Bella, where your beautiful home is our business!”
“Hi, Monica, it’s Lily. Is Joe around?”
“Hi, Lily - let me check.”
An instrumental version of “Feelings” played over the phone line.
“Lily? I know he was here a few minutes ago, but now I can’t find him.”
“Can you page him?”
“Sure. Hold on.” She didn’t return until the second verse finished. “He didn’t answer, Lily. Can I have him call you?”
A wave of nausea roiled Lily’s fear. She shouldn’t have waited to call him. Why hadn’t she called him?
“That’s OK, Monica. It’s fine. He’s probably already on his way home.”
Lily returned to her spot by the front door, this time waiting for her husband’s car to pull safely into the driveway. When it finally did, Lily heaved a sigh that was mostly of relief, yet was tinged with a trace of something else. Something that resembled disappointment. She busied herself at the stove, warming up the lentil soup for Joe’s dinner.
When Joe entered the kitchen, Joseph leapt out at him from under the blanket.
“Daddy!” cried Joseph. “Oh, no - Daddy! What happened to your face?”
Lily spun around to find Joe standing in the middle of the kitchen, directly under the lamp of the ceiling fan. His bottom lip was split and marked with congealed blood. His left eye was red and swollen shut. The pocket of his suit coat was ripped. Except for a gasp that escaped, Lily remained silent, not wanting to frighten the children.
“What are they still doing up?” Joe shouted at Lily.
“Did you get a boo-boo, Daddy?”
“Yes, Daddy got a boo-boo,” said Joe. “Now take down your fort and go to bed.
“How did you get your boo-boo Daddy?”
“At work. Take down the fort and go to bed,” Joe yelled.
“But we’re having birthday cake, Daddy,” cried Joseph. “We’re going to have a party!”
Joe grabbed Joseph by the wrist and slapped the back of his leg with such force that his feet lifted off the ground. Joseph wailed.
“Joe!” cried Lily, scooping Pierce up into her arms and pulling Joseph to her side.
“I said take down the fuckin’ fort and go to bed!” He grabbed the blanket and pulled it from the table in one motion, then he picked up a kitchen chair and threw it across the room. When it hit the wall, it knocked a mug off the shelf, which shattered as it hit the floor. Wishes jumped out from under the table and with a growl she nipped at the cuff of Joe’s pants. “Get outta here, you goddamn mutt!” shouted Joe. He shook his foot loose, kicking Wishes in the head, sending her running from the room with her tail tucked between her legs, and sending Joseph and Pierce into a joint fit of hysteria.
“Joe – stop! You’re scaring us!” Joseph encircled Lily’s waist with his arms and buried his wails in her belly. “C’mon sweetie, let’s get you up to bed. It’s OK – Daddy just needs a little alone time.”
After settling the kids to sleep, Lily found Joe lying on their bed, still dressed in his suit.
“They’re finally quiet,” she said. “I had to read ‘Mother, Mother, I Want Another’ five times before they settled down.”
Joe did not respond.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?”
“I need you to come down to work to sign some papers tomorrow.” Joe was staring at the ceiling.
“What for?”
“I need to get a new loan.”
“Another one? Joe, we can barely make the payments on the ones we have.”
Joe covered his face with his hands and began to sob. Lily sat on the bed next to him. He reached out and pulled her down to himself, hugging her head and shoulders against his chest as he sobbed. Lily wanted to tell him about the man who came to the door, about how she could have called him, but how she became so scared she didn’t think of it until it was too late. She wondered if that also fell under the category of protecting him from unnecessary exposure to worldly irritants.
Joe loosened his belt buckle and unbuttoned his pants with his right hand. Lily heard him lower his zipper as he used his left hand to push her head down toward his crotch.
“What are you doing, Joe?”
Joe reached into his boxer shorts and took his erect penis into his hand. He urged Lily’s face toward it.
“Joe – Joe – no, not now... let’s talk. I want to talk to you. We need to talk.”
“Just do it,” he said, clenching the back of her neck in the grip of his left hand, and separating her lips with the tip of his penis. “I need you to.”
Tears came to Lily’s eyes as he thrust himself against the back of her throat, pushing her guilt and fear and shame back down inside.
13. Iris
Whenever she thought back on it, Iris marveled at how little her status at the Grand Hotel Stella di Levante was affected by the termination of her affair with Claudio Olona. Any worries that his bruised male ego might lash out a
t her in the form of unwarranted criticism or restrictions of her role had proven totally unfounded. He continued to authorize her business trips, and still insisted she stay at the very best hotels in order to remain abreast of the latest trends and stay aware of the level of luxury he - and their guests - expected of the Stella di Levante.
Any illusions that Claudio would suffer inordinately on a sentimental level had evaporated as quickly as the tears of anxiety that dampened Iris’s cheeks the day she summoned her courage and blurted out that she could no longer risk jeopardizing her marriage and must end their relationship. Claudio had taken note of her decision with the aplomb possessed only by those who do not bog themselves down with weighty emotions; he simply squeezed her arm reassuringly and said not to fret: he understood completely. The frequency and duration of his visits to the hotel dwindled with time, leading Iris to suspect he had found a suitable replacement in whom to vest the dubious honor of keeping his marriage afloat by providing him with the things that Signora Olona did not.
Although Iris had not expected a man as refined and self-possessed as Claudio to try and sway her with menacing threats or pathetic supplication, she had not anticipated such impassivity. The wave of relief that swept over her when the affair was pronounced over was followed by one of bewilderment, then one of anger. It incensed her to think that by not suffering, he was, in effect, making her suffer, even though she was the one who had left him.
Gregorio’s predictability and steadfastness were instrumental in redirecting his secretly wayward wife’s haywire emotions into their predefined channels. Though unaware of the beneficial effect he exerted on Iris at that stage of their marriage, Gregorio reaped its rewards. Iris still kept long hours at the hotel (she would throw herself from the Terrazzo del Cielo rather than give Claudio cause to reprimand her) but rushed home with renewed zeal each evening to fulfill her wifely duties. She prepared the bland meals her husband preferred, and actually felt a surge of pride when he interrupted his viewing of the evening news, or his recapitulation of his day at the hospital to compliment her on the boiled rice or poached fish. Routine consoled her, and there was no better place to find it than right at home. Each evening after brushing her teeth and flossing, she climbed into bed and closed her eyes in silent prayer, thanking God for the serenity Gregorio provided, and for his blissful ignorance of her past folly. It was enough that God knew, and it was to Him that she asked for forgiveness. It wasn’t a bad marriage, even if it was a little boring, she often commented to herself as she propped her weary back against her fluffy pillows and opened to the bookmarked page of her latest novel. And with so many books to read, there was no reason she couldn’t make it last forever. After all, wasn’t that what she had vowed to do at the altar?
Things improved at work, also; Iris soon realized that without Claudio constantly distracting her, she was more focused on her objectives, and less likely to overlook any of the numerous details involved with the day-to-day operations of the hotel. The duties and intensity of her work load varied, as low seasons blossomed into high seasons, and all seasons faded into years, while Iris soaked up experience and knowledge, gaining confidence and credibility. As time passed, she remained committed to proving her valor as second-in-command, but found that the more she put into the job, the less Direttore Parodini needed to. Claudio continued complaining about him, in the same half-tolerant, half-affectionate way she had heard him complain about his wife, but that didn’t mean he really wanted to eliminate either from his life, which in turn meant that Iris would never make the leap from Assistant Manager until the Direttore retired, and that would not happen for at least another ten years.
Iris felt a strong sense of allegiance toward the Grand Hotel Stella di Levante, even toward Claudio and Direttore Parodini, just as she had toward her previous employers. It wasn’t only a matter of their significance in her life or the importance of her role; loyalty and duty had been part of her upbringing and were traits of her character (despite the occasional slip-up). Nonetheless, she sometimes longed for a new challenge, in a new place. One little voice inside her (the one planted there by Gregorio), urged her to stay put and relax in the comfort of a secure job and familiar environment from which, save for emergencies, she was guaranteed Sundays off, while another little voice argued that she had learned all she could and advanced as far as possible at the hotel, that the predictability of her days at work was starting to bore her, and that boredom was one thing she could find without even leaving the house. Comparable positions at the other prestigious hotels on the coast were held by the same stale generation of men cut from the same rusty mold as Parodini, who had no intention of budging their butts from their nicely padded swivel chairs, and for Iris seeking employment at a hotel in another part of Italy was obviously out of the question. Iris listened to both voices, made her evaluations, and decided nothing.
One Sunday afternoon following family dinner, an emergency summoned Gregorio to the Policlinico. Iris was trying to decide how to spend this windfall of free time, but the familiar twitching in her restless muscles told her that her legs had plans of their own; she washed the dishes, changed, and snuck out the door. Her favorite jogging path led her up the hill to the Via Aurelia and along the high road to San Rocco, where she ran in the shade of umbrella pines while enjoying the spectacular view of the Golfo Paradiso, from Camogli all the way to Genoa and Savona and beyond. She jogged for a full hour, but fantasized herself as some female Forrest Gump in Italy, running on and on and never stopping until she had toured the length of the west coast all the way down to Calabria, circled the toe of the boot, run up the heel, and back north along the Adriatic coast. She would like to run until she had nowhere else to go, and nothing else from which to flee. Instead, she circled back down the path home, where she found the gate locked, and no answer to the bell. She vaguely remembered that at some point during the dinner table conversation, a comment had filtered through to her constantly wandering mind regarding a plan to take the boys to Recco for an ice cream; since only five could ride in the car, Isabella and Cinzia had probably thought themselves clever, and snuck out with the three boys, not knowing she was gone.
“Shit, shit and double shit,” Iris muttered as she rattled the locked gate, swearing in English and sweating in Italian.
“Trouble?” someone asked from behind her. Iris turned around to face a slender, smiling woman in a silky, powder blue warm-up suit.
“Looks like I got locked out,” Iris said, still panting. She wondered who the woman was and where she had come from. Not too many people just happened to walk by the Leale villa, stuck way up there on top of the hill.
“Sometimes these things happen for a reason,” the woman said. Who was this friendly philosopher, and where had she come from? Iris was curious. “My name’s Beatrix” the woman said, as if reading her mind. “Would you like to call someone, or drink a glass of water? I live right next door.”
“Next door? I’m sorry, I’ve never seen you around,” Iris said, wiping the back of a hand across her dripping brow.
“Yes, right behind that twelve-foot wall of laurel hedge that surrounds your property. What are you people hiding from, anyway? Doesn’t that make you claustrophobic? But there I go again, transferring my phobias to other people, instead of minding my own damn business.” Beatrix rolled her perfectly made-up eyes and waved a hand in front of her tanned face. “Getting back to why you’ve never seen me: I just rented this place. I spend most of my time in Milan.” Accustomed to the reticence of the Ligurians, Iris was amused by the bits of unsolicited information being tossed in the air like corn popping in an uncovered pot. She caught each one, and gathered more of her own: the expensive brand name embossed on the breast of the woman’s jacket, the matching sweatpants, the spiffy sneakers sporting the designer logo of two interlocked C’s. She really knew how to dress for a walk, Iris thought, feeling like a slob in her grey gym shorts, faded T-shirt and beat-up running shoes, but she had never seen the point in s
quandering money on clothes she was only going to sweat in.
“Walking in the fresh air is supposed to work wonders for me, so they say, but nothing’s happened so far. Except of course meeting you. That is, if you plan on telling me your name.”
“Yes, I’m sorry, it’s Iris.”
“Well, are you coming, Iris?” the woman said, starting to walk away, obviously grateful for the excuse to interrupt her walk.
“Sure, thanks,” Iris said, falling into step next to her. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure I got your name right. Did you say Beatrix or Beatrice?”
“You say that an awful lot.”
“Say what?”
“That you’re sorry. I couldn’t help but notice. Anyway, it’s Beatrix, as in Beatrix Potter. My mother was English, from the Lake District, and she grew up on Potter’s stories. My first doll was Peter Rabbit. The first cup I drank from had Peter Rabbit on it. I went to sleep in a room decorated with Peter Rabbit wallpaper. And now my shrink wants to know why I can’t relate to men. Maybe it’s because I’ve never found one with a fluffy tail beneath his coat.”
“I love Peter Rabbit! Oh, and how about Flopsy, Mospy and Cottontail? My mother used to read us all those stories when we were small.” Iris’s memory hopped up onto that old sofa of her childhood and snuggled up close to the warm, soft mother she shared with Lily and a couple of little brothers who squirmed and wriggled on her lap, as they settled in for a cozy read, amid the sucking of thumbs and the calming cadence of their mother’s voice.
In her new neighbor’s kitchen, Iris gratefully accepted a glass of cold water, while Beatrix lit up a cigarette, and immediately launched into conversation, as if with an old friend she hadn’t seen for years. Beatrix revealed that she worked as a freelance headhunter, and that her therapist had suggested she temper her multiple Milanese neuroses with ample doses of the sunny Ligurian climate and countryside, from where she planned to work a few days a week.
The Complete Series Page 88