Children of the Salt Road

by Lydia Fazio Theys

  “I’ll look forward to it, Gary. We both will.”

  “Catherine’s—she’s doing well?” Gary’s good. His voice conveys precisely the right combination of expecting a yes and assured understanding if the answer is no.

  “She is, Gary. She is.” Mark nods, probably more than he should. “She’ll be pleased that you asked for her.”

  NINE

  Seth

  October 1, 1992

  Dear Notebook,

  I can’t stop reading about that plane that crashed in Nepal this week. I went to a pawnshop and got a wrecked old TV so I can watch the news now too. It crashed right into a mountain. Everyone killed—167 people. Just bam and no more them. Like my family. I wonder if there was anyone like me. Maybe someone who didn’t get on the plane with the rest of their family. Left behind like me. Wondering why. Weird but it was the same airport that had another really big crash in July. Dr Whitmore told me I shouldn’t dwell on negative things like this. It’s what he calls unhealthy. He thinks I’m making good progress but I hope you never read this Dr W because the truth is I don’t tell you half of it. It wouldn’t help.

  There is some good stuff for a change. Prof Altimari likes my work. She’s fantastic. Her thing is sculpture, and she has a weird 3D way of looking at stuff that blows my mind. What she knows and sees—I think it could help me a lot. She started working with me during class and said I could come for extra help if I wanted to. I’ll be meeting with her Monday for the first time. I haven’t felt excited about anything like I do about this since before the fire. Karen has been seeing her for help for a couple of weeks now. Karen works right next to me in class so I know she was really good to start with and her work is improving already.

  Painting makes me feel alive for a while even though really I’m just dead inside most of the time. The thing is it doesn’t feel all that good to be alive. It’s like being wide awake with the flu or something. You’re better off sleeping through it and waking up when you’re better. I would do that if I was sure I would get better.

  TEN

  Catherine

  Trembling, hot all over, nauseated, Catherine pulls herself up from the depths of a nightmare. Far too many similar experiences tell her that if she looks in the mirror, her cheeks will be flushed. The dreams are back, and she had hoped—would have prayed if she believed there was anyone to pray to—that they’d been gone for good.

  Trying to sleep right now is worse than pointless, so she gets up and finds her robe. She’ll need it when the evaporating perspiration brings a chill to her hot skin. She fills a large glass with water and takes it to the window, where a few shreds of cloud show the faintest traces of predawn light. The sun won’t be up for a long time, so she sits on the couch, leans her head back, and holds the cool glass to her forehead.

  If only she’d been smarter, more aware of what was going on. Seth wasn’t the first confused or troubled student she’d ever taught. He might have been the first, though, who was so deeply talented as well. His demons, whatever they were, had informed his work, and unlike so many young students who had both the desire to say something important and the skills to do it, he had something real to say. There was nothing of the newly postadolescent about the emotions his work evoked. His paintings could be thrilling and painful, hard to take yet leaving you wanting more.

  And Seth had been far from her first student who needed extra guidance, nor was he the first she’d given it to. She had helped him after class hours and watched him grow. He was never at a loss for expressing sadness or terror with paint, charcoal, pencil, or clay, but she couldn’t say the same for words. Even after months, she’d learned precious little about what ugly thing in his life had made him who he was. That came later. If only she’d known more. Before . . . She’d tried to help, but it must have been too late. Or too little. Or maybe the whole debacle was her fault, plain and simple, because she couldn’t draw a line that needed drawing. She’ll never know. She has to learn to accept that.

  Catherine sits opposite Stefano Tosi, one of Italy’s most respected experts in bronze casting. She’s managed to do enough work to appear functional and legitimate, although most of it was from before the nightmares reappeared. Even if he did have other business along the way, Catherine appreciates his driving fourteen hours from Florence to see her. As a graduate student, she’d taken two of his courses and always hoped to work with him again. Now he sits in her studio, his back to the west doors. Judging from the fit, his charcoal suit, so at odds with the dirty hard-work nature of what he does, must be custom made. When he moves his arm, the sunlight shoots glints from his cuff links all around the space. His hair is salt-and-pepper now, making him even more distinguished, and his beard and mustache appear to have been trimmed at most half an hour ago. Even seated on these stools, legs crossed, the heel of one stylish black-leather boot hooked in perfect pose on the foot ring, Stefano manages to look elegant. Their conversation today has been satisfying and productive. Planning the next steps is under way.

  “I am happy to hear you still love Firenze, because I may very well have some projects we can work on together in the future. Does that interest you, Catherine?”

  “Very much. I even have some drawings I’ll show you. Some ideas we might collaborate on.”

  “Excellent. I can help you find an apartment there and help you get settled in when—if—the time comes. I think the stimulation and excitement of the city would be good for you after your nice vacation here. I think you will be very happy living again in Florence.”

  “That does sound wonderful, and I can’t wait to see your studio. Next month should be good. Right now, though, let me get those drawings.” Catherine goes over to a neighboring table and pushes piles of papers and drawings aside. “I don’t understand. They were right here last night.”

  “What I have in mind would be some bronzes. There is a museo—a big one—who wants reproductions of some fine works. And you would be suited to this, I think. And very pleased with the works when I am able to tell you about them. But for now . . .” He presses a finger to his lips.

  “Of course. I understand.” Catherine gives up on shuffling papers and moving sketch pads. Defeated, she tries to think of what to say about them. She’s not the neatest or most organized person in the world, and Stefano knows that. But she doesn’t want him to chalk this up to utter carelessness after he’s come so far to see her.

  She’s about to apologize when Stefano stands. “I’m afraid I have to go. But don’t worry. It can’t be easy working in a strange space. I think you have accomplished a great deal in a short time here. You can bring the drawings with you to Florence next month.”

  “I guess I’ll have to. With luck, I’ll have more plans ready to go then too. Or at least ready for you to critique.”

  “Excellent. And we should—”

  Behind Stefano, something catches Catherine’s eye, and she leans around him to spy the boy, standing silently a short distance away. She smiles. How long has he been there? She looks back to Stefano.

  “Sorry, but a little friend of mine has come in. He’s behind you.”

  Stefano turns and looks. “Where?”

  When she looks past Stefano’s shoulders again, the boy is gone. She can’t tell if she’s more flustered by the missing drawings or by what surely must seem like her imagination running wild. “He must have run out.”

  Stefano doesn’t seem concerned, so she acts as if nothing has happened. “Let me walk you to your car.”

  After wishing Stefano a safe trip, she returns to the barn, determined to find the drawings. In the middle of her methodical search of the table, she hears a rustling sound in one of the darker corners of the barn. When she looks up, she’s shocked to see a tiny snowstorm of large, irregular white flakes floating down onto the floor. Catherine knows without even
looking at them that they are her drawings. She gathers up the shredded remnants and looks up at the network of beams, rafters, and partial lofts. It’s hard to tell for sure where the papers could have come from—there are so many nooks and crannies, so many possibilities. And standing very still, holding her breath, she hears sounds, tiny sounds that could be mice or rats or birds—or who knows what lives here?

  She takes the papers to a table and examines them. They appear to have been clawed to bits. Or perhaps bitten. It had to have been an animal. It must have been. Although how the animal got the papers is something of a mystery. Or maybe it had been the child. He might have seen something he liked about them and taken them, leaving them in a spot that some sharp-clawed creature had discovered. Or, it’s possible—could he have overheard her say she wanted to show them to Stefano and felt jealous? In any case, the pile of paper bits is not in any way useful, so she scoops up the entire mess and brings it to the trash can against the far wall. When she turns back, the boy is standing in front of her.

  “Holy—! Where did you come from?” She places a hand to her chest to still her flip-flopping heart. “Did you do that?” She points to the trash barrel. Her voice is gentle. She’s far more puzzled than angry.

  He does not react in any way, and when Catherine hears a fluttering sound, she turns and sees behind her a single drawing sailing down from the rafters, riding a lazy zigzag on the soft breeze. When she looks back to the boy, he is, as she knew he would be, no longer there.

  ELEVEN

  Seth

  October 13, 1992

  Dear Notebook,

  I don’t know how I got so lucky that someone as good as Professor Altimari is interested in my work. How is that even possible? She opens up the studio after class hours and works with me one-on-one. It makes such a big difference. She asked us to call her by her first name too. That’s pretty cool but it’s hard to get used to thinking of her as Catherine. I can’t believe that she actually likes what I do. Yeah, she gets it. I don’t even know what to say about that. She just encourages me to let go and work free. I’m doing stuff I never would even try without her.

  But it stirs things up. Dr Whitmore thinks stuff like that is great. And when I tell him about it next month—if I go—I know what he’ll say. Yada yada yada, it makes me face things. Bullshit. I face it all the time. I can’t get away from it. I wonder what he’d say if I told him sometimes, I suddenly smell the fire. It happens once a day. At least. And the dreams won’t stop. The only good part is that in the dream sometimes it seems like the end is going to be different—like I’ll go home a day later or a week later. The worst is when it seems like I’m almost about to figure out what’s going on, like I know what’s coming. Because then I feel like maybe I can stop it before it happens. But it never works out. I’m sitting there at dinner with them—Mom, Dad, Amy. The kitchen looks totally normal. And I’m thinking, yeah, so we know you all die in a fire, right? But there’s time. Isn’t there? We can stop it. And I know they know too. They know they don’t have long to live and it doesn’t even seem like they think it’s wrong or anything. It’s just the way it is. I’m always trying to think how to stop it and they all seem to feel sorry for me. Them feeling sorry for me. That’s plain crazy.

  There was another big plane crash. This one slammed right into an apartment building in Amsterdam. Two engines fell off the damn wing, and the pilot lost control. What the hell? One engine falling off a wing is already pretty damn freakish, but two? 43 people dead. The whole world is like one big Stephen King story. Like there’s a laughing clown out there somewhere in charge of all this shit.

  By the way, Notebook, if you were paying attention, you saw I slipped something in up there. Yeah. I’m thinking of taking a vacation from the meds and Whitmore. Dr W isn’t a bad guy. But I don’t feel like he’s helping me much. I’m not sure he really gets me or what’s going on. Prof Alti Catherine does. If art is so good for me, why not try that? Art therapy is a big thing now, right? So I’ll be my own therapist. Especially if Catherine can help me.

  Total dead since I started keeping track

  Plane crashes: 501

  Natural disasters: 2155

  TWELVE

  Catherine

  It had been a harrowing night of dreams and self-recriminations, and today Catherine has renewed her determination to move forward, concentrating on good things. On the list of positives is yesterday’s tantalizing offer from Stefano and Mark’s return from the road tomorrow. But it’s the prospect of seeing the boy again today that excites her most. Still somewhat spooked by yesterday’s incident with the shredded drawings, she’s decided that a bird of some kind must have stolen her drawings, the way that crows steal shiny things. For their nests or whatever it is birds do. She’ll have to remember to ask Giulia about it.

  Right now, she’s in a small market in the center of Macri to pick up a few necessities. The wood floor is worn into irregular undulations, throwing Catherine a hair off-kilter as she walks around, much as if she were on a boat. She is looking at a bin of outsize yellow fruits thinking, Lemon, orange, or grapefruit? when a woman pushing a stroller stops beside her. “They’re lemons. Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Her smile is mellow, warm, and amused. “Hi, I’m Sandra. You must be Giulia’s new guest.”

  “Hi.” How does she know? “Yes. And I guess I’m—well, glaringly American.”

  She laughs. “It was only a matter of time until we ran into each other. I know everyone who shops here, and you’re new. Plus, the monster lemon has thrown you for a loop, so I figured you haven’t been here all that long.”

  “You’re right. I’m Catherine.” She squeezes to the side of the narrow aisle to let another shopper pass. “Do you know Giulia?”

  “I do. For several years now. In fact, she told me all about you, and I’ve been meaning to get in touch and invite you and your husband to join my husband and me for dinner one evening. American expats in Macri—not a very big group, so it might be nice to trade notes.”

  “That sounds lovely, although we’re hardly what you’d call expats.”

  “Well, who knows?” She smiles. “Maybe you’re expats in the making. We didn’t start out intending to stay, but here we are.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Originally from Iowa. Yeah, I come by this corn-fed look honestly. But in my heart, I feel like I’ve always been from right here.” She leans over the baby in the stroller and blocks her enthusiastic attempts to pull packets of bright-colored sponges from the shelves. She straightens back up. “We came on our honeymoon the first time. With a tour group—you know, as many cities as you can cram into a week and still have some hope of knowing where you are?”

  Catherine laughs. “And they came here?”

  “Oh, heavens no! But we did, the next year. An anniversary trip. And that’s when I fell in love with the figs.”

  “Sounds like there’s a story here.”

  “Oh, there is. But I truly have to go right now. Listen, can I give you a call tomorrow? We can work out a time for you and your husband to come over, and we’ll tell you all about it over dinner, OK?”

  “Um—sure. You’ll have to call me at the main house because—”

  “I know. No phone in the guesthouse. Would around eleven tomorrow be good?”

  “Sure.” The two women walk through the four aisles together. The modern stroller is far too wide for the space, yet every customer makes way for it. As Catherine has noticed before in other small Italian towns, a parent with a stroller, usually a mother, receives singular deference, something just this side of royalty. Catherine stops, looking at a display of cookies.

  “I don’t know if you’re a fan of hazelnuts or not, but these—” Sandra picks up a red box and leans in to whisper. “These are the devil’s own cookies.”


  Catherine studies the cookies and on impulse puts two boxes into her small wagon.

  There is a curious note of conspiracy in Sandra’s smile. “I think you’ll be glad you got those.” She leans down to offer a pacifier to the baby, who has started to fuss. “Valeria, sweet, it’s OK. We’re leaving now.” She turns to Catherine. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

  Catherine isn’t sure what to make of Sandra as she watches her walk toward the front of the store or how she ended up accepting a dinner invitation from a perfect stranger. Placing her few grocery items on the ancient counter, Catherine is lost in thought when she feels a light touch on her hand. She looks to see that the improbably tiny elderly woman behind the counter wants her attention. Her smile is wide and approving as she holds up one of the red boxes of cookies and nods her head in enthusiastic approval. Patting Catherine’s hand, she squeezes it once before continuing to add up the items. Why is anyone so interested in her shopping choices? Oh well, it’s one of the things about life in a tiny village that must take some getting used to.

  Carrying a large tray out to the studio, Catherine is armed with coffee, fruit, a sandwich, and some of the cookies she bought that morning. She’s not at all sure what came over her, buying two boxes. Wisely, she’s left all but two of the chocolate-hazelnut biscuits in the kitchen.

  Catherine is reshaping the armature for a small statue when a soft scuffling catches her attention. Heart pounding, she turns all the way around to find the boy watching her. She stays casual, smiling once and returning to work. Under her breath she says, “Why are you always behind me, huh?” and her heart races again when she sees him, in her peripheral vision, move up closer, the closest he has ever come. Again she smiles and nods once toward a stool before ignoring him, or at least appearing to ignore him. When he sits on the floor, cross-legged and cautious, she gives a silent cheer. He’s the butterfly landing on her finger, the fawn eating from her hand. She can be patient. She works in quiet.