Children of the Salt Road

by Lydia Fazio Theys

  “Do you study English at school?” Catherine says.

  “Yes, signora. They are too young, these three.” He explains that he and the others, all cousins, are here for yet another cousin’s birthday. “Angelica and Maria—they are silly. And not too polite. They want to hear how you sound. Like in the movies, maybe, they think. Or the TV. But now, they will stop bothering you because almost the cake of the party is ready for the eating. If their mammas see they are not sitting there—” He raises his hand to his mouth and bites the side of his index finger in an I’ll get you gesture that causes the girls to giggle. He turns and speaks to them, and they curtsy and run off, taking the littlest one with them. Before leaving, the older boy bows from the waist. “I hope you will enjoy to stay on our Sicilian island.”

  Mark grins. “That was hilarious. We had our own mini paparazzi there.”

  “Right? I kind of like being a celebrity. Even if our fan club is three five-year-olds and their ten-year-old keeper.”

  “When you first saw the boys, what was that look on your face?”

  “Oh. Did I have a look? I thought I recognized one of them at first, but I was wrong.”

  “We must look ridiculous if Giulia is watching right now.” Catherine struggles with her end of the kayak as she and Mark make their way from the house to the water’s edge. Despite their almost-comical clumsiness, they get the banana-colored boat into the water, and after some discussion of proper paddling technique, set off to explore the lagoon. The warm wind blows a few strands of hair into Catherine’s eyes, and Mark wishes he had a free hand to brush them away. It doesn’t take much to spur his desire to do something for her, to keep all the badness and sadness away from her forever.

  “Now, remember what Giulia said.” He looks stern. “Don’t let the bottom of the ship touch the ground.”

  “I knew it wasn’t deep, but this is crazy.” Catherine dips a hand into the water. “And I caught that ‘ship.’ It makes me wonder what wildly inappropriate Italian words I throw around every day.”

  “Let’s try to stay in the deeper part. Like over two feet.”

  “Aye-aye, Captain.” Catherine salutes and nearly loses one of her paddles.

  “Why am I the captain?”

  “Because the captain goes down with the ship, silly.”

  “The only way I could drown on this ‘voyage’ is to fall unconscious. Facedown.”

  Catherine looks over the side. “What’s that?” She points with one oar. “It’s awfully straight to be natural.”

  A long stone structure shimmers and wriggles beneath the clear water. It seems to continue as far as Mark can see. “No idea. Another question for Giulia.”

  They row awhile in silence before Catherine says, “You want to finish telling me about that place in Riposto?”

  “Sure. Let’s see. I told you about Roberto. Well, his land—and there’s a lot of it—is beautiful. ‘Beautiful’ with a capital B. Hell, I don’t know, maybe all capitals. Views of the sea in one direction and views of Mount Etna in the other.”

  “Must be amazing.”

  “And I mean views. It was honestly one of the most spectacular settings I’ve ever seen. It would make a great agriturismo. I’d love to see him be able to subsidize his lemon orchard that way.”

  “Mmmm. Lemon orchard. Must smell heavenly.”

  “It does. And he’s a nice guy. Raising two kids by himself. His mother helps.”

  “That reminds me. I keep meaning to tell you about something that’s been happening to me.”

  Mark stops rowing. “Happening to you? Are you OK?”

  “I’m fine. Just row. This is something kind of fun. That boy I saw watching us when we were looking at the studio? Well, he’s come back a half-dozen times, maybe more. Four years old, I’d say. Five, tops. He comes to the studio and watches me. I love that he keeps me company, but he’s like a little phantom. I never see him arrive, and I never see him leave.”

  “Can’t you, you know, keep your eye on him? Once he’s there?”

  “I know, right? That’s what’s so intriguing. I try to do that and I lose him anyway. The barn is enormous, and it has a lot of dark areas, but still. He even disappeared when I tried to point him out to Stefano Tosi.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “Not like poof away or anything. But he manages to be gone somehow.”

  “Well, I’m home for a few days now. There’ll be two of us to figure out where he goes. I think we can get to the bottom of it.”

  “I hope so. I’d like that.”

  Mark sits next to Catherine on Sandra and Kenneth’s couch. Dinner was pleasant enough, and now they wait while their hosts put the kids to bed. The evening has been a little awkward, but it’s important for Catherine to spend some time with other people, and she and Sandra seem to be hitting it off. Sandra’s some kind of writer, although she’s been a little cagey about specifics. But she does seem to understand the kind of work life Catherine leads.

  “I guess they really like coral.” Mark keeps his voice low as he points to a collection of half a dozen dark-edged, deep frames on the nearest wall. Each contains a coral branch, a tiny window framing a miniature coral tree. “What do you call those kinds of frames?”

  “Shadow boxes, I think. That really red coral is common around here. Great color.”

  Sandra returns from upstairs. “Valeria is already asleep. Claudio is reading in bed, and Kenneth should be down in a minute.” She sits and curls her legs underneath her. “Claudio’s nearly nine now and thinks he should pick his own bedtime—like midnight. But he’ll be unconscious in fifteen minutes.”

  “I predict ten.” Kenneth returns and sits. “He’s trying hard, but he’s losing the battle.”

  “Did you change Claudio’s name when you moved here, or do you just like Italian names? I love that name, by the way. Mark can tell you I’m crazy about Italian names.” Mark smiles to himself at Catherine’s clumsy attempt to make sure her question wasn’t insulting.

  “Oh, no.” Sandra’s smile is serene. “We adopted Claudio and Valeria here—together.”

  “I didn’t realize they were adopted. Not that it matters.” Catherine is squirming in her chair now. “So, they are biological brother and sister?”

  “They aren’t.” Sandra reaches for a chocolate from a bowl on the coffee table. “But they both needed a home, and it seemed to make sense. Giulia helped us.”

  “Giulia?” Catherine looks to Mark. He isn’t sure what to say, so he says nothing.

  “She helped us with a private arrangement. She knows everybody and everything. We stayed in the cottage you’re in when we first came here. Giulia and Assunta couldn’t have been nicer.”

  “I was wondering how you knew we didn’t have a phone.”

  “What about you guys?” Sandra passes the bowl of candy. “Do you want kids someday?”

  It irks Mark, as it always does, when someone invades his personal space with that question. What makes them think that’s acceptable?

  “Mark and I have certainly talked about it, but no conclusions yet.”

  “Oh, understood. I hope you don’t feel I was prying.”

  Mark can’t imagine what else you would call it, and his irritation is growing. “Well, why would we think that, Sandra?” He feels a little bad when Catherine shoots him what can only be called the evil eye. Maybe he shouldn’t have been quite so sarcastic, but either Sandra didn’t catch it, didn’t care, or is unnaturally controlled. His money is on the latter.

  Mark stands. “Hey, I just noticed the time. We really need to get going. Right, Cath? I have an early-morning meeting in Palermo.” He gives Catherine a look he’s pretty sure she gets, since her agreement is prompt and convincing. In the
car on the way home, however, she wants to know why.

  “Really? They were a little creepy, don’t you think? So—calm. Especially Sandra. And she’s weirdly smiley.”

  “They were a little stiff, but they seemed like nice people.”

  “Well, if you’re going to be spending time with Sandra, maybe you can find out more about how Giulia helped them buy the kids.”

  “Isn’t that a little strong? Giulia probably knows the families of all the unmarried pregnant girls around here and works out good homes for their children.”

  “Yeah? Claudio was at least five or six years old when they adopted him. So Giulia must know ‘young girls’ who are tired of their kids too.”

  FIFTEEN

  Catherine

  Catherine walks into the studio and takes in a sharp breath at the sight of someone sitting on one of her stools. It’s the boy, wearing the same clothes he always wears, his face as solemn as it always is. She approaches the table, slow and tentative, and sits next to him.

  “Have you been here all morning?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “All night?” She leans in a bit closer. “Are you hungry?”

  Catherine holds out the pastry she’s brought along for a midmorning snack. He accepts it. “You are a mystery.” Picking up pad and charcoal, she resumes work on a sketch in progress, pleased that he hasn’t left. Yet.

  She’s almost finished the sketch, and he hasn’t moved. “So do you have a name?” She stops drawing and peeks at him, hoping she looks friendly and interested, not creepy and prying. The boy reaches over and takes the charcoal from her hand. She can feel her heart pound, but she keeps her expression steady. Holding the charcoal in his fist the way a toddler might, he writes a letter N on the desk. He looks up at her, and she nods encouragement. Head down, his strokes slow and deliberate, he adds I C O. The charcoal breaks with a snap at the last second, and he freezes, fearful eyes darting up to hers, body tensed to run.

  “It’s OK. Don’t worry.” Catherine reaches out to touch his arm, but he backs away, so she stops. She points to the letters on the desk. “Is that your name—Nico?”

  He doesn’t react.

  “Well, I think it must be. Do you like to write, Nico? Or draw?” At the adjacent table, she picks up a large pad and scouts around in a box of jumbled supplies. “I have some pastels—crayons—here. Pretty colors. And a pad for your own.” She pulls the pastels from the box. “Would you like that?” But when she looks up, the stool is empty, and Nico is nowhere in sight.

  Catherine places the pad and pastels near the spot where the boy—Nico!—sat. A wide charcoal smudge is all that remains of the simple letters he’d written on the table.

  “Morning, Cath.” Mark comes in carrying two cups of coffee. Catherine runs her hand over the charcoal smear. “Did you see him?”

  “Who?”

  “Nico. The boy.”

  “You know his name now?”

  “You didn’t pass him on the way in?”

  “From your question, I guess I just missed him.”

  Over the last several days, Catherine has felt Nico growing less wary, even if he still manages—every time—to be gone when Mark arrives. Now Nico sits on the floor near Catherine, who is working in clay. Nico watches with what appears to be real interest, going so far as to approach at one point to touch the unused clay. The way he’d patted it with his whole hand and the hint of satisfaction on his face had been endearing, and the rush of tenderness she felt toward him had caught her off guard. Still, encouraging him to do more hasn’t been working, and he won’t answer any questions. Maybe he has no voice.

  Catherine reaches over for more clay and cuts off a very small piece, which she softens in her hand. Walking slowly to Nico, she holds it out to him. “For you.” She waits, exhaling only when he accepts it. After a few moments, he still sits, like a statue himself, clay in his fist. She makes stretching and pushing motions with her hands, then looks away to give him his space. When she glances up again, he is rolling the clay into a ball, flattening it, and rolling it again. She can feel herself beaming like a stage mother, but Nico’s face remains impassive.

  She brings him more clay. “Nico, can you make a statue of yourself? Can you make Nico from this clay?”

  He works with care, as if he’d been waiting for her to ask. When he finishes his crude self-portrait, Catherine gives him a thumbs-up. “That’s very good! Can you make me?”

  Nico works the clay, producing a comical figure who, judging from the triangular shape of her lower half, is indeed Catherine in her long, loose skirt. “And now, can you make Mark? I think you know who Mark is.”

  Nico molds the clay into a figure of a man. Catherine places the three figures in a line and smiles. Without warning, Nico jumps up, staring at the west doors. Catherine looks but sees nothing. She remembers a cat she had as a child that would leap up from sleep and stare into an empty room, eyes wide, scaring Catherine witless.

  “Do you see something, Nico? Hear something?” His eyes grow wider, and she turns again to follow his gaze, but the doorway is empty. “You’re scaring me.” Catherine looks back to Nico’s spot on the floor, but that’s empty too. The clay versions of Nico and Catherine stand side by side, but clay Mark is gone. Seconds later, Mark walks in.

  Mark had thought buying toys for Nico was crazy the other day, but they’re working out even better than she’d hoped. If only Mark could see for himself. He’s been home for more than a week, and no luck so far in getting him to meet Nico.

  Right now, Nico is playing with the farm-animal figures she’s given him. He’s so focused, Catherine’s not sure he realizes she’s sketching him. This, her third sketch of the day, would make a beautiful sculpture. “Nico?” There’s that tiny thrill every time she says his name. “Do you have any brothers and sisters?” He looks up at her, expression blank, then returns to his play.

  “Do you go to school yet?” She waits, then tries again. “You know your letters. Like a big boy. Or at least how to write your name. Someone must have taught you.” It’s eerie how he plays without making a sound or showing any trace of a smile.

  “Can you tell me one thing, Nico?” She pauses until he looks at her. So! He can be curious too. “Where do you come from?” Nico returns to his toys, and Catherine is trying to think of creative ways to ask the same old questions when she hears Mark’s voice outside.

  “Hey, Cath? Come on out.”

  “Please don’t go, Nico.” Her voice is soft and affectionate. “Don’t be afraid. Maybe some people have been mean to you, but you’ll like Mark if you only give him a chance.”

  She goes out the door to find Mark, Giulia, and Assunta standing next to a wooden cart holding a large rocking chair, a crisscross of ropes keeping it in place. She knows she should make polite greetings, ask how Giulia is and what brings her here, but she makes a swift decision to get right to the point. “Come in, please. You can meet Nico.” Giulia and Mark accompany Catherine into the barn, but Nico’s spot on the floor is empty. The toys are lined up, just as she left them for him to find this morning.

  “He’s gone. I can’t believe it.” Catherine looks to the toys on the floor, then to the door. Could he be hiding someplace in a dark corner of the barn? No point speculating. She’ll never find him if he is.

  “I’m sorry you are so disappointed, but maybe we will cheer you up.” Giulia points out the door. “We have a nice, soft chair so you do not have to sit all the time here on the hard stool. Come see.”

  Outside, Assunta still stands next to the cart. Catherine pats the thick corduroy fabric of the chair’s seat cushion. “You didn’t see him, did you, Assunta? A little boy?”

  Assunta shakes her head and walks beside Catherine and Giulia into the barn as Mark
carries the rocker.

  “Next time,” says Giulia.

  Mark sets the rocker down. “He doesn’t like the toys?”

  “He did. He does. He cleaned up before he . . .”

  “Disappeared?” says Mark. “That what you were going to say?”

  “I guess.”

  Mark walks over to Catherine and holds her in a tight bear hug. “Are you sure you’re not inhaling some fumes when you’re out here? A disappearing boy—who cleans up?”

  “What can I say?”

  “At least he didn’t take the toys with him—back to the fifth dimension.”

  “Mark, really. Stop. He’s shy.” She shakes him off.

  “Sorry. I thought you’d find it funny too. Come on. Try to let it go. We both know I have to see him sooner or later.”

  This last round of nightmares was another of those surreal, bruising revisits to the past—the greatest hits of ghastly, Mark once called them. She’d love to wake him. The wee small hours threaten to swallow you up when you’re alone. But Mark has a long drive ahead of him tomorrow. Resigned to yet another night on the couch waiting for sunrise, Catherine tucks her feet under the blanket Assunta crocheted for her and revisits events, as if one more rehash might make a difference.

  Had there been some hint, early on, that she’d missed? She’d had time—all those hours they worked together when she gave him extra help, all those dark canvases filled with turmoil. But although he was never rude, he never talked about his personal life or did more than hint at some problems. She’d thought her attention would be good for him, building his self-confidence and giving him more tools he could bring to bear on canvas, paper, and clay. And it had, to some degree. She should have anticipated that he would see their time together as an invitation to be friends. And nothing was wrong with that—at first. He was endearingly awkward about it, writing what he couldn’t say. The first casual notes in her mailbox, written on torn corners of notebook paper, suggested they meet for coffee after class or for lunch or for a new exhibit at MOMA or the Met. She’d always been polite and warm when she declined, saying it would not be appropriate. And maybe that was the mistake; maybe she should have left it at “No.”