by Joanne Lewis
Chapter Twenty-four
Filippa moved slowly, leaned her bike by the front door and quietly walked into the house. Destination, her room.
“Where have you been? It’s almost nine o’clock. I was about to call the police.”
She kept her head down and tried to slip past Grandpa Raj.
He grabbed her arm. “Filippa. I asked you a question. Where have you been?”
She looked up at him.
He gasped, started to touch her face but then withdrew his hand. “What happened?”
“I, uh, was mugged.”
“What? Where?”
“On my way home from class. Two boys … and a girl, I think. I don’t remember. I want to go to bed.”
“I have to call the police. We need to put ice on your eye and cheek. Is anything broken?”
“No. I’m okay. I need to rest. Please don’t call the cops. I don’t remember what they looked like.”
He let go of her arm. She padded softly to her room and sank into her bed, under the covers. Grandpa Raj entered the room a few minutes later and helped her sit up. He tucked the blanket around her, put Ellie next to her and placed a tray on her lap. He filled two tea cups with hot water.
“How come you never tell me stories about Ellie the Elephant and Dr. Rajah anymore?” Filippa asked.
“I thought you were too old for them.”
She took a tea cup and tilted it under Ellie’s nose.
“Sometimes, I wish I was a little girl again.”
Grandpa Raj cleared his throat then spoke with a South African accent. It was the voice of Dr. Rajah.
Ellie the Elephant stomped her feet and lifted her trunk high into the air, letting out a roar that sounded throughout the entire jungle.
“What’s wrong?” Dr. Rajah asked.
“I’m frustrated,” she said. “I have so much responsibility in the jungle. I have to watch over everyone. Linda is always losing her cubs. The Silly Monkeys are always being … silly. Mr. Tiger is losing his memory. And Mousey Mouse is always getting into trouble.”
“They are lucky to have you to turn to.”
“And I am lucky to have them as friends. But sometimes …”
“What?”
“I want to be irresponsible.”
“Then do it. Be irresponsible. Start now. Go.”
She trotted forward, then turned and walked back to Dr. Rajah. “How do I be irresponsible?”
“Well, when your friends need you, you’re busy doing something else. If you say you’re going to be somewhere, you don’t show up. You make fun of the Silly Monkeys. And if Mr. Tiger can’t remember something, you laugh.”
Ellie thought for a moment. “Okay,” she said, “I can do that.” She trotted off.
Dr. Rajah counted softly to ten. As he got to number eight, Ellie ran to him as if being chased by a poacher. Dr. Rajah grabbed his rifle.
“What, Ellie? What’s wrong?”
“I don’t want to be irresponsible. I like helping people. I like …”
Grandpa Raj stopped telling the story.
Filippa opened her eyes, narrow into two slits. “I’m not sleeping.” She took a sip of her tea, then looked at Ellie’s cup. She touched her nose to Ellie’s trunk. “You drank all your tea. You’re a good elephant.”
Other than her red hair, Filippa felt average. Average height, build, and intelligence.
Maybe there were some things that set her apart from the others in her high school, like her stupid-ass-jerk-off boyfriend. How many tenth grade girls could say they had twenty-two year old boyfriends? And how many would admit their older boyfriends beat them regularly?
She squeezed Ellie then felt under the bed. The shoebox was there with the pipe and baggie inside. Did she dare light up a bowl now? With Grandpa Raj in the house? Her family wasn’t average that was for sure. Most of the kids in her school had a mother and father. One of the eleventh graders had two dads. A few were raised by their grandparents or aunts and uncles. Some had dads in the military. Okay, maybe her family life wasn’t that different.
She rolled on to her back and threw Ellie into the air, caught her, tossed her up again. She was an artist. Not a lot of the kids could draw like her. But she went to the talent show last week and many could dance and sing and play instruments.
She touched her nose to Ellie’s trunk. “How are you different? Where is your family? How come Dr. Rajah never tells stories about your mother?”
She flung Ellie across the room, the elephant crashing into her makeup mirror then bouncing to the carpet. Filippa reached under the bed and pulled out the box. She lit the pipe and inhaled deep, so deep, into the depths of her soul.
She rolled on to her side and curled her legs to her chest. “Why did you have to leave me, mommy? I never even got to meet you.”
She reached to her night stand, opened the top drawer and took out the tightly folded envelope.
Chapter Twenty-five
A mighty roar covered the sky. Dolce and Andrea turned, braced for the attack.
“What was that?” Dolce’s voice quivered.
“A hungry she-wolf. I have heard them many times in my sleep.”
Dolce looked at the gate, barely able to discern the silver and gold etching on the gilded bars. She looked in the opposite direction, away from Firenze and into the infinite darkness. She knew Il Poderino was out there, although in the dark and with fear smoldering from her pores, she couldn’t say where.
She squinted. “What’s that?” She sloshed through muck and crouched in front of a sign hung crooked on a post.
“Can you read it?” Andrea asked.
“Barely. Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate.” She shuddered.
“Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. It’s Dante.”
“From Commedia,” Dolce said. “Should we go back inside the gates?”
“We can’t,” Andrea said. “Not until sunrise.”
“If we are alive by then.” Dolce huddled near Andrea.
“What if in the morning the police still want to arrest me?” Andrea asked.
“What if in the morning my father still wants me to return to Il Poderino?”
“I will be tortured in a public arena until I have no more breath.” Andrea said.
“And I will be tortured in a private arena until I have no more will.”
“Then we have no choice,” Andrea said. “We must go and never return.”
The she-wolf howled again, louder, closer.
“We will not survive,” Dolce said. “I have heard stories of those who leave Firenze and return with their skin dripping from their bones as if melted wax. Not only their florins and possessions taken by thieves but their hearts eaten by wild animals and their souls stolen by Satan.”
“Pippo has told me the same.”
“You are Andrea,” she confirmed. “The one they call Il Buggiano?”
“Yes, that is where I was born.”
“Then you … Years ago. I was being chased by parchment makers and you …”
Andrea drew a slight smile. “Ah, yes. I remember. You are still running, I see. And what is the line of your blood that makes you so swift of foot?”
“I am a Gaddi.”
“You should be proud. Are you an artist like the great Taddeo and Agnolo?”
“Like Pippo, I am an architect.”
Andrea smiled broadly. “I know of no woman who is an architect.”
“And I know of no sodomite who is better than a woman,” she spat.
“I am not a sodomite.”
“Then why were the police chasing you?”
“I stole bread.”
“You would rather be deemed a thief than a sodomite? Have it your way.” Dolce walked toward the wall.
“What are you doing?”
“I am going to find a way over or around this wall. We will be dead by morning. I would rather rot on my father’s farm than die out here at the side of a liar.”
“I may be a
liar but it is not of my choosing,” Andrea said. “It should be no crime to follow your heart. And I have been punished enough for what I can’t help but be.”
The she-wolf howled again, then yelped and ran away. A tall, shadowy figure moved through the darkness and toward them.
Andrea stepped in front of Dolce. “Who goes there?”
“I am Hell,” the short, toothless one said.
The tall, bearded one leaned closer. “And I am Purgatory.”
A grey cloud shifted and a sliver of moonlight shot down from the sky. Andrea and Dolce took a step back. The men circled.
Andrea puffed out his chest. “Let the girl be.”
Hell put his face close to Dolce. “I know this whore. In fact, I have had her.”
“As have I,” Purgatory laughed.
Dolce looked away.
“You owe us money, whore.”
“Yes. We overpaid. You were the worst.”
“Give us your money.”
“I do not have any,” Dolce said.
“Then you, Pippo’s son, what do you have to save the girl?”
Andrea dug into his pockets. “I have three florins.”
Hell scoffed. “That is not enough.”
“I can get more. In the morning. When the gates open.”
“You will not be alive for Firenze to welcome you home.” Purgatory ran his fingers over Andrea’s cheek then grabbed his hair and pushed him to the ground. He hit Andrea in the face. The men fell end-over-end, wrestling, punching, and scratching.
Dolce kicked Hell, sending him reeling. He regained his balance then threw Dolce down. Dirt filled her mouth as he fell on top of her. She clawed at his eyes, spit in his face, jumped up and ran to the gate. Desperate, she cried for help. She looked back and saw Andrea on the ground, Purgatory over him.
Hell ran toward her. Dolce screamed louder. Hell grabbed her by the neck, threw her down, and crushed her nose with his shoe.
Dolce’s head spun. Her nose throbbed. She tasted mud and blood and bone chips. Her stomach churned and vomit spewed. She slowly rolled over, her head pounding. Hell was now holding Andrea down. Purgatory banging against him. With blood in her eyes, she could barely see. She tried to speak, to yell for help, but her voice was weak.
Thick hands lifted her. Through tangled hair, she saw large breasts and thick whiskers.
“There is a hole at the far end of the wall.” The gypsy woman pointed. “You can squeeze through.”
“But my friend …” Dolce said.
“No one can help him.”
The gypsy pulled her by the arm, toward the wall. Dolce stumbled then ran beside her. About to slip through, she stopped, turned back.
“No,” the gypsy yelled.
Powered by a war-like cry, she ran to Andrea, knocked Purgatory off of him with all her might and weight and ferociously kicked Hell in the neck, feeling the scrunch of his shattering throat under her foot. She grabbed Andrea by the arm and led him through the opening in the wall.
Chapter Twenty-six
As the automatic doors to the hospital opened and the air conditioning mixed with the heat steaming from Filippa’s pores, she considered turning back. She was scared to see Buddy. She had no idea how he looked, what he was feeling, how she was going to feel when she saw him. He had cancer. And not just any cancer. Cancer in his brain. Her Buddy. Her little Buddy. What did he look like with cancer? How would he smell? What was she supposed to say to him? How could she be strong for him?
She stepped back and the automatic doors closed. She stepped forward and they opened again. Two more times and she was still on the outside.
“Are you okay?” A man wearing light blue hospital scrubs asked.
She nodded and watched him walk into the hospital. She wanted to ask him to tell her what to do. Can I handle seeing Buddy like this? Can I be a good mother to him? She had no reference of what it was like to have a mother. How was it possible she could ever know what it meant to be a good mother?
She hesitated then summoned all of her will. This was something she had to do. She walked in, checked his location with the volunteer at the front desk and made her way to the pediatric cancer wing, room 224. Her heart was aching. Tears caught behind her eyes. A lump lodged in her throat. What parent didn’t dread that first moment seeing his or her child with a serious illness or injury? She stopped in front of his room, took a deep breath and walked in. There were two beds. She looked at both of them, both occupied with frail bodies covered by stark white sheets. Buddy wasn’t in either bed.
She looked at the door, at the room number. 224. She was sure that’s what the volunteer had told her. In the room, machines blipped and burped. Lights flickered and flashed. The smell of ammonia assaulted her nose. She felt confused, again. Like when she had first gone home with Julio from the halfway house and all the furniture had been sold. That had only been a couple of hours ago but felt like forever. Where was her Buddy?
And then a small voice asked, “Lippa?”
She looked down, at the bed in front of her. With the sheets pulled high up to his chin, there he was. Buddy. Her Buddy. Right, that was Buddy? Wasn’t it? Barely there under the sheet? His face so drawn. His body frail. His head round and bald. His eyes dull and tired and scared.
Tears ran down her cheeks. She tried to stop them. To act brave. To be brave. Yes, it was Her Buddy. Sick, with cancer. She ran to him, threw her arms around him, nuzzled her nose into his neck. She felt her tears drop on to his cheek. She smelled antiseptic, she smelled illness, and she smelled death. Just like in prison. Ammonia and death. That futile cleaning agent that couldn’t get rid of the stink no matter how hard she scrubbed.
Buddy grabbed for her. His hands so small around her back, on her face. She pulled away after several moments to look at him, just look. She studied him like a fine piece of art, her masterpiece. Blue veins in his skin cut in all directions like a maze. His lips were chapped. His breathe sweet like her favorite chocolate bar.
“I love you, Buddy,” she said.
“I love you, Lippa.”
She cried again.
Buddy patted her back and comforted her. “It’s okay. I’m going to be fine.”
She sniffed, then reached for a tissue next to his bed and blew her nose. She pulled out another tissue and wiped her eyes.
“I didn’t bring you anything,” she spoke this realization out loud.
“You’re here. That’s enough.”
She cried again, happy and sad tears mixed like in a well written story. She ran her hand over his head. “I like the new look.”
He smiled. “Bald is beautiful. I need you to promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“My dad won’t do it but I know you will. I want to know the truth about my cancer. Promise you will always tell me the truth.”
She pulled a chair near the bed and released a long, heavy sigh. Filippa wasn’t so sure she wanted to know the truth about Buddy’s cancer. She took his hand and brought it to her cheek. She rested there for a moment then looked up at him.
“I promise.”
In the hospital over the next few weeks, Filippa read Grandpa Raj’s letters and journal entries to Buddy and showed him drawings of Filippa Village. She read from Grandpa Raj’s copy of Vasari’s Lives of the Artists until Buddy fell asleep. And when he woke, his eyes barely open, he would ask her to tell him more. More about Grandpa Raj and Frank Sinatra and Bob Dylan. More about Miami in the sixties and seventies. More about Brunelleschi’s dome. More about the Renaissance girl who had designed the first skyscraper with cantilevers and who had entered the competition to build the lantern on top of Brunelleschi’s dome.
They took breaks whenever Buddy’s headaches became unbearable. He refused to press the morphine pump or to ask for more pain killers.
“I know what drugs do to people,” was all he said.
The few times she left the hospital, mostly when Julio was visiting, she returned with travel books on
Florence including Ross King’s Brunelleschi’s Dome and The Feud That Sparked The Renaissance by Paul Robert Walker. She told Buddy the same stories Grandpa Raj had shared when she was young, minus Dr. Rajah’s South African accent. She talked of Ellie the Elephant, Mousey Mouse and the tribe of Silly Monkeys. Buddy slept with Ellie under his arm.
“Tell me again about the contest,” Buddy said one morning while a nurse slapped his arm, drilling for a vein to draw blood from.
Filippa laughed. “I’ve told you about ten times.”
“I know,” he jerked his arm.
“Hold still,” the nurse said.
To distract him, Filippa read once again from the Italian periodical about the contest. She talked of Grandpa Raj’s dream to win the contest, of Filippa’s dream to do the same in Grandpa Raj’s honor. She kept speaking as Buddy drifted in and out of sleep and as the nurse finally found a vein that wasn’t collapsed.
As he slept, Filippa knew Buddy’s treatment was not going well. His headaches were getting worse. His reaction to the chemotherapy and the radiation was getting more violent. The once calm look in his doctor’s eyes was veiled. Surgery was not possible due to the location and size of the tumor. If surgery wasn’t an option and chemo and radiation weren’t shrinking the tumor, what was next for Buddy?
During one of Buddy’s chemo sessions later that day, with liquid dripping from a glass bottle into his veins and Pavarotti singing Puccini’s La Boehme from a boom box next to his bed, Filippa guided Buddy on an imaginary walking tour of Florence. Through the narrow streets, passed the Piazza della Repubblica, into the Galleria dell’Accademia where Michelangelo’s David held court in an apse like a church, across the Ponte Vecchio to the Oltrarno then back across to Florence’s main church where they looked up at Giotto’s bell tower and climbed the winding steps to the top. They raced down, laughing and running their hands along the stone walls. Then they climbed the steps to the lantern on top of Brunelleschi’s dome and looked out over their city. They pointed to where they thought the Renaissance girl had lived and made up a pretend family for her of a loving mother and father, an older sister and younger brother, dogs and cats and, at Buddy’s insistence, an elephant named Ellie. Filippa still hadn’t been to Florence but with the Internet and guidebooks, she had become an expert on the city and the Renaissance from afar. They discussed how Florence looked now, and how it must have looked when their Renaissance girl had graced the cobblestone streets.