Jukebox

by Gina Noelle Daggett

  As the four enjoyed dinner together, breaking bread and marveling at the sunset, Grace loosened up even more, occasionally stealing kisses between bites.

  Seeing this, Alvaro raised his glass halfway through dinner.

  “Ecco per amorè!”

  Amelia and Harper lifted theirs immediately. “To love,”

  Alvaro toasted.

  Having lived in Italy their whole lives, like most Italians, Alvaro and Amelia were in love with love; they didn’t care who was giving or receiving, just as long as there was love.

  “When Harper was Bambina,” Alvaro recalled after he cleaned his plate, “she run through vineyard at night. We ate at same tabella.” He pounded the table with his fist. “She was timida, or how you say?”

  “Shy,” Harper said, feeling it again as Alvaro spoke.

  “Shy. But smart. And loyal. One summer, she cared for baby duck who lose his mamma. She called Johnny.”

  “Non zio,” Harper interrupted, “il suo nome è stato Jeffrey.”

  “Jeffrey,” he corrected. “Little Mallard thought she was mamma. Followed her everywhere. She put him in lago and”—he let out a rough laugh as big as his belly—“she go ten steps before he jump out. Come after her. Run toward house.”

  In the gold candlelight, Amelia and Grace sipped their wine and smiled at the story.

  “She so sweet,” he said, getting choked up. “Full of amorè.”

  “I loved that damn duck,” Harper said, laughing, too, then gazing toward the pond, which was really no more than irrigation runoff at the bottom of the hill.

  “I did never tell you. Jeffrey come back.”

  “He did?”

  “For months. He was looked for you.”

  The fading twilight cast the perfect light on the pond’s

  water, which reflected the old vines growing close to its edge. In her mind, Harper saw Jeffrey waddling their way.

  After they ate homemade tiramisu, Amelia suddenly spoke with excitement. “Alvie, vai ottenere il vaso.”

  “What?” Harper asked Amelia. She’d spoken too fast. Alvaro immediately stood and disappeared into his nearby workshop.

  She didn’t answer, just giggled and winked.

  Moments later, Alvaro returned carrying a jar.

  “Your nightlight,” he said. Harper immediately recognized it as the old pickling jar where she kept her captured fireflies as a child. The lid was rusted around the mouth and so were the holes Alvaro poked in the top so the captives could breathe.

  “I clean for you,” he said. “Now go. Buona notte!”

  As the girls left the table, Grace said, “Are you sure?” about the dishes and the clean up. Alvaro already had the plates stacked and was headed toward the house.

  “Ciao! Divertiti!” Amelia yelled collecting the glasses.

  Harper grabbed Grace’s hand and took off for the grove.

  “Where are we going?” Grace asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  In the darkness, the stars burning through the black canvas sky in clusters, the girls made their way through the grapes toward the olive thicket. The closer they got to the grove, the warmer the glow, a glow so subtle you wouldn’t necessarily notice if you weren’t looking.

  “Do you see?” Harper asked.

  “See what?” Grace looked toward the sky and then squinted at the light.

  “The light.” She pointed. “Fireflies.”

  Grace slowed and then stopped. “Wow,” she said.

  “Come on!” Harper grabbed her hand and they took off running.

  When she was young, Harper disappeared into the olive grove for hours, always within earshot of her parents. She caught fireflies and put them in the same old pickling jar Alvaro proudly unearthed. At bedtime, she placed her capture bedside and watched their glowing tails until her eyelids became too heavy.

  Like the nineteenth century vines, the old olive growth was

  dense and tangled. The branches—twisted and knotted like witch fingers—formed a green canopy above them as they hurried along. Their gait quickly turned into a skip and then suddenly they were kids again playing in the shadows the shadows, cast onto the ground like distorted fairytale characters.

  Harper caught the first firefly in her hand and gently coerced it into the jar.

  “I got one!” Grace hollered, her hands cupped together as she walked toward Harper.

  This continued until they had at least twenty fireflies in their jar. Wild bursts of laughter could be heard throughout the valley in the temperate motionless night, as Harper and Grace meandered through the grove back toward the bassetto.

  They put the jar, glowing like a lantern, on the side table near the double chaise on the balcony. Easily, both girls fit onto the canvas chair—which was more like an outdoor bed—a centerpiece of the bassetto, jutting out into the grapes.

  “Let’s sleep out here tonight,” Grace said, flopping onto the lounger, making room for Harper by her side.

  Just as Harper nestled into Grace, a star burned across the sky.

  “Did you see that?” Harper asked.

  Grace closed her eyes. “Make a wish.”

  Harper closed hers too, and made a wish, a very important one: she wished things between her and Grace would always feel the way they felt that night.

  “What did you wish for?” Grace asked.

  “It won’t come true if I tell you.”

  “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

  Harper didn’t want to jinx it, so she refused.

  “I wished we could stay here forever,” Grace said. “And never have to go back home.”

  After midnight, Harper moved the lantern to the nightstand and cozied in beside it. Grace was busy in the bathroom.

  Lying on her side, she watched the fireflies and reminisced

  0

  about her youth; she could hear her mom’s laugh, smell her dad’s aftershave.

  Grace finally got into bed. “Did I miss anything?” she asked, looping her arms around Harper’s waist.

  “No.”

  Together, they watched the flies buzz around the jar, their glowing tails clustered together behind the glass.

  “They’re so beautiful,” Grace sighed. “Why do they glow like that?”

  “I don’t know, but I think it has to do with sex.”

  “Sex?”

  “It’s like their way of attracting one another.”

  More time passed as they watched their lights slowly fade.

  “Are they dying?”

  “I’m not sure,” Harper said, tapping the glass.

  “I can’t stand it,” Grace suddenly said, leaving one hand on Harper’s shoulder. “We have to set them free.”

  Harper agreed.

  In her pajamas, red boy-cut undies, Grace grabbed the jar.

  Unscrewing the lid, she tilted it and let each firefly out. One by one, they flew to freedom. They were like little angels, the fireflies, taking off into the air above them, their tails quickly glowing even brighter than before.

  “Go,” Grace said, swinging her hands, palms up. “Go.”

  As they lay back down, the little luccioles hung out around the dark chandelier, perhaps mistaking the sparkling jewels as some of their own. They kept the ceiling illuminated—like their own constellation of stars—until both girls, wrapped around each other, fell asleep.

  The morning songbirds serenaded them at dawn. The sun was just coming up when Harper made her way down the staircase through the winding vineyard trail to the main house for coffee. It was unlike Grace to still be snoozing—she was always the early bird—so Harper let her sleep.

  In the kitchen, Alvaro was working on breakfast.

  “Buon giorno,” he said. Harper kissed him on the cheek before reaching for coffee.

  “You is well-rested?” He dropped a piece of egg-drenched bread into the frying pan.

  “I am,” Harper said. “French toast?”

  “Italiano toast.” Alvaro sm
iled as he ground a cinnamon stick onto each slice. “I like Grace. Lei è così delizioso!”

  “Perfect word, Uncle Al.” Harper was caught in Grace’s rapture too. “She is delightful.”

  “Buon giorno,” Auntie said, joining them with her usual wink.

  “Gracie?” she said, typing on her apron.

  “Si.”

  “Cosi delizioso,” she added.

  They must have discussed her in bed after they’d said goodnight.

  “How long you be in love,” Alvaro asked, his bushy eyebrow up. “I don’t. I guess. A while. You won’t tell Daddy.” Harper looked up from the coffee press. “Will you?”

  “No worry.”

  Harper took her coffee down to the pond and meandered its perimeter. She waved at the Cionis, neighbors nearby, eating breakfast on their veranda.

  She picked up two rocks, smooth and even, and skimmed the first one on the water. It skipped six times.

  As she started to throw the second, she heard Grace, still in her pajamas, call her from the bassetto’s balcony.

  “Bella!” Grace yelled. It was one of the only words she knew in Italian and what she would call Harper from then on. “Good morning.”

  Grace quickly joined Harper lakeside and threw a rock of her own.

  “You know that runoff is horrible for the environment,”

  Grace said. “All the chemicals people in the valley use to protect the grapes end up in their drinking water.”

  Harper shrugged and threw another stone.

  Slowly, they walked the pond, watching a family of ducks gliding across until a cowbell from the main house called them for breakfast.

  In true Alessi fashion, the spread was, once again, elaborate.

  Italians hardly do anything cosi cosi and Alvaro and Amelia were the real deal. Several different freshly-squeezed juices, sliced mandarins, pomegranates and loquats. Italian toast and poached eggs with shaved ham and bologna. And plenty of espresso.

  “Per favore prosciutto,” Alvaro said. And then almost in the same breath: “You take Giada for drive today. I has mechanic tune.”

  “Giada?” Grace asked.

  “Their Alfa Romeo. It’s awesome. Totally restored. Vintage.

  Nineteen sixty?”

  “Sixty-one,” Alvaro said, lapping up syrup with his last bite of toast.

  “We make together lunch.” To Amelia, Alvaro said, “Le ragazze stanno andando a prendere Giatta. Faremo un picnic.”

  Amelia did a triad this time: giggled, winked and raised her fork.

  When Alvaro fired up the convertible Spider’s diesel engine, it ticked like a bomb. An Italian work of art, their red Alfa Romeo was in mint condition. Giada’s curves were right out of an old movie—the round front lights like Sophia Loren’s eyes taking in the Tuscan countryside. Slim and slender, the classy ride was spit-shined from bumper to bumper.

  Amelia brought out a basket of goodies for their road trip.

  She tucked it into the backseat and then tied a scarf around each girl’s head.

  “Molto carina,” she said, squeezing their cheeks.

  “Go fun!” Alvaro yelled as they pulled out of the driveway.

  They first drove the back roads outside Bologna toward the coast. Grace had never seen the Adriatic Sea, so they stopped for a picture at a viewpoint overlooking the Ravenna beaches, packed with bathers below. Against the railing, Harper took a series of photos of Grace who was leaning back and gazing into the sun.

  After the coast, Harper drove south toward Florence. On the winding roads, Grace scooted against Harper on the leather bench seat. Harper kissed Grace’s temple. The sun was high in the sky and it baked their shoulders.

  She turned off the main highway onto a dirt road, where they drove for miles until they found the perfect shaded spot, under a blooming mimosa tree, for their picnic on the grounds of Villa Mangiacane. It was surrounded by poppies. In the distance, the ancient renaissance villa was impressively magnificent. Set on a hill overlooking Florence, the estate had been built by the Machiavelli family in the fifteenth century and still had many of its famous hallmarks. The rumor around town was that Michelangelo had played a role in its design.

  The wicker basket was packed with mouthwatering treats.

  Homemade olive tapenade, fig spread, a wheel of brie and a crisp baguette. Not forgotten was a bottle of Angel Parti, a church key and two glasses.

  “Do we have to go home tomorrow?” Grace asked as Harper poured her second glass of wine. “Can’t we just send for our things? Finish school from here?”

  Harper sighed. “Seriously.”

  “I’m so glad we came through Bologna. Your Uncle Al is such a charmer, just like you said. And that Amelia. Even though we can’t have a conversation, she’s so funny. Her little laugh and her winks.”

  “I know.”

  “You don’t realize how lucky you are. They’re so warm and loving. Their love is so unconditional.”

  She didn’t say it, but both girls knew they were going home to conditions.

  After the wine kicked in, Grace worked her way over onto Harper’s side of the blanket.

  Surrounded by a sea of poppies, Grace kissed her with a near rage. It was hot, sudden, Grace making her move.

  As the sun set, there were nervous giggles when Grace unbuttoned Harper’s shirt and then slid her hands down Harper’s body, along her thighs, and across her stomach. Harper’s skirt rolled up around her waist.

  Suddenly, everything shifted into an old movie; even Harper’s memory was in black and white. Slow and deliberate, Grace’s hand moved up Harper’s leg and over her panties. Harper couldn’t believe the shock it sent through her veins, a physical reaction she’d never known. With one touch from Grace’s hand, she almost had an orgasm.

  Crack boom.

  Harper pushed Grace away, shocked at her loss of control, her near climax. Grace looked at Harper carefully, trying to understand her resistance. Gently, Harper touched her face before kissing her with passion and resolve. Grace knew what it meant—they both did.

  Not here.

  They got back to the vineyard late. The bassetto’s porch light was on, so was a small antique lamp at the base of the iron staircase.

  When they walked inside, Harper’s heart stopped as she shut the front door. She swallowed hard. She knew what was coming and it scared her.

  In the bathroom, Harper took her time at the sink—flossing her teeth, washing her face and getting ready. Preparing for what would happen.

  What if I don’t like it?

  What if Grace doesn’t?

  While she stalled in the bathroom, Grace put a music mix into the corner stereo. The room, with its vaulted ceilings, had the perfect acoustics for Al Green’s groove.

  Harper was putting away her makeup remover when Grace walked up and stood in the doorway, her eyes full of surrender.

  They reminded Harper of Grace’s eleven-year-old eyes, the tub of ice cream, their rocky road since puberty.

  Nearly ten years later, Grace asked softly, “Are you coming?”

  With a deep breath, Harper said, “Yes,” and took her hand.

  Just like in her fantasy.

  Grace let Harper lead the way, standing back, watching Harper pass as she escorted Grace to the master suite. When Grace closed the door, in Harper’s mind, the loud hardware sliding into place shook the walls of the bunkhouse. Standing in front of Grace, Harper imagined an earthquake, the bassetto beams buckling, its stucco crumbling, its two-by-fours breaking in half like toothpicks.

  Harper let go of Grace’s hand and walked to the opposite side of the bed.

  She worried Grace would think it was ugly. Like every other woman, after seeing Fried Green Tomatoes, Harper had stood over a mirror to get a look at her vagina. She couldn’t see much.

  She couldn’t know what Grace was in for, but she hoped it was pretty.

  With her knees pressed to the cold bedframe, Harper prepared herself for death. So, this is how it ends,
my life as Harper Alessi, she thought. Everything she’d ever known, ever expected her life to be twisted and disappeared into a fated vortex she never knew was there.

  Harper’s panties were suddenly the epicenter, the hub of all feeling.

  Like she’d been asleep all those years, tiny pins poked the skin between her legs as she awoke. Wind chimes on the balcony pealed, crashing into one another as the night air hissed into the room.

  At a fork in the road, with five feet of mattress between them, Grace and Harper captured one last look at the sky as the clouds changed formation outside. The billowing sky opened for a harvest moon.

  Grace kneeled first and reached across the bed.

  Full of strange desire, Harper’s chest ached, the pangs acute,

  but hushed and hidden. She trembled forward, took Grace’s hand again and brought it to her face. Grace’s skin was lavender and vanilla.

  God, please forgive me, she prayed.

  Harper’s body fell and she was swimming, buoyant and fluid, until she was on her back, Grace above her.

  Around the chandelier, one firefly still circled the room, its tail aglow.

  Grace sprinkled Harper’s ears with kisses, covering her, tickling her face with her long curls as she moved down. Grace licked the salt off Harper’s body and explored her torso.

  Where had Grace gotten her confidence? Harper wondered.

  Her unfolding experience was just the opposite. She felt insecure and fought welling tears as Marvin Gaye began “Sexual Healing.”

  Harper did what she could to keep her cool, reminding herself, again, to breathe, but once Grace passed her navel, Harper shifted strategies as a tear escaped—she had to survive—

  focusing instead on the aged ceiling, fractured like a hardboiled egg, like her mind.

  As Grace’s finger slipped inside, Harper closed her eyes.

  Dear God.