—Cornelius Traegar
They could come to no agreement. Big surprise.
It was Cecilia and Aldo’s story. Though Enzo was a vital point-of-view character, his part was minor in comparison, and thus, passing it from Olivia to Alfonse to Switch would only topple the balance necessary to tell their tale. Alfonse argued that Switch’s voice didn’t quite match up, being more folksy and lighthearted. But no—Olivia defended—that wasn’t true at all. Switch’s seemingly lighthearted style only served as contrast to deepen the impact of Enzo’s understanding and love. Switch let them go at one another, feeding their frenzy with a grumbled comment now and again. They each argued for their characters, their styles and voices. No one was right. No one was wrong. Great minds thinking alike was a beautiful thing. Great minds at odds was not.
“Staying true to the whole doesn’t mean abandoning your unique visions,” Judith told them, late one night. Late for them. All of nine o’clock. “The story will dictate which point of view will come next, and the correct author will be given the notebook to write in. You three know better. It’s about the story, not which of you gets more face time.”
Duly chastised, they agreed. Switch’s part had deftly changed the story’s tack, perfectly solidifying Cecilia’s motive while keeping the dead-father-distance Aldo needed for his arc. Next point of view had to be Aldo’s, and while Olivia grumbled over missing her turn, she handed the notebook to Alfonse. He accepted it graciously and, he thought, not at all smugly. But Olivia’s glare insisted otherwise.
“I know exactly where it needs to go right now,” he tried to console her. “And it will lead right back to Cecilia. You’ll see.”
“No planning!” Olivia scolded. “And no discussing it on the side or the whole thing is shot to hell. It must be organic and different and new or it’s just another boy-meets-girl-loses-girl story that has been written and read a million times.”
“I told you she’s a literary snob,” Alfonse whispered loudly behind his hand.
Switch did the same. “You didn’t need to tell me.”
Olivia glared at them both. “Well, pardon me for attempting to maintain a little author integrity.”
“What happened to doing it for the joy?” Alfonse asked. “Wasn’t that what thrilled you first?”
“I am, and it still does.” Olivia sniffed. “I can’t help being good at it.”
“She’s insufferable.” Alfonse tucked the notebook down the side of his chair cushion lest she attempt to steal it. Again. Switch remained wisely noncommittal.
Darling Raymond. Keeping Cami alive truly had been a stroke of genius. The scenes played behind his eyes. Dominic Giancami going into the water, washing up somewhere downriver, barely alive. Recognized. Hidden away while schemes played out and coups were attempted. He wouldn’t remember the events leading to all that; if he did, Aldo was as good as dead no matter where he was. Amnesia. Brain damage. Blackouts that would plague him the rest of his life, along with the dark moods that whispered someone had pulled something over on him and gotten away with it. But a kinder Cami, as Switch had made him. A more loving man, maybe the one he’d once been before crime hardened him. It wouldn’t all make it out of his head and onto the page, but he had to know the details to make the story come alive, to make it authentic.
Eight o’clock. Fourth of July. Alfonse was almost asleep in his chair set up to give him the perfect view over the ocean, where the fireworks would erupt once the moon had fully risen. It had been a long and lovely day at the Bar Harbor Home for the Elderly. No writing today, even if his time with the notebook was almost up. As promised, the story would lead directly to Cecilia. He hoped Olivia picked up on enough of his cues to take it in the right direction. Right being his. No, today was about sunshine that exhausted him and food he couldn’t eat without suffering the consequences. At least there had been friends all around him, pretending he was still the one-and-only Alfonse Carducci. There had even been a few moments he fooled himself.
He was so tired of being tired. The dearth of oxygen. Every hard-won heartbeat. It cost him dearly simply to eat, because eating required the bodily energy to digest one’s food and Alfonse had such precious little to spare. If it weren’t for the book, he’d have no reason to live. If it weren’t for Cecibel, there would be no book. Thus he lived on love, for Cecibel and Cecilia, Aldo, and Enzo. He would live on love until the day he died, in the room that love provided him, in the house that love built, and gladly. Gratefully. Alfonse Carducci did not want to die.
A knock on his door woke him from his doze. He straightened in the chair. “Yes?”
“Alfonse?” Cecibel opened the door. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“No, my dear, no. Please, come in. I’m trying to stay awake for the fireworks.”
Cecibel closed the door softly. She came to him barefoot, wearing cutoff shorts and a tank top under her flannel shirt. How Alfonse enjoyed the grunge look. Laid-back and edgy all at once. Feminine despite the high-top hiking boots she’d earlier worn and now held in two fingers by the laces. Her hair, as always in an obscuring braid, was wind-tossed into curls whispering along the princess cheek, temple, throat. She sat on the arm of his chair, rested a hand to his shoulder. “I thought I’d watch the fireworks with you, if that’s okay.”
“Why would it not be okay?”
She laughed softly. “Olivia said you wanted to be alone.”
“She should have been honest. I simply wanted to be away from her.”
“You adore her.”
“I do. Absolutely. But she exhausts me far more than the sea air that chased me back here to my room.”
Cecibel pulled the other wingback chair up to his. She sat facing the same window, looking out at the same sky. “What was she like, when you first knew her?”
“Much the same as she is now.” No, he could not laugh. Best to save his energy for talking. “Beautiful. Volatile. Brave.”
“Just younger.”
“Just younger, yes. I’d have done anything for her.”
She turned her head, offering him only the fair. The monster left in shadow. Cecibel smiled. “Then all the old gossip is true?”
“Scandalously so,” he said. “Olivia Peppernell was one of the two great loves of my life.”
“And the other was Cornelius Traegar.”
“The love of my youth,” Alfonse agreed. “A fragile thing, yet an enduring one.”
“Why did you end it?”
“With?”
“Either,” Cecibel answered. “Both. Can I ask that?”
“I might not answer, but you can ask.” He grinned. “It was no small thing to be a man who loved a man, back then. I was a rising star, too new to withstand the scrutiny and condemnation our relationship would cause. It was Cornelius who told me to go, to win the world and come back to him when I was big enough to eclipse the rest.” Oh, Cornelius, you glorious fool. Did you know, even then, that I never would, never could be true to only you? “Great loves are not meant to be forever, only great.”
Cecibel nodded, her expression so somber. “And Olivia?”
“That, my dear, forgive me, is one question I cannot answer. Cornelius is dead and gone. Olivia is not.”
She looked away. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Alfonse took her hand, curling his fingers between hers. Cecibel’s eyes followed the movement. Fingers curled. They fit together like shoelaces, crisscrossing, containing. Alfonse could not help himself. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers, one at a time. Some instincts could not be squelched by age and decay. She moved him and, by the birdlike trembling of her muscles beneath her skin, he moved her right back.
“I . . . I’ve never been in love. Before.”
Blood surged to parts of his body it had not visited in far too long. Alfonse wouldn’t read too much into her choice of words, in that moment, though he wanted to. So badly. Cecibel was young and starstruck and somehow broken inside. Whatever balm he could be to her, he gave gladly
. She’d never been in love before, didn’t know the difference, but Alfonse had. He knew the feeling, knew the power, and knew that, wise or foolish, he was in it again.
“But you’ve had a great love,” he said. “No?”
“Why do you say that?”
Alfonse pulled the tattered copy of Night Wings from the cushions of his chair, curled the passion-creased pages open to that one that told the truth of her tale. Cecibel’s lip trembled, her gaze moving from the book to their joined hands, up his arm, shoulder, chin, cheek, nose, and finally, to his eyes. The shadows and the wingback took away half her face, the half she shared with everyone, leaving him the half she shared only with him. Alfonse reached out, hesitated. Cecibel didn’t even blink. He tucked her golden shroud behind what remained of her ear, bared the monster to the moonlight.
“She was my sister,” Cecibel whispered. “I couldn’t save her.”
“From?”
“Herself.”
“I imagine that wasn’t your job.”
“Maybe not, but I was the only one.”
“Younger sister?”
“Older. By three years.”
“And your parents?”
Cecibel’s good eye blinked. “They weren’t strong enough.”
“Only you were?”
She shook her head.
“But you tried.”
“I failed.”
Beyond the window, a rocket whistled to the stars, sparkling flowers bloomed. And boom.
Cecibel untucked her hair and let the shroud fall. She turned back to the window, said nothing more. But she let him keep her hand curled into his while Independence Day blared and rocketed through the night sky over the ocean.
Alfonse fell asleep before the last crackle, woke up hours later in his bed. He didn’t have to wonder how he’d gotten there, tucked into pajamas and under the sheets. Dreams and reality mingled. Wants and wishes. Sorrow and love. He’d undressed her as she undressed him, slipped into bed, tugging him along. He made love to the monster. She smoothed the covers over his shriveled frame. He kissed her and caressed her body. She checked his pulse, put the oxygen tube in his nostrils.
“Good night, Alfonse,” she’d whispered, and kissed his cheek, tiptoed away, and flicked off the lights.
In the darkness beyond dreaming, Cecilia whispered Aldo’s name. Their bodies joined. Their heartbeats synced. Good night, Aldo, Cecilia said in Cecibel’s voice. Good night, good night, good night.
Chapter 20
Paterson, New Jersey
December 20, 1959
Aldo
It was impossible, and yet there he was, whole and hearty if slightly older than the night he went over the falls and drowned. Aldo had taken a huge risk, returning to Paterson. Not because he was afraid of ghosts, or old enemies made without meaning to. He risked seeing Cecilia. Married Cecilia. Never-again-his Cecilia. Running headlong into the dead father instead—who was not, in fact, dead—toppled him completely. Quite literally.
“Sorry, there.” Giancami had hauled him to his feet, looked him in the eye, shook his hand—“Ah, a man in uniform. Thanks for your service. Better you than me, eh?”—and hadn’t recognized him. Yes, Aldo was a man now, not a boy of twenty. He was taller, broader, made of sterner stuff. But—gracious God in heaven!—no recognition whatsoever. And he’d have never known it without a chance return to Paterson, brought about by another impossibility smacking him out of the past.
Her letter arrived along with the orders for his second tour of duty. From Chipley, Florida. Aldo looked it up on a map. The tiny town sat between Alabama and the Gulf, tucked into the tiniest part of the Florida panhandle. He’d thought her name was Theresa, but his sister’s name was Tressa—two syllables, not three. He thought she lived in Florida-Florida, not almost-Alabama. But the last name—DiViello—was his mother’s maiden name. The name of the cousin who’d wanted a little girl to raise, but not him. That, Aldo remembered clearly.
Dear Aldo [the letter began]. Do you even remember me? I remember you. Not a day has gone by in the last fifteen that I haven’t thought about you. I try to picture you in my mind when I add you to my prayers at night. Sorry, I keep remembering you as you were. But I never forgot. A girl doesn’t forget her big brother, especially when he was her favorite person in the whole world.
Mama and Daddy (our cousins, who raised me) wouldn’t let me contact you. They said it would be too hard on me. Too confusing. It was harder and more confusing to go without you all these years. I always knew I’d find you the moment I came of age and they couldn’t tell me what to do anymore. I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but I’m all grown up now and I still don’t see why they wouldn’t let me stay in contact with you. I know you finished high school, joined the navy, and worked your way up in the kitchen ranks. (Dooley Higgins says you make the best mashed potatoes this side of Idaho!) I know you’re a fine man, a good man. I’m proud you’re my brother. I think Mama and Daddy were just afraid they’d lose me sooner rather than later if you were in my life.
I’m twenty-one now, a woman in my own right, and all I want for Christmas is to see my big brother. I want to hold you in my arms and hug you fifteen years’ worth of hugs. I know you re-signed with the navy, and I know you have two months of leave before you ship out again. (The Mediterranean, how utterly divine!) Please, please, oh please, meet me at the falls in Paterson. It’s the only place I remember from when I was little. Didn’t we picnic there all the time? December 20, 2:00 p.m. If you’re not there, I’ll be back every day at 2:00 p.m. until you show up or ship out. You’ll come. I know you will. I’ll be the one wearing a red carnation and a white winter coat.
Your loving sister—Tressa
P.S.
Maybe you’re wondering how I found out all that information about you? Can you guess? I’m studying journalism in college. I want to be an investigative journalist, even if I’m the only girl in my class and no one takes me seriously. I don’t want to write about fashion or family or the Society Page. We’ll talk all about it when we see one another. Toodles!
And that’s where Aldo was when he bumped into Dominic Giancami at 1:54 on December 20, 1959, in the same parking lot of the same falls where he’d left the man to drown. Only Cami hadn’t, somehow, but was there instead with two teenagers who had to be Cecilia’s little brothers.
“It . . . it’s all right, sir. I’m fine.”
“Let me make it up to you. Buy you a beer?”
“Thank you, no. I’m meeting my sister. She should be here any minute.”
Giancami pointed to Aldo’s trousers. “You’re all muddy, and there’s a rip in the knee. Come on. At least let me have those cleaned and mended.”
“Thank you, sir, but it’s really fine. No harm done.”
“Aldo! Aldo, is that you?”
Both men turned to the girl in the white, wearing a red carnation and waving. Tressa bounced on the balls of her feet tucked into perfect red pumps. Blond curls tumbled out her red beret, down the lapels of her coat.
“That’s your sister? Holy jeez.” Giancami whistled softly before smacking both his sons in the back of the head. “Quit gawping and have some respect, eh? Mamalukes! That’s the man’s sister.”
“Sorry, Dad.”
“I’m not. She’s some dolly.”
“Nicky, you’re not so big I can’t put a strap to you.”
“If you’ll excuse me, sir.” Aldo nodded to him, to the boys. “My sister’s waiting.”
“Wait a minute, there.” Cami pulled him back by the sleeve of his jacket. Aldo forced his heart back down his throat. Cami leaned closer, his gaze still fixed on Tressa. “What say you come to the shindig I’m throwing at my place tonight? Christmas party. It’s gonna be big doin’s. All Paterson high society, eh? My wife does the cooking. Days, she’s been at it. Can’t get food like hers nowhere, not even in the city. Come on. Let me do something to make up for knocking you down.”
A dead man. A lost love. Old sacrifices mad
e irrelevant far too late to do anything about them. What would he do if he saw her again? What would Cecilia do?
“My . . . my sis—”
“Yeah, yeah. She’s starting to frown, eh? Can’t make a pretty girl unhappy. Well, the offer stands.” Cami pressed a business card into Aldo’s hand. “Come. And bring your sister. Nicky. Joseph. Shake the man’s hand.”
Nicky’s handshake was firm. He looked Aldo in the eye. Joseph’s grip wasn’t quite as confident, but he, too, met Aldo’s gaze, his narrowing. “Don’t I know you?”
Aldo flinched, recovered quickly with a grin and a shrug. “I lived here when I was a kid,” he said. “Maybe.”
“What’s your name?”
“Al . . . DiViello.”
“Ah, paesan’,” Cami said. “Let the man go, boys. Looks like his sister is gonna pop a gut in another minute.” He started away, walking backward. “Six o’clock. See you there.”
“Aldo?”
He spun back to Tressa, still standing in the same spot, no longer bouncing. Her hands were tucked into a white fur muff. She was a vision of all things golden and beautiful, this once-frizzy, freckled, snotty creature who asked him to meet her in the one place he’d planned on never returning to again. There hadn’t been time to attempt contacting her, requesting an alternate meeting place. One glance over his shoulder at the dead man who wasn’t dead, then Aldo hurried to her.
“Tressa.” Her name fell from his lips as easily as if it had been doing so all their lives. He caught his little sister in his arms. She squealed and he spun her around. He could almost forget Dominic Giancami and the party he couldn’t possibly go to, even if Cecilia sang like a siren inside his head.
“Aldo! Oh, my Aldo.” Tressa took his face in her hands and smooshed his cheeks. “Look at you! Such a handsome man, my brother. You look just like our mother.”
“Do I?”
“Don’t you remember?”
He smiled sadly. “Not really. I don’t have any pictures or anything.”
The Bar Harbor Retirement Home for Famous Writers_And Their Muses Page 15