Chapter 23
Bar Harbor, Maine
July 9, 1999
Some secrets stay secrets for a reason.
—Cornelius Traegar
At odds. That’s what Alfonse was. More and more lately. Especially since Raymond Switcher inserted Enzo into Cecilia and Aldo’s tale. Longer stretches between writing, longer stretches to think about Aldo and his great love for a girl who married another man and the turns that might be taken while in someone else’s hands. Alfonse found himself with more time than he was comfortable spending with his own thoughts. That had never been a good thing. Not when he was a schoolboy in Italy, always having his knuckles rapped. Not when he was a young man in America trying to find his way in a culture not his own. Goodness knows, not now that he was an old man with far too many things to regret.
Sometimes he’d wander to the gathering room or the library, chat with old acquaintances, old lovers, avoiding Olivia like the plague. Other times he’d seek out the comfort of her and harass her just for fun. There were daily sessions with Dr. Kintz, who really had only polite conversation to make with a man dying a little bit every day. And Switch. There was always Switch. But the man had never been the talkative type, and Alfonse had yet to master that gentle brand of exchange without words.
And then there were times like now, alone in the dining room, early even for the early birds. Time and thoughts rumble-jumbling. Misbehaving. Malcontent. Alfonse made slow circles on the white linen with the tip of his finger. White linen, a grand dining room, crystal chandeliers sparkling in early evening light. How many banquets had he attended? Award dinners? As master of ceremonies, as recipient, as one of the who’s-who crowd. He conjured the endless black-tie affairs that led to momentary, luscious liaisons. He could not count his lovers, even if he would do something so banal. There’d been more women than men; that much he recollected. There had been little curiosity. Men held no real mystery. Their baser desires, their secret needs. Alfonse had them, too. Lust, done and thank you very much, as far as his experience went.
But the women—how he worshiped every one of them. For a half hour, a night, a week or two. Ceaselessly mystifying. Each body uniquely perfect. Not a single one able to satisfy him in the same way the nameless, faceless men did. Not a single one of them as loved as his first. Heaven forgive him, not even Olivia. There was only one Cornelius.
And now there was Cecibel, most mystifying of all, because Alfonse Carducci could be no one’s lover, could not worship her in that way.
He’d seen her, of course, since the night of July 4. Alfonse saw her every day. In the dining room. In the halls. Each afternoon at precisely four twenty. She was always and in all ways Cecibel. Sweet. Awkward. Guarded even with him. And yet he could not shake the carnality of dreams sparked by her words of love, by her fingers entwined with his.
It had been many years since the last time he’d been anyone’s lover, slightly fewer since he’d been his own. Anything even close to orgasmic could well do him in completely. It wasn’t sex he wanted—oh, well, yes. He did, actually, but—and he already had her love, her respect, her fangirly worship. What he wanted and didn’t have from Cecibel Bringer was more elusive and harder to define. It had something to do with his own mortality, and how she, somehow, kept it at bay.
The sensation manifested in a tightness across his chest that didn’t lift so much as fade. He’d had heart attacks before, had been perilously short of breath, but this was different. A half-remembered sensation from an unconjurable long-ago whispered between his ears. Too soft to hear. Something darker than affection. Something compelling, but never kind.
“Evening, Alfie.” Switch pulled a chair out from their regular table and sat down. He checked his watch. “Barely six o’clock. What’re you doing here already?”
“Cecibel had to leave a little early.” He grunted. “She has a date of some kind.”
“Finlay?”
Alfonse nodded. He pretended to scratch an itch on his chest. “It’s good she gets out of here a bit, away from us old folks.”
“Maybe. She seems happy here, though.”
Switch had always agreeably accepted what he was given. Alfonse let it go. “How are things going with our Enzo?”
“No asking, remember? Olivia’d hang us both.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “But good, Alfie. Real good. I’ll be done soon, then it’s your turn. I think.”
“Thank goodness. My fingers are itching.”
“I know the feeling.”
“I will admit, I’m envious.” Alfonse laughed, caught his breath. Electricity crackled across his shoulder blades. “I’m invested in writing Aldo, but Enzo is . . . he is . . . a nobler . . .”
“Alfonse?”
He waved Switch back into his chair. It would pass. Any moment. “You’ve created a noble . . . a noble . . .”
The dining room pulsed bright, dark, bright. Switch became a Picasso of facial features and body parts. Alfonse swallowed, smacked his lips. Sound garbled.
Ambulance.
Dr. Kintz.
Electricity coursed from shoulder blades to chest, down arms to fingertips to hair follicles across his scalp.
Alfonse. Hold on.
Help is coming.
No. This was all wrong. It was too soon. They weren’t finished. He wasn’t finished. And Cecibel. He couldn’t leave without saying good-bye to her. His muse. His golden monster. His wounded Valkyrie.
A hand like crepe paper in his. Soft words floated like a breeze off the sea—Darling, darling. Don’t leave me again. Not yet—ear to ear. Out again. Droned like bees in a hive, duly smoked. Subdued. Waiting for the smoke to clear.
* * *
It wasn’t a date, but it wasn’t a walk on the beach either. Cutoff shorts and a hoodie didn’t seem appropriate. Cecibel had worn her sky-blue sundress with the tiny daisies embroidered along the yoke to her visit with Alfonse and saw no reason to change. He loved that dress. And when she braided her hair only to the shoulder, letting the rest cascade in curls to her waist. It made him so obviously and boyishly happy when she made the effort for him. Like he was still young and wild and had all the time in the world. He didn’t have to say the words for her to know they were there, just behind teeth and tongue, dancing in his lion’s eyes. That, in turn, made her feel far lovelier than she could possibly be, as she was in his eyes.
Grabbing the white hoodie from her closet, she avoided the woman in the mirror. Finlay didn’t care how she looked. It was a relief to step off of Alfonse’s pedestal and back to solid ground. Hood up, zippered to the neck despite July’s sticky heat, she dashed out the door.
Already after seven. Where had the time gone? She’d even cut her time short with Alfonse and had earned her first pout. He’d get over it, of course, though it tickled her heart to thumping. Alfonse Carducci, somehow affected by her absence. How did such a thing happen? In what world had she fallen into that she would even meet the man let alone become dear to him in any way? In what world did such a thing ever matter to her?
“Hey, sorry I’m late.” She trotted the last few yards to Fin’s car. “We’re still good, right? It’s only a few minutes into town.”
“We’re good.” Fin opened the car door for her. “I bought our tickets yesterday anyway.”
“You did?” Cecibel got in, pulled her skirt out of the way of the closing door.
Fin got in on his side. “I got nervous about it selling out. I have to see this one on the big screen.”
“You’re a real Star Wars dork, huh?”
“Nerd,” he corrected. “Big difference between dorks and nerds. Trust me.”
Cecibel put on her seat belt. “I was thirteen when it came out. I still remember seeing it in the theater for the first time. Video just doesn’t cut it, far as I’m concerned.”
“I saw them all in prison,” Finlay told her. “First one came out when I was in juvie, last one when I was in Bolduc. We got some good movies in. They was pretty good about that. Ol
d, of course. They showed all three of them the summer before I got out. Like nothing I ever seen before. Or since, I guess. I used to be in the theater first day of whatever new movie came to town. Not anymore, though.”
“Me either.” And she let it go at that. She’d seen all three movies in theaters, the moment they came out. With Jennifer. It was their thing. They had to see each movie at least three times. Popcorn. Twizzlers. Huge, sugary colas. And the Indiana Jones movies, too, because they were both obsessed with Harrison Ford. Except for The Last Crusade; they only saw that once. Because Jennifer had shown up wrecked. By then, it was a given.
Familiar roads into town turned unfamiliar the moment they crossed into the village center. Cecibel didn’t recall it being so busy. Where did all the shops come from? The restaurants? Spotting locals wasn’t difficult when the tourists were so obvious, but they were vastly outnumbered. She tried to remember the last time she was in town, and couldn’t.
Fin parked behind the theater, opened the car door for Cecibel, and offered her a hand. She took it even if she didn’t need his help. It was good to see that prison hadn’t robbed him of the small niceties. Cecibel couldn’t imagine spending half her teens and twenties locked away from the world. Or could she? The bars of her prison were powdery white, not metal, but they were real enough.
She insisted on buying the popcorn and soda, since he’d bought the movie tickets. Fin argued but she won. They took seats in the back of the theater that smelled of coming rain, imitation butter, and stale sugar. Cecibel kept her hoodie on and up, thanking the air-conditioning gods for their brutal obedience to winter. Chitchatting while the theater filled, she relaxed, even laughed when Fin pointed out the dorks (not nerds) who came in costume, brandishing plastic lightsabers. The lights went down. The horns blared that familiar blaat. Yellow words scrolled. Cecibel’s hopes rose. Another masterpiece about to become beloved.
“Let’s never speak of it again.”
They sat in the car, in the lot behind the theater, damp from the raindrops they’d tried to run between.
“Agreed,” Fin said. “The fight sequence was kind of cool, though.”
“And the score was beautiful. But still . . .”
“Yeah. Wish I could undo the last couple of hours, remember the old ones without . . . whatever that was.”
“There’s no going back to such innocent times, young Padawan. We’ve been tainted beyond redemption.”
Fin chucked her shoulder. “Funny.” He started the car, pulled out of the lot. Bar Harbor sparkled. The wet streets. Every raindrop reflected in headlights. Rain cooled the temperature, freshened the humidity to a balmy thing that beaded on skin like dew. Cecibel opened the window once they reached the edge of town. She leaned out just enough to catch the wind and didn’t pull back her hoodie, exposing the monster to the quiet, wet darkness.
“I could drop you off closer to the main entrance.” Fin slowed at the head of the Pen’s long driveway. “Everyone has to be asleep by now. It’s after ten.”
“Sure. That’d be great. Thanks.”
Finlay pulled up the grand drive and around to a lesser-used entrance. “Tonight was great, wasn’t it? I mean, except for the movie sucking.”
“It wasn’t that bad.” She laughed softly. “It was a nice night. Thanks.”
“Thanks for coming with me. I don’t like to go into town alone. Never know who you’re going to run into.”
“You still have”—family? friends?—“people here?”
He shrugged.
“Fin?”
“My mom,” he said. “Dad died while I was away. My brother left before I got out. Any friends I had?” Another shrug. “Don’t got those no more.”
“Do you see her? Your mom, I mean. Is that okay to ask?”
“I see her. Holidays. My birthday. It ain’t her. It’s me. I stay away, for her sake. She stays in Bar Harbor for mine. Let’s not spoil the night with all that shit, okay?”
“Okay. Sorry.”
“Don’t say sorry.” Fin smiled. He tucked damp tendrils behind her ear. Her good ear. The one that didn’t look like a broken snail shell nevertheless exposed by the breeze she’d allowed to blow back her hair. Cecibel grabbed the end of her braid, to tug it into place, but Fin’s hand stopped hers midreach. “Don’t,” he said. “Just leave it be.”
Her belly lurched. Fin didn’t let go her hand. He used it to draw her closer. The other hand cupped her cheek, the fair one not the foul. “Wild Tatterhood.” His breath on her face. His mouth on hers. He tasted like cola and imitation butter.
Three sharp raps on Fin’s hood startled them apart. “Knock it off, you two. Dr. Kintz wants you. Now!”
Sal’s massive frame silhouetted Finlay’s window. Cecibel’s lurching belly threatened to make good. She tugged her hair into place, pulled up her hoodie, and nearly fell out of the car in her haste to be free of it. “What’s wrong?”
Sal steadied her. “You don’t want to know, sugar. Just come on.”
“It’s simply unacceptable.” Dr. Kintz paced back and forth in his office.
Fin stood protectively beside her, stone-faced. “I’ve never had to sign out before.”
“That has nothing to do with anything, Mr. Pottinger. House rules state no resident comes or goes without signing in and out, that includes resident staff. In light of what happened here tonight, I’m sure you can understand why that is necessary.”
Cecibel trembled. Alfonse, I’m so sorry.
“I don’t see what either of us could’ve done for Mr. Carducci,” Fin said. “Or what his . . . episode has to do with you knowing we was in town.”
“Be that as it may, the rules are clear and you are to abide by them. If you want to leave here, you need to sign out.”
“You mean we need permission.”
Dr. Kintz’s lips pulled back over his teeth. “You can view it any way you like as long as you abide by the rule. Are we clear?”
“No, we’re—”
Cecibel grabbed Fin’s hand. “We’re clear, Dr. Kintz.”
“Good.” He relaxed. Slightly. “Thank you, Miss Bringer. You two may go.”
Fin tugged on her hand.
“You go,” she whispered. “I want to ask Dr. Kintz something.”
“See you tomorrow for our walk?”
She nodded. Fin smiled, narrowed his eyes at Dr. Kintz, and left.
“Can I help you, Cecibel?”
Now it was “Cecibel”; a good sign. “I just wanted to know what happened to Al . . . Mr. Carducci. Is he all right?”
“He will be. Or, as good as can be expected. His blood sugar went too low.”
Her skyrocketing blood pressure slowed. “Oh, then it wasn’t his heart.”
“It’s always his heart in some way, shape, or form.” Dr. Kintz sat on the edge of his desk. His shirt was rumpled. His eyes were red and rimmed. There was more worry than anger about him and, no matter what Fin thought of his rules, she understood them well enough.
“You’re very close to him, I hear.”
Cecibel lowered her gaze. “Don’t take too much of the nurses’ gossip to heart.”
“I’m smarter than that.” He smiled. He had a good smile, one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Mrs. Peppernell mentioned you’d been spending more time with Mr. Carducci than with her lately.”
“I don’t mind. I love her dearly, but she is a bit possessive.” Cecibel shrugged deeper into her hoodie. “She complains but she’s happier than I’ve ever seen her, thanks to Mr. Carducci.” And the words he set free for her.
“I’ve noticed. And the car-crash fantasy seems to happen less often,” Dr. Kintz added. “It’s either Mr. Carducci or the new strain of marijuana Mr. Switcher grew for her.”
“You know about that, huh?”
“Of course.”
Cecibel met his gaze. “You said ‘fantasy.’ Did you mean dream?”
“No. It’s not a dream. It’s something more conscious. A coping mechanism.
We all have them. It’s intriguing, really. Conjuring control we needed at one time and didn’t have.”
“By fantasizing a car crash?”
“A car crash she orchestrates, versus a violent event she couldn’t control.”
“Oh. I see.” Cecibel tugged her braid, still damp from the rain. Her own preoccupation with Olivia’s dream—fantasy—was no mystery. She didn’t even have to close her eyes to conjure the metal-bending impact. It made sense she’d focus on Olivia’s figurative rather than her literal. She could ask Dr. Kintz, if she dared go down that road, the one Dr. Marks had failed to lead her onto because of all her kicking and screaming.
“How long will he be in the hospital?” she asked instead. “Mr. Carducci.”
“He’s still here in his rooms. Far more comfortable for him. But he won’t be taking any visitors for a couple of days. Of course”—he winked—“you’re an orderly, so I imagine you’ll be looking after him in the interim.”
“Mustn’t shirk my duties.” The corner of her lip twitched. She hid it behind her hand. “I’m really sorry about tonight. Except for walks on the beach— Oh, is that okay? Walking the beach?”
“The beach is ours. You’re fine.” Dr. Kintz put both hands on her shoulders. Cecibel tried hard not to flinch, and failed. He let them fall. “Please understand, it’s a simple matter of security, and safety. You, Finlay, and Salvatore are like the bricks and mortar of this place. Without you here, it might well fall apart.”
Sal. Who left constantly. Without ever mentioning signing in or out. Or telling her she was supposed to.
The Bar Harbor Retirement Home for Famous Writers_And Their Muses Page 19