The Laments (33 page)

Amid the columns at the Palatine Hill, Mrs. Pritchard found a bench and caught her breath. She composed a postcard to her sister. “Dear Olivia, can’t say enough good things about Rome!” (which was the honest truth). When Mrs. Pritchard had finished, she noticed a stranger sharing the bench: a trim elderly woman a few years older than herself, wearing a black dress with tiny white polka dots.

They exchanged a brief smile and surveyed the poplar trees on a far hill. A breeze blew a candy wrapper past the stranger’s black leather pumps.

“What a ghastly mess,” sighed Mrs. Pritchard. “Blessed with the ruins of one of the greatest empires on earth, and they can’t keep it clean!”

The stranger nodded. “Shocking, and
so
typical of the Italians.”

Mrs. Pritchard stole another glance at the woman and felt an eerie sensation that had come upon her several times during the journey when she had misplaced something or forgotten a simple, pertinent fact. Her companion looked familiar, and she worried that they might have crossed paths recently.

It was awful, this forgetfulness. Pride compelled Mrs. Pritchard to remain silent, but she stole another glance at her companion: her hair was white and thick, held in place with a handsome silver clasp at the back. She had probably been beautiful as a younger woman, her face marred only by a faint blue vein running down her left cheek.

“The French are no better, you know,” said the woman. “The Seine is
filth
y
!”

“I’m not surprised,” replied Mrs. Pritchard, comforted by sentiments so similar to her own. That said, the stranger offered her a farewell nod and continued on her way.

Mrs. Pritchard returned to her hotel, slept fitfully that night, ate a hurried breakfast in the morning, and boarded the nine o’clock train to Florence. She found an empty compartment and opened up her copy of
Middlemarch
. A few moments later, a voice greeted her in English.

“Hello again.”

It was the woman from the Palatine Hill, carrying a calfskin leather suitcase and a matching bag and settling herself into the compartment. Mrs. Pritchard still couldn’t place the woman in her past, but she became seized by the idea that they were
meant
to meet.

Cautiously, each lady then confessed a few facts about herself that proved coincidental: they were both widows, both single, and both traveling to Florence. Mrs. Pritchard learned that her companion was not a Southern Rhodesian but a South African, from Johannesburg. At one point, the woman left to powder her nose, leaving a cardigan on the seat with a little address book poking from one pocket. As the minutes passed, Mrs. Pritchard debated glancing at the book. Surely
curiosity
wasn’t a deadly sin? After peering down the corridor for signs of her companion’s return, she seized the book and leafed quickly through its worn pages.

The names were written in large curly script with little notes scribbled in the margins: two dentists; several doctors; a podiatrist; a homeopath (marked “quack”); three hairdressers—one marked “cheap,” one marked “expensive but worth it”; florists; cleaning ladies (“never avail. Tuesdays”); and a piano tuner (“lock up the scotch!”). Mrs. Pritchard began to feel ashamed of herself as she found names crossed out, with the word “dec.” beside them. But then she saw a word that made her regrettable Italian holiday take on a fateful significance.

Lament
.

Of course! This was the mother of that unfortunate woman whose child was stolen at Mercy Hospital. Her hair had been deep black at that time, but Mrs. Pritchard remembered the blue vein on her cheek. There was nothing wrong with her memory now. She recalled the late Dr. Underberg’s efforts to bring a mother back from the brink, and the tragic result. She remembered trying to decide what color tab to put on the file afterward, since it was an unofficial adoption and no forms had been filed. What a breach of procedure. What a blemish on her record. After Dr. Underberg’s death, she had
longed
to confess the matter, but to whom?

When Rose returned to her seat, she sensed that her companion was seized by some dilemma. Or perhaps it was merely the condition of strangers that they are forever searching for a soul with whom to share the truth about themselves.

With this in mind, Rose proposed that they meet for dinner that evening. She knew a wonderful restaurant, and with the wine flowing freely, they might both unload whatever burden they wished.

Shortly before the meal, Rose went for a walk near the Uffizi Gallery. At sunset an amber glow suffused the buildings. Such glorious light! The evening breeze was delightfully cool, and even the traffic sounds were muted and respectful of this magical hour. Rose gazed down at the Arno, winding through the old city like a vein of gold. This was why she came every year. Though her husbands changed, Florence was as constant as the points of the compass.

Rose met her new friend at Resistance, a small restaurant nestled in the crypt of a church near the river. The staff always remembered her, inquiring about her stay and her lodgings. The tables were set in limestone cells with candlelight and red carpeting. Mrs. Pritchard seemed quite moved by its name, and noted that the anti-Fascist resistance had been shot down a short distance away. Then, with alarming speed, the ex-matron polished off her first glass of Chianti.

“Italians have the best food and wine, but they have no sense of moderation,” Rose warned her.

“Pity,” agreed Mrs. Pritchard. Oblivious to Rose’s hint, she topped up her glass.

“What these walls must know,” sighed Rose. “Many a secret told, many a plot revealed, Mrs. Pritchard.”

“Do call me Alice. We seem to be getting along so well. Your name is . . .”

“Rose Pennington,” said her companion.

“Speaking of secrets,” Mrs. Pritchard began, “I believe we’ve actually met before.” She explained her former profession, and recounted having seen Rose sixteen years before at her daughter’s bedside. “And something has weighed on my conscience ever since.”

“I see,” Rose said, watching Mrs. Pritchard empty her second glass and pour another, which made her wonder if all Rhodesians drank like fish. “Well, obviously, dear, I’m not a priest; I don’t take confessions.”

“It’s not a confession, exactly.”

“Good,” said Rose, looking at her watch. “You see, Alice, I’m having a wonderful time this evening and I’d hate to have it spoiled discussing some vulgar matter.”

But Mrs. Pritchard, her eyes closed to prevent the room from spinning, was intent on a mission urged upon her by the slip of paper that read “Lament”; if nothing else, she would share this fact with another soul, and thus relieve herself of the only mistake she could remember making during her career at Mercy Hospital.

“Sixteen years ago a little boy was born to a couple named Lament,” she began, “and shortly after his birth he was kidnapped by a disturbed mother.”

Rose might have been moved to tears (or gratitude) if her pride hadn’t interceded. How dare this stranger presume such intimacy? What was her motive in delivering such a revelation? To savor Rose’s grief, perhaps? Well, she wouldn’t give this woman the satisfaction.

“Several hours later, she, her husband, and the Lament baby were killed in a car accident. Against my advice, the doctor persuaded the child’s mother to take the child belonging to the disturbed mother as her own, without a formal adoption procedure.”

As she finished her story, Mrs. Pritchard became aware of a lightness in her spirit. She opened her eyes, and was astonished to find herself alone at the table.

Rose’s veal piccata lay half eaten, the knife and fork splayed; her bag was missing.

Waiting for the woman to return, Mrs. Pritchard took a matchbook from the table and slipped it into her pocket. After a few minutes, she concluded that Rose was not returning, and a feeling of loneliness pervaded her. She paid the bill (the load off her conscience seemed worth the price), collected her bag, and walked out into the Florentine evening.

Clutching a faded postcard in her hand, Mrs. Pritchard made her way toward the Ponte Vecchio, the bridge of lovers and patriots, determined to see it at sunset, just as her dear husband had described it.

What a heavenly bridge it was! Couples walked past the jewelers’ booths while the sun’s last gentle rays bathed their faces in a celestial glow. It
was
a place for lovers. She remembered her husband’s words: “Heroes of the anti-Fascist resistance shed their blood on the cobblestones, which, to this day, remain a rusty red!”
Oh, Venable,
she thought,
if only you were here
. Do widows and widowers
really
find the ghosts of their loved ones pacing the bridge? Mrs. Alice Pritchard swooned, feeling as though she were not alone anymore. She drew herself up onto a ledge to see the river, with Venable’s voice whispering in her ear. “Impassioned lovers leaped from it hand in hand to guarantee they would spend eternity together. . . .” Perhaps it was the Chianti, or her husband’s voice, but suddenly she felt possessed by a simple antidote to her loneliness.

THE NEXT MORNING
, Rose felt a brooding irritation with her acquaintance of the night before. If her grandson was adopted, what business did that woman have in carrying this information around? It was also infuriating that Julia had kept the secret from her. But it explained so much.

Rose took the tour of the Duomo that went into the ceiling of the cathedral. Single file, the visitors were led into the rafters. She peered through one of the windows overlooking Florence, with its uniform terra-cotta rooftops. Such a beautiful city. Such order. Suddenly she wondered whether Julia bore her some grudge. A spike of guilt struck her, and she found herself gripping the iron handrail.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” asked the American wearing a porkpie hat and sunglasses behind her.

“I’m fine, thank you,” she replied. Her knuckles were white as she steadied herself.

Rose then grasped at her unfinished thought—Julia’s grudge—and recalled, five years after her divorce, when her daughter was teaching in Ludlow, a call from one of Adam’s hunting friends informing her that her ex-husband had committed suicide during a foray in the bush. He had sent his assistant on an errand, and then blown his brains out using a coat-hanger wire attached to his shotgun. There was a note left behind, asking Rose to convey the news of his death to Julia. Rose was overcome not with grief but with anger at her ex-husband. She decided not to call her daughter until she felt capable of expressing gentler sentiments. She waited a week; in that interval, Julia heard the news from Adam’s distraught housekeeper. It was a regrettable mistake, and the second time that Rose had failed to tell Julia of a momentous fact.

Rose decided to take a nap when she got back to the hotel. This, however, turned out to be impossible.

A young Italian police officer, flanked by two others, greeted her at the hotel.

“Signora, can you confirm for us that Mrs. Alice Pritchard was your dinner guest last night?”

“Mrs. Pritchard and I dined together. Is something wrong?”

The officer replied with another question.

“May I ask when you last
saw
Mrs. Pritchard?”

A pretty man, she thought. Like her second husband, perhaps even handsomer.

“At dinner. In fact, I left before she did. Would you please explain what this is about?”

“Signora, a woman with Mrs. Pritchard’s identification drowned off the Ponte Vecchio last night. In her pocket we found matches from the Resistance restaurant, and the proprietor directed us to you and your hotel.”

Fidelity

Because a Christmas party had brought them together, Julia often thought about Trixie as the holiday approached. She wrote seasonal letters, giving the details of the Laments’ travels, and addressed them to the American Express office, guessing that Trixie could always be found by way of her credit card. Though she never replied, Julia believed the letters reached her, because they were not returned. So when Trixie suddenly phoned from New York, asking to see her, Julia was both delighted and anxious. She suspected that something important must have provoked her friend to call after such a long silence.

Trixie arrived at Roper, still as tall as a Greek marble, with a long neck and pale skin, her hair—a little darker—combed back and down to reveal a widow’s peak and those formidable cheekbones. Brautigan would have classified her style as Park Avenue Kabuki—a shorthand expression for too much money and too much makeup—but it hardly addressed Trixie’s considerable sex appeal.

“Julia should be here in a moment,” promised Brautigan. His fingers jingled the change in his pockets. “Looking for a house?” he asked.

“I
have
a house,” she replied, gazing skeptically at the listings. “In New York.”

“I bet it’s a palace,” he said, trying to be urbane and charming; then he offered his hand and introduced himself.

“Trixie,” she replied, “Trixie Chamberlain,” squeezing his fingertips with a cool, precise grip. “When do you expect her?”

“Ten minutes ago.” Brautigan grinned. “Have a seat.”

Ignoring his invitation, Trixie surveyed the worn metal desks, the threadbare chairs, the fluorescent fixtures, and the obvious clash between the plaid carpet and everything else in the former county jail.

Go ahead, stand,
thought Brautigan.
You’re better than a goddamn centerfold
. He looked down almost immediately, wishing he’d resisted such a shabby thought.

“New York’s a fine city,” he said, to fill the silence. “I served on the NYPD for twenty years as a homicide detective.”

“Really?” Trixie’s interest lit up, and her gaze became intoxicating. Brautigan was about to tell her how he had once avoided death on a tenement fire escape when Julia arrived.

“Trixie!” she cried. “Good heavens, I can’t believe it’s really you!”

The two women hugged, and Brautigan felt himself become invisible.

“Mike,” said Julia, “have you two met?”

“Oh yes,” answered Brautigan. “I was about to tell her how—”