Wild Roses (32 page)

They followed the priest out of the church and
into the warm air of the piazza, followed him across the cobblestones and down a
narrow alley. Up a flight of steps to a large wooden door. The old priest
knocked with his fist. Honoria! He shouted. Honoria! Apra il
portello!

The old priest kept banging, but no one
answered. A cat appeared and curled around his legs, and he swatted it aside
with his foot in a very unpriestly fashion. Honoria!

Finally he tried the doorknob. My mother and
Andrew exchanged a look. Dread filled my mother. She thought she might throw up.
The priest pushed the door open, and not knowing what else to do, they followed
him into the

285

house, through a dark hall with crooked hanging
pictures, and into a kitchen. By that time my mother said she was expecting
anything. An empty room, another crazy ride to another strange place, the news
of Dino's suicide.

But she did not expect what she saw. He was
lying on a couch, an old blanket tucked around him, his mouth hanging open. The
nearly deaf Honoria Maretta was setting down a tray of tea and cookies beside
him. Dino woke up, propped himself against some pillows, and smiled before he
saw the trio come down the hall. He was smiling because he saw what was on the
tray. Honoria had made him pizzelles.

286

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

As I said, the desire to be near fame and
greatness can do odd and amazing things to people. That night, all the good
people of Sabbotino Grappa came out to feast the returning son that was never
theirs. Mom and Andrew were greeted warmly, now that the villagers knew they
were strangers to be welcomed rather than feared. It wasn't too often, after
all, that they got visitors. Antonia Gillette, the baker's wife, set up a table
in the piazza and everyone brought food. The forever squabbling Mrs. Salducci
and Mrs. Latore, both old as time, brought pinzimonio and risotto, and broke
into an argument about where to place their dishes. Peter, the baker, made
focaccia, though his daughter had to carry the plate as she held her father's
arm to help him walk. Francesca and Lutitia Bissola arrived, clutching each
other for steadiness, chatting and arguing

287

and kissing everyone in sight after they had a
few glasses of the wine that Father Abrulla brought from the church. Even Karl
Lager came, bringing pomegranates from his store, and bruised apricots and
olives. Father Minelli was dead and gone, as was the reclusive Frank Piccola.
Almost everyone else, Mom said, was over eighty. She wondered what would happen
to the town when everyone was dead, wondered who would live there anymore. The
youngest people there were Maria and Eli Manzoni, and they were older than Dino,
though Pia and her brothers arrived by car, bringing grandchildren that hid
under the table and feasted on Honoria's cookies.

My mother got to see the sunset of Sabbotino
Grappa, watched the sun as it dropped down into the Tuscan valley. She breathed
in the smell of lemons, of plumbagos. Sat on the stone steps of the church with
a plate of budino di mele balanced on her knees. Listened to the joyful language
she couldn't understand.

And Dino, who had only previously seen this
place in a book when he was sixteen and crafting a past for himself for his
first interview, lavished in the affection of his "home" and "family." The
children put almonds in his pockets, and the old ladies and old men kissed his
cheeks. He feasted and laughed. Told stories in Italian. Finally, he picked up
the old violin that Mrs. Salducci brought, hopelessly out of tune, and tried to
play Lunetta for the townspeople. The sound was too awful, and so he gave up
Lunetta. He played "Ballo di Mattina" (Morning Dance), a Tuscan folk song,
instead, and Karl Lager danced with

288

Mrs. Latore, and the Bissola sisters waltzed in
tiny, careful steps with each other, and the children spun themselves in
circles, the colors of their clothing bright against that yellow
stone.

No wonder, my mother thought then, that Edward
Reynolds had decided to respect the version of Dino's life that he had chosen.
It was a good story, with wonderful characters, in a beautiful setting. It made
everyone so happy. And if you could make a choice, then why not pick
happiness?

Late that night, over wine in glass jars and a
short, dripping candle in Honoria's kitchen, Dino told my mother that he would
be staying in Sabbotino Grappa. We would have to join him if they were to stay
together--he had too long been in that second-rate musical city, and he would be
near enough to Rome to play there.

My mother told him then what she said she'd
wanted to say for a long time. That she loved him and cared about him, but that
they could not live together anymore. She would file for divorce when she
returned home. He could live with a family that wasn't real, made up of lies and
things unsaid, but she had already been doing that for too long. She had a
choice, and she wanted to pick happiness, too.

Dino, Honoria's boy, slept on her couch that
night, and my mother and Andrew slept on the floor. In the morning, Eli Manzoni
drove them to Rome. They stayed in the Grand Palace Hotel, ordered expensive
room service. My mother had a bath. They flew out the next day from the Rome
airport.

289

Here was the funny thing. Her baggage never
made it home, and she didn't seem to mind.

"You didn't even bring anything back," I said
to her. "Not even my mother went to Italy and all i got was this

lousy t-shirt."

"Shopping wasn't a priority."

"Did you think for a minute you might want to
stay?" "Not for a second. Not even a split second. Or a split of a
split."

"Are you okay?"

"Exhausted, depleted, war weary. Shell-shocked.
It's been a long four years."

"It all feels so strange. It's so
quiet."

"I know," Mom said. "It's hard to realize that
it's done. I've been trying so hard to get everything to fit for so long, but it
never did. You keep trying and trying, but you're just killing
yourself."

"You've been through a lot."

"We've been through a lot. I've known this was
necessary for a long time. But it's not easy to do what you know you should,
especially when he's ill. God, he was so sick."

I didn't say anything. Just let her talk. I was
so glad he was gone. There was air in the house again. Like someone had died,
and the body and the illness and the sickroom were now carted away.

"I mean, where should your empathy stop? Your
own compassion does you in. Gets in the way of self-protection. You've got an
in-love feeling, but the relationship is

290

damaging. When do you stop calling it
love?"

"Meanness is still meanness," I said. "It's not
a disease."

"It's true. And I've also got you to look
after, thank God. I know how this has been affecting you, and I'm
sorry."

"Are you going to miss him?"

She thought about this. "I'm sure there will be
things I'll miss. I mean, when it was good, it was great. Especially in the
early days. I know it's hard for you to understand, but I loved him. I really
did. And it was exciting, it really was, being part of his world." She rubbed
her forehead as if trying to get the thoughts to order themselves. "Right now,
everything just hurts. But I'm also just so relieved. Mostly what I can see is
that relief."

"Me too."

"You know how just now you asked if I was okay?
That's why we're not doing this anymore. A daughter shouldn't have to worry
about her mother. That's backward and wrong. And we should both be okay. Yes, it
hurts. To get divorced again . . . God. But that's exactly it. A home is where
you're okay."

"I'm proud of you," I said.

"I'm proud of us." She held up the coffee pot
she was holding. "Here's to lessons learned. Lightness. Peace. Tranquillity.
Knowing mostly what the day will hold when you get up in the
morning."

I grabbed the nearest thing, a flower vase. We
clinked them together. We toasted to a new life.

Siang Chibo still followed me home.

291

"You know he's not here," I told her. We were
at the beginning of my street. I watched Courtney's brothers let themselves in
their house, saw the blue glow of the television a moment later. "Even his study
is getting packed up."

"You're my friend," she said. "That's why I'm
here."

"Okay."

"It doesn't matter to me, you know. What
happened that night," she said. "You act as if that changes
something."

I stopped before we went in. Slipped my
backpack from my shoulder and set it on the walkway. "He let you
down."

"Let me down? You've got to be kidding." Her
Indiana Jones Temple of Doom boy voice grew even higher pitched. "Were you not
there? Did you not hear Lunetta? Did you not hear Amore Dolce Delia Gioventu? My
father was sobbing."

Dog William was out on the front lawn. We
watched him chew someone's tennis shoe. I don't know whose it was. I was hoping
he didn't snitch it from Mr. Frederici's front porch.

"I would have thought the rest of the night
might've thrown a little cold water on the evening."

"Look what he gave us. Remember his painting?
Wild Roses. That music. Beauty that could not be tamed. It was magnificent.
Unforgettable."

I thought about this. "Yeah. Unforgettable, all
right. And roses have thorns."

"Oh, Cassie," Siang said. "I want to be your
friend even if you don't seem to get things sometimes."

292

I watched Dog William. I wondered if we should
change his name. I tried a few out.

"Marley," I called. "Hey, Marley!" Dog William
didn't look up. "Jose. Here, Jose. Archie!"

He ignored me. Kept chewing that
shoe.

"William!" I said, and Dog William popped his
ugly little chin right in the air, looked at me as if slightly exasperated at
being interrupted.

"He is who he is," Siang said.

Ian and I spent the rest of the year together.
It was a peaceful time--Janet apologized to me, even made me some cookies, and,
of course, Dino was gone. A happy, happy time. Ian left for Philadelphia in
August. Janet could not bear to take him to the airport, so Chuck and Bunny
drove, and Ian and I rode in the backseat. I couldn't keep the tears from
rolling down my cheeks.

"I don't want any blubbering," Bunny said. But
he kept blowing his nose and sniffing a lot. Trying to keep the tears
back.

It was five o'clock in the morning, already
warm and smelling good, the air feeling promising and full of new beginnings. It
broke my heart. Ian kept squeezing my hand and looking at me as if trying to get
my features deep into his memory.

"Cassie, I . . ." he choked.

"Okay, all of you," Chuck said. "We're never
going to get through this." But his voice was wavery too. "On the count of
three, think happy thoughts. One, two, three. Clowns."

293

"Clowns are creepy," I said.

"Gumballs. Cartoons. The beach. A vacation,"
Chuck said.

"Real good, Chuck," Bunny said, and honked into
his Kleenex again. "Vacation? Travel? Planes?"

"There's so much to say," Ian
whispered.

"We're going to be seeing you," Bunny said. Now
his voice was hoarse. It was hard to keep back emotion. It always kept pressing,
pressing at the edges of you, even if you didn't want it to. "It's not like
we're not going to be seeing you."

We took the exit for the airport. The sight of
the big planes there, parked and waiting, made my stomach feel sick. The airport
was such a wonderful and awful place. For every arrival there was someone on the
other side, left behind.

The plan was to pull up to the curb, unload
Ian's bags. We'd say good-bye there. We wouldn't prolong it.

Bunny fought the cars and the shuttle buses and
taxis, eased into a spot at the airport curb. "Kid," he said. His eyes were full
of tears now. He leaned over and hugged Ian hard. "I love you. You be
good."

Ian hugged Chuck, too, who was having a hard
time holding it together. "Puppies," Chuck squeaked. "Sno-Cones.
Heineken."

"Good-bye, Chuck."

I stepped out onto the curb with Ian. He was
not wearing his long coat, as it was August and it was packed for a Philadelphia
winter, but he was carrying his violin case. He

294

took his suitcase from the trunk and set it
down by his feet. "I love you," he said.

"I love you." I hugged him. We kissed for a
while. And then we separated, and I watched his back disappear into the sliding
doors. I just watched him go. And like that, he was gone.

"Thank you for showing me how," I whispered.
And then I got back into the car, and let Bunny hold me as I sobbed.

Maybe love, too, is beautiful because it has a
wildness that cannot be tamed. I don't know. All I know is that passion can take
you up like a house of cards in a tornado, leaving destruction in its wake. Or
it can let you alone because you have built a stone wall against it, set out the
armed guards to keep it from touching you. The real trick is to let it in, but
to hold on. To understand that the heart is as vast and wide as the universe,
but that we come to know it best from here, this place of gravity and stability,
where our feet can still touch ground.