It Happened in Tuscany

by Gail Mencini

  They pulled into the clinic’s parking lot. Mr. Mills turned toward Sophie. “Should I stay in the car, remain in the waiting area, or come inside the exam room with you?”

  “In the room with me, please, but maybe off to the side.” She had never put a pet to sleep and didn’t know what to expect.

  He nodded.

  In the dog room at the vet’s office, Mr. Mills stood in the back. Sophie sat on the floor with Bangor and scratched her dog’s favorite spots. She looked up when the door to the treatment area opened.

  Her eyes widened as the doctor entered the examination room with a broad smile.

  Her face heated with anger. How dare the veterinarian forget the purpose of her appointment?

  “I’ve got great news, Sophie,” the vet said.

  “Do you mean Bangor’s tumors won’t kill him?”

  The doctor knelt in front of her and petted Bangor. “If the tumors shrink, Bangor might have a chance. There are no approved drugs on the market that can reduce the size of his tumors. Surgery, as I explained Saturday, is risky because the growths are too diffuse in his abdomen.”

  His words confused Sophie.

  “I made a few phone calls. A research team at Colorado State University is working with a prototype drug that might work to shrink the tumors.”

  Sophie sat up straighter. Her words rushed out. “Can we get this drug for Bangor?”

  “No. We can’t get it in the office. If Bangor participates in their study, though, they could try it on him.”

  “I will drive him up to Fort Collins and they can give Bangor the drug.” Her voice rose with hope.

  “It’s not that simple, Sophie. The only way the CSU research program can give Bangor the drug is if you sign him over to them.”

  “What? I have to give Bangor to them?”

  “Yes. For liability reasons. They received a research grant to study the use of this drug but can only treat animals the research lab owns. There is also a precondition that, absent the treatment, the subjects would be put down.

  “Bangor would be medicated. He would not be in pain. If no positive results are seen, he’d be put down.”

  Sophie stroked Bangor’s head. Do I have the strength to sign away my ownership of Bangor and all rights to him? Can I, in good conscience, absolve CSU of any liability for whatever they do to Bangor? Can I bear to be absent when my best friend is ushered out of this life?

  Sophie leaned her head down until she was nose to nose with Bangor. She asked him what to do. Is the pain too much, my friend? Or are you willing to endure it for a while longer for a chance to live?

  Sophie knew it was her decision and hers alone.

  A hand reached down to stroke Bangor’s back, a hand veined and spotted with age and exposure to the Colorado sun. “Are these good people in the CSU lab?”

  “Absolutely,” the vet said.

  “Will they use Bangor as a pin cushion for their needles or run unnecessary tests or labs on him?”

  “Never.”

  “Here’s the big question.” Mr. Mills’s voice rose in volume. He sounded like he was grilling a raw Army recruit. “Can you promise Miss Sophie that Bangor will not suffer, either with this treatment or if they have to put him down because the drugs don’t help?”

  “I know the person well who is in charge of this study. I promise.”

  Sophie looked at the doctor and nodded. “I’ll sign the forms.”

  After she completed the paperwork, the veterinarian encouraged Sophie to take as much time as she wanted. “Knock on the interior door when you’re ready for us to take Bangor.”

  Sophie leaned down and rested her head against Bangor’s still torso. His steady breath showed he clung to life. She had to do this for Bangor. It was his only chance.

  She straightened to a sitting position and drew in a deep breath. Sophie felt Mr. Mills’s calm hand on her shoulder.

  He helped her to her feet. She walked to the door and knocked.

  Bangor stood and padded over beside her. He leaned against Sophie’s leg.

  Tears spilled from her eyes.

  The door opened. Sophie nodded to the tech and looked one more time at Bangor. “Good luck, buddy. I love you.”

  20

  Mr. Mills insisted they stop at a diner on the way home. He ordered a slice of pie and a cup of black coffee. Sophie wanted only a glass of iced tea.

  He let her speak first.

  “Thank you for coming with me, Mr. Mills. I did need someone with me today.”

  He nodded.

  The waitress brought his pie and their drinks.

  She had a panicky thought. “Do you think, if Bangor gets better, they’d let me visit him?”

  Mr. Mills scratched his chin. “It might take some time for them to run their tests, but I bet you can.”

  Her spirits rose a little. “Right. I’ll call them in a week.”

  He shook his head. “You may want to give them a month. Let them try their drugs. Didn’t the vet say they’ll give you a report once a month?”

  “Yes.”

  Mr. Mills focused on his pie, eating one slow, deliberate bite after another. “You can measure a restaurant by their apple pie. It’s true.”

  Sophie sat in silence and stared at her iced tea. The monster in her belly tried to gnaw its way to freedom.

  His fork clinked against the plate. “That’s the way it is,” Mr. Mills said.

  She looked up at him. He had eaten his pie and drunk half his coffee.

  “The way it is with pets.” Mr. Mills fingered the handle of the coffee cup. “When you love a dog they are part of you forever. They grab onto a piece of you, and unless you find a way to deny that love, they’re always there. Waiting to be reunited with you.”

  Sophie blinked. His face broadcast an intensity that caught her off-guard more than his words.

  His expression and tone of voice made Sophie wonder if he spoke about loving a dog or a woman.

  21

  The next day, Sophie woke up from a fitful nap when someone knocked on her door.

  Mr. Mills, dressed in the same plaid shirt and khaki slacks as the day before, stood in the hallway. “Thought somebody ought to check on you to make sure you’re OK since you stayed home from work.”

  Will he ever stop spying on me?

  She sighed. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  “That’s understandable.” Mr. Mills inspected her face. “You’re not sick with the flu or another contagious disease, are you?”

  Sophie shook her head.

  “Good. Why don’t you come to my apartment for a snack? A nibble might get your mind off your dog.”

  Socialize with Mr. Mills? The prospect sounded as pleasant as letting a dentist attack her mouth with a drill. Sophie knew she needed to start moving out of her catatonic mourning for Bangor. His face showed sincere concern about her, as doubtful as that seemed.

  She nodded. “Thank you. I haven’t eaten all day.”

  She stood in front of his door thirty minutes later. The door opened before she knocked. The man anticipated her actions in an eerie way.

  He invited her to sit at the round wooden kitchen table.

  Mr. Mills stood behind one of the chairs. “Would you like a glass of water?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Mr. Mills withdrew a glass from a tidy cupboard, filled it with water from the tap, and offered the tumbler to her.

  Sophie thanked him.

  “How about a snack? I have canned smoked oysters and saltine crackers. Would you like both?” Mr. Mills smiled like he had offered a delicacy.

  Not the snack she expected. Cheese and crackers, and maybe a glass of wine, had been her hope. “Uh, yes. Thank you.”

  He nodded, extracted a box of crackers from the cupboard, and brought it to the table. He opened the can of oysters and put the can and a box of toothpicks on a plate. Mr. Mills grabbed paper napkins and two salad plates from the cupboard.

  Simple hospitality,
shaped by manners learned from his deceased wife, or perhaps his mother.

  Mr. Mills motioned for Sophie to help herself.

  Neither one spoke for a few minutes.

  Her curiosity took control. “Mr. Mills, may I ask you something about an earlier conversation?”

  He nodded. “Go on, Miss Sophie.”

  “Please tell me why you want to go to Italy.”

  “Will you help me if I do?”

  “I’ll make no promises, but I won’t help you if you don’t explain your reason for going.”

  Her neighbor lowered his chin and sat with his hands clenched in front of him.

  Sophie attempted to hide her impatience. “Do you want to see something, or someone, specific when you go to Italy?”

  “Yes.”

  Dammit, Sophie. Ask open-ended questions, not the kind deflected with a simple “yes” or “no.”

  Too tired and too emotional to play cat-and-mouse, she asked her burning question: “You’re going to see a woman, aren’t you?”

  He nodded.

  “Please tell me about her, Mr. Mills.”

  “You can call me Will.” He pushed up from the table, walked to the bedroom, and returned with a faded black-and-white photograph.

  He handed the photo with scalloped edges to Sophie. Some of her grandparents’ photographs were on the same type of paper.

  Will’s photo featured a smiling young woman, perhaps 15 or 16, with long dark hair, a tiny waist, and a full-skirted dress. She leaned forward in a sexy pose over an outdoor bistro table in what appeared to be a European city.

  Sophie turned over the photograph. Beautiful script revealed the name of the woman in the photo and the date it was taken: Francesca Polvani, June 7, 1945.

  “You met Francesca during the war?”

  “Yes. I met Francesca. And loved her.”

  Sophie spoke in a quiet voice. “And you married her in Italy?”

  He shook his head. “Loved her, yes, but it was wartime. Impossible to have a wedding.”

  “I thought you told me she was your wife.”

  A shadowed, angry look took over his face. “When in the hell do you imagine I said that?”

  “When we came back from the cemetery.” As soon as she uttered the words, Sophie regretted them. The pain over losing Marie must boil in him underneath the surface.

  “Hell, we buried my wife that morning. Don’t you think I was half crazy at the time?”

  “Of course. I’m sorry, Mr. Mills. I may have misheard you. It’s been rough for us both.”

  He gave one curt nod and blinked. “It’s Will. You should call me Will.” His face had closed down like a stone wall surrounded it. The discussion ended, as did any questions about going to Italy to find Francesca.

  Sophie studied the photograph. “This is Francesca? She’s beautiful.”

  As quick as his defense had gone up, it disappeared. “A real beauty and full of spunk.”

  “What happened to her?”

  Will shook his head. “I don’t know. I left with my division.”

  “You want to find her now, all these years later?”

  Will nodded.

  Sophie tried to hide her judgment of the man who had buried his wife and only a few days later wanted to find an old love. She wondered if her neighbor’s mental capacity had slipped.

  He pulled another photograph from his shirt pocket. He handed the picture to Sophie.

  The photo featured Francesca, but this time she was not in a sexy pose.

  Here, Francesca had her hair piled up on top of her head in a haphazard way, the hairstyle of someone who had no time to tend to her appearance.

  It was clear why she looked that way. In her arms, a fuller-faced Francesca held a bundled infant.

  Will nodded. “She said the baby was mine.”

  22

  Sophie looked at the young woman and infant in the picture. She forced herself to keep her voice level. “What do you think, Mr. Mills?”

  “Will.”

  “Is it possible you fathered this child, Will?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. It’s possible.” His face reddened.

  He rubbed his eyes. “When I left Italy, I promised to come back to get her after the war. Everybody said that to their wartime girls.” He bowed his head. “I was young, foolish, and full of myself.”

  “What happened?”

  “I didn’t know she carried a baby when I left. We were together only a short time.”

  “How did you meet?”

  Will took a deep breath. “My division fought in the Apennine Mountains.” A haunted look crept over his face. “Terrible, terrible fighting.”

  Sophie waited in silence.

  He gazed out the window. “The officers pushed us hard. Climb up this godforsaken mountain, and if we were lucky enough to survive it, they’d have us snowshoe and ski down the next. Miserable conditions. We fought not only the Germans but also the weather.”

  He faced her with haunted eyes. “We lost scores of men on that mountain, and even more as the troop advanced. I was damn lucky to be alive.”

  He swallowed and spoke with slow, even-toned words. “I got separated from the others and wounded while marching a prisoner out of the mountains.”

  Sophie suspected Will never talked about his days in the war. She didn’t speak, afraid he would stop talking if she said anything.

  He looked at her and nodded. “Italian partisans took me with them to care for me.”

  “Lucky for you,” Sophie said.

  “Damn lucky. Francesca was the sister of the guy who found me, an Italian who’d been drafted by the Germans but refused to go. He hid in the woods and helped anyone who managed to escape from the camps.”

  “Did Francesca nurse you back to health?”

  He smiled. “Best incentive ever to heal—a gorgeous, gun-toting babe as a makeshift nurse.”

  Sophie leaned forward over the table, eager to learn more.

  “First, though, I needed to convince her to like me. She held no fondness for the Yanks. We bombed the harbor cities in Italy, you see.”

  He nodded with confidence.

  Sophie imagined him as an eager young soldier. “You charmed her.”

  “I told her the truth. I fought in Italy to stop the Germans and to liberate the Italians.”

  Sophie smiled at the thought of her grouchy neighbor as a smooth-talking charmer in his youth. “Why did you leave her?”

  “It was my duty to rejoin my unit, or at least the U.S. Army. The war ended, and then I was stateside again.”

  “When did you learn about Francesca’s baby?”

  “By the time I got these pictures in her letter, more than a year after the war ended, I had married Marie.” Will shook his head. “It was too late.”

  She touched the back of his hand with her fingertips. “I’m sorry.”

  His voice grew softer. “I sent letters to the main church in the city where she mailed hers from. I wanted to send her money to help with the baby. I never got a second letter from Francesca.”

  “So you want to go to Italy now to find her and the child?”

  Will nodded. “Will you make flight reservations for me? And whatever the hell else I need—trains, car, and hotels?”

  Sophie studied his determined face. Will has one more mission to complete.

  She hated to burst his bubble, but he missed the obvious. Sophie rested her palm on his forearm and spoke in a quiet voice, to cushion the sting of her words. “Do you have any idea where to even begin looking?”

  “Hell, no. But I know for certain I won’t find Francesca if I continue to rot away in this little apartment. The only way I can find her is to do the one thing I swore never to do when I left. I need to put my feet back on the ground in Italy and start turning up rocks.”

  A World War II veteran going to a country he visited over seventy years ago, searching for a virtual needle in the haystack? How can I let Will go on this harebrained journey?
<
br />   “Who will go with you?” Sophie asked.

  “Not a damn soul.”

  23

  Sophie’s mobile phone rang. It was the office, the place she used to work until she quit in a huff. Sophie excused herself and stepped out into the hall.

  “The company will mail your last check,” said Emily from the HR department. “I want to verify your address. Because you didn’t turn in your resignation with proper advance notice, you will forfeit your accrued unused vacation and bonus.”

  Sophie’s meager savings would now have to pay her bills while she looked for a new job.

  She had whispered her plan to Bangor every night. The two of them would take a long, winding road trip up the East Coast, all the way to his namesake, Bangor, Maine.

  Tape held a picture of a pretty red-and-white-striped lighthouse to her bathroom mirror. The magazine photo represented their last East Coast stop: a lighthouse, the ocean, and a park for Bangor to play in.

  After visiting the lighthouse, they would drive west to Niagara Falls and Canada, an opportunity to use her new passport.

  Now, Bangor was gone, and with him, her dream.

  She returned to Will’s kitchen with tears in her eyes.

  A map of Italy covered the table. Will hummed and drew tiny circles with a pencil around several towns midway on the map.

  He looked up at her. “Did something bad happen at work?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is it?”

  “I quit my job Friday. They called to tell me that they’re not going to pay me the month of vacation or the bonus I’d earned.”

  Will slapped his hand against the table. “They can’t do that. Want me to go talk to them?”

  She shook her head. “It won’t do any good. The HR person told me I forfeited the pay because I didn’t notify them ninety days before leaving.”

  He nodded. “You strike me as a hard worker and a sensible girl. If you didn’t give them proper notice, I bet you had a damn good reason.”

  “I did.”

  “There is a solution for you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You should come to Italy with me.”

  “Right,” she said, with sarcasm drawing out the word.