Invitation to Italian

by Tracy Kelleher

  “Anything else about Katarina?”

  That he’d seen her having coffee with Julie Antonelli at the hospital on occasion? He shook his head. This conversation was not about his own current fixation. Instead he attempted to focus on Paul’s question. “Not that I can think of. Is there something in particular you want to know? I thought it was the mother you were interested in?”

  “It’s about Zora and Katarina.”

  “Now I’m confused.”

  “When we were in college? Zora and me? As far as I know, I was her only lover. I could be wrong, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure.”

  Sebastiano didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The direction the conversation had suddenly taken was about as far from his own preoccupation as imaginably possible. Besides, he could already guess where Paul was going—that in all likelihood, Paul was Katarina’s father.

  Paul gripped the edges of the table with both hands. “I can’t believe what I’ve missed out on. What was taken from me! Only now, instead of getting drunk and running away from the truth, I’ve got to pull myself together and deal with it. I need to confront Zora.”

  Sebastiano schooled his features to remain impassive. Because he knew exactly what Paul was talking about. And in the old days, he would have also run away and grabbed the vodka.

  Only now what he wanted to do was run to Julie, confide to her about Paul and eventually pour out his own problems. Not that he ever would. But he could think it.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY you’d want to avoid seeing him,” Julie’s friend Sarah said. Sarah was a physical therapist whose practice was affiliated with the hospital. The two had met each other through work, then found out they had a mutual friend in Katarina. Sarah had even ended up marrying an old high school acquaintance of Julie’s, Iris Phox’s son, Hunt. The whole thing was so Grantham. There were no degrees of separation when it came to life in a small town.

  It was midmorning on Friday, and Julie had just finished rounds before heading to her office for her day’s appointments. Sarah was about to start her sessions with the hospital patients who needed therapy. When things weren’t too crazy, the two had a standing date for coffee every week at this time in the hospital lounge.

  Coffee for Julie was a double-shot espresso. Sarah had an herbal tea, a habit she had developed after giving up caffeine while pregnant and later nursing baby Natalie—the same Natalie who would be the recipient of the famed needlepoint Christmas stocking.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Julie replied. She swirled the last bit of coffee around her tiny paper cup and downed it in one swallow. She had decided to play dumb.

  “Don’t play dumb,” Sarah said. She switched the tag of the tea bag to the other side of her cup. “Sebastiano Fonterra is the most exciting thing to happen to this hospital since computerized record-keeping, and, frankly, a whole lot better to look at at the end of a long day.”

  Sarah raised both eyebrows. “Excuse me, but I thought you were a happily married woman.”

  “I am a happily married woman, but that doesn’t make me blind. Besides, from what I can see, he’s doing a damn good job, between managing this place and then getting this new building done. I mean, if he can make my mother-in-law and me happy, he must have something magical about him. In addition to those dreamy brown eyes, of course.”

  “Hazel. Hazel eyes,” Julie corrected.

  “Are they now?” Sarah lifted her cup and blew on it to cool the tea. “So is it true you and the hazel-eyed doctor came to blows?”

  “Absolutely not!” Julie tossed her cup into the corner wastebasket. Nothing but net. “Who told you that anyway? Katarina?”

  “No, one of the receptionists at the main desk saw you leave with an ice pack on your cheek. And you don’t usually wear foundation, so you must be trying to cover up something.”

  Sarah lightly touched her cheek. “It’s not really foundation. It’s tinted moisturizer. Anyway, we only came to verbal blows. And the ice pack was merely a way of him ministering to my needs.”

  “His words had that much sting?”

  Julie laughed. “No, the bruise was a stupid accident. Anyway, I think our little tiff—”

  “Tiff? Is that how you describe it? The high school volunteer, who was pushing a mail cart outside the office, said he could hear you two arguing from the other end of the hallway.” Sarah took a fortifying sip of tea. “Then I heard from my mother-in-law when she came over for dinner that you smashed a vase.”

  “It was only a chip, a tiny one.”

  “She also said that you and he had ‘deep, though reconcilable, philosophical differences.’ That’s a direct quote, by the way.”

  “Well, Iris appears to have worked her diplomatic charms because she has managed to corral both of us into an Italian class at the Adult School—me as a student and him as a substitute teacher,” Julie elaborated.

  “That sounds like my mother-in-law. When in doubt, solve the world’s problems via the Grantham Adult School.” She leaned on one elbow. “So, tell me. How is he?”

  “How is he?” She left the question floating in the air as she found herself fantasizing about Sebastiano, standing in the rain, wearing his customary dress shirt. Only it was unbuttoned far too low to be respectable, and the material was plastered to his body, outlining every muscle, and, being a doctor, she could name every one….

  “That good, huh?” Sarah asked with a laugh.

  “Oh, this is ridiculous.” Julie gathered herself. “Anyway, why all these questions about Sebastiano Fonterra when the real topic of conversation is what you think of my latest hair iteration?” She shook her head and blinked her eyes dramatically. In her frenzy to forget the unfortunate events of the week, she’d put several magenta streaks in her dark brunette bangs. That was in between cleaning out her medicine cabinet, refrigerator and bedroom closet.

  Sarah gulped the rest of her tea and gathered up her clipboard with her empty cup. “It was only years of friendship and tact that kept me from commenting.” She stood. “I gotta go. But before I do, just tell me. He was that good?”

  Julie knew immediately why Sarah’s physiotherapy patients responded to her programs. Beneath that Midwestern wholesomeness laid the indefatigable soul of a drill sergeant.

  “All right. As much as it pains me to say, he was that good. No, he was great. He was a natural teacher—clear, funny, interesting, a good listener. He had all those middle-aged Granthamites who vacation on the Amalfi Coast eating out of his hand.”

  “The question is, whose hand were you eating out of?” Sarah laughed. She looked back as she stepped off the raised platform of the lounge area into the main lobby, turned abruptly…and barely sidestepped an older African-American man coming into the lobby.

  “Oh, my gosh, Rufus, I’m so sorry,” she apologized. “That’s all we need. Accidents in the hospital. With a former patient no less.”

  “Not to worry, Sarah. Thanks to your ministrations, my hip replacement is better than ever. Here, watch.” Rufus walked confidently ahead, then swiveled on one heel to turn. He held up his hands triumphantly before heading back. “See, a regular Fred Astaire. I’ve even taken Estelle out dancing,” he said with a laugh, referring to his wife of fifty-seven years. “And you’ll be pleased to know that I signed up for the light water aerobics course at the Adult School.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. And needless to say, I can personally vouch for the effectiveness of that course.” Sarah had met Hunt in the same course almost a year ago. She smiled at the memory, tilting her chin up to make eye contact.

  Rufus might have been in his late seventies, but his back was ramrod-straight. “Well, I’ve got to keep fit if I’m going to keep teaching the Adult School’s dog obedience course. I’ve got a full class this semester, including one very active Husky.”

  Sarah laughed. “Why don’t you trade Adult School stories with Julie?” She pointed her out at the table in the lounge. Then she patted
Rufus’s arm. His old brown barn coat was meticulously washed and ironed, but the patches on the elbows and the leather trim around the edge of the sleeves were testament to its long and well-loved life. “Listen, I’d like nothing better than to stay and talk, but duty calls.” She squeezed his arm and headed for the elevator bank.

  Rufus turned to Julie and waved. “Got a few minutes?”

  Julie looked at her watch. It was the same gold-tone Citizen watch that Nonna had given her when Julie had graduated from Grantham High School. God knows how many overtime hours her grandmother must have worked to pay for it. Katarina still remembered her grandmother’s words.

  “I do not know about all this basketball business,” Nonna had said in Italian, her customary pessimism seeping into every word.

  “It’s a full athletic scholarship to U Conn—a power-house for women’s basketball. And Coach Auriemmo is a legend,” Julie remembered snapping back.

  Nonna had shaken her head. “At least he’s Italian. Just remember—someday you won’t play this basketball anymore, and out in the real world, you’ll always need to know the time. Some things I know. Now give your Nonna a kiss.”

  Julie smiled at the memory and waved to Rufus. “So, I gather we’re supposed to trade Adult School stories? You’ve got a feisty husky in your obedience class?”

  “Not as feisty as I heard you were in Dr. Fonterra’s office last week. Is it true you threw a paperweight at him?” Rufus asked. He slipped into the chair next to Julie.

  Julie cringed. “Does the whole world know about that meeting? And it was a vase, not a paperweight, that I happened to knock over by accident, not anywhere near him, I swear.” She held up her right hand. “And in my defense, I was functioning on very little sleep and high doses of stress after a difficult delivery.”

  “So Iris told me.”

  Julie leaned her elbow on the table and rested her mouth in her hand. Then she let her hand drop to the table. “I should have known. Did she also tell you that she made me take an Italian class at the Adult School that Sebastiano just happens to be teaching?”

  “And would you believe that I can also tell you what article you talked about in the first class?”

  Julie looked taken aback. “Iris is powerful, but I never knew she was clairvoyant.”

  Rufus chuckled. He rubbed the tip of an index finger on the laminate surface of the table. It was a speckled gray-green, the au courant color palette of hospitals these days, it seemed. A thin gold wedding band hung loosely from the dark, wrinkled skin of his third finger. “Iris has many qualities, but as far as I know, only your grandmother has a sixth sense. No, the reason I know is simple. Lena Zemanova takes tai chi with my wife Estelle, and she told Estelle that her daughter, Zora, had told her all about the class and a Dr. Fonterra. She also mentioned a student, an old friend of her daughter’s named Giulietta, who sat in the back and spoke Italian very well.”

  Julie shook her head. “You call that simple?”

  “And something else you might find amusing,” Rufus added. “Lena said she thought Zora was mighty teed off that your Italian was so fluent. Seems she expected to be top dog.”

  “Please, an Adult School class is hardly the place to get competitive. Besides, anyone who grew up in my house had to speak Italian. It was a matter of survival.”

  “I know what you mean. Way back, it was the same thing around this neighborhood.” He pointed outside the picture windows. “There used to be a large Italian community right around the hospital. I remember your grandfather’s candy shop on Whalen Avenue. Your grandmother used to give my son Billy an extra free licorice every time he came by.”

  “Nonna gave away something for free?” Julie was amazed.

  Rufus chuckled. “You just need to know how to sweet-talk her.”

  Julie nodded. “Well, sweet-talking was never one of my strong points.”

  Rufus burst into louder laughter. “Which is why I like you so much, Julie. You call it like it is.” He switched his expression to one of seriousness. “I was just coming from a meeting with Sebastiano at the Grantham Club before starting my volunteer shift at the front desk. You know, the neighborhood is a bit nervous about the planned hospital expansion—the whole larger structure instead of houses and lawns.”

  “I know.”

  “Anyway, in the course of the discussion, your name came up.”

  Julie rolled her eyes. “I bet it did.”

  “You’d be surprised. Sebastiano said he was impressed with your conviction about the importance of the community clinic and its availability to the residents of the neighborhood.”

  Julie sat up straight. “He did?”

  Rufus nodded. “He told me that he followed up with the woman whose baby you delivered to understand her circumstances better.”

  “You’re kidding me?”

  “Not at all. As an immigrant himself, Sebastiano understands your concern.” Rufus held up his hand when Julie started to say something. “Hold your horses there, girl. Not all of us can talk as quickly as you.”

  “Rufus, of course. Please, go ahead,” Julie apologized. “Besides, I understand your concerns about any changes to the neighborhood. My family, like most of the Italians who came to Grantham, first lived in this area, too. Even today, it has a special place in their hearts.”

  “As well it should. It represents their first step on building a better life in America. Italians came here when the university hired them as stonemasons. They saw a chance to build a better life—literally. And look how many saw their dreams come true. I bet your grandmother is proud as punch to have a granddaughter who’s a doctor.”

  Julie shrugged philosophically. “She’s delighted that I’m a doctor, for sure, but totally dismayed that I’m still single. But tell me, Rufus, other than providing a little history lesson about the town, what are you really driving at?”

  “Maybe after my meeting I just needed to think out loud. In the past we created safety nets to help new immigrants in town—Clara’s House was founded to help new Italian immigrants adjust to their new homes, learn English, learn their legal rights and integrate themselves into the community. In the sixties, the Y helped with the influx of Vietnamese immigrants and the prejudices that followed due to the war.”

  “But those issues don’t exist anymore,” Julie protested.

  “Yes, and no. Grantham may seem like an all-inclusive bastion, but just remember, until about sixty years ago, the public schools here were still segregated. Problems of inequality have existed and will always exist.” Rufus stood. “I’m just asking you to think about what I’ve said in terms of the neighborhood here around the hospital, the neighborhood where your family first came when it sought to make a better life, the neighborhood where my family has lived for more than two hundred years, and where folks from Guatemala and Mexico now want to make a home for their families.”

  “But I’m a doctor, not a politician,” Julie replied.

  “Think of it this way. Sometimes in order to treat the patient you have to deal with the whole community. I brought up the same issue with Sebastiano and now I bring it up with you. Just food for thought, mind you.” Rufus peered at her closely. “You know, you can hardly see where he hit you, by the way.” He fastened the buttons of his jacket.

  Julie rolled her eyes in exasperation. Did no one listen? “Nobody hit me—nobody meaning Sebastiano or anyone else. I don’t know why everybody and his little brother, cousin or aunt perpetuate these rumors.”

  “Ah, if only you had the right pipeline into the community.” He let his words hang in the air before stepping down to the lobby.

  Julie watched him greet a few more people as he headed along the main hallway of the hospital toward the information desk. Then she rose.

  Great. All she needed was another responsibility. On top of working nonstop, she was now supposed to solve the problems of the neighborhood? Because the really infuriating thing? She was already hooked. With her deep sense of guilt, she was boun
d to try.

  Guilt. It hung around her neck like an albatross. She’d like to blame her Italian Catholic heritage, but the truth was she had only herself to blame. That one fateful night the fall of her freshman year—her birthday, to be exact—when one of her teammates was killed in the car Julie was driving. The truck had come out of nowhere, broadsiding the vehicle and driving the passenger door halfway into the driver’s side. The same accident had injured another teammate’s legs, making walking difficult and playing basketball impossible.

  Julie had quit the team. She didn’t care that that meant she’d lose her athletic scholarship. She got a job after classes instead. She didn’t mind hard work. In fact, she craved it. Only when she was working hard did her mind switch off from the horrors of that night.

  She didn’t need counselors to tell her that there was nothing she could do to change the past. But she did know that she could do something about protecting people in the future. With the same intensity she’d used to play basketball, Julie concentrated on her studies, taking an overload of premed courses. Her grades skyrocketed. Professors asked if she wanted to work in their labs. She worked in two. She’d applied for and won an academic scholarship. Determined to reach her goal of becoming an obstetrician and gynecologist, she graduated in three years, living on no sleep and Diet Coke.

  Her mother protested. Nonna had muttered fateful words. Julie had ignored them. “It will be good practice for med school,” she’d responded.

  She didn’t mention anything about not being able to sleep. That if she did manage to sleep, she invariably woke bathed in sweat, her heart racing.

  No, she didn’t tell anyone. Just kept her head down, dedicating herself to her studies. She’d been pleased though not overly surprised when she had her choice of med schools. She’d even been accepted to Yale Medical School, but knew she couldn’t stay in Connecticut any longer. She needed distance.

  In the end, she chose the University of Pennsylvania to be near her family, for good and bad. Opening up a practice in Grantham had been almost serendipitous. The obstetrician who had delivered her had looked her up, letting her know that he was retiring and interested in selling his practice. She jumped at the prospect.