Invitation to Italian

by Tracy Kelleher

  But she didn’t stop talking. “All I can say is, nice try. But it’s a losing proposition.” She held up her hand when he looked like he was going to protest. “No, let me finish. Yours is a neat and tidy solution, but as one control freak to another, life just isn’t neat and tidy. Someone told me that once. The real solution, I think, is not to forget but to let go—granted, something I have yet to master. But if we could—you and me—we’d be able to let go of this millstone of guilt that hangs around our necks. The problem is, you want to be weighted down. You want to hold yourself to such a high standard of excellence, of control, and so you’re inevitably doomed to failure, doomed to keep punishing yourself.”

  “Any other criticism you want to level at me? I can give you my other cheek to slap, too, if you want?” he said, turning his face.

  “Sneer all you want. I admit I’m a mess, but at least I listened to what you had to say and processed it.”

  He raised a skeptical brow.

  “Okay, semiprocessed it. And for another thing—” she jabbed her finger forward “—at least I still put my neck out there for things I believe in. My patients, their rights, my friends and family, needlepoint. No, forget needlepoint.” She waved off that last item. “The thing I’m getting at, is that you may think you can isolate yourself, cut yourself off from feelings and other people as a way of protecting yourself—”

  “And others,” Sebastiano interrupted.

  “Oh, my God, talk about guilt! Now you have the power to determine whether other people live happily? If that’s the case, your problem isn’t guilt, it’s total, unmitigated gall.”

  A shadow fell across the table.

  Julie swiveled, felt a crick in her neck, right at the base. Too much stress, no exercise, falling asleep with someone else on her couch… None of those things good, it seemed.

  Nor was the prospect of having to explain what was going on to Rufus, the person who had joined them. It could be worse, she supposed. It could be…I don’t know…her mother…Nonna…even Iris Phox.

  “Rufus, what a surprise,” she exclaimed, and she really meant it. Sebastiano pushed his chair back.

  “No, no, don’t get up for me.” Rufus stopped him with a shake of his hand. In the other, he held a take-out coffee cup. “Though I must admit, from across the room it looked like I should grab a seat, front and center, and take in the action,” he joked.

  Julie had the immediate compulsion to lie—otherwise her mother, Nonna and Iris Phox would hear what had been going on by noon the next day. Who was she kidding? By 9:00 a.m.

  “Hi, Rufus. We were…ah…just hashing out this whole clinic issue again,” she said, blurting out the first thing that came to mind. “You know me. Once I get the bit between my teeth, I just can’t let go.” God, that sounded so lame, she moaned internally.

  “And here I thought you were just having a coffee together. I guess looks can be deceiving.”

  “Won’t you join us?” Sebastiano offered. He reached to the side to pull over another chair.

  “Thank you, but I’ll have to take a rain check,” Rufus said. “I just stopped by to pick up a cup of hot cocoa before heading over to the Nighttime Bar. I want to start doing an inventory, never a fun task no matter what time of day or night. But if I’m ever going to sell the place, I better find out what I’ve got—especially in the basement. I’ve got all sorts of stuff there—tools, paint cans from my father’s day and I think even a gas pump that I’ve never quite figured out.”

  “You can’t sell,” Julie protested. “What will Grantham do without the Nighttime Bar?”

  “It’s like this. My new hip has given me a new lease on life, that’s for sure, but it’s not enough for me to keep running the place. Still, it’s nice to know that while we’re here, we serve the best beer in town at the best prices. Be that as it may, I still say Bean World has the best cocoa. You can keep the designer espresso drinks and chai lattes. True insiders know about the cocoa,” Rufus said with a wink.

  “I’ll have to remember to tell people that,” Sebastiano said with a nod. “It will help to change my image as a new comer.”

  Rufus raised his chin. A hand-knit scarf wrapped tightly around his thin neck was neatly tucked into a dark zip jacket with the logo Grantham High School Lions on the left side. “Well, if you keep up these late night chats with one of our homegrown girls, you can’t help but be accepted.” He paused, his thick gray eyebrows lifting ever so slightly. “Even if it is business. Aren’t I right, Julie?”

  She scratched the back of her neck and looked upward to reply. “You know what they say about mixing business with pleasure?”

  Rufus carefully replaced the plastic lid on his cup and licked his fingers where the hot chocolate had spilled. “Don’t tell me you believe everything people say? You know my motto? Never assume—about anything or anyone.” He tipped his cap and headed toward the door.

  Julie turned back to Sebastiano. “The man has real wisdom. Either that or an amazing shtick.”

  Sebastiano narrowed his eyes. “That’s Yiddish, right? Iris was correct. I really must get a dictionary.” He picked up their cups and saucers again, and stood. “So tell me, in light of all we said tonight, am I right to assume that from now on you’ll simply go back to hating me?”

  Julie gathered up her shoulder bag, quickly checking her phone for messages out of habit. She glanced up as she finished scrolling down and saw him waiting. “I never hated you—more like harbored an intense irritation. But then I got to know you, or, at least, I thought I did.” She stopped talking and peered into his eyes.

  He swallowed. “And now? Now that you really know me?”

  “I don’t know. I’m…”

  “Disappointed?”

  She mulled over his suggestion. “No, that’s too easy an emotion. I’d say more that I’m confused, sad, even a little frustrated—at you for thinking the way you do…and for me, for maybe overreacting about… I don’t know what to call it really? Possibilities? Of you and me?”

  She ran her hand through her hair. Her bangs were sticking straight out from the workout she’d given them this evening. “Whatever. That’s my problem, not yours. In any case, I’m too tired to think straight, and from the number of messages—” she waggled her phone in front of her “—I have another baby wanting to come into this world in a few hours. So, I’m off to the hospital to do my duty.”

  “You sure you’re just not using that as an excuse to get away from me?” Sebastiano asked.

  She laughed, though not really amused. “Never assume.”

  SEBASTIANO WATCHED her leave, taking whatever fresh air there was out the door with her, as well. He’d always felt that Italians, to be overly simplistic, were a pessimistic lot. After years—centuries—of living with corrupt governments and inefficient bureaucracies, most Italians, when confronted with the latest scandal or some new crisis, merely shrugged and shook their heads as if to say, “What else is new?”

  And here, faced with a crisis of his own making, what had he done? Not merely thrown up his hands, but practically used them to push away the one person who had touched him physically and emotionally in longer than he cared to remember.

  His phone vibrated in his pants pocket. Sebastiano smiled. An incoming text message. Maybe there was reason to go against cultural stereotypes and be optimistic? Maybe Julie had realized that there was something, albeit small, that was redeeming about him, worth believing in? As Rufus had said, never assume.

  He looked down at the caller ID. And rushed out the door—unaware that he still was holding their dirty dishes. Oh, his smile?

  It was gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “THANKS FOR coming, Sebastiano. I figured you were the person to call,” Rufus said.

  “No problem.” Sebastiano shook hands with Rufus as soon as he entered the Nighttime Bar.

  “He hasn’t actually had anything to drink, he just keeps ordering them and staring at them.” He pointed toward the f
igure hunched over in the shadows.

  “I’ll take it from here then,” Sebastiano replied.

  “If you need me, I’ll be in the basement.”

  Sebastiano nodded. “Thanks. How much does he owe you?” He started to pull out his wallet.

  Rufus waved him off. “Forget it. This one’s on me.” He stared at Sebastiano. “Good luck.”

  Sebastiano tipped his head. “I’ll need it.” He breathed in slowly and headed toward the end of the mahogany bar.

  Behind it, soft lighting showcased bottles of liquor lined up neatly on glass shelves. There were the requisite photos of local sports teams sponsored by the bar. The brass handles of the beer taps gleamed from polish and years of use.

  The bartender saw Sebastiano approach. He made a drinking motion with his hand as if to ask for an order. Sebastiano shook his head and silently indicated he was joining the man at the end of the bar. The communication was clear, and the bartender gave him a wide berth.

  Sebastiano pulled a stool out.

  Paul barely glanced over his shoulder. “If it isn’t my minder,” he said sarcastically. He turned back to face the bar and the line of full shotglasses arranged in a row before him. “How did you find out I was here? Did my dad call, wondering where I was?”

  Sebastiano dragged over the plastic bowl of pretzels, studied them and finally popped one in his mouth. “No, Rufus gave me a ring. I’d just seen him at Bean World, so he figured I was still awake. What can I say? He found a willing sucker.” He popped another pretzel in his mouth. It was too salty, but that didn’t stop him from wanting more. Besides, it was something to do with his hands, other than wringing Paul’s neck, which is what he really felt like doing. It had been a long day, and an even longer evening. He really hadn’t needed this on top of everything else.

  “You and he shooting the breeze over double-shot espressos?” Paul sneered. He seemed mesmerized by the drinks and kept his eyes firmly focused on them.

  Sebastiano swallowed thoughtfully. “Actually, I was there baring my soul to Julie Antonelli. Not a relaxing endeavor, that’s for sure.”

  “Ah, the lovely Giulietta—scary, mind you, but highly attractive. So, you and she…?” He left his words hanging.

  “After tonight’s discussion, I think the use of the word and in connection with our two names is highly unlikely. How can I put this? She asked for the truth and I didn’t mince words. She probably never wants to see me again. A shame, really.”

  At last Paul turned to face him. “Women,” he said with a disgusted shake of his head.

  Sebastiano waved at the shots. “I take it that’s what this is all about? Contemplating falling off the wagon?”

  Paul stared at the ceiling. He exhaled noisily. “You wouldn’t believe it. You know I told you about Zora Zemanova? About figuring out that she must have had my kid?”

  “I think it was probably her child, too.”

  Paul looked at him askance. “Yeah, well, whatever. After class tonight? We leave together, and just when I think we can finally hash the whole thing out, what do you think she does?”

  Sebastiano shook his head. He thought about another pretzel but decided he better not.

  “She comes on to me! Can you believe it? Like she wants to have a quickie in the bushes outside the high school!”

  “Whoa! I guess the lady had one thing in mind.”

  “The problem is that she doesn’t have a mind. She was operating under the misguided delusion that we could just have a little fling because…because…why not?”

  “And did you?”

  Paul guffawed. “Please, I’m an idiot, but not that much of an idiot. I pointed out that it was no longer old times, and speaking of old times, didn’t she have something she wanted to tell me. She tried to act dumb, but eventually she confessed what I’d guessed—that I was Katarina’s father. And get this. She didn’t even show any remorse for never telling me—and never telling her own kid, for Pete’s sake. I mean, I know I had my problems—still have my problems—but what kind of woman keeps a secret like that?”

  “One who’s scared?” Sebastiano ventured.

  “Zora? Scared? She’s never been scared of anything in her whole life. Finally, when I threatened to tell Katarina myself, Zora backed down and promised she’d tell her. I gave her until the end of the week. But knowing her, I’m not holding my breath.”

  “So that’s what drove you here? To this?” Sebastiano indicated the drinks again.

  “I don’t know—seeing Zora, the way she acted, probably more,” Paul said sullenly. “It just all kind of hit me that maybe it wasn’t worth the effort, all the work, to try to put my life back together. That maybe it’s just too hard.”

  “So how come if it’s not worth the effort, if it—whatever ‘it’ is—is too hard, you haven’t touched the drinks?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the man who tells the truth. You tell me.”

  “No, that would be too easy.”

  It took a couple of hours of soul-searching and hashing and rehashing the evening, Paul’s dreams, his mistakes—a lot about his mistakes. In those three hours, the baseball game on the West Coast showing on the television went into extra innings and ended. The other patrons straggled home. The bartender wiped down the counter, upended the chairs on the tables and mopped the floor before cashing out and leaving. Rufus emerged from the basement, left Sebastiano an extra set of keys to lock up and saluted farewell.

  Not until well past two in the morning, after Sebastiano had consumed the entire bowl of pretzels and his throat felt parched beyond belief, the truth came—not from Sebastiano but from Paul. From where it had to come.

  “The thing that’s too much?” he admitted, his tone full of agony. “Is that if she was going to go through with it and tell Katarina? I’d have to take responsibility and actually be there for someone else.”

  “The truth is never easy. But without it, we can’t move on,” Sebastiano admitted, as much to himself as to Paul. He got up slowly and circled the bar. One by one, he emptied the shot glasses in the sink and washed them, leaving them to dry on a cloth.

  “Shall I take you home now?” he said. It wasn’t really a question.

  “I don’t see why? I’m clean and sober as they say.”

  “Humor me.”

  Paul might have thought about arguing, but it was clear he didn’t have the energy.

  Carl Bedecker’s house was on the same side of town as Julie’s parents, just not quite as far. It faced the high school football field. A pair of magnificent holly trees flanked the portico of the Dutch colonial. An outside light shone above the entryway.

  Sebastiano pulled into the driveway and, after turning off the engine, came around to guide his friend inside. They hadn’t even reached the front step when the door opened.

  It was Carl. Paul’s father had been waiting in his bathrobe and slippers. He stepped outside and took his son by the other arm, and together with Sebastiano, they helped him inside and up the stairs into bed. Paul was asleep before Carl even closed the door.

  Sebastiano let him go ahead as they went down the stairs. He watched Carl hold the wooden handrail as he descended, needing the support to keep his balance. He was an old man having to take care of a grown son. It wasn’t fair. But that was life sometimes, Sebastiano realized.

  Carl stopped at the landing. “I can’t thank you enough for helping out. You’ve been a good friend to Paul. He couldn’t do it, get better, without you.”

  “Thanks, but it’s really your support that matters most. And don’t worry. Paul is stronger than he thinks. He was under a lot of strain tonight, but he didn’t give in,” Sebastiano said, trying to say the right thing. He was so tired, he wasn’t sure he was even making sense.

  “Won’t you stay and have a cup of coffee before you go?” Carl asked.

  “No, it’s very late, and I’ve had more than enough coffee for one day. I think it’s best if I just get going.”

  Carl nodded and
shuffled in his scuffs to the front door. “Again, I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Anytime. You have my number,” Sebastiano said and headed to his car.

  He started the engine and pulled out of the driveway. He got as far as half a block away before he pulled over and parked next to the curb. He pulled on the handbrake and leaned back in the leather bucket seat. He played out the events of the evening in his mind, from the dinner and birthday celebration at the Antonellis, to the conversation with Julie at the coffee house, and then the whole intervention with Paul. He was totally enervated. Wiped. He’d done more than pour tequila down the drain. He’d poured out his own demons tonight, too.

  Yet, despite the exhaustion, he needed to do something. Otherwise sleep—what little time there was left for it—would never come. He pulled out his cell phone, and after staring at the keys, he placed a long overdue long-distance call.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  THE DOORBELL TO Babika’s house rang, its loud chime rattling the old glass panes in the front windows. Zora pushed aside her mug of English breakfast tea and slid out of the window seat behind the kitchen table. She padded in her sheepskin slippers to the front door, glancing at the grandfather clock in the narrow hallway to check the time. Katarina, she noticed, was right on time. Why wasn’t she surprised?

  As a child, Katarina had always been punctual, from arriving exactly on her due date at birth to getting to school in the morning. At least Zora assumed she always got to school on time. For the first day of class in each new school Zora had dutifully accompanied her to the bus stop or along the path to school, or via whatever subway was appropriate, but thereafter she had told Katarina that an accomplished woman always knows her way in life, and that it was her responsibility to fulfill her potential. Her philosophy must have worked, given the success Katarina had achieved in business—though Zora never did quite understand what her job with that large company in California had been about. In any case, Katarina certainly knew how to keep an appointment.