The Last Enemy

by Grace Brophy

  We lit the candles together while he said a brief prayer. Then he knelt down at the right side of her bed and taking her hot hand in his, he spoke softly in Italian, so softly that I had to strain to hear. Livia, I’m here to give you Extreme Unction, to help you home to Jesus and Mary. Squeeze my hand if you understand. And she did. He stood then and, after gently removing his hand from hers, he dipped one of the cotton swabs that I had prepared into the vessel of holy oil that he’d brought with him. He rubbed the oil ever so gently on her closed eyelids and said the prayer for the dying: Through this holy unction and His own tender mercy may the Lord pardon thee, Livia, whatever sins or faults thou hast committed by sight. And then he did the same with her ears, her nostrils, her lips, her hands, her feet, reciting the same prayer with each separate anointment. When he finished, he pulled one of the chairs over to her bedside and sat down. He motioned for me to do the same. He then covered her right hand with his own and with his left hand he covered both of mine. We sat thus, in the darkened room, without once speaking, listening to her shallow breathing until she died. I came to understand during that vigil, in that labored last hour of Mamma’s life, why she had loved Italy so much. I knew then that Italy was my home too, that we would return together.

  MAY 27, 2001—I met with John Costa today to go over Mamma’s will. I knew that she’d inherited some money from Nonna three years ago, but she’d never told me the exact amount, although it turns out that the money from Nonna is the least of it. Two million at a conservative estimate! Mr. Costa said that Mamma had been a very clever woman—she had invested her money wisely. When I asked what money, he was surprised that I didn’t know about Papa’s insurance policy, two hundred thousand dollars, most of which Mamma had invested in the stock market, he said. She sold off all her stocks right before the market crash and, after paying capital gains, had invested the money in Treasury Notes. He told me all this with some awe, apparently very impressed with Mamma’s investment assiduity. I think he was surprised at my silence, but how could he know that I had supported Mamma on my teacher’s pay for twenty-three years, that I had lost my chance to go to Barnard because Papa died penniless, that I had grown old in the service of a lie. I felt the muscles tightening in my face and my throat constricting as he talked. I could only stare and knew he thought me ungrateful, but all I wanted to do was go home and cry.

  MAY 28, 2001—Today I put the house up for sale. The realtor thinks it will fetch quite a bit. The market is very strong right now. Two hundred twenty thousand at a minimum, she says, more if I’m not in a rush. Sell it to the first person who makes an offer, I said. Then right after I got home, John Costa called again, urging me to make a will before I leave for Italy. I don’t want to think about money, I told him, and there’s no one I want to enrich when I die. He suggested some charities, and I said I would think about it!

  I had a strange dream last night, although I suppose Mamma would have called it a nightmare, but I woke up feeling at peace. I was standing in the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge with Papa, a schoolgirl again in my blue and gray uniform. We were surrounded by large brown grocery bags full to the brim with dollar bills and we started to throw the dollars into the air, like the breadcrumbs that we used to throw to the seagulls when Papa was still alive. We were laughing and happy and everyone who passed by smiled and waved. The dollars came floating down and lay all around us but we didn’t pick them up. They were brightly colored streamers of worthless paper. Then Papa put his arm around my shoulders and we turned toward Brooklyn and started home.

  MAY 30, 2001—Mamma said often enough that I would come to a bad end if I didn’t have her to look after me, and I suppose after yesterday she was right. But I don’t feel like I’ve come to a bad end. All day, since I first opened my eyes, I’ve been smiling—grinning, Carol said when she came by in the early afternoon to ask if there was anything she or Mike could do. I was in the backyard picking the last of the tulips and singing. I was embarrassed that Carol caught me so happy so soon after Mamma’s death. This morning, I stayed in bed until after ten, reimagining every moment. There’s so much to do before I leave for Italy in three days, and I don’t seem to care. It’s so strange that we met again yesterday. Foreordained, I told him. Although perhaps he’s right, to say our meeting was foreordained may be a sacrilege, all things considered!

  I’ve always liked going to confession. I still remember the first time, even after all these years. My best friend Diane and I practiced on each other for two weeks. Diane hated the thought of telling a stranger—a man!—her sins. She was embarrassed but I was excited. I liked the darkness, listening to the whispers of the other sinners while I waited my turn; I even liked telling the priest my sins. Sometimes, when I had no sins to confess, I’d make them up. Usually after reciting my sins, always venial, I’d tell Father Crespi other things, things that happened at home. He liked it that I spoke Italian. I told him how Mamma made Papa cry and that they didn’t sleep in the same bedroom. He asked me lots of questions after that, and then gave me three Hail Marys and one Our Father for penance. After absolution, he would always say, God bless you, little Rita.

  I felt lonely and guilty after buying the mink jacket at Macy’s, and the Church of St. Francis was close by. So extravagant, I thought, but it was half price! I’ve always wanted clothes that would turn men’s heads, and the saleswoman said three times that I was beautiful. It sets off your dark hair and eyes. It was flattery, just so I would buy the jacket, but I loved the feel of the soft fur around my neck, like a baby rabbit. I do look beautiful, I thought. Sexy, Gianni said later, when I tried it on for him at the restaurant. I saw a placard Italian Spoken on one of the confessionals and went inside. I knew his voice immediately. Even through the ornate grille I could trace the outline of his strong, beautiful face. I imagined we were sitting once again at my mother’s bedside, his hand over mine, as we waited together for her to die. That we should meet again in Manhattan can’t be a coincidence!

  He laughed out loud when I confessed to buying a fur jacket with my mother dead only a week. And so many starving people in the world, he replied. I realized he was joking when he told me that the Pope had white ermine trimmings on some of his vestments. We talked for a little bit, and I told him how unhappy I was. He said that we should talk outside, later, as he had other penitents waiting in line. I sat in one of the pews for fifty minutes, waiting. Afterward we walked to a Spanish restaurant just a few steps down from the church. He wanted to pay for dinner. Pago io e basta, I said, and he agreed to let me pay, laughing at my accent. After we finished the first bottle of wine, a Rioja from Spain, a very special wine the waiter told us, I ordered a second. It was lovely, a polished mahogany color, soft and velvety at the back of my throat, not at all like the harsh Umbrian wines that we drank at home. I held my wineglass up to the light before each sip and talked and talked about what life had been like with Mamma. His eyes, so steady and kind, were a deep violet blue, the color of Mamma’s sapphire ring. I drank far more than I should, and I was lightheaded when we left the restaurant. Twice I tripped as we walked toward Seventh Avenue. He caught me both times, finally hugging me about the shoulders. It was late by then, close to midnight. When a taxi stopped, he got in with me saying he would take me home. I protested but not seriously. In the taxi I told him about Mamma’s money and began to cry. He kissed me on the mouth, a gentle kiss, like a pat on the head. I kissed him back, hard, and we kissed again. I think the taxi driver knew that he was a priest. I saw him observing us through the rearview mirror. He was surly when I handed him the tip, and he gunned the engine as he drove away.

  We both knew what we would do as soon as we were inside the house although neither of us talked about it. I led him upstairs to my room where he undressed me. He fumbled once, with one of the hooks of my bra, so I undid it for him. When I was fully undressed, he kissed the inside of my breasts, then my nipples; and later, he eased me down onto the bed. I lost my virginity in my early twenties, at a New Jersey
beach resort, a groping session that ended in pain and tears, and later, in my thirties, I had sex a few times in Manhattan, after picking up men in hotel bars. I only did the hotels five times, though, as I was afraid of getting AIDS. It had never been like this, first an exquisite melting and later like the tarantella that I had once danced with my father at a cousin’s wedding, whirling and whirling, faster and faster, until I’d almost fainted with the excitement. He spoke sotto voce and asked me often what I wanted. Mia dolce Rita, he whispered as I fell asleep in his arms.

  At five I awoke to find him slipping on his clothes. He said he must go, but I reached up and began to unzip his trousers. We made love again, deliberately, with great tenderness, until the first morning light came through the bedroom window. Then he insisted once more that he had to leave and placed his hands over my mouth so I couldn’t protest. I put on my pink flannel robe and we went down the stairs together. At the front door, just before he kissed me goodbye, he opened my belt and slipped the robe off my shoulders. It fell to the floor. Sei bellissima, he said and called me Little Rita, the same as Father Crespi had done. He also said that we could never see each other again.

  I studied him from behind the window curtains as he walked toward the subway station. A train whistle pierced the still air and he broke into a run. We’ll meet again, I said aloud to the empty house as I watched him climb the stairs toward the elevated platform, two steps at a time, and disappear from view.

  JUNE 1, 2001—Tried all day yesterday and most of today to find his name and address. Called the rectory of St. Francis twice and was told both times, by the same woman, that they entertained many visiting priests from all over the world, three of them last week from Italy alone. Without a name she couldn’t help (wouldn’t was more like it!). I called St. Anthony’s and spoke again to the parish secretary. She denies sending a priest to the house to give my mother the last rites. Well, he didn’t just materialize out of thin air, I yelled in frustration. I wish I had asked his name the day that Mamma died, but I was too upset. When we were together at dinner he said to call him Gianni, but I don’t think that’s his name. I called him Gianni twice. The first time he didn’t answer and the second time he laughed before replying. I don’t blame him for lying. If his bishop finds out, he could be defrocked.

  JUNE 2, 2001—It’s frightening to realize fully what I’ve done, even more so to realize that I have no regrets. I’m completely free, sitting in First Class, drinking Spumante, on my way to Rome. The second couple to view the house made an offer. The realtor thinks she can close the sale by the end of June. Another two hundred fifty thousand dollars, two and a half million dollars all told, not including my pension when I’m eligible. Whoever said money doesn’t matter is a fool! John McIntyre accepted my resignation with more respect than he’s ever shown me in the past, although at first he refused to believe that I had enough money to quit teaching before I was eligible for retirement. He’s always patronized me, treated me like an old maid. He won’t find anyone else in the department willing (or able) to run the Debating Society, the Scholars’ Club, and organize two class outings a year, all without extra pay.

  I bribed the secretary at St. Francis—two hundred dollars cash—to give me the names of the three priests who had been visiting from Italy last week (money for the poor box, I told her). She only agreed when I said that the priest had comforted my mother in her dying. I want to donate money to his parish in Italy, I said. Of course, none of the priests on the list are named Gianni.

  The steward just came around to collect the dinner trays and the man sitting next to me, an Italian film director, ordered grappa for both of us. He reached over and took the pen out of my hand. Stop writing and talk to me! he said. And later, Let’s meet in Rome for dinner. He compared me to an Italian movie star, a young Anna Mangani, only more beautiful!

  JULY 6, 2001—Today I received my soggiorno and immediately applied for residency in Assisi. The woman who took my application congratulated me, said my soggiorno application came back from Perugia in record time. Ten years is more than they ever give on a first application. But then your family is Umbrian, she added. You’re really Italian! Really Italian! I like that! É vero, e scrivo adesso in italiano per dimostrare la mia gratitudine.

  It’s ironic that on the day I became an Italian resident, I started teaching a class in English, at Umberto’s school—Count Casati, as he likes to be addressed by his staff! The woman who was supposed to teach the class skipped out yesterday, back home to Liverpool. She came to the house late last night, ten hours before the class was due to begin, and handed in her resignation. I was in the sitting room when she arrived and overheard her talking to Amelia in the hall. The school didn’t pay enough, she said. Amelia was very polite—she always is—but in that topdrawer way she has of condescending to those whom she believes are her inferiors. I know the tone, she uses it often enough on me.

  But, my dear, you never did complete your degree, and you have no formal teaching credentials. And then, very sweetly, Perhaps I can persuade the count to pay you a bit more. All to no purpose, of course, as it was obvious the woman was determined to quit, although I do think Amelia had some right on her side. Three times in five minutes the woman started a sentence with between you and I, a frequent gambit of the grammatically impaired. Amelia was on the verge of tears when she returned to the sitting room. I think she’s afraid of my uncle’s tyrannical tempers, and they have seven students signed up for the class. I can’t do it myself, she said, her voice breaking. I have a class that conflicts with this one.

  I can teach the course, I told her. Without pay, I added. She seemed skeptical but I reminded her that I was certified in New York State to teach English as a second language (of course, to my uncle an English accent—even a Liverpudlian one—carries more weight than a knowledge of grammar). She agreed but insisted on paying me—thirteen euros an hour. She’d just offered the woman from Liverpool fourteen euros, but I kept that to myself. I’m sure they’re short on money. I overhead her telling Umberto they’d have to sell the Sisley.

  Later Umberto came into the sitting room for his nightly cup of cocoa. Amelia told him about the class, in that breathless voice she uses when she’s afraid of his reaction. She looked away from him, toward me, when she added that I’d very graciously offered to teach the course, probably to avoid the look of disgust that passed over his face. He didn’t thank me, and instead told Amelia to instruct me in their teaching methods before I entered the classroom—in less than ten hours! I could have reminded him that I have a master’s degree in English and twenty-three years teaching experience, but he intimidates me as he much as he does Amelia, and Paolo. Nobody intimidates Artemisia! Just before he went up to bed, he turned to me, Rita dear, try not to pepper every other sentence with “you know.” It will confuse the students.

  JANUARY 1, 2002—Last night was wretched! John and I went out to dinner, to a small hotel-restaurant at the top of Assisi. I booked a room in the hotel and paid cash, even told them to put a bottle of chilled champagne in the room at midnight. I thought John liked me! He spends all of his time with me when he’s not in the library working, so what else should I think. Lots of men like older women!

  I ordered a five-course dinner and French cham-pagne— not prosecco as the headwaiter suggested—and reserved a private table in the dining room alcove. The perfect New Year’s! Not like those with my mother: Every year exactly at midnight two glasses each of spumante, in bed by twelve-thirty, mass in the morning, the last of the spumante with our New Year’s dinner. Lies, and more lies, to the other teachers. Party? Of course. With whom? A friend. And the day after! Good time? Great! Got home at dawn. Hangover? Oh God, yes, slept until dinnertime I hated the lying, but I hated even more for them to know that I spent New Year’s Eve with my mother.

  When I could I avoided the teacher’s lounge altogether from Christmas until mid-January. But it didn’t matter. They knew I lied. I was in the last cubicle of the ladies’ room
and overheard Carol Stafford talking to one of the younger teachers about me. She stays home every year with her mother. We could do something about it if she’d let us. Mike has lots of friends he could fix her up with (he thinks she’s a knockout), but how do you get around the lies? You don’t, Carol, I said to myself after I heard the bathroom door slam shut. I went home early that day, told the school secretary I was coming down with a horrid cold to explain my red eyes.

  Our evening was perfect until midnight. Before eleven we were high on a bottle of Moet and before midnight we were drunk, on the bottle of Rosso Montefalco that we’d ordered with the Florentine tagliata. We laughed at each other’s jokes, silly ones, and made fun of the waiters and the other diners. At midnight, after we’d toasted in the New Year, I leaned across the table and kissed him on the lips. He kissed me back. It wasn’t a passionate kiss, not the way Gianni had kissed me, but warm and friendly. I wanted desperately to make love, for someone to make it up to me for all those barren celebrations with my mother.

  I can’t do it Rita, I like men! John cried, after we’d undressed. Afterward we put our clothes back on and opened the chilled champagne that the hotel had sent up, and we cried together. It turns out that John has lots more to cry about than I do. His father physically abused him as a child and when John was twelve shipped him off to a Catholic orphanage in northern Canada, labeling him an incorrigible, which gave the friars at the orphanage the right to abuse him again, at first physically and then sexually. Later, as a young teacher at a small religious college in New England, John was accused of sexually abusing one of his own students. The student hanged himself from his dormitory window. John says he can’t return to the United States or he’ll go to prison. I urged him to go back. Prove your innocence. It’s better that way! Oh dear God, what’s wrong with me? First a priest and now a gay man!