The silence.
Alone in the hallway, unwinding the scarf from around her neck, Francesca felt the heavy stillness of the house pressing in all around her, squeezing the breath out of her, keeping her from moving further within. It was like standing in the middle of an elevator that was becoming more and more crowded at each successive floor. Except here, there were no people crushing in on her, only the memories of those who had once happily occupied that same space with her and the echoes of their voices. The joys and sorrows, the laughter and tears, the tranquil and chaotic moments alike, all rushed in and smothered her, like little children greeting a work-weary parent at the door.
Francesca stood there for a time, listening intently. The house, she soon realized, was not completely silent. From the kitchen came the humming of the refrigerator, and from the living room the relentless tock tock tock of the clock on the mantel. Added to these was the low grumble of the furnace in the basement. The monotonous tones, however, did little to dispel the gloomy quiet. There was something unsettling about them that served only to deepen her sense of isolation, and in their monotony, they drove home all the more emphatically the point that there was no one there but her.
Francesca tugged off her overcoat, hung it in the closet, then reached down to collect the pile of bills and solicitations that the mailman had deposited through the slot in the front door. Everything was still addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Leonard Campanile. Leo had been gone for over eight years, but Francesca had never bothered to change the name on her mailing address to reflect the fact that she was a widow. Somehow, seeing their names together on the envelopes kept a glimmer of hope burning inside that her husband, even though she could no longer see him, was still in the parlor watching television while awaiting her return, or sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper like he always did, or perhaps upstairs on the bed taking a nap. She half-expected to find him there waiting for her every time she walked through the front door; that half of her felt it keenly when, inevitably, she did not.
Sifting through the mail, Francesca’s spirits brightened when she spied a postcard nestled between the electric bill and a credit card offer. It was from Australia. The front side of the card showed two photographs side by side. Francesca regarded the pictures uneasily. The one on the left was of a young man standing atop the railing of what appeared to be a rather high bridge. Around his ankle was tied some sort of rope. Behind him, a group of smiling onlookers seemed to be cheering the young fool on. The photograph to the right showed the man in midair, his eyes and mouth as wide as saucers as he plummeted off the side of the bridge toward the water far below. The caption on the card read: TAKING THE PLUNGE DOWN UNDER!
Francesca shuddered at the thought of her son doing such a thing. She made the sign of the cross and flipped the card over. It read:
Hi Mom!
Having a wonderful time! Just as well you’re not here.
Joey
“Dio mio!” Francesca exclaimed, looking up to heaven. “What an idiot!”
Refusing to give it another thought, for the whole idea of her son jumping off a bridge just for fun gave her the jimjams, Francesca dropped the postcard back in with the rest of the mail and went to the kitchen. Along the way, she paused to check the thermostat, which she had left set at fifty-five degrees. It was now only slightly warmer than that in the house, and Francesca considered nudging it up a few degrees. She paused and considered the newly arrived gas bill. Pulling the collar of her sweater more tightly about her neck, she decided to leave the thermostat just as it was.
Once in the kitchen, she set the mail onto the table in a neat stack and turned to look out the window over the sink. If the interior of her home seemed gloomy to her, the exterior was positively bleak. It was late afternoon, and the barren trees and shrubs swayed back and forth in the cold wind, while the sun slowly fell off to the west. A thin cover of hard, frozen snow lay across most of the backyard, though here and there a patch of ground managed to show itself. The picnic table at which Francesca liked to sit during the warm weather was blanketed, as were the nearby gardens in which she occasionally liked to putter around. Across the yard, a bird feeder clung to a tree branch. Francesca had filled it before leaving for Florida, but now it was empty, swinging to-and-fro like a pendulum in the wind, not a bird in sight. This saddened Francesca, because she welcomed the sight of the birds happily pecking away at the feeder. They were a sign that life was still close by, even though it was the dead of winter.
Francesca gave a little sigh, turned away from the window, and went to the refrigerator. It was several hours since she had last eaten. The stewardess had offered her a snack during the flight home, but Francesca had said no. She had been too nervous to eat. Besides, Roseanne had packed a pepper-and-egg sandwich for her in case she really became hungry. She had ended up giving it to the young man sitting next to her. He had never before tasted a pepper-and-egg sandwich, so the look of surprise and pleasure on his face when he took his first bite had been the only bright spot of the journey. The rest was just a long blur of nervous anxiety.
Now, peering into the refrigerator, Francesca realized that the anxiety had all passed, but she still did not feel hungry, or if she did, she didn’t care. There was plenty on hand in the refrigerator for her to whip up something quick, but the thought of eating alone at that particular moment took away any satisfaction the meal might have given her. Added to that was the sudden weariness that settled in on her like someone had just handed her a sack of potatoes. She was too tired to cook.
Francesca closed the refrigerator door and walked out of the kitchen to the front hall. Her daughter, she well knew, would be waiting by the telephone back in Florida, anxious to hear that her mother had made it home safely. Francesca would call her from the bedroom and then lie down to rest. She took hold of her suitcase and turned toward the staircase.
“Leo,” she called as she started up the stairs, “I’m home.”
CHAPTER 3
“Tony, you call these tomatoes?”
Tony, the grocer, who at the moment was putting out cucumbers on the shelf across the aisle, looked over at Francesca and gave a shrug. “Well, that’s what it said on the carton they came in, Mrs. Campanile,” he replied with a good-natured smile. Francesca had been coming to the market for years, and Tony had long since become accustomed to her occasional criticisms of the produce selection.
Francesca picked up a piece of the fruit, breathed in what little she could detect of its scent, and made a face that suggested her assessment of it had been less than favorable. She dropped the tomato back in the bin with the others and shook her head in disdain.
“The cardboard boxes these came in probably have more flavor,” she suggested ruefully. “I should find another market.”
“Ayyy, what do you expect?” laughed Tony. “Nobody has good tomatoes this time of year.”
“Ayyy, and that’s what you always say,” replied Francesca, shaking her hand at him for emphasis. “What are you doing? Hiding all the good tomatoes for yourself? I should go to the supermarket down the road. They probably have some nice tomatoes there that actually taste like tomatoes. These things don’t even look like tomatoes.”
Tony chuckled, for this was a scene that had been played out many times there in his little corner market just down the street from Francesca’s house. Inwardly, Francesca gave in to a smile of her own. Both of them knew full well that, despite the lower prices and the greater selection to be found in the huge supermarkets, Francesca preferred the comfort and convenience of her own little neighborhood market. It felt almost like a part of her home. Why would she go anywhere else when Tony carried just about everything she needed? Sure, the detergent and paper goods were a little more expensive, and the store didn’t stock fifteen brands of every item, but nobody anywhere had a better meat selection than Tony’s Market, and the produce, despite her occasional gripes in the winter, was the best around. But there was more to it than just the meat and the fr
uit and the vegetables that kept her coming back.
Though she would not have admitted it at the moment, Francesca stayed away from the big markets for one simple reason: They made her dizzy. They were all so big and impersonal. Too many people, too many products, too many aisles. Too many everything. Here, everyone knew her. When she walked into the store, she was always greeted with a “Hello, Mrs. Campanile!” or a “What will you have today, Mrs. Campanile?” It was nice to come to a place where you always found the same faces and everybody knew you. Francesca rarely had to waste time looking around for help if she couldn’t find what she was looking for on the shelf or if it was up out of reach. It seemed as though someone would always be nearby looking out for her. “Oh, we moved the spices yesterday to the next aisle over,” Tony might tell her before she needed to ask. “Let me get that for you, Mrs. Campanile,” one of his sons might say before she had a chance to lift her hand. “Try this new brand of pasta we just got in, Mrs. Campanile. I think you’ll like it,” Tony’s wife, Donna, might suggest. Those little gestures of familiarity meant a lot to Francesca. They were the primary reason she always returned. Then, of course, there was the pleasure of knowing that if she was in the mood to complain about anything, a not-uncommon occurrence, she didn’t need to go searching all over creation for the manager. Tony, or Donna, or one of their sons, was always right there every day. There was nothing she liked better than to give one or all of them a good earful now and then, just to keep them on their toes. It made her day. In an odd sort of way, it made theirs as well. They all knew that her occasional outbursts were nine-tenths playful bluster.
The dearth of decent tomatoes, however, was a source of true consternation to Francesca. Not that she blamed Tony for it. She well understood that, no matter where she shopped, the bland, flavorless pieces of near-plastic grown in hothouses or shipped in from somewhere overseas were all that she would find in the middle of the winter. There was nothing to be done about it. But how she longed for those beautiful native tomatoes of late summer! Gazing at the pile of (not) cheap imitations, she tried in her mind to replace them with the sweet, succulent varieties from the local farms she would find there in the balmy days of August. The cherry tomatoes, bursting with sweetness at the first bite. The big beef tomatoes, so luscious and heavily laden with flavor that just one was a meal in itself. And her favorites, the oval-shaped plums. It was enough to bring tears to her eyes.
Leo, of course, had kept a tomato garden for years, spoiling Francesca. How could these pale things before her even compare? There were not words enough to describe the scent and taste of a sun-warmed tomato just plucked from the vine. Sinking your teeth into it, letting the sweet juiciness fill you up, renewed the life inside you. It was like eating sunshine. There was no end to the uses to which she would put those beautiful sun-ripened tomatoes from her husband’s garden. Marinara sauces, pizza, salads, sandwiches. Her favorite, though, was a simple tomato salad. Francesca would start by cutting up the tomatoes and tossing them into a bowl with a healthy dose of virgin olive oil. Next, she would add a clove or two worth of diced garlic, some chopped basil and oregano picked fresh from her own little garden, then pinches of salt and pepper. Finally, she would toss it all together once or twice, and she was done. The addition of a loaf of fresh-baked bread and maybe a nice piece of cheese was all anyone needed for dinner on a hot summer’s evening. If she and her husband were really hungry, they found that nothing went better with those tomatoes than a thick juicy steak hot off the grill. That was Leo’s favorite meal in the summer. He loved to scoop up the tomatoes and drizzle the juice and olive oil and bits of garlic onto the meat. It brought a contented smile to his face every time. Despite the paltry selection of produce before Francesca, the memory brought a wistful smile to her face. She let out a long sigh.
“Cooking for the family tonight?” asked Tony, bringing her back from her reveries.
“Eh, I wish, Tony,” she answered, shaking her head. “No, it’s only me tonight. I was just in the mood for some nice tomatoes, that’s all. Something to make me forget about all this cold weather.” She cast another baleful look at the tomatoes. “But I can’t bring myself to do it,” she said glumly.
“I know what you mean,” Tony confessed with a nod of his head. “Tell you the truth, I won’t eat those things myself. But I suppose they’re better than nothing in the winter. Just be patient. It’ll be summer before you know it, and we’ll have some nice tomatoes in. By then, of course, we’ll all be complaining because it’s so hot outside.”
“And by then you’d better make sure that inside you have that air conditioner working again,” she admonished him. “Not like that time last summer when it broke and it was a hundred degrees in here.”
“Ayyy, don’t worry,” sighed Tony. “My wife has already reminded me a thousand times about that. You two are a lot alike; you never forget anything.”
“It comes with being a woman.”
With that, Francesca continued on to collect the few things that she needed from the market that day. In truth, she could have managed quite well with what she already had at home. But it had been two days since she had returned from Florida, and this was the first time she had stepped outside. Already it felt as though the walls were closing in around her, so a trip to the market had been a good excuse to get out of the house. The previous day had been spent unpacking, washing her clothes, and getting her closet back in order. Then there were the bills to be paid, and the appointments to be confirmed to have her hair done and to get a checkup from the doctor. Francesca liked to have everything in order. She started each day by making a list of things she needed to do. While she sipped her morning coffee, she would check the list from the day before to see if there was anything she had forgotten. She lived alone, so it was easy to forget things. Organizing her day in this way made her life easier. It kept her busy and made the days when she was alone pass more quickly.
The only items on the list for her excursion to the market were a half gallon of milk and a loaf of bread. The tomatoes had been an afterthought. A few other odds and ends caught her eye as she made her way up and down the aisles. She tossed them into the cart and ambled along. Francesca took her time; there was really no hurry. She had no place else in particular to go and nothing else to do that day. Now and then, she cast a glance over to the entrance, hoping to spy a familiar face coming in, one of her market friends, as she liked to call them. Most of her old friends from the neighborhood were gone, some having moved to warmer climes, some to retirement centers or nursing homes, and some directly to the next life. Still, there were new faces she had come to know, younger couples who had moved in to take the place of the old. Francesca enjoyed seeing these new people, exchanging a few moments of pleasant conversation with the younger women, commenting on the price of this or that, complaining about the weather. Most of all, she loved seeing their little children, especially the newborns. It gave her hope.
On this day, however, there was no one in the store she recognized, so she pushed her cart up to the checkout counter, where Tony’s wife, Donna, waited by the cash register.
“Find everything you need, Mrs. Campanile?” she asked. “I see you have your milk and bread. That’s good. They say we might get some snow later today.”
“Oh, yes,” Francesca replied as she started to put her groceries up on the counter. “I heard the forecast. I’ve got everything I need, not that I’m one of those nervous Nellies who thinks the sky is falling every time she sees a few snowflakes, but it never hurts to be prepared.”
“They say we might get six or seven inches,” Donna said as she scanned the groceries. “Sounds like it will be a good night to just stay home.”
Francesca nodded and smiled. “What else would I do?” she thought.
CHAPTER 4
A few fragile flakes from the approaching snowstorm were already drifting down when Francesca left the market and started on her way home. It was late morning, nearing lunchtime, and the car
s zipped up and down the road as she walked along the sidewalk. There was a palpable feeling of nervous tension in the air; she could see it in the faces of the passing motorists as they hastened along, almost frantic to run their errands before the real snow started to fall. Watching them go by, seeing the impatient frowns of the men and the worried looks of the women chirping away on their cell phones instead of paying attention to the road, Francesca could not help but laugh. It was always the same whenever the weathermen predicted a winter storm. The specter of a few inches of snow put everyone in a tizzy.
Clutching the handles of the cloth bag in which she carried her groceries, Francesca made her way along the sidewalk, keeping a watchful eye on the pavement lest she slip on a patch of ice. That was all she needed to have happen. God forbid she should fall and hurt herself; she would never hear the end of it from her son and daughters. Francesca might just have easily taken the car to the market instead of walking; she was a perfectly capable driver. But she liked the exercise and enjoyed being out in the open air. Besides, in her mind, the world was already going by much too fast. As far as she was concerned, people spent too much time hurrying from one place to another, from one task to another, without ever taking a moment to appreciate the journey. People, she often observed, would be far better off if they could only learn to slow their lives down a bit, but they were generally in too much of a rush to give the idea much thought.
An added benefit of walking to the market was the opportunity it afforded Francesca to monitor the comings and goings in the area. Hers wasn’t what one might call a tough section of town by any means, but some of the shine had gone off the neighborhood since she and Leo had first moved there years ago. The main avenue down which she was walking was lined with two-and three-decker tenements, where generations of predominately Irish and Italian families had once lived together. They had been proud people who had kept their properties immaculate. It grieved Francesca to see the dilapidated condition into which many of those beautiful old homes had descended since the old families had moved out. Not that it was the fault of the new Hispanic and Asian families that had taken their place. Francesca blamed the landlords from whom the new families rented the houses. Had they lost all their pride? She was heartened, though, by the new shops and little restaurants and other businesses she saw the newcomers opening here and there. The neighborhood, as she saw it, was in transition. In time, these renters would become owners, and then those houses would be restored to their proper states. It was inevitable. Nothing instilled pride in a person more than owning his own home.
Francesca's Kitchen Page 2
