All the Way to Heaven

by Becky Doughty

  In the bathroom, I washed my face and pulled out my make-up bag. I couldn’t completely hide my puffy eyes, but a little artificial color on my face definitely helped. I chose black eyeliner and smoky gray shadow today instead of my usual chocolates and plums—the bolder look gave me a boost of self-confidence and after my little meltdown, I needed it. I smeared on a sticky peach lip gloss and gave my eyelashes a double coat of mascara for good measure. My hair, by some small mercy, looked pretty good today, so I left it down and loose around my shoulders.

  Back in my room, I straightened my bed as neatly as I could, collected my cup and saucer and the phone on the tray, and reached for my “strong and sexy” boots. Loosening the ties on the left one as wide as they would go, I slipped it over my foot, brace and all, and carefully pulled the laces snug around everything. It looked ridiculous, but I pulled the pant leg down and nodded with great satisfaction. Except for the blaring presence of the wheelchair, one would have to look twice to know I had a bum leg.

  I found Claudia and Franco in the kitchen with Margarite when I delivered the tray. The two women made much ado over how pretty I looked. I beamed and blushed appropriately. I hated feeling so fragile, but if I had to be needy, this was a good place to do so. Everyone was so anxious to offer help and comfort and ease.

  And food. Margarite beckoned me to pull my chair up to join her at the butcher block table where she was kneading a large batch of dough. Claudia made me a cappuccino topped with an inch of foam, and I leaned too close to breathe in the intoxicating fragrance of coffee and cinnamon and cream, coming back up with a tiny dollop of white on the end of my nose. I swiped it clean with my napkin and Margarite slid a plate my way, smiling indulgently at me. On it were two croissant rolls, but not like any I’d seen before. Cornetto, she called it. The ends oozed some kind of deep purple fruit filling.

  “You like to cook, Ani?” The housekeeper’s voice was as round and full-bodied as she was and seemed to bounce around the high-ceilinged kitchen.

  “No,” I readily admitted. “I’m a terrible cook. But I like to help anyway. I’m very good at washing dishes and cleaning up the kitchen afterward.” I took a bite of the flaky pastry and closed my eyes in sheer delight. “And I like to eat whatever you cook, Margarite.”

  At the table, Claudia and Franco had their heads together over a large calendar laid out between them and Claudia was busy penciling in names as Franco looked on. “It is the frantoio schedule,” she explained, when she saw my curious gaze. “We usually operate from now until December 15th, open twenty-four hours the first three or four weeks, but this year, we will only be open two weeks as there are so few with olives to bring. It is a very busy time beginning next week, regardless. We must be completely ready if everything is to operate smoothly.” She paused and peered at me over her reading glasses. “You have heard of our trouble, Anica?”“

  I nodded solemnly, grateful beyond words that Isa had been so open with me yesterday. “Isa told me a little about the weather and the olive fly. She said last night that you would not be harvesting many of your trees this year.”

  Claudia smiled grimly and nodded. “That is correct. It has been a black year for olive growers across Italy, Anica. We are fortunate in that we had a surplus last year and will not go without this year, but many in our country will suffer greatly. There are those who are looking to the government to help, but it is too little, too late, I believe you Americans say. Many olive mills will not even open their doors at all. And those that do will produce oil using olives that are not good quality. We here at frantoio de Lazzaro will not sacrifice quality for quantity, though, so there will be no Lazzaro oil to go to the market this year.”

  “I see.” Oh, to have the right words in the face of such a tragedy.

  “We will have many come even without olives, too, though. It is a time to visit with friends and neighbors and to talk about the future of the olives. So we prepare for people this year, more than olives.”

  Margarite pointed at the dough she was working over. “I make bread for many days. Most people who come to the mill simply want to have bruschetta to taste their new oil, and Chianti to salute their success.”

  Claudia expounded, “This year, we will bring out our stores from last year to serve with Margarite’s bruschetta, and we will offer Lazzaro Chianti to salute the future we will all face together.”

  “I see,” I said again. This open hospitality seemed to be a way of life for these people. It was so different from the way things were in my part of the world. Even the neighborhood where I grew up, once upon a time a place where kids hung out on the curbs together, driveways decorated with the florescent pastels of sidewalk chalk hopscotch games, now housed more strangers than friends.

  “Does the whole family help out with the harvest? With running the mill? How do you operate such long hours?” Isa had given me a clue about some of the preparation, but I was intrigued with the inner workings of the family. What did Cosimo do during the harvest season? For some reason, I couldn’t picture him out in the groves climbing trees.

  “How do we do it?” Claudia shrugged, spreading both arms wide. “Everyone does their part. Franco and one or two other men oversee the operation of the frantoio, Benito manages the harvest of our own olives. When it is a good yield, we have perhaps thirty men and women who come to help pick the olives and he sees that the collection is done properly. It takes two weeks or longer to harvest our trees alone, but the olives must go to the mill within twenty-four hours. Cosimo and Gerardo come to help on the first days of the harvest and the opening day of the mill, but they cannot stay the whole time because of their jobs in the city. They return on the weekends to give relief to Franco and Benito if it is needed. The women make certain there is good food for the olive pickers, and bread and wine for the mill customers to eat and drink while they wait for their turn with the machines. Neighbors and friends who come to visit pick up brooms and dirty dishes while they are here. Everyone works together.”

  I lowered my gaze to my coffee and asked with some hesitance, “Is there anything I can do to help? I think you might be stuck with me for another week, and I’d like to do my part. I don’t want to be a burden or get in the way, so just tell me if you think it would better for me to stay away, especially since I can’t cook. But I’d really like to help if I can.”

  Margarite reached across the worktable and patted my cheek. I could feel the dusting of flour left on my skin from her palm, but I didn’t reach up to rub it away. It was an anointing of sorts and I felt blessed. “You follow me all around, cucciola. I will make you so busy, you will want to fall into bed every night.”

  “What is a coochola?” I asked, licking the last of the of the plum jam pastry crumbs from my fingertips.

  “It is little dog. Little puppy. You will follow me like a little puppy, yes?” She smiled, her eyes alight with mischief.

  “Yes, Margarite,” I agreed whole-heartedly. “I will follow you like a puppy. Cucciola.”

  I watched, mesmerized as Margarite formed four large dough balls on the floured surface in front of her, and smeared green-gold olive oil over the exposed convex curve of each mound. Then she covered them with thin tea towels. Her hands, broadened from years of hard work and good food, moved as gracefully as a dancer’s as she started measuring out ingredients for the next batch of bread.

  Over the next half an hour or more, I learned so much just by keeping my eyes open… and my mouth shut. The women talked most of the time, but Franco had things to say, too. His accent was strong, but he was a born storyteller, and I was enthralled by the way he phrased things.

  “Nets will not be taken out. Mills will not open their doors. Farmers are turning their backs to their trees, unable to face the destruction. No one is gathering to celebrate, but instead, to mourn. From our two thousand trees, we will be fortunate to harvest two thousand olives.” As Franco spoke, I heard Margarite sniffle and noted the unshed tears in her heavily-lidded eyes.


  I didn’t have to ask questions. The words flowed freely as they talked of neighbors who stood to lose everything, of friends who couldn’t see a way out of the loss.

  “It is the same all across Italy, Ani. This tragedy will affect the olive oil market for many years to come. And not just here. Around the world. Other countries are suffering from some of the same weather changes.” Franco toyed with the base of his water glass, his blunt fingertips glistening from the beads of condensation making rivulets down the sides of it. “The weather is a fickle creature, and grows more unpredictable each year. We have much competition from other countries, and there is fraud in the market.” He reached over and laid a hand on his wife’s arm, his thumb caressing the back of her wrist.

  “Many farms, even if they survive this, will take a long time to recover fully.” Claudia continued his statement, as though his touch transferred his thoughts to her. “And many are already beginning to look to other sources of income, allowing their olive trees to go wild.” A respectful hush settled around the room. Even Margarite stilled for a few moments.

  Franco rose slowly, sliding his chair back with barely a sound. He straightened his vest and squared his shoulders. With his chin high and his eyes bright, he said, “The future of olives in our region is uncertain, but it is the life we know and love. It is in our bones, our blood. It is our passion. We will remain.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  I wheeled my chair out onto the terrace, overflowing with emotions, both mine and those shared with me, about this home and the way of life that was changing before my very eyes. Suddenly, my silly cracked ankle that was going to heal just fine, my stolen identity that could so easily be replaced, and my broken heart over a man not worthy of my tears, all seemed so trivial in light of the loss of generations upon generations of family legacy. I was humbled by the transparency and the tenacity of the people in whose home I’d found sanctuary.

  Margarite had set out a dish of fruit for me, along with a glass and a bottle of chilled San Pellegrino, but it sat untouched on the table beside me.

  A breeze kicked up and I moved into a patch of sunlight, not wanting to go inside for a sweater, enjoying too much the fragrance of the valley swirling around me. Closing my eyes against the glare, I tilted my head back and breathed deeply. I could almost taste the essence of Tuscany in that breath: the grit of arid soil, the sharp tang of savory herbs blending with sweet orange blossoms and wild honey.

  “Ani.”

  I jerked my head up and bit back the cry that leapt from my throat. I turned in my seat to find Paulo standing at the edge of the terrace, hands thrust into his pockets, shoulders relaxed. The breeze kept ruffling the hair on top of his head, making it stand on end like a flapping toupee. I warred between wanting to giggle and wanting to berate him for startling me.

  “I apologize for disturbing you. You looked very peaceful.”

  “You didn’t disturb me, Paulo,” I retorted. “You scared the living daylights out of me. Why are you always sneaking up on me?” I’d momentarily forgotten that I didn’t want to see him.

  “Why are you always sitting with your eyes closed?” The question hung in the air between us, and I read a subtle jab into it that he probably hadn’t intended. His next words confirmed my paranoia. “You look exceptionally beautiful today, Ani. I like your red pants.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him, unable to tell if he was really paying me a compliment or mocking me. “Thank you,” I finally mumbled, then hurried on. “Why are you here, Paulo? Please tell me you didn’t bring that poor boy with you.” The thought had just occurred to me, and I glanced past him.

  “No, I came alone. To see you.”

  “They do have a front door, you know. You could have knocked and come through the house like a normal person, rather than sneaking around back.” My words weren’t very kind but my tone was gentler. I could see he had something on his mind, and I wasn’t cruel by nature. There was just something about Paulo that seemed to push the wrong buttons in me.

  “I met up with Claudia in the driveway when I arrived. She informed me you were out here and told me to go around.”

  “Oh.” I looked out toward the horizon, ashamed, and trying to stay angry at him, but finding it difficult.

  “May I join you?” He still stood on the path, waiting for an invitation to come closer.

  “Yes. Of course.” I dipped my head toward the tray on the table. “Would you like some water? I haven’t used the glass yet.”

  He glanced over at the food as he passed, but came directly to me, crouching down in front of me the way he had Sunday night when I’d told him I liked his smile. I mentally cringed at the memory, wondering if he was thinking of my inebriated foolishness, too.

  He waited until I met his gaze, but when I looked away again, he took my hand, holding it between both of his. His fingers were warm on my chilled skin and I fought the impulse to pull away from him, from the irrational and unpredictable response he stirred in me every time he was around.

  “Ani, what can I do to make amends with you? I feel I have said and done the wrong things from the first time we met.” He rubbed his thumb back and forth over the knuckle of my index finger. He didn’t seem to realize he was doing it, but I sure did. The caress, because that’s the way my mind was registering it, sent currents of sensation up my arm. “I want to try again, if you will let me.”

  I didn’t know how to answer him. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I was apparently as confused by my reactions to him as he was.

  He released my hand and stood, retrieving something from his back pocket. “I have something for you.”

  In his hand was my navy blue, gold embossed, government-issued passport. Proof that I existed in this country. My ticket home. I snatched it from him and opened it, drinking in the awful black and white head shot taken in the Postal Annex at my school, the one that made me look a little wall-eyed. And on the next few pages were the stamps documenting my Habitat for Humanity house-building trips to Mexico the last two summers, and the one proving I’d arrived in Italy a week ago. I held it up, speechless, my eyes wide.

  Paulo only nodded.

  “Where did you get this?” I found my voice and hugged the tiny booklet to my chest, wishing for a moment that I could hug him instead.

  He grabbed a chair and drew it up in front of me so he sat facing me. “I would like to try to make amends with you, Ani,” he said again, and this time I eyed him with suspicion.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I want to take you for a drive. To show you the Lucca you are missing because of your leg.”

  If he had said he wanted to roll me into the swimming pool and watch me flounder, I wouldn’t have been more surprised. “Really? Why?”

  The astonishment on my face must have been something else, because his mouth began to curl up at the corners. “Maybe because I like to see that look on your face.”

  I nudged him in the shin with my good foot. Not hard, but enough to make him wince. His smile didn’t waver though, and I felt an answering one on my own lips. “Seriously. Why?”

  “Because I want to.”

  “But…” I dropped my gaze to my hands now folded tightly on my lap. “You and I aren’t… I’m not very kind to you.”

  “Well, perhaps it is because you are right to be offended by me.” He reached out and brushed my knee with his fingertips. “Whether or not I am an American, Ani, what matters is that I saw your need, and I chose to look away. For that, I am ashamed. I want to make it right with you.”

  “You didn’t look away, Paulo.” I sighed deeply, regret for all the things that had—and hadn’t—been said between us. “You might have wanted to. And, okay, on the train, you were kind of a jerk, changing seats like I smelled bad. All I did was smile at you, you know. You looked tired and discouraged. I was just trying to be kind.”

  He chuckled, his teeth flashing briefly. They were rather nice teeth. “Why are you always trying to m
ake me smile, Ani Tomlin?”

  “Maybe because I like to see that look on your face,” I replied, suddenly feeling a little giddy. A breeze rustled through the cartoon leaves of a fig tree in a huge planter on the terrace nearby, and an overripe piece of fruit landed on the stones with a muffled plop, the aroma of fermentation wafting pleasantly into the air around us. A chunky curl swept across my face, sticking to the lip gloss I’d reapplied after my breakfast. I covertly smacked my lips to try to loosen the strands, but only made it worse. What a dork.

  Paulo reached forward and swept my hair back, smoothing it behind my ear. “You did say something like that to me last night.”

  He was laughing at me. I joined in. What else was I to do?

  I decided it was my turn to apologize. “I’m sorry I hung up on you this morning.”

  “Prego. It is nothing, Ani.”

  “And for being so rude to you last night. I’d had a little too much to drink.”

  “No need to apologize. I understa—”

  “Will you do me a favor and stop being so nice,” I interrupted. “Please?”

  He laughed again. “What is this? First, you complain because I am not nice. Now you want me to stop being nice? You are as fickle as the weather, Anica Tomlin.”

  He shifted his leg defensively, as though he thought I might give him the boot again. I wouldn’t, though. I didn’t think it was okay for girls to hit boys, no less for grown women to hit men, even in jest, and I felt childish enough already for prodding him in the first place.

  “It’s just easier to stay mad at you if you’re not being nice to me,” I explained.

  “Ah, but you forget. I do not want you to stay angry with me.” Then he grew serious. “Ani, I need to talk to you about Cristofano.”

  I closed my eyes briefly, disappointment washing over me. “Oh. That’s why you’re being so nice.”