Burning the Map

by Laura Caldwell

  “Slim,” she says through a mouthful of toothpaste, “but I could sleep through a train wreck right now. This jet lag is killing me.” She spits, rinses and leaves the bathroom.

  After she’s gone, I close the door and stare at myself in the mirror. Without my contacts, I look hazy and ill defined, but it feels familiar.

  When my head hits the pillow, I fall asleep immediately, only to be awakened a half hour later by muffled smooching sounds coming from Kat and Guiseppe. I glance to my left at Lindsey, who’s snoring, blissfully unaware. I turn back to my right and my worst fears are realized. The sounds aren’t coming from lips on lips, but rather Guiseppe’s lips on Kat’s perky breasts. Kat’s head is thrown back, her mouth open, her face holding a look of pure rapture. Guiseppe is bent over her, working with all the fervor of a newborn infant.

  I close my eyes again, not entirely surprised. I’d expected some activity, and it’s certainly not the first time Kat has fooled around within spitting distance of me. It’s just that she usually confined the contact to kissing, and it usually occurred after bar-hopping during our undergrad days, when I was too loaded to give a rat’s ass. But this? This seems too nuts even for Kat.

  I steal another glance in their direction, hoping that it was just a momentary lapse of discretion. Instead, I find Guiseppe’s form hidden entirely by the blanket and way below Kat’s gravity-defying boobs.

  “Kat,” I say in an exasperated whisper. “For Christ’s sake!”

  “What? What’s wrong?” As if a complete stranger wasn’t performing oral sex on her in the company of her two friends.

  “Give it a rest, will you? I’ve got to get some sleep.”

  Kat lugs Guiseppe up by his shoulders. When he emerges from the sheets, his golden hair is tousled, his pouty lips decidedly glistening.

  “Sorry,” Kat says to me, but when she looks at Guiseppe, she starts giggling.

  I feel like a second-grade teacher, yet I can’t help barking, “Quiet. Please.”

  Kat and Guiseppe try to feign seriousness, but it’s hard to quell their delight.

  I pull the covers over my head and squeeze my eyes shut.

  Francesco has not called.

  I began watching the clock at approximately 7:30, when Guiseppe exited, amid a flurry of kisses from Kat. Since that time, Lindsey and I have listened to Kat’s play-by-play of every word or action spoken or performed by Guiseppe since their chance meeting at the coffee bar.

  Kat has already forgotten about Poster Boy Alesandro, and has plans to meet Guiseppe tonight at a disco in Trastevere. Wanting nothing to do with Massimo, Sin has also opted for the Trastevere plan.

  “Come with us,” Sin says as she lounges on her bed. Naturally, she’s already dressed for the night, looking cute in trim black pants and a fitted blue halter top. Outside the open French windows, I can hear the low roll of conversation, an occasional burst of laughter, a few lines from a song—Piazza Navona heating up for a Friday night.

  “But I promised Francesco.” I realize how pathetic it sounds. I came on this trip for some girl time, which at least one of my friends is trying to give me. Why am I making such an effort to see some guy I just met, especially when I have a nice enough boyfriend at home?

  No answer comes to mind. To keep myself busy, I refold the clothes in my backpack while I try to decide what to wear. It’s easier than looking at Sin, who is way too good at reading faces, mine in particular.

  “So what if you promised him?” Kat says, coming out of the bathroom in a lacy bra and thong. “Nothing happened last night, right?”

  “No, of course not, but you guys should come with me. What if Alesandro and Massimo are there and expecting you?” Meanwhile, I keep looking at the phone, wondering if Francesco will even want to hang with me after his friends got the cold shoulder last night.

  “I really don’t think they’re dying to see us, and if they do…” Lindsey shrugs “…they won’t find us.”

  I have nothing to say in return. I can’t explain this desire of mine, not even to myself.

  “Go with Francesco if you really want to,” Kat says.

  Sudden panic at the thought. I make my fingers continue folding socks into little balls, but what I’m thinking is that I can’t be alone with Francesco, not without chaperones. For the last two years, the only man I’ve been alone with, other than John, is my dentist.

  I turn and face them. “Come on, you guys. Just come with me for an hour or two. I really want to do this.”

  “Why?” Sin says.

  Great question.

  “Let’s stick together,” Kat says. “This is supposed to be a girls’ vacation, after all.”

  “No shit, Kat. I’m surprised you remembered that.” It flies out of my mouth before I can stop it.

  She freezes, looking like I slapped her.

  Lindsey doesn’t say anything, but she’s watching me.

  “I’m sorry, it’s just that you guys had no problems leaving me last night,” I say.

  “You were going to sleep,” Lindsey says.

  “It’s not like you thought twice about me.” I try to keep my voice light, wondering why I’m arguing, since I may never hear from Francesco again. I’m ready to retreat when I see Lindsey’s face harden.

  “Well,” she says, “you haven’t been setting much of an example lately.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” But I know. Some sick part of me wants to hear her say it, though, because in some fucked-up way it’ll mean she missed me as much as I’ve missed them.

  “Hey,” Kat says, walking toward us. “Let’s not get into this. Not now. Casey, if you want to go with Francesco, do it. Let’s just make it an early one so we can get up tomorrow and do some more sightseeing before we leave for Greece tomorrow night.”

  Neither Sin nor I answer for some time.

  “Yeah,” Sin says, finally breaking the silence. “Just go.” She gives me a lopsided smile with one corner of her mouth, which means she’s trying to be nice.

  “Okay,” I say. “What time should we meet back here?”

  “Midnight,” Kat says. “Will that work?”

  “Sure,” I say, and I give Lindsey a small smile in return.

  Just then the phone rings. I lunge at it.

  “Pronto,” I say.

  “Casey.” Francesco’s voice is so soft that he breathes my name more than he speaks it. “How are you?”

  4

  “I will pick you up at 9:00,” Francesco says, “and we will have a special dinner, as I told you.”

  I push down the flicker of excitement that rises in me, trying not to notice how odd it is, how long it’s been since I’d felt that particular rush. “What about Alesandro and Massimo?”

  “They will not be joining us,” he says, without explanation.

  “Where? I mean, what kind of place are we going? What should I wear?” Something similar to terror replaces my excitement as I realize that this sounds more and more like a date. I know I should protest, explain that I have a boyfriend, and traipse off to Trastevere with my friends, but I can’t. I just can’t get those words out of my mouth.

  “Wear whatever you like,” Francesco says in his liquid-honey voice. “It does not matter.”

  Easy for him to say.

  I immediately begin trying on every article of clothing packed by myself, Kat or Lindsey. They both attempt to offer advice, neither commenting on my obvious anxiety, but their pearls of fashion wisdom do little to calm me. To make matters worse, because of the weight I’ve put on this summer, I can’t wear the majority of their clothes for fear that the seams will explode and take out everyone within a mile radius. This leaves me alone with my meager wardrobe. I can think of fifty outfits in my closet back home that would be perfect for tonight, while I cringe at everything I packed.

  I finally decide on my most slimming skirt and a sleeveless white top with a loose, semi-sheer black shirt over it.

  “Are you nuts?” Kat says. “You can’t we
ar that black thing. It’s one hundred fucking degrees out.” She gives me a disgusted look while she fastens the diamond studs into her ears.

  I glance at Sin, still on the bed, who notices the same thing and scowls at Kat. Those diamond earrings again.

  “I’m trying to hide my arms,” I say, mumbling as I climb on a spindly wooden chair, where I attempt, unsuccessfully, to get a full-length glimpse of myself in the foot-long mirror above the dresser.

  “Oh, please,” Sin says. “Your arms look fine. What’s gotten into you?”

  “About ten pounds,” I say.

  She sighs. “I remember at Michigan when we used to have to beg you to wear a coat over your little outfits, even in the dead of winter.”

  This is true. I dressed like a slut in college, most of my clothes more suited for a provocative music video. I always groan and roll my eyes when I look back on pictures of myself in those getups, but the sad thing is that I was happy and completely confident in them.

  “Oh God,” Kat says, brushing out her long chestnut hair, a grin taking over her face. “Remember that blue dress that was up to your crotch and showed every bit of your tits except the nipples?”

  Lindsey gives a shout of laughter. “And what about that silver bustier she used to wear with the black pants?”

  “Times change,” I say, smiling despite myself. This, I like. This reminiscing about how we used to be, even if it is at my expense.

  “So,” Sin says, and I can hear the shift in her voice from lighthearted to something more serious. “Did you call John yet?”

  “Not yet.” I get down from my chair, having decided to go for beauty over comfort and stick with the outfit. I don’t mention that my plan is to not call anyone for at least a week or two. Not John, not Gordon Baker Brickton, Jr., my newly assigned partner and boss at the firm, and certainly not my mother. This trip is intended to be an escape. Avoiding phone calls with anyone from my real life is a means to that much-needed end.

  “Why not?” Sin says, refusing to give up.

  “I think he’s out of town this weekend.” This is a total lie. He’s in Chicago, and I know exactly what he’s doing right now. He’s in his apartment, puttering around the kitchen, making chicken Alfredo. He’ll work on a file while he eats at the kitchen table, and then he’ll head to Stanley’s to meet his buddies for one or two beers—at the most. He’ll be missing me by now. I’m sure of that. Despite his crazy schedule lately, he turned all moony and sad when he realized I was leaving for three weeks.

  “The place won’t be the same without you,” he’d said a few nights ago as we stood in his living room, his pale green eyes big and turned down at the corners.

  I get a sick flash of guilt, but I’m not sure if it’s caused by my memory of John that night or the way I’m now trying to push it out of my head.

  “Signorina, Francesco…here…for you,” the hotel concierge says in halting English, with a heavy Italian accent.

  “Yes…sì…grazie,” I mumble into the phone, knocking over the bottle of my Fendi perfume in my nervous state.

  “You smell fine,” Lindsey says from the bed, where she has patiently counseled me through the difficult decision of whether to apply more perfume. I love her for this and for dropping the topic of John. “You look fine, too.”

  I fuss with my hair in the mirror. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. Do you have MILK?”

  I check my purse—Money, ID, Lipstick, Keys. “Yep.”

  “So, go already.” She rises from the bed and, collecting her purse, yells, “Kat, let’s go!” in the direction of the bathroom.

  “Two minutes,” Kat says, and Lindsey sits back down. We both know that Kat’s two minutes are more like twenty.

  I inhale deeply, as I’d been taught to do in one of my self-help books. I imagine that these inhalations bring the desired calming effect. “Here I go.”

  I take only three steps before it hits me.

  “What am I doing?” I ask Lindsey. “What am I doing to John?”

  She gives me a very long, very pointed look, during which I regret the question and fear she’s going to set me straight. So straight that I won’t be able to live with myself if I go out with Francesco. A moment goes by, then another.

  Finally, she says, “You’re not doing anything to John. You’re going out for a drink with a nice Italian boy, which was what you wanted to do so desperately an hour ago.”

  Neither of us acknowledges the cutting side to her supposedly light remark. Another silence. The phone rings again. Saved, I think, snatching it.

  “Francesco…here…for you,” the concierge repeats.

  “I’ll be right there.” I enunciate the words for fear Francesco will leave, yet I don’t move for the door.

  “Go,” Lindsey says, and she actually gives me a wink.

  The tiny elevator, which usually takes an eternity to run from the third floor to the first, brings me to the lobby in record time. I’m trying to catch a glimpse of my hair in the reflection of the metal doors when they open. Francesco, dressed in tan pants and a silky white shirt that probably came from his fashionable sisters in Milan, is conversing with the concierge in what appears to be rapid, raucous Italian. They gesticulate, shrug and nod all at once, as only Italians can do. Their conversation comes to an abrupt halt as I approach the desk with what I hope is a nonchalant, I-do-this-all-the-time look on my face.

  Francesco turns to me. His hair is still wet, the black waves shiny, lying close to his head. “You look beautiful,” he says, drawing out the last word so that it sounds like “bee-yootee-ful.”

  “Thank you. Grazie,” I say, surprised to hear my own voice coming out demure, even more surprised to find myself dipping my head in sort of a bow. I’m not usually a demure woman. This is some redheaded-stepchild part of myself I have yet to meet. It makes me wonder if she has other relatives that are usually kept in the basement, away from the guests.

  If Francesco drove his scooter in a meandering way yesterday, tonight he’s in a full-steam-ahead race. I clutch him around his middle as we speed along the cobblestone streets of Rome. Charming enough to stroll down, but hell on the ass if you’re the second person on a one-man moped. I’d tried not to touch him. I tried to simply place my palms on some Switzerland-like neutral area of his body, but the dangerous speed and the bumpy effect of the cobblestones made this full-body grip from behind a requirement. So now, my breasts lie on his back, my hands hold tight to his waist. He feels so different from John who is softer and certainly not as reckless.

  As the scooter hugs a particularly curved street, both of us leaning to one side, I’m sure we’re about to crash. One part of me wants to yell at Francesco to slow down, and either take it easy or take me back to the hotel and forget he ever met me. At the same time, I’m exhilarated to the point of wanting to throw my head back, like some sappy character in a romantic comedy.

  I can feel Francesco’s taut, lean stomach muscles under my fingers. I clasp my hands together, one over the other, to stop the sudden, random urge to let them migrate lower. The scooter jostles over a pothole and the side of my hand nicks Francesco’s belt buckle.

  “Okay?” Francesco shouts over his shoulder. “You okay?”

  “Fine. Bene,” I yell into the wind.

  We speed down the Corso, past grand hotels and designer boutiques. The city isn’t as crowded as it normally is because some of its residents have left on holiday already. Still, the sidewalks are relatively packed with couples, families out for a stroll, and bunches of tourists.

  Francesco stops for a light. “You see there? You see this bank?” he says, pointing to a solid, stone building with an ATM machine outside. “This is where Mussolini was hung.”

  “Oh.” I’m imagining Mussolini dangling from a rope, his bald head at a sharp angle, when Francesco guns the bike. I seize him around the waist again.

  After a minute, we putter to a stop at a neighborhood grocer. “Un momento,” Francesco says, unta
ngling himself from my limbs.

  He disappears into the shop. I attempt to lean against the parked scooter in a feminine James Dean kind of slouch, but the damn thing starts to tip over. I scramble to upright it, grabbing the handlebars and pulling with all my strength, which, admittedly, isn’t what it used to be. I finally succeed in straightening the thing, and I’m searching for the kickstand when Francesco returns, brown bag in hand, a bottle of wine peeking out.

  “Trouble?” he asks, dark eyes laughing.

  He relieves me of the handlebars and adjusts the kickstand without looking down.

  “You are perspiring,” he says in a matter-of-fact voice.

  Mortification makes me mute. Of course I’m perspiring. Between the ninety-degree heat, the damned black shirt, Francesco’s proximity and my grapple with the bike, I’m a sweating mess.

  “I will be back.” He places the bag on the street and returns to the store.

  I stand by the scooter, mopping my forehead with my hand. Breathe, I tell myself. Breathe.

  Francesco returns with a fistful of napkins.

  “Let us see what we can do.” He says this in a low voice as he gently starts dabbing at my cheeks, temples and collarbone with the napkins. I am paralyzed with embarrassment, my arms hanging limp at my sides. I feel my face become a deeper shade of fuchsia, and my heart beats like a rabbit’s, making me sweat all the more. Francesco doesn’t seem to notice. He keeps dabbing me with a light touch, like an artist sponge painting.

  “Now,” he says after a minute. “You have to remove this. It is too warm.” With slow hands he slips my camouflage shirt from my shoulders.

  Francesco’s face is only inches from mine, and when I look, he’s staring directly into my eyes. I return his gaze, unable to turn away.

  I am undeniably cooler without the shirt, but I feel bare in more ways than one. John and I don’t really baby each other, at least not lately. We take care of ourselves—we go to school or work, we pay our own rents, buy our own groceries and clothes—and when it’s all done, we spend time together. Being pampered like this leaves me exposed, my nerve endings jangling.