Children of the Salt Road [Kindle in Motion]

by Lydia Fazio Theys

  Only after he thanks Flavia—and pays her—thanks Paola, and returns to his car does he allow himself to think about what he’s just done. His shame at sinking to such utter nonsense is profound, but his fear is sharp—fear that others will find out, and fear that none of this will work.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Catherine

  It’s late in the afternoon when Mark returns. With the low sun behind him in the doorway, he’s more a set of shadows and glares than anything like a solid human being. But Catherine would know his walk anywhere. She remembers when their relationship was new and they’d meet at the end of the day outside the subway stop to go home together. Even in the crowded streets, she always smiled at the sight of his familiar step. Now, she presses her lips together, fearful that he’s come prepared to be less than truthful again. Or even worse, that the truth he tells will be something she doesn’t want to know.

  Mark sighs as he sits on a stool facing Catherine. She stops her work and folds her hands on the table, giving him her full attention. When Mark speaks, he simply picks up the conversation where it left off—no greeting, no preamble, but no anger either.

  “I lied about seeing Nico because I was jealous of the time you spent with him. It’s like you’re infatuated with him. It was stupid, and I acted on an impulse—a bad one. But there I was, living with the guilt of what I did to Seth. And to you. When I walked in here that day to see Nico . . . looking just like Seth . . . it was beyond creepy. It rattled me.”

  “So you’re saying at first, you imagined a Nico who looked like Seth. OK. And then what? You gave that one up when you saw the real one? Or did Nico change? Did he stay looking like Seth only long enough to give you an excuse for acting like a jerk? Help me understand here.”

  “Change? He didn’t change.”

  “You can do better than this. Why don’t you take a minute to dream up something more plausible? I’ll wait.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Oh, please! If Nico and Seth looked even a little bit alike—”

  “But—I mean, sure, Nico has a baby face. But it’s Seth’s face.”

  Catherine stands and picks up a pile of sketch pads. She puts one on the table in front of Mark, flipping through sketch after sketch, watercolor after watercolor, all of Nico. “Look. Show me where you see Seth’s features anywhere in that face.”

  Mark leans away from the pad, as if afraid he might touch it by accident. He’s beginning to understand something. That day in the Uffizi, looking up into the face of the Spinario, the face Catherine had said looked so much like Nico—he’d panicked, feeling something was terribly wrong. Because he hadn’t seen anything of Nico in that face. Later, he’d put it out of his mind, convincing himself that Catherine’s perception had grown out of her unhealthy preoccupation with the boy. But now he sees she was right. The boy in these sketches could easily, in ten or so years, look just like the face on that statue. But then who is he seeing? How could it be that when he and Catherine together looked right at the boy in the barn, they saw such different faces? “That’s what you think Nico looks like? Curly dark hair? And that broad face? Because that is not the Nico I’ve seen. Not even close.”

  Catherine puts her hands over her ears. “Stop!”

  “Listen to me!” He’s shouting now. “The Nico I’ve seen has straight blond hair. And very fine features. A long, slender face. He looks just like Seth.”

  “Which you’re mentioning for the first time now?”

  “Why would I mention what he looked like? Why would I ever even consider the crazy idea that we weren’t seeing the same thing? You seem so sure that I’m lying or wrong, but maybe it’s you. I don’t understand what’s going on here any more than you do.”

  “Really? Now I’m supposed to feel sorry for poor, befuddled, innocent you? As stories go, Mark, this one’s not terribly good.”

  The studio is lonely without Nico. Working from memory, Catherine is finishing up a clay model of the boy when Mark walks in. In his suit and tie, carrying his black-leather portfolio, he looks sharp and put together. Catherine could almost let herself forget how disheveled and—well, if she’s honest with herself—how frightening he’s looked recently. That “almost,” though, that’s a miss as good as a mile. With a twinge of sadness, she realizes she doesn’t know what he’s doing today.

  “If I’m not interrupting, is there a surface I can use? To show you something?”

  Catherine walks to a different table, and Mark follows. She piles up the scatter of sketches there and gestures to the cleared area.

  Mark unzips the case. “I’m going to Palermo. Overnight because I have meetings tonight and tomorrow.”

  “OK.”

  “I hope that by tomorrow afternoon, these plans . . .” He places his hands on top of the large white sheets of paper. “. . . will be ready to show to the office in New York. This could be huge for us, Cath. And I mean more than financially. We’d be coming back to Italy whenever we wanted.”

  “We’re here now.”

  “Yes.” Mark’s tone is controlled and calm. “But I need to go back to New York in a few weeks at most. Of course, we’ll pay Giulia for the full time we rented. I’m assuming you’re coming back with me.”

  When Catherine doesn’t answer, Mark arranges the plans on the desk. There are six pairs, each with a “before” drawing of a rural property with traditional buildings and a more modernized “after.” Some limit changes to a bit of sprucing up, perhaps with an added parking area and an outdoor terrace or two. Others are more elaborate and include new architectural features such as pillars, gates, verandas, and swimming pools. Catherine recognizes Roberto’s place in Riposto. Most of the lemon grove remains, but some of it has given way to tourist conveniences. Of the remaining pairs of drawings, four are not familiar to Catherine, but the fifth is Giulia’s place.

  Catherine looks up at Mark. “Giulia?”

  “She hasn’t said yes yet.”

  She pushes the drawings aside. “I don’t want to see these. You know how I feel about ruining these places.”

  “I’m not—” He takes a deep breath, then tightens his lips as if he’s promised himself he won’t lose control. “I’ve been very respectful of the traditional architecture—and the natural characteristics—of each place. I actually love architecture, as I pretty much think you know. I want to preserve these places. They’ve been in their families forever, and people want to do what they can to keep them. This is the best way I can think of. But nothing can stay unchanged forever, Catherine. You have to look to the future, not just the past.”

  “You talked to Giulia without ever telling me.”

  “For God’s sake, it’s work, Catherine.” He raises his arms, palms up—a large, questioning gesture that professes innocence and exasperation at the same time. “It’s not like I was hiding it.”

  Catherine returns to her clay, prodding and poking with more heat than usual. Neither of them speaks for a full minute.

  Mark shuffles his weight from one leg to another and checks his watch. “Are you pretending I’m not here?”

  “You’ll be back when?”

  “Perfect! Great way to address reality. But then, that hasn’t been your strong suit lately, has it? It might interfere with your Sicilian-farm-girl fantasy.” He gathers up his plans and puts them away. “I’ll be back tomorrow night, probably late. I hope you can get it together and think about this while I’m gone. It’s not what you’re making it out to be. If you open up your mind, you’ll see that it helps people who—”

  “Have a safe trip.”

  Catherine senses Mark looking at her for a long time but ignores him.

  “All right.” Mark turns to leave, then stops and speaks over his shoulder. “Maybe we can talk when you’re a little more
rational.” He walks out.

  High up in the olive grove, Catherine looks down toward the shoreline, today stolen from view by the dense morning fog. The somber mist reaches inland, translucent clouds of it tangled in the gnarled trees, smearing silvery leaves into ghostly blobs. Ancient branches bend and twist like desperate arms beseeching the sky for sun. Catherine remembers thinking when they first arrived that it was always sunny here. It isn’t, but even in this gray and dreary weather, there’s a special kind of beauty. In the distance, a dark figure stands in Catherine’s path, and she hesitates until she recognizes Assunta.

  Catherine walks to meet Assunta, who remains in place, leaning on her walking stick. “Such an unusual morning. I couldn’t resist coming here.”

  “Every morning, I come here to look at these trees. Most times, my only companion is my walking stick. And the ghosts.”

  “Ghosts?”

  “Of my husband, my father, his father, and many fathers before. They all one time work these trees. It is like they speak to me here. But today, I have you for a companion too.” Assunta takes Catherine’s arm, and they walk along together, Assunta leaning on Catherine for balance when the ground grows rough.

  “I’m honored to be in such company. You know, I think maybe I can hear them too.”

  “Maybe you hear them because they are, I think, sad.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Giulia—maybe she will have to sell our land.”

  The words strike Catherine like a slap.

  “She does not wish this, but her two brothers . . . em . . . they also—all together with Giulia, yes?—they own this farm. And she thinks they will like too much the sound of the money.”

  “Do you mean sell to—” Catherine stops, unsure of how much Assunta knows of Mark’s plans. She feels guilty even though it looks like she was the last to know. “Mark—he only told me yesterday, and I—”

  “I know this idea, it is not from you. I do not understand too much about it, but Giulia says some men, they have money and want to buy part of our home. They will build a fancy new place with more rooms, and Giulia and I will have many guests.”

  “Does it make you sad too?”

  “I’m an old lady whose heart is here. On this land.”

  “But, Assunta, if it does happen, surely you will stay here and live. Like now.”

  Assunta bunches the fingertips of her right hand and points them to the sky, shaking her hand up and down. “Never the same. I do not like people to come here who like only money and want swimming pools and fancy rooms.” She shrugs. “I know. Everything changes, but this”—and she sweeps with her arm to take in the olive grove—“I hope that she never change.”

  Was that a slip of the tongue, or does Assunta think of the farm as a person? Catherine pulls a supple olive branch toward her and wipes the moisture from one of the olives. “Why don’t the birds eat these?”

  “They learn they are very, very bitter. More bitter than anything. Try if you like.”

  “That’s OK.” Catherine laughs. “I believe you.”

  “This bitterness—it comes from our history. You know some of this history, yes, Catherine?”

  “I’m not sure which part you mean. I’ve learned so much since I’ve been here, but—”

  “I mean the children—the murdered children from long ago. There are so many, and they are all around us.” She places a shaky hand onto Catherine’s arm. Catherine’s heart races. “The bitter, it is their sadness. All they want, these babies, is for someone to love them. They want—” Assunta becomes flustered. “La possibilità—how do you say this?”

  “The chance.”

  “Yes. The chance to grow up. Like the olives. Bitter now, but when you take them and treat them just the right way—the way we have done in Sicilia for the centuries—they become sweet.”

  “I’ve never heard any of this.”

  “Local people—we don’t like to say because it sounds crazy a little bit. But some of us know. Our salt—we have been blessed with this for so long—this comes from the tears of these children.” Assunta looks Catherine in the eye, and Catherine returns her gaze, exhilarated and at the same time terrified. “This place is very special. Like no other. Do you understand, Catarina, what I tell you?”

  Catherine’s heart skips a beat at Catarina. “I think I do.”

  “When one of these children chooses somebody—only special people can understand. But I think from the first day we meet—I think you are going to be one of them.”

  Catherine sits on the small wooden porch pretending to read. It’s the first time Nico has come to the house, and she’s too excited to focus. He sits cross-legged on the weathered floorboards, staring out to sea. She hopes no splinters will hurt the tender undersides of his thighs.

  She’s thinking about finding some children’s books at the library, something she can read aloud to Nico, when she hears Mark approaching. She looks at Nico. Will he stay? Before she speaks, Nico gives one shake of his head and steps off the porch, slipping behind a dense pink oleander shrub bristling with bees.

  When Mark opens the door and steps onto the porch, there is no sign that Catherine has not been alone. He sits next to her and raises his coffee cup as if in salute. “Morning.”

  “Hi. What time did you get in last night? I didn’t hear you.” Why did she say that? Is this what they’ve come to—lying to one another as easily as not?

  “After midnight. How’s everything here?”

  “Fine. And your trip?”

  “Fine.”

  They sit, in almost pure silence, their few brief bits of conversation addressing a flickering warning light on the car dashboard and a creaking shutter on one of the bedroom windows. Neither has said a word for quite some time when Catherine speaks.

  “I talked to Assunta yesterday.”

  “Oh?”

  She describes the conversation, and Mark’s face goes from guarded when she speaks about the potential sale to impatient when she reaches the part about the Phoenician children. “So maybe there’s something to this idea that you are seeing a different child. If they’re everywhere here, maybe it isn’t Nico at all. Maybe another child has chosen to be visible to you.”

  “And why would this second child be doing that?” Mark sounds bored, and Catherine’s resolve to remain friendly and nonconfrontational is washing away.

  “Because he needs us too.”

  “For God’s sake, Catherine, now you think we need to adopt two dead boys?”

  “But think about what Assunta said! It all fits. I—”

  “I don’t know what you heard—or think you heard—Assunta say, but we aren’t being courted by two dead Phoenician kids. Nothing you told me about what she said included anything specific. It seems to me you took the philosophical musings of a woman whose English is not all that great to begin with and heard what you wanted to hear.” He pauses and moves his chair a little closer to Catherine, facing her more. He leans in and his voice softens, becomes solicitous. “You need to get away, Catherine. This place—it’s so insular, like you’re in exile from the real world. Two days away made such a difference for me. I know it would help you too.”

  “Help me what, Mark? Forget everything I’ve seen and heard from Nico? That won’t happen.”

  “It might help you to focus on us. We’re falling apart here. That alone is reason enough to leave. I want to go back to New York—two, three weeks from now tops. And I don’t want to go back without you. We can fix things. I know it.”

  “I still care about you too. But how do I reconcile that with how much I dislike your plan? The one that might force Giulia’s hand. And I don’t want to go back to New . . . no, that’s not true. It’s not what I don’t
want to do. It’s that I want to stay here, with you. I need you to consider that possibility.”

  “How can I when there is no life for us here, Catherine?”

  “Life would be different; it’s true. The thing is, I think it would be better if you would give it half a chance.”

  “I’ll say the same to you: come back with me, give it a try. If it doesn’t work out . . .”

  “I’d like to go back to New York for a while. Seth never wrote me, and I’d still like to make things right with him, especially knowing what I know now.”

  “Oh, jeez, sure. Spread your new earth-mother wealth. Keep a charity case on each continent.”

  “That wasn’t necessary, Mark. Not if you’re serious about trying to find an answer to all this.”

  “You’re right. I’m a little strung out right now.”

  “I know. Me too. I don’t know how I can leave, and I don’t know how I can stay without you either. It’s an impossible situation.”

  Mark turns toward a rustle in the oleanders. “What was that?”

  “That sound? Probably some birds. There were a bunch in there before.” Lying gets a little easier each time.

  Cleaning up her table, Catherine tries to remember if there are any leftovers in the fridge. The past several days, for whatever reasons—or excuses—she and Mark haven’t managed a meal together once. Tonight he has a working dinner in Palermo with some colleagues. She’s tempted to go to their usual place in Marsala, but she fears finding Mark there too, alone. Then she’ll know that the “working dinner” was a lie to avoid her.

  “Buonasera!” Catherine looks up at the sound of a voice from the doorway. It’s Giulia, carrying a crockery bowl covered with a dish towel. “I made some arancini, and I know you like them. Three kinds—with peas, with mozzarella, and with pistachio. For your dinner.”