Roman Holiday

by Phyllis A. Humphrey

  I don’t blame you for hating smokers, Robin said.

  I wanted to say that I didn’t hate anyone, but the waiter brought our salads and bread, and, although I enjoyed the feel of Todd’s palm against mine, I reluctantly withdrew my hand.

  Lance brought the subject back to food. Even if they don’t prepare the duck exactly like the French do, I think Italian food is very good, don’t you?

  Yes, Todd agreed. It’s excellent.

  So, what do you do?

  We spent the next hour enjoying the meal and discussing what everyone did for a living. Lance was vice president of a bank he and a friend had opened two years earlier in a Chicago suburb.

  Robin had been a model and intended to continue. Until I get too old and fat or have a baby, whichever comes first. She leaned close to Lance and grinned up at him. I’m ready whenever you are.

  Lance’s face flushed momentarily. So I’ve noticed.

  Robin’s giggle trilled in the night air, and she turned to Todd and me. Please excuse us, but we are on our honeymoon and, as you can tell, very much in love.

  So I’ve noticed, Todd said, repeating Lance’s words, and Robin laughed again, making nearby diners look our way and smile indulgently.

  Robin took a sip of water and spoke again. Have you ever been married?

  No, Todd answered.

  How about you, Darcy?

  No.

  Robin looked thoughtful. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. On the one hand—

  Todd interrupted her. In my case, it’s probably good. I travel half the year, and I’d either have to leave my family behind or drag them along, which would probably play havoc with any child’s education.

  Not if you traveled abroad. They’d see all these great sights and maybe even become multi-lingual. It could be a real advantage. She looked at me. How about you?

  I travel for my job too, and I’d hate having to leave a husband behind for long periods of time. Still, I thought our responses sounded more like excuses than reasons.

  The subject closed when the waiter brought a tray bearing a bill to the table, and Lance reached for it immediately.

  Oh, by the way, he said, I forgot to tell you before, but you’re our guests tonight.

  That’s not necessary, Todd said. Just because we chose to eat together—

  No, I’m serious. As I told you, we’re celebrating. He looked fondly at Robin for a moment. Besides, my parents are filthy rich, and they’re paying for everything. He shrugged.

  Todd grinned. How did you manage to be born to rich parents?

  I put in an order, of course. He laughed.

  Why didn’t I think of that?

  Oh well, Lance said, your parents may not have had gobs of money, but I’m sure they had some other good qualities.

  I looked at Todd, but he only revealed a tight smile and a crease on his forehead and didn’t answer. Once more, I wondered if he harbored a secret.

  We walked back to the hotel, Todd assuring us it wasn’t far and he knew the way.

  Good idea, Lance said. We can walk off that dinner. I’m afraid I eat too much when I’m on vacation.

  I’ll put you on a diet when we get home, Robin told him. She hugged his arm to her side and nestled her head against him.

  I felt a bit like a voyeur to their intimacy, but, on the other hand, Robin and Lance didn’t seem to require privacy or care if people noticed their attentions to each other. Todd, however, merely took my arm from time to time, helping me when we crossed rough pavement or curbs.

  In the hotel lobby, we waited for the elevator, and Robin thanked us for joining their celebration. It was super getting to know you both. She threw her arms around me in a tight hug then let me go and did the same to Todd. The men didn’t hug but grabbed each other’s arms and patted backs. Then we all squeezed into the little elevator, and the men punched the buttons for their floors.

  As the elevator groaned its way up, Robin said, We must do this again in Florence. And then again in Venice. The elevator stopped, and she grinned and waved before getting off and skipping down the hallway.

  On my floor, Todd once again took my key and unlocked the door. Then he turned, put his arms around me, and pressed me to him. Almost immediately, he released me and backed away.

  That Robin, he said, she’s quite a character.

  I like her.

  Oh, I do too. He paused and cleared his throat. So demonstrative. He moved closer. I felt as if I might betray her spirit if I didn’t hug you.

  I had enjoyed the brief moment in his arms, feeling their strength, smelling his aftershave and the faint scent of his woolen jacket. It’s okay. Thinking of Karen Vale, I almost added, but I don’t think we should make it a habit in public, but didn’t.

  Todd, looking uncomfortable, finally said, Good night, and walked toward the elevator. I went inside and closed the door. I had enjoyed the evening and especially that brief last-minute hug.

  I undressed for bed but couldn’t sleep. I kept remembering what I’d said about my brother’s death. I should never have mentioned it. I knew I shouldn’t hate anyone, but I found it difficult not to hate the man who—through stupidity and carelessness—had killed him. And I could do nothing except show up at his trial and make sure he didn’t get off easily. I wiped away the angry tears that ran down my face. But the images that had been evoked refused to go away; and, in my mind’s eye, I went back over a year in time.

  There were six of us originally—father, mother, my older brother and sister, then me and a younger brother, Howard. Howard was only eighteen, just about to graduate from high school, handsome, smart, so good at sports he played both basketball and baseball and was captain of the swim team. He was on his way home from a date when the drunken driver hit him.

  I had moved to L.A. by that time and worked for a small newspaper. I was still writing freelance magazine articles on the side when I got the telephone call about Howard. I came home at once, and there I stayed for three months. I felt closer to Howard than to my older brother and sister, probably because we were both the pranksters in the family, playing practical jokes, livening up the dinner table conversation with funny anecdotes. We both seemed to see life in amusing terms.

  So I grieved, I mean really grieved. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, cried all the time, never went out, seldom even combed my hair. I also refused to go to church, feeling that God had deserted us. Finally, my father took the family aside and did what they called an intervention. They do this, I’m told, for people who abuse alcohol or drugs, trying to get them into rehab centers for help. But my family just wanted to tell me I had to return to the land of the living.

  My father spoke first. We all love you, and your ever-present grief hurts the rest of us, making us sad for you and keeping the household in a perpetual state of...well, like suspended animation. When will it end?

  Mother spoke about God’s ability to heal our wounds, especially emotional ones, and said that I mustn’t blame God for the accident, that until we die, we may never know why certain things happen.

  My older brother complained that my attitude made him feel guilty. You’re not the only one who loved him, you know. It’s not fair to expect us to stop living just because you choose to become a martyr about this.

  Jennifer said, Howard would have wanted you to get on with your life, to do something more worthwhile than wasting away.

  There was more which I no longer remember, but that was sufficient to break what I began to realize was my self-absorption. The intervention lasted all day, and at the end, we were all exhausted, bleary-eyed from crying, but hugging one another. I thanked them all, went to my room, and prayed for healing then fell asleep. I woke up later with a strong desire to give myself permission to get back into the game and stop looking like someone from a remake of Grapes of Wrath .

  I cleaned up my act, got a haircut and a facial, and moved back to the apartment where my roommate did her own share of helping me recover. I didn’t promise t
o forgive the creep who had caused my pain, but I tried to live a life—as much as my unpredictable nature would allow—that Howard might be proud of.

  Roman Holiday

  Chapter 12

  Softly falling rain greeted our tour group the next morning. I mentally thanked my mother who had insisted that I include a raincoat in my travel gear. Since everyone else also seemed to have umbrellas or raincoats or both, Enza, whom apparently nothing short of a hurricane could halt, walked us to the Vatican where we waited in line with hundreds of others until we could enter. Once more, our special guide, the professor, met us and conducted the tour.

  Todd stood in line with me, but after we entered the building, we got separated by the crowds. Actually, it was partly my own fault. I’d temporarily misplaced the ticket Enza had given me while we stood in line. Aware of its importance, I’d tucked it in the outside pocket of my purse, and then, naturally, when I emptied the contents of the inside of the purse onto the ticket-taker’s counter—which didn’t go over well with him—it didn’t drop out.

  Enza came to my rescue, but by that time some coins and my lipstick had rolled off the man’s tiny table (it wasn’t my fault that they didn’t provide him with a decent-sized one), and while I was trying to pick them all up, a line of grumblers grew behind me. But, in a torrent of Italian, it didn’t take Enza long to persuade the elderly ticket-taker that I was part of her special tour group and he should let me in, ticket or not. Even so, our party was scattered well ahead of us, and Karen had, of course, used my temporary absence to pounce on Todd again.

  Hours later, after walking through countless corridors and museums filled with religious art, we finally reached the Sistine Chapel. As in the case of the Colosseum, I’d been looking forward to seeing it, especially Michelangelo’s famous painting of God’s finger touching Adam’s finger. The cloudy day made it quite dim inside, and when I finally stood inside the chapel, I couldn’t find the painting right away.

  My head tilted up, I searched the many paintings covering the ceiling for several minutes before I saw the right image.

  Kimberly—who had found me a few minutes earlier and stood at my side—craned her neck upward as well. Is that the one? She pointed with her right hand.

  Yes, that must be. I don’t see anything else that looks like it.

  But it’s so small.

  If the ceiling weren’t so high it would look larger.

  But it’s no bigger than the others. My guidebook is full of stuff about it. I thought it would be huge.

  So did I. There always seemed so much emphasis on that image, that I, too, had expected a gigantic painting, perhaps the size of a mural.

  That one on the back wall, Kimberly said. What’s that called?

  The Last Judgment .

  Now that’s really big. How come nobody talks about that one?

  I guess some do. Our guide mentioned it, remember? I paused. Are you very disappointed?

  Kim shrugged and looked away. Well, duh. It’s major nothing.

  Trying to hide my own disappointment, I followed Kimberly and the rest of the crowd of tourists into St. Peter’s Cathedral. The guide had much to say about the dome, the altars, and the many statues; and like everyone, I suppose, I was impressed with its grandeur. Except for one altar which looked as if it was made out of old brown wood someone had rescued from a fire. But then, I’m not Catholic, so what do I know? When we went outdoors at last, I found that the rain had stopped.

  St. Peter’s Square, the guide said, can hold about three hundred thousand people and is often filled when the Pope speaks from the balcony.

  I took pictures of the colonnade with its massive columns and statues and especially the obelisk that Caligula brought back from Egypt in 37 A.D.

  Kim read aloud from her guidebook. The obelisk came from Heliopolis where the Egyptian Pharaoh Akhnaton first talked about a monotheistic religion. She looked up. Monotheistic—that means one God, doesn’t it?

  Yes.

  It says here that people believe he gave the idea of one God to Moses.

  However it happened, it was a good thing, wasn’t it?

  I guess.

  Do you go to church or Sunday school and learn about God?

  No. I have a friend who goes all the time, and she loves her Sunday school. Sometimes she tells me about the stories they read from the Bible.

  You said before that you like stories. Do you like the ones from the Bible?

  Yeah. She paused. When we were in the Colosseum yesterday, I remembered one where Daniel was put in a lion’s den, but the lions didn’t hurt him because he believed in God. Yesterday, I pictured him in the arena with the lions and the other Christians. She looked up at me. How come the lions ate the Christians if they all believed in God?

  I don’t know. Maybe some weren’t eaten. I think I read that many were spared, especially the ones who fought gladiators. If they fought well, sometimes the emperor would let them live.

  I guess that’s true. After all, if they were all killed, there wouldn’t have been any left to start the churches.

  Since Kimberly seemed satisfied with her own conclusion, I didn’t say any more. Who was I to talk about this anyway? I took a comparative religion class in college but remembered only a smattering of what we were taught, mainly that there were many different religions, all of which were convinced theirs was the only right one.

  Did you take enough pictures? I asked her.

  Before she could answer, I heard Karen’s voice calling, Kimberly, come here, sweetie.

  Kim sighed. My mother thinks I spend too much time with you. She shrugged, said a swift goodbye, and hurried to obey.

  I felt a surge of annoyance. First the woman insisted on my playing nursemaid to her daughter—no doubt so she could flirt with Todd without interference—now she was apparently jealous of Kim’s relationship with me.

  I felt my cheeks burn. I remembered looking at one particularly beautiful statue in the Vatican: Michelangelo’s Pieta , of Mary, the mother of Jesus, holding her dead son on her lap. I had wept when I saw it, and the feeling returned in a rush. The Bible said, Love thy neighbor as thyself, and I knew I mustn’t harbor unkind thoughts about Karen Vale.

  Or Todd, for that matter. I’d been thinking he might have some terrible secret to hide, but why? He’d been nothing but polite, helpful, and sympathetic. More than that, for the first time ever, I felt I might have met my Mr. Right. I hoped he liked me too, and, especially after that brief hug he’d given me the night before, I even began to entertain the possibility that something would come of that.

  Then I figuratively smacked myself upside the head. I lived in Los Angeles, and Todd lived in Phoenix and traveled a lot. Long distance relationships never worked out.

  Just as I was squelching romantic thoughts about him, Todd himself appeared, and together we walked back toward the street where the van would be waiting to pick us up.

  I enjoyed last night, he said. But I was sorry to hear about your brother.

  Thanks. I probably ought to apologize to the Waxmans for telling what happened to him. I hope I didn’t spoil the evening for everyone.

  I get the impression that nothing spoils Robin’s enthusiasm for life.

  That’s a great quality to have.

  I think you have it yourself, Todd said. Until last night, I never would have guessed there was an unhappy event in your past.

  Feeling very close to him by then, I told him the whole story, intervention and all. So, now you know. And I promise not to talk about it again. I’m pretty much over it. I don’t know why I brought it up last night.

  As I remember, Robin pressed you about smoking. Certain topics can often trigger unwanted memories.

  What about you?

  What about me?

  I’d like to know more about you. The other night I asked if you had any brothers or sisters, and you never answered me.

  Really? Well, I’m sorry. I’ll answer it now. No, I never had any. I was an only
child.

  But there was something else. Last night when Lance suggested your parents had good qualities even if they didn’t have lots of money, you didn’t answer and looked, well, sad. Sad wasn’t the right word but it sounded safer.

  I didn’t mean to.

  Are your parents living? Are they okay?

  Yes, they’re fine. He rubbed his chin. Look, I don’t mean to sound secretive or rude, but I’d rather not talk about them, if you don’t mind.

  No, you’re not being rude, but I can’t rule out secretive.

  He stopped walking, took my hand, and turned me about so we were face to face, only inches apart. I like you so much, and I feel you’d understand, but—well, it’s a long, involved story, and I just can’t talk about it now. Maybe later, okay?

  Okay, whatever you say.

  We resumed walking, this time hand-in-hand, which, along with his having said he liked me very much, made me extremely happy. I looked around, almost hoping to see Karen, hoping she’d notice my hand in Todd’s. Boy, was that juvenile, or what? Like high school kids going Nyaa, nyaa.

  That night the entire group had dinner together again, and as usual, Karen managed to sit next to Todd. I did my best to prevent it, but—unless I wanted to look as aggressive as she did—I couldn’t. So I made small talk with Kimberly on one side and Enza on the other. It was pleasant, and I learned a lot more about Rome from Enza. But my hormones were calling for Todd, and apparently his hormones weren’t listening. After dinner, we said our good nights and went to our separate rooms.

  But a little bit later, Todd knocked on my door, and we took a late walk along the Tiber River that runs through part of Rome. He told me tales of the ghetto that existed near the bend of the river and whose walls were finally taken down in the nineteenth century.

  So, there were Jews living here?

  Oh, yes, they’ve been here since the time of Pompey when they were brought here as slaves. But later they helped to finance the career of Julius Caesar, and he let them follow their own religion and indulge in certain kinds of trade.