Roman Holiday

by Phyllis A. Humphrey

  Oh, my, Mary said. Is there nothing the Italians aren’t good at?

  Politics, John said. Prime ministers change regularly. Maybe it’s because they’re so creative, they can’t be governed.

  I once read something like that about the French: ‘Who can govern a country with three hundred kinds of cheese?’

  We all laughed at that.

  But, speaking of art, I said, Todd’s an artist and paints pictures of this beautiful scenery.

  Really? Mary’s eyes lit up.

  I’m not that good, Todd said. He abruptly changed the subject. I understand you have a large family. How many children do you have?

  Once more, he’d been reluctant to talk about himself. I stared at him, wondering what that was all about. Sure, he had hinted at a past. Now, he didn’t want to talk about the present.

  Mary answered, pride in her tone. Four children, thirteen grandchildren, and one great-grandchild.

  I’m impressed. Do your children live near you?

  One daughter does, but the others are scattered. That gives us an excuse to travel a lot. We visit them, usually on our way back from someplace else. I think it’s nice that you folks are seeing the world while you’re young.

  This is my first trip outside the country, and it’s really business, I said.

  Business for me, too, Todd added.

  Mary looked from Todd to me and back again. You’ve never been married?

  No, never, Todd said.

  No, I answered as well.

  So, you have no children? She paused. Excuse me, that may sound strange, but these days people seem to have children without ever having been married.

  No, no children, I answered. Then I looked over at Todd. Was it possible that the secret he said he might share with me had something to do with a child?

  But he answered quickly. No children.

  Forgive me for being a ‘nosy Parker,’ Mary said, but you ought to have them while you’re still young, like we did.

  I thought you said we should travel while we’re young, Todd said with a grin.

  That too.

  John looked at his wife. Now, Mary, you mustn’t tell other folks how to run their lives. He turned to Todd and smiled. She’s very wise—that’s why I married her—but she does like to pass her wisdom on, welcome or not.

  I’m sorry, Mary said. She glanced at me. You told me that you two aren’t...well, together, but—

  John interrupted. She likes to play matchmaker too. She found the girls she thought our boys should marry, and they did marry them, and it worked out beautifully.

  So I think— Mary began, but again John stopped her with a hand on her arm.

  She thinks you two look like a perfect couple. He added, There, it’s said, and now we can forget about it and not embarrass you folks any further.

  Todd and I both laughed with them, but I felt a warm glow at the thought that Mary Perkins thought Todd and I might have a future together. But what did Todd think, and what about his mysterious past? I didn’t learn any more, because, once at my door again, he just gave me a kiss on the top of my head and retreated to his own room.

  Roman Holiday

  Chapter 15

  The next morning I saw Todd with Karen and Kim, so I didn’t approach him but stayed close to the day’s tour guide, a middle-aged woman wearing no-nonsense shoes and a serious expression. She marched her charges across the bridge and into San Marco church and monastery where each tiny monk’s cell—and there were at least forty of them—was embellished with a religious painting. The guide was extremely knowledgeable, and I took copious notes, but I wondered how much of the information I gathered about Fra Angelico and Savaronola would actually find its way into my finished article.

  The Academy housed Michelangelo’s statue of David. Like almost everyone else who admired it, I thought the hands too large for the body, but it impressed me. I felt grateful to be in the presence of the masterpiece.

  The afternoon free, I went shopping for makeup and was directed to a farmacia which sold reasonably priced Clinique products and where the clerks spoke excellent English.

  When I returned to the hotel, I found Kim waiting for me in the lobby. She grabbed my arm and suggested we go upstairs to the breakfast lounge to talk.

  There won’t be anyone in it at this time of day. Besides, my mother won’t think of looking for me there.

  Won’t she worry about you?

  No, she thinks I’m with Mr. Matthews, that he’s taking me to the leather bazaar.

  And she didn’t want to go along?

  No, she said she’s tired from all the walking we did this morning.

  I wasn’t surprised. I’d already noticed that Karen often wore skirts and high heels, as if she were attending some posh function instead of sightseeing on foot. Even the lowest of heels were no match for the hard pavements and uneven cobblestones we always seemed to travel over.

  Athletic shoes might not look fashionable but were much more practical. I also thought about the fancy shoes I saw in Ferragamo’s windows when we passed his building. And, if I wore a pair here in Italy—or even back in my office—if I could learn to walk gracefully in them.

  Doesn’t your mom have any walking shoes? If not, she could probably buy some here. Why don’t you suggest it?

  Kim shrugged. She doesn’t listen to me.

  She took my hand, and we walked past the many tables and sat on a small sofa in the corner of the breakfast room.

  She frowned and looked into her lap before speaking. I need to ask your opinion about something.

  Shoot, I said. Just remember my opinion might not be worth much.

  Oh, I’m sure it will be. You’re older, but not so old you’re one of those fogies who disapprove of anything they didn’t do back in the ancient days.

  I smiled. How ancient are we talking about? Here in Italy we’ve been seeing churches and buildings and statues that may be 2000 years old.

  No, not that ancient. I mean like—she struggled for a comparison—like when television first started, and they had sitcoms where kids were, like, totally weird.

  I’ve seen some of those reruns too, so I know what you mean. And, no, I wasn’t even alive then. I was thinking that I sort of enjoyed reruns of those old shows. Sometimes funny is funny, even a generation later. So, what’s your question?

  She looked up at me with an earnest expression. Is it okay to have a baby if you’re still in school?

  She took me totally by surprise, but I tried not to show it. Are you thinking of doing that?

  No, not me. A couple of my friends.

  I was afraid some of my shock must have filtered through anyway and made her defensive. I kept my voice low and even. Why do your friends want to have babies while they’re so young?

  Not all of them do, but this one girl—Tiffany—does, and she talks about it all the time.

  Not the one you said goes to Sunday school?

  No, not that one.

  I heaved a mental sigh. I’d been out of Sunday school for a long time, but I didn’t think the teaching had changed that much.

  So, is this Tiffany sexually active?

  She says she is, but sometimes I think she pretends. Kim added hurriedly, But I know lots of girls who are.

  I wanted desperately to ask her if she was having sex with boys, but I didn’t. So you want to know what I think about that.

  Yes. You’re not like my mom. We can’t get good answers from our parents. They just say ‘no’ to everything.

  Well, you can’t blame them, can you? They’re responsible for you and try to keep you safe until you’re grown up.

  That’s just it. They want to keep us from growing up, keep us ignorant.

  I patted her hand. No way can a parent keep a child ignorant these days. She’d have to lock you in a closet with no radio, television, computer, or telephone.

  Yeah, I guess.

  Okay, so here’s my opinion. I felt uncomfortable being put on the spot and wanted
to get it over with as quickly as possible. I think having a baby at your age, or even a little older, is a big mistake.

  How old is okay?

  When you’re out of college.

  You’ve got to be kidding.

  When you’re married.

  She really frowned this time. People are always having babies without being married. What’s the big deal about that?

  The big deal is that it’s very difficult to raise a child all alone. And expensive.

  But what if you want to have a baby before you meet a guy you want to marry? Can’t you have a baby anyway and then get married later?

  I could see this was going to be a lengthy session. I wished Kim would ask her mother these questions, but, even from what little I knew of the woman, I could understand why Kim felt she couldn’t. Plus, to make it more difficult, I didn’t want to bring my religious beliefs into it.

  Okay, I said, let’s look at this question from all sides. Suppose you have a baby and then later, when you meet the guy you want to marry, he doesn’t want to raise someone else’s child?

  If he really loved me, he would.

  I shrugged. That’s always a possibility, but I don’t think it’s something you can count on. I thought for a moment before I went on. About this baby—what about the real father? Wouldn’t he have something to say about raising the child?

  Oh, boys don’t want to do that. They don’t want to have to pay child support or anything.

  You mean they just want to have sex with a girl and don’t care what happens?

  Right.

  Would you want to have a baby with a boy like that for its father? I mean, the baby gets his genes too, you know. What if he’s a real jerk and your baby takes after him?

  If he’s never around, I could train the baby to be a good person by myself. Anyway, she added quickly, it’s not me I’m talking about. It’s my friend Tiffany. I just want some advice I can give her.

  Okay, tell her she’s too young.

  She’s older than me. She’s almost fifteen.

  Fifteen is too young. Her mind and body aren’t fully mature, and she has no skills necessary to raise a baby. Also, and I’m afraid my voice rose a bit there, she’s too young even to make the decision to have a baby. We don’t let fifteen-year-olds drive cars, do we? On a roll now, I voiced all the arguments that popped into my head.

  Children shouldn’t try to make adult decisions. Would a child ever go to school if it was up to him? No, he’d play video games all day. Do you know that, in most states a young girl who has sex, even if she wants it, can later charge the guy with rape and he could go to jail? And if she doesn’t press charges, her parents could anyway? That’s because the law says that fifteen-year-old girls are too young to give their consent.

  Kimberly didn’t answer, and I took a moment to cool down. I know you can’t convince someone you’re right if you make them angry. I took a deep breath.

  I reverted to a cool tone. Let’s be logical. She’s still in school, isn’t she? Who’s going to take care of this baby while she goes to classes and does homework? Who’s going to babysit if she wants to go to a school football game or a dance or a date?

  Her folks, I guess.

  Did she ask her folks if they want to babysit or raise another child? And pay for it, besides? Babies are very expensive, not to mention time-consuming.

  I know. You have to buy Pampers and other stuff.

  And baby food, and a crib, and a car seat, and a playpen, and things I can’t even think of right now.

  But she could have a baby shower, and people would give her those things.

  I sighed. These kids had answers for everything. Well, if she’s going to put the burden of this baby on other people, why does she want to have it in the first place?

  To have someone to love, who will love her back.

  If Tiffany is never there to take care of the baby, how can she love it? And why would the baby love her? He’ll grow up loving the grandparents or whoever is really taking care of him.

  You make it sound so difficult.

  Trust me, it is. I paused. I have friends who did this very thing, and they were a whole lot older than Tiffany. They’d at least finished high school, but they didn’t have parents who would take care of the baby for them. They had to go to work, and, without a college degree, they couldn’t get high-paying jobs. And while they were working, they had to pay a babysitter out of what little money they did earn.

  These were not mythical friends I invented to strengthen my case. My very own favorite college teacher had done that. And she didn’t even have the pleasure of the sex. She went to a sperm bank, and now that her little boy is five and goes to kindergarten he wonders why other kids have fathers and he doesn’t. But I didn’t mention sperm banks to Kim, sophisticated though she was for her age.

  Kimberly looked into her lap instead of at me. I could almost see the wheels going around in her head.

  And now, I said, I’m going to tell you the most important reason for Tiffany not to do this. Because it’s selfish. I paused to let that sink in. She thinks she wants a baby, but what would the baby think? Would he or she want to be raised by a single parent, never know his real father, never have his own mother there to take care of him because she’s at school or has to work, never have nice things because his mother can’t afford them, never go to college either?

  It doesn’t have to be that way.

  No, it doesn’t, but it probably will be. Statistics show that children raised in a home without a father are ten times more likely to abuse drugs or alcohol, live in poverty, get into trouble, and even end up in jail. Is that a risk Tiffany is willing to take?

  Kim didn’t answer for a long time, and I felt like a fraud. I had invented that statistic, although I’d read that the number was several times, if not exactly ten. Yet I had never had a child, much less raised one alone, so who was I to give advice?

  But so many kids I know have divorced parents, which is, well, like the same thing. And not all of them get into trouble. And what about if the father dies? That can happen too, and the children turn out okay.

  That’s true, but it’s different. It’s one thing for a child to know his parents once loved each other and wanted him, and quite another to think they didn’t even care enough to get married and give him a home.

  I put my arm around Kimberly’s shoulders. Look, you don’t have to tell Tiffany all this if you don’t want to. I would never have said it anyway if you hadn’t asked, and it’s only my opinion.

  She looked up at me and smiled. I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t think you were a wise person. So, thanks.

  She got up from the sofa, we went to our respective rooms, and I lay down to take a nap. Acting the surrogate mother had exhausted my brain and body.

  That night Enza hosted a dinner party for everyone on the tour. Afterward, Todd knocked quietly on my door, and we went out into the balmy evening, walking along the Arno River and talking. Unfortunately, he didn’t speak about his problem, why he was a loner. That he kept to himself, as mysterious as ever.

  Have you taken lots of pictures? I asked him. Pictures you can turn into paintings when you get home?

  Of course. The scenery here is incredibly beautiful.

  But you’ve been to Italy before. Maybe you have dozens of pictures already, just waiting to be used.

  It’s true I’ve made several paintings from pictures I took on my previous trips, and I have a collection I can turn to when I want a new one. But I feel more inspired after being here. When I return from Rome, I can hardly wait to get out my paints and try to capture the look and the feel of the city on canvas.

  Are you a certain kind of artist, like an Impressionist, or a modern or abstract painter?

  I could never be an abstract painter. I know it’s considered art, but I just can’t understand it. I keep wanting to know what it’s about.

  I grinned; we had something else in common. Oh, I know just what you mean. I w
ant a picture to look like something—a landscape or buildings or people who look like people. All the art we’ve seen on this tour is so, so real.

  They call it realistic or representational art.

  Why is so-called ‘modern’ art so different?

  Well, I suppose photography had something to do with that. Before photographs, the only way people could capture images was by drawing or painting them. Now, they don’t have to.

  But who will want to see a bunch of blobs on canvas five hundred years from now? Won’t they want to see what the world looked like—what our landscapes, buildings, and people looked like—in the twenty-first century?

  He stopped walking, and we looked down at the river for a few minutes. You’re right, he said. A very smart woman, with an I.Q. over 200, said that not so long ago. And, fortunately, there are a few artists who do exactly that kind of work.

  Good. I’d hate to think that the only art available some day will be of make-believe creatures who look like they’re doing something disgusting on canvas.

  He grinned. I’ll do my best to keep that from happening.

  So, how do you paint? What’s your style?

  I’m an Impressionist. At least I try to be. I pin up my photographs and copy the image I want onto canvas as loosely as I can while still maintaining the truth of the scene.

  I wish I could see some of your paintings.

  Someday you will. I promise.

  My heart did that funny loop again, and I wondered if he was serious or just another person passing through my life, hinting that we’d meet again.

  We walked back to the hotel hand-in-hand, and I hated to leave him and go inside my room. I felt connected to him as I never had with anyone else, and I didn’t want the mood we had established to end. But it was almost midnight, so I said, Good night, and he squeezed my hand and brushed my forehead in a quick kiss. I really enjoyed that part of the day.

  Roman Holiday

  Chapter 16

  On Thursday morning, the same tour guide took us to the famous Uffizi Gallery where—thanks to our prearranged tour—we didn’t have to wait in the long line outside but went in immediately. I loved seeing Botticelli’s Venus and paintings by Michelangelo, Raphael, and Da Vinci, but—after walking miles of corridors, climbing countless stairs, and standing for ten or fifteen minutes at a time while the guide discussed in detail dozens of religious paintings—I began to wish I’d been allowed to wander the Gallery on my own. Once more, my notebook contained information I’d probably never use.