Now Maria was fully flustered. She knew her olive complexion was glowing, and she didn’t know whether to sigh, laugh, or cry again. She knew without hesitation that she had never been happier in the company of a man. She breathed slowly and tried to gather her shattered composure.
“Mrs. Martorano would be welcome to come, too,” Maria offered.
“That’s very kind of you and the family, but my wife never comes to the Valley anymore,” he replied with a vacant and sideward, distracted glance.
As promised, Larry followed Maria’s vehicle down the highway to the Paige Avenue off-ramp. When she signaled her turn, he flipped his high-beam switch, and Maria left the highway.
Larry sighed heavily and audibly, but relaxed for the first time in a long while, guiding his pickup down the lonesome highway to the Tipton turnoff, where he drove eastward for a few miles before reaching his home. He entered his empty house about a quarter hour later, but in spite of his loneliness, he sensed vaguely that his life had just changed significantly—and very much for the better.
3
Fresno State Campus
January 1984
In a time since forgotten, adjunct Professor Lawrence Martorano jogged across campus on the way to his office in the early morning hours of this chilly winter day in Fresno. The Sierra Nevada range appeared to be within touch, sporting a brand-new mantle of fresh snow spectacularly reflecting any ambient light in the panorama. The view was breathtaking, and Martorano felt a surge of inspiration for the day. Beguiled by the view, his mind flashed on memories of sneaking into the refrigerator as a child to steal a sample from his mother’s frosted dessert. He was on campus today because he had agreed with an old friend—who was a tenured professor in the school of agriculture—to teach a seminar on financing and related business issues for farmers.
As Valley farmers grew in number and matured in their attitudes about their responsibilities to produce food and fiber for the world, an awareness of the complexities of operating such a business spread through their ranks. Hardly any farming operations were self-financed, including the annual budget much less acquisitions of land and equipment. The margin of error was forever narrowing given issues of crop selection, pest control, weather, water supply, and all sorts of unforeseeable catastrophes seemingly just around the corner. Major natural disasters occurred every ten to fifteen years or so, yet no definitive pattern ever was discernible. The bugs that threatened crops were attending their own continuing education seminars, it seemed. Still if farming was in your blood, you were hooked, and there was no way out barring catastrophes of bad health, bankruptcy, or the possible loss of interest of offspring. But no doubt about Martorano: farming was indelibly in his bloodstream.
At nine o’clock that morning, Martorano would be lecturing on the subject of banking relationships. Most of his students were upper-division level and likely had grown up in farming. He could hardly imagine a young person entering the farming profession without the benefit of significant childhood experience working on a farm in the San Joaquin Valley or elsewhere. Some of the students were from abroad, coming from as far away as Australia. Attending college with a such a rich heritage was a huge advantage, or so it seemed to him since that was his own experience and made pursuing a career in farming all the more realistic. Nonetheless, with annual budgets easily exceeding a million dollars or more, the margin of error had to be reduced constantly or a business could fail regardless of one’s experience or sentimental attachment to the land and all that went with it.
Martorano, realizing he had a few minutes to spare, broke stride and looked for the coffee bar to find a freshly brewed cup. His foggy-weather commute from Tipton had been routine, and he broke into sunshine north of the Kings River, but he nonetheless was a little dopey from the long monotonous drive, and that had fueled his need for an instant pick-me-up. The college maintained a good cafeteria, and at this time of the morning, it was usually packed with students and faculty members satisfying similar needs. He chose a blended brew of Colombian and French coffee then found an open seat and a well-worn copy of the Fresno Bee sports section. Once engrossed with the articles and sports writers’ lamentations, he shut out the surrounding world for the moment.
“Mr. Martorano? Is that you? Can it be you?” The lyrical incantation was repeated several times before it alerted his consciousness. He realized someone with a light Spanish accent was pronouncing his Italian surname. He stopped reading and looked around. The voice came from behind him. When he turned to respond, he saw Maria. A delicious, yet wholly unexpected treat, he realized immediately.
“It is you!” she exclaimed, then hesitated, trying to conceal her delight for the moment so as not to give the appearance of being overly forward.
“Well, I see now that you really are a Fresno State College coed. And what a pleasant addition to campus!”
“I’m sorry. I don’t want to interrupt your work, but I just had to see for myself. I thought by now I might see you at Finni’s, but I must have missed you lately,” Maria offered somewhat forlornly, her curiosity working relentlessly. “Ever since I told my parents about your kindness to me with the boys, and the new tires and all, my mother has been planning a Sunday afternoon meal to say thank-you. I think she’s beginning to think I made the whole thing up to explain my late arrival that night.”
“Gosh, I hope you’re not in trouble because of me,” Martorano offered apologetically, “but I certainly don’t deserve a fancy meal from your mother to say thanks.”
“You do, too, and you need to know it’s cultural with my family. You do a favor for their daughter, and they respond accordingly. You have no option but to graciously accept the invitation or risk insulting them deeply. But I’m sounding preachy, and I don’t mean to.” Maria tried awkwardly to change the direction of the conversation. “I didn’t expect to find you in the cafeteria. Do you mind if I ask why you’re here?”
“Of course! I mean, no, I certainly don’t mind. Anyway, I’m doing a last minute favor for a good friend of mine who is the chairman of a department in agri-business here at State. He’s on sabbatical this semester and asked me to teach a seminar on financing farming operations. I enjoy the college atmosphere—at this level anyway!”
“My goodness! You’re so involved in your farming career. It seems like a calling or something, not the priesthood, but something deep and mysterious, if you know what I mean. I’m sorry, I’m sounding a little silly, perhaps,” Maria said, and blushed genuinely.
“You know, I hadn’t really thought about it that way, but there is definitely a magnetic force that keeps me in the farming business. I’ve never done classroom teaching before, and I kind of like it. I guess I’m a little different from regular college professors, since I step back into the fields when I finish with the seminar. But the students seem to appreciate my perspective, you know. I tell war stories and keep their interest.”
Maria appeared puzzled. “I just didn’t realize you were a college professor, too,” she admitted.
“Oh no, I think you’re giving me more credit than I deserve,” Martorano protested. “I have a bachelor’s degree from the University of Southern California, and I’m the first college graduate in the family, but I had never taught a class or even given it a second thought until my friend brought it up. It sounded intriguing, so I agreed to do it, and now I’m having a good time passing along a few gems I’ve discovered since graduation many years ago.”
“I’d really love to attend one of your sessions,” she hinted hopefully, struggling to conceal her surging giddiness.
“You’d certainly be welcome to sit in, but I think it might be a little drab compared to your history and liberal arts studies. And, I might add, the talk gets a little ‘salty’ once in a while! But if you’re serious, class starts in seven minutes across the quad, so I’m on my way. You want to come along?”
“Oh, yes, please, that is if you really don’t mind.”
“Believe me, the pleasure wi
ll be all mine, and there will be no complaints from the class, I promise!”
“Wonderful. My first class starts in the afternoon. I’ll be doing some research later in the morning, if I find the time,” Maria answered. “I just don’t want to interfere with your routine.”
“You will be a welcome addition to the classroom. You might be the only woman in the room today. Will that bother you?”
“No, but I don’t want to sit in the front of the classroom!” Maria said with emphasis.
“No problem there. The class meets in a conference room, so everyone sits at a big table, and I’m usually on my feet in front of a blackboard, scribbling for illustration purposes. You won’t be a hazard to the learning process; I can assure you. The students will be delighted. Now, we’ve got to get movin’.”
They strode briskly into the conference room just as the last students were filling the available seats. Martorano took the chair at the head of the table and welcomed everyone to the session. Maria found a chair in a rear corner of the room and intentionally did not move it to a position at the conference table. Martorano made a simple reference to Maria, and the class courteously acknowledged her presence. Today’s discussion would focus on building relationships with the banking industry. By way of introducing the session, Martorano could not help himself and referred to a story of one of his farming colleagues who had been complaining about his banking relationship at the Fresno office of the Bank of America. He was having difficulty obtaining a loan commitment for the next farming year from his banker and finally in frustration he frowned and observed, “It’s all because of your MBAs!”
The banker protested that the bank’s business administration master’s-degree holders were not interfering with the program.
“No, it’s your Mexicos, Brazils, and Argentinas!” Martorano chortled, mostly to himself, and went on to explain that his friend had it in his mind that the bank had forsaken local growers in favor of a new international lending program that had become the darling of governmental policy makers at the time. The students seemed to get the point, some signaling a deeper understanding than they wished otherwise to concede.
As the class got underway, Maria saw that the students were engaged by Martorano’s sincerity and wit. When questions were raised by the class, he answered them directly or used the questions for spontaneous development of a segment of the outline. He did not become overbearing in his presentation and seemed open to sharing anecdotal information rooted in his decades of personal experience. He was open to discussing ideas contributed by the class. Maria wished there were more professors on campus like him.
The class lasted two hours. The students had agreed in the beginning to attend the meetings without a break in order to get themselves out by eleven o’clock in the morning. Most of the students were actively working in agriculture and welcomed the chance to save the extra time rather than blowing off twenty minutes while the talkative types clustered around the professor.
To his credit, Martorano kept adequate office hours and made certain his time was available to those who made the effort to look him up when they had questions. This practice minimized the classroom discussions that tended to be dominated by the same handful of students. Martorano had grown to genuinely enjoy his teaching experience, yet was well aware that he was basically unsuited to deal with the daily rigors of an academic career at the college if it were ever to become a possibility. His first love was working in his own farming operation.
Class ended and the room emptied quickly. In the very cold weather this time of year there were always citrus crops, trees, equipment, irrigation systems, and Lord only knew what else in need of repairs or attention. Although they were experiencing a cold snap, the temperatures had not dropped below 28 degrees, and Martorano was hopeful the agriculture industry would survive a genuine threat and dodge yet another potentially lethal salvo from Mother Nature. As hopeful as the weather reports might be, there was never any real certainty and constant vigilance was the only strategy open to management. With no let up for days on end during the winter months, sleep became a lost but most cherished commodity.
Maria had been so quiet that Martorano was surprised when he realized she was still in the room. He looked up absentmindedly as he gathered his papers, and there she was, standing quite near to him.
“That was wonderful. I only wish I had some professors like you in my department.”
“Oh, I’m certain you do,” he suggested offhandedly.
“Well, one difference is that you deal in the here and now. My courses are totally academic, which I really love, but now I clearly see the difference in what you’re doing with the ag students. I really like the pragmatic approach you’re using, and the subject matter lends itself to that technique. It’s as if you and the students are in the real world, where decisions must be made that affect lives and property.”
“Yes, right now we’re in it up to our—” and he stopped short without speaking further, realizing it was better not to finish the well-known idiom.
Maria felt a surge of euphoria, and an urge of mysterious and unknowable origin caused her to stretch out her diminutive body to its full length and plant the slightest brush of a kiss on Martorano’s cheek. This could not have been considered forward or assaultive behavior, but each was dumbfounded nonetheless, although in different ways. Maria’s countenance clouded, and then she blushed to the deepest crimson a Latina had likely ever scored. She was speechless, confused, and embarrassed beyond measure, yet musical rhapsodies still to be performed by any orchestra bathed the amorous senses of her soul.
Regaining some composure, she whispered, barely audibly: “Oh, I am so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I had no right …”
Martorano projected his John Wayne speaking style and demeanor in an attempt to reduce her obvious embarrassment: “No reason to apologize, ma’am. I kinda liked it to be honest with you.” And he reached out with his right hand and gently took hold of her left forearm where it seemed paralyzed in midair, since Maria didn’t know what else to do with it at the moment.
An awkward but deep and indescribable moment elapsed for several seconds. Each became transfixed, realizing that mysterious forces do in fact inhabit the universe, even if one had never, or rarely, experienced any of them personally. Maria was the first to interrupt this trance, reacting to a surge of blood flowing to her head. She realized she was off balance and had to stand up straight or fall full body into the professor’s arms—if not somewhere else. An acceptable option, she recognized immediately, but thought better of the idea. Somehow, reason began to creep back into focus.
“I can’t believe I just did that. I am so sorry. Will you forgive me?” she pleaded.
“What’s to forgive?” protested Martorano, whose pulse rate had surged exponentially. He wasn’t turned on, yet he was delighted with the purity and honesty of the last few moments. He had experienced such times in his past, but they had receded beyond the range of everyday memories. This was indeed a welcome reminder of what genuine contact with another human being could mean: simpatica, he thought, if his limited knowledge of the Spanish language was serving him well at the moment.
Struggling to bring the conversation into neutral territory, Martorano observed that it was almost lunchtime, and he would be happy to visit the campus cafeteria with Maria if her schedule permitted. She politely begged off knowing she wouldn’t eat a bite under the circumstances, assuming eating could ever take center stage again. His comment did provide a fresh lead to new ground, however.
“I really don’t want to be a pest, but when I tell my parents about this morning, meeting you again and going to class with you … not really with you … oh, I’m so sorry,” and the crimson face reappeared in a second. She stopped as though paralyzed.
John Wayne again: “Now you just settle down, little lady, and say what you have to say. It’s all right.” He was emphasizing the Wayne square-jaw reassuring grin from ear to ear.
; “Well, it’s just that my parents will hound me to find out when you’re coming to our house for dinner. You may not understand our culture, but my family’s obligation to you is huge, and they really won’t rest until you come to dinner or insult them by refusing to do so. I’m sorry to be so blunt about it, but that’s just the way it is with our people.”
“I think I understand since my Italian heritage reflects the same sentiments and traditions. When do you want me to come to your house … in Tulare, correct?”
“Any Sunday, but as soon as possible. There I am again, being pushy!”
“No problem, but I have a family engagement and won’t be here for a couple weeks. What about three weeks from this coming Sunday?”
“Oh, thank you. I’m certain that works for everyone, but just in case I have to reach you, what’s the best way?”
“Here’s a business card with a good number. Just leave a message with the office manager. The line is usually covered … answered … by someone during business hours, which run twelve or more per day typically.”
“My mother wants to know what your favorite Italian dishes are. Can you tell me?”
“I’m not a fussy eater, but I can find good Italian meals more easily than good Mexican food. You know, most of the restaurants serving Mexican food are so busy they can’t take the extra time that I think your mother would devote to the program.”
“That’s fine,” Maria agreed. “What should I tell my mother your favorite dishes are, then?”
“I can’t think of a thing I don’t enjoy …” Stopping midsentence, Martorano backed up quickly. “Well, I’d skip menudo if I could, but no matter. I wouldn’t insult your parents by looking like a picky eater under any circumstances!” he assured her.
“Good, then that settles it,” Maria said. “Dinner at 3:00 p.m., three weeks from this Sunday unless I call you, okay? I don’t have my business card with me, but I’ll write my address and telephone number on some note paper for you.” Maria kept her promise and immediately handed a brief note to Martorano.
(2012) The Court's Expert Page 5
