Guarded

by Angela Correll

  “That’s what I’m here for,” Janice said.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  AS IN MOST of Europe, breakfast was part of the hotel stay in Naples, and usually meant a nice display of cheeses, cured meats, breads and fruit, along with boiled eggs, yogurt and cereal. The Grand Vesuvio did not disappoint. Not only did the breakfast boast a delectable spread, the floor-to-ceiling windows in the dining room faced the Bay of Naples and Mount Vesuvius.

  “I checked with the concierge and the museum opens at ten,” Janice said, laying a phone book on the breakfast table. “And they let me have this. I guess no one puts phone books in hotel rooms anymore with the Internet.”

  “And cell phones,” Annie said, buttering her toast. “While you’re making calls, I’ll use your laptop to keep searching.”

  “It’s a good thing we’re looking for the older generation. I doubt younger folks even have a landline. What would Elena be now if she’s alive?” Janice asked.

  “Older than Grandma. And her son would be in his sixties.”

  She thumbed through the phone book. “Caivano … Caivano …” Annie said, letting her finger trail down the list of names beginning with a C. “Here it is,” she said. And then her heart sank as she scanned the long list. “There’s a hundred or more. But no Elena.”

  “Finish your toast so we can get started,” Janice said.

  ***

  Janice settled into a comfortable chair and began calling while Annie used her friend’s laptop to search the Internet once again, something they had both already done back in the states. This time she tried different search combinations to see if any new information might turn up. Meanwhile, Janice called and explained in Italian to each person who answered what she was looking for. “Eduardo,” she said at one point, looking at Annie. “Mille grazie.” Janice hung up the phone. “E for Edoardo, not Elena.”

  On and on it went for more than an hour.

  Finally Janice hung up the phone. “No one knows anything about Elena Caivano or the store. I even gave the address and nothing is familiar. Did you mark the ones we called?” Janice asked.

  “You called forty, but eight didn’t answer. This afternoon might be just as good or better for catching people at home.”

  “Yeah, we’re right in the middle of mass time now, and most families have lunch afterwards.”

  They left a short time later for the museum. Annie drove the Ferrari slowly downhill to the historic center, bumping over ancient cobblestone streets.

  “Turn right,” Janice said and she turned a quick right onto a narrow street.

  “Not here, the next one,” Janice said. “This is one-way!”

  A driver barreled toward them. Annie slammed on the brakes and he threw up his hand in disgust. She backed out of the street and hoped for a break in traffic.

  “We should have taken a taxi,” she said, shifting the gear into first.

  After another wrong street, they finally arrived at the large stone structure with a small sign posted outside the door.

  “Park there,” Janice said, pointing to a marked space just in front of the museum.

  “Are you sure the sign means it’s okay to park here?” Annie asked.

  “It’s Sunday; it’ll be fine.”

  Inside, a woman with gray hair sat at the information desk. Janice spoke quickly in Italian.

  The older woman smiled and responded, then pointed to the exhibits behind her. Janice spoke again and she caught the words in Italian that meant World War II.

  The woman nodded and pointed in another direction and spoke again. Janice translated for Annie.

  “There is an exhibit here on World War II and its effect on Naples we can see today. There is a woman who is an expert on the era who she recommends we speak to, but she is not working today since it’s Sunday. While we are looking at the exhibit, the woman I talked to offered to call her and make an appointment for tomorrow morning if she is available.”

  “I’m so anxious, I wish we could meet her today,” Annie said as she walked to the entrance of the World War II exhibit.

  “Italians take resting on Sunday pretty seriously. I’m a little surprised the museum is even open,” Janice said.

  “My grandfather always said, ‘Work on Sunday, come hard on Monday.’”

  “Are we working?” Janice asked.

  “We’re in Italy. How can anything feel like work here?”

  The exhibit showed pictures of Naples during World War II giving her an idea of what the city looked like back then. She learned Naples was the most bombed Italian city during the war. Many pictures showed the destruction. One picture showed an American GI holding a young Italian girl who clutched a pillow to her breast, her expression one of shock. Another showed a young, disheveled mother holding her baby on her knee, sitting next to baskets of onions for sale. There was a street scene with American naval troops milling about and another showed the busy port. Seeing the pictures steeled Annie’s determination to find Elena and her child.

  When they left the exhibit, the woman from the information desk waved Janice over. They exchanged a few words and she handed Janice a piece of paper.

  “We have an appointment at nine tomorrow morning, before the museum opens,” Janice said.

  “At least it’s early so we can have the rest of the day to track down leads.”

  “There’s one more thing,” Janice said. “The woman we will meet with tomorrow … her name is Elisabetta Caivano.”

  “Do you think … ?”

  “I don’t know,” Janice said, pushing open the museum doors. “There might be a connection.”

  Janice grabbed her arm and stopped short. “Look!” she said, and pointed.

  Annie followed her friend’s finger.

  “What? I don’t see anything,” Annie said.

  “Exactly. The Ferrari’s gone.”

  The parking space was empty. The red sports car had vanished.

  “I knew this was a bad idea,” Annie put her hands on her head. “Why do I let you talk me into things?”

  “Quit moaning and come on,” Janice said, turning on her heels. “We need to report it now while the trail is fresh.”

  Inside, Janice explained to the information booth attendant. Annie watched and listened as the woman spoke quickly back to Janice and then back and forth. Finally, the woman shook her head and picked up the phone.

  “What?”

  “Well, I didn’t actually read the parking sign. It was a tow zone and she said they are vigilant about towing here. Even on Sundays. She’s trying to locate it for us.”

  Annie waited while endless conversations in Italian went back and forth between Janice and the museum volunteer, then the volunteer and the phone. When the older woman hung up the phone, she wrote something down for Janice on a piece of paper, and then picked up the phone again while Janice walked away.

  “She called a taxi for us. We have to pay a fine and we can get it out.”

  “How much exactly does insurance cover?”

  In a few minutes, the taxi pulled up. Janice handed the driver the address and they got in the backseat.

  “It’ll be fine. It’s all bravado,” Janice said.

  “Bravado? Didn’t you tell me this is the home of the Mafia, or some form of mafia, and I think you also said …”

  “Shhh!” Janice said and then whispered. “Don’t say that word around here, they’re sensitive to it.”

  Annie looked at Janice as if she had just grown a second nose. Janice stared back but began smiling. A giggle worked its way through the jet lag and stress. They both began laughing; the predicament seemed suddenly hilarious. The taxi driver stared at them unsmiling when he stopped the car at the impound center. After they paid him and got out, the driver took off with squealing tires, which only made them laugh harder.

  Annie sobered as she looked around at the shabby surroundings.

  “If our car’s not here, we might be in trouble,” she said.

  “Do
n’t worry,” Janice said. “I’ve got a number to call in case of emergency. Let’s go.”

  The entrance door was locked, but Janice found a button to press and waited for a response. When it came, she spoke back in Italian and waited for the buzzer to sound. The door clicked and they went inside.

  Concrete walls, fluorescent lights and a tile floor made the room seem nearly like a prison. The thought made Annie shudder and she pulled her scarf tighter around her shoulders.

  “Buongiorno,” Janice said.

  The young man at the counter raised his eyebrows and smiled.

  Janice launched into the reason they were there. He nodded, all the while ogling them, up and down.

  Disgusted, Annie walked to a window while the conversation went on and looked into the compound area. The red Ferrari was sitting just behind the building in perfect condition. Three young men were standing around it, each taking turns posing for pictures in front of the car.

  “Alright, we’re paid up. But it wiped me out, you’ll have to buy lunch.” Janice said.

  “Expensive?”

  “You don’t know the half of it. He offered to waive the fee if …” Janice said rolling her eyes. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  BEULAH WOKE UP Sunday morning and sat on the side of the bed, discombobulated. In her fuzzy, pre-coffee brain, she tried to go over the disturbing events from Saturday in order to sort herself out.

  Saturday had started out fine with Jake giving Rossella a tour of both farms. Beulah had enjoyed the quiet time in her house while they were gone. Then came the disastrous trip to the Country Diner.

  With Betty and Joe Gibson along with Evelyn, they had arrived at the diner at the normal time. Once they had settled into their regular table, Rossella tried to order a glass of wine and when she was told no, she didn’t seem to understand they lived in a dry county.

  “What this mean, dry county?” she asked. Evelyn tried to explain and finally ended with saying, “No wine here.” They all ordered the catfish, as usual, but Rossella ordered the spaghetti.

  Another disaster. When the dish arrived, along with the green shaker of Parmesan cheese, she lifted the noodles with her fork high above the plate with a look of pure disgust on her face. Then she peered into it as if she were searching for a bug. Finally, she dropped the fork and pushed away the plate.

  Beulah was just about to offer her a piece of catfish when Rossella scooted back her wooden chair, walked to the back of the diner and disappeared behind the swinging kitchen doors. For once, even Betty Gibson was speechless. They sat there in silence, appetites gone, and waited. Elmore Letton, the diner owner, was known to be cantankerous, especially with criticism about the food.

  They stared at each other and waited for the verbal explosion, breaking glass, or even a yelp from Elmore, but nothing happened. Finally, Joe started eating his fish again, and they all followed suit. Even though they ate, no one spoke, as they waited for Rossella to return while the rest of the diner bustled like normal.

  After several minutes, Rossella walked through the swinging doors carrying a plate of spaghetti as if she were displaying the crown jewels, taking it to each table in the diner for each person to see, smell and admire. Then she sat and started eating, twirling the pasta around on her fork, instead of cutting it up like normal folks did.

  If that weren’t enough, the strangest part followed. The waitress began taking orders right and left for spaghetti. Apparently Rossella had made a big batch while she was at it. Even Evelyn ordered a plate of Rossella’s pasta for them to try at their table; all the while Rossella sat like a queen at court and nodded her approval. Beulah took a small taste to be polite, but there was too much garlic and she would not give up another night of sleep.

  Elmore came out just as they were about to pay their bill and even thanked them for bringing Rossella.

  “Would you like to come and cook this Thursday?” he asked her. “I’ll make your spaghetti the special and we’ll advertise it on the radio,” he asked.

  “Of course, I cook. Beulah bring me what time?” she asked.

  ***

  Beulah had to fight to keep Rossella out of the kitchen on Saturday while she made her lunch preparations. And now, here she was on Sunday morning, having to miss her church in order to drive Rossella over to Rutherford for the Catholic mass. At least it was at ten, giving them enough time to get lunch on the table before the others got out of church.

  Beulah sat on the edge of the bed while she worked her panty hose on. When the hose was knee high on both legs, she shimmied them up with some difficulty in going over her thighs. She hated panty hose, truth be told, but women of certain ages dared not go without them, at least at her size.

  Panty hose had a tendency to put her in a bad mood anyway, but it didn’t take much these days after this small Italian tornado had taken over her house and tossed everything willy-nilly.

  How can one small woman cause so much disruption?

  Routine. That’s what Beulah liked and that’s what she didn’t have right now. Was her desire for routine why she had so few houseguests over the years? But surely every houseguest wasn’t like Rossella? Beulah stepped into her beige slip and dropped her Sunday dress down over her head, straightening it in front of the mirror.

  Beulah had never even been in a Catholic church. What would her Sunday school class think of her not being there this morning? They would think she was sick and start passing around a sign-up sheet to bring her meals. Or worse, put her on the prayer chain, which would spread the untruth all over town in a matter of hours.

  “Lord, help. I am not in any shape for church today, mine or somebody else’s. I ought to stay home in bed,” she said aloud to herself.

  But, she reckoned, a body ought to go to church the most when they were in the worst shape. When she opened her bedroom door, she saw Rossella’s door was already open and the bed made. Beulah grabbed her pocketbook and walked down the steps. As she turned into the dining room, she stopped short at the sight of Rossella, standing on a chair, and hanging cream-colored flat ribbons over string that went from the chandelier to picture frames.

  “What in tarnation?” she said aloud.

  “I make you homemade tagliatelle,” she announced, and smiled. Rossella placed another noodle over the string and stepped down from the chair. “It must dry now,” she said. “Then I make you dish.”

  Beulah’s mouth hung open and she stared at the crisscross of string with dough ribbons hanging like flags across the dining room.

  Lord give me strength, she prayed silently. Managing a half-hearted smile for Rossella’s benefit, she said, “It’s time to go.”

  ***

  Beulah had no idea where to sit inside Rutherford’s only Catholic church. She had her regular pew in the Baptist church. Was it the same for Catholics?

  Rossella took charge and selected a pew for them. They sat and Beulah eyed the kneeling bench and hoped it wasn’t necessary. Sure enough, Rossella went right down on it before church even started. There was no way she was going to put her recently operated-on knee down on that bench, no matter how much velvet padding there was on it. The Lord knew she was kneeling inside and she could pray just as well while sitting on the pew.

  Rossella cut her eyes at Beulah and pointed to the bench. Beulah shook her head “no” and pointed to the scar on her knee visible through the suntan shade of her panty hose. Rossella squinted at the scar and then cocked her head to the side, ever so slightly, grudging agreement.

  The service started and they were up and standing, and then sitting. Standing, sitting, kneeling and then standing again. When they launched into the Lord’s Prayer, Beulah spoke the words with gusto, happy to have something familiar to her. Suddenly, the whole congregation stopped before the prayer was finished while Beulah rushed headlong on her own. Several of the congregants turned to look at her, and Rossella cut her another disapproving glance.

  When Communion time came,
the elements were not passed as they were in the Baptist church. Instead, the parishioners filed out of the pews and down the aisle to partake at the altar. Beulah was deciding if she should step out or not when Rossella turned and wagged a finger at her, so she stayed put. When Rossella returned and everyone had taken Communion, there was more sitting, standing and kneeling. At the end, there was kissing. It was the most activity-filled service she had ever attended.

  Brother Gilliam could stand to incorporate a little more activity in Somerville Baptist. She imagined it might help reduce his girth.

  ***

  Back at the house, she set about cutting up the chicken and dipping it in the egg and buttermilk mixture. Rossella followed her into the kitchen, and out of the corner of her eye, Beulah saw her rooting around in the refrigerator as if she were hunting ingredients.

  “Rossella, I cook for you today, okay?” Beulah heard herself speaking in the way Rossella did in a shortened version of English and was glad no one was around to hear her.

  “Okay, yes. I cook for you tomorrow?” Rossella said, holding her finger up in front of Beulah’s face, as if waiting for her to give her promise.

  “Fine,” Beulah said. She would agree to anything to get that woman out of her kitchen today. True to her word, Rossella disappeared until everyone began arriving for lunch. Evelyn came first, and then Jake and Lindy, arriving in different cars but at the same time since they went to Scott’s church. Scott and Mary Beth weren’t coming this week and Beulah thought they were likely to be around less and less with the wedding coming up soon and making their own Sunday traditions.

  Woody filed in, dressed in a suit, and with his wiry hair combed back off his face, exposing his freckled white forehead.

  “Fried chicken,” Jake said. “Annie’s going to be sorry she missed this.”

  “I’ll get the coleslaw out,” Evelyn offered.

  “We’ll have to eat in here today,” Beulah said. Usually they ate in the dining room if there were more than six people, but with Rossella’s pasta drying on strings that option was out.