BY M. E. LEWIS
Copyright is held by the author.
FRANK IS in the kitchen contemplating the sink — backed up, again — when the phone on the wall rings. He groans. Somebody else selling something. On the third ring he grudgingly picks up. “Hello?”
“Hi Dad, it’s me.” His daughter’s voice bleeds into his ear. “Have you thought about your birthday list yet?”
He has not. In fact, Frank has successfully managed not to think about marking another year on the calendar at all. He clears his throat. “Not yet, Susan. But I will. Soon.”
“Can you let me know by next week? There’s so much to do before we leave.”
Behind her artificially upbeat tone, the same one she uses with the children, Frank hears impatience. Without Viv, his birthday in the dead of summer is less a celebration than an imposition. Especially this year, when all his eldest daughter wants to do is tick boxes before she and the boys fly overseas to Italy for a month’s vacation. Leaving him in Toronto to check in on their cats every two days.
He should be grateful Susan thinks about his birthday. Instead, he’s irritated at being yet another item on her legendary to-do list. “I swear, she puts sex on that list,” his other daughter, Jeannie, likes to joke.
“They have some nice shirts on sale at—” Susan names a store. One of those trendy places with clothes you might wear to go hiking.
“I’ve barely worn the last one your mother got me.”
Susan’s voice softens. “It’s been three years, Dad. Don’t you think it’s time for a change?”
Frank stares at the oven clock, still stuck on winter time. There is nothing he needs or really wants. Nothing, at least, that his children can give him.
“All I want is to blow out my candles without setting off any fire alarms.”
“Just a couple ideas. We’ll celebrate your birthday early and tell you all about our trip when we get back.”
Wildly inappropriate thoughts come to mind: a blow-up doll. A mail-order bride. A time machine.
“How about a nice bottle of olive oil?”
“Oh, Dad.” Susan brings out the capital letters. “It’s your 70th Birthday! We can do better than Olive Oil.”
“Or wine?”
“Yes, but you’ll only drink it and then where will you be?”
Happy? Drunk? He hangs up, vaguely depressed.
***
Frank takes a pad of paper and a pen and sits in the old wingback chair by the window. Viv’s chair. At the top of the page he writes, ‘Wishes’. He stares at the blank page but can think of nothing. His eyes wander out to the garden. Viv loved this time of year, everything in full throttle. She’d spend her days weeding and pruning while he read, played word games and, ostensibly, worked on his memoir. Tentatively titled Short Circuits, it is still a work in progress ten years after he left the Hydro take an early retirement. Any impetus he had to write the thing is long gone, along with the rest of his desires.
He remembers wanting things terribly as a child, coveting them. A red train set, like the one his friend Paul had. A brand-new leather football, with thick stitching up the side. Pizza, always pizza, loaded with melting cheese and spicy pepperoni.
Instead of the train, his mother got him a toy truck. And a cheap plastic ball. Their pizza had always been frozen — cheap on cheese, crust like cardboard.
Suddenly Frank is hungry. He gets up and pulls the flyer from behind the telephone. He knows the pizza number by heart. And they know him.
“Hey, Mr. Goodman, how you doin’ tonight?”
“I’m fine, thanks Gina. Yourself? I’d like to order—”
“Let me guess. Your usual? Large pepperoni with extra cheese. Hold the onions. Hold the peppers.” She pronounces it ‘pappers’.
Frank hesitates. Maybe it is time for a change after all. “No, I’ll have the Vesuvio special,” he says, then asks: “That’s a place, right?”
“Yes, a volcano near Naples,” Gina replies, sounding surprised. “Everything on it?”
“Gimme all you got,” Frank says. Then he hangs up and calls his daughter.
“Susan? I have an idea.”
***
Heart pounding, Frank races onto the platform just as the red-and-silver Frecciarossa, the red arrow, pulls into Rome Termini. He’d entered the wrong side of the station and run for fear of missing it, only to learn the high-speed trains all waited several minutes before departing. He finds his seat and settles into the sleek leather, catching his breath. He can hardly believe he’s done it. Told his daughters the only thing he wants for his birthday, for the next foreseeable birthdays, is to see the world. How about he starts in Italy?
He’s not quite sure what he expected of them. A bit more enthusiasm, perhaps. Susan, once she found a cat-sitter, was cautiously supportive, but was he sure travelling alone was a good idea? Jeannie, the traveller in the family, only said, “You know they speak Italian, right?” What was it about ageing that made your children think you needed parenting?
He and Viv had always hoped to visit Rome one day, so Frank decided to start there. Roma, an anagram for ‘amor’. The city of love, Viv always said. It was also the city of seven hills. Just as well you didn’t come, he told her as he explored it on his own, his mind wandering along with his feet. His wife had kept her figure all those years, that same slender silhouette he’d fallen in love with. Right up until the day he found her, face down in the hydrangeas. Alas, it seemed even otherwise healthy people could have coronary artery disease.
On the train, Frank reaches into his backpack and takes out the scarf. It still smells faintly of her perfume, and some other essence that is just Viv. He holds it to his face for a moment before tucking it back inside, a talisman.
He’s on his way to join Susan and his grandsons in their rented Tuscan farmhouse. Tony, his son-in-law, has business in Milan and will be joining them on weekends. Frank is welcome to stay as long as he likes. The boys will enjoy the company, and Susan will be happy to have him there. So why isn’t he looking forward to it?
Frank looks out the window and watches the unfamiliar Italian countryside flash by. He checks his watch. Another 45 minutes. It’s a fast train to Florence, but after that there will be a slower trip by regional train to the little town of Lucca. He wills himself to relax and enjoy the journey.
Abruptly the train is slowing down. A hiss of brakes and a sharp drag of deceleration later it grinds to a halt, in the middle of fields, no station in sight. In the sudden absence of background noise, the silence is eerie.
Except for a faint sound: mewing. Frank stands up and peers around. Two rows back, a woman is holding a cat carrier and whispering to the creature inside. He approaches.
“Mi scusi,” he begins, exhausting his Italian in one line. “Do you happen to speak English?”
“Why, yes. I do.” The accent is familiar. A fellow Canadian — who would have thought?
They strike up a conversation. The woman lives in Montreal but grew up in Rome.
“And you brought your cat?”
She smiles and shakes her head. “Just cat-sitting for a friend.”
“May I?” he points at the seat opposite.
“Be my guest.”
“I’m Frank, by the way,” he says, extending a hand.
The woman laughs. “Sorry, it’s just — I’m Francesca. Fran for short.”
“Does this happen a lot?” Frank asks. At her enquiring look, he adds, “I mean the train, stopping like this.”
“No idea. It’s my first time on this line.”
A controller, face like a ripe tomato, strides through the car holding up a cellular device as if looking for a signal. Francesca stops him and asks something in Italian, then turns to Frank, looking resigned.
“Electrical failure. We could be here for a while.” She rolls her eyes. “Benvenuti en Italia!”
Frank wonders if he should say he knows a thing or two about electricity. But he’s in no hurry to get moving.
He feels a pair of eyes on him. The cat’s gaze is yellow-green, impenetrable.
“What’s her name?”
“Luca. He’s a signor.”
“Ha! That’s where I’m going. Lucca. To stay with my daughter. She has cats.” Frank feels foolish; it is far more than he intended to say. “In fact, I was supposed to cat-sit for her while she was in Italy.”
The rest just seems to tumble out. And there it is, the sad story of his life since Viv. The loneliness. The not wanting anything. Until it hit him: he could just walk away from it all. Start something new.
Francesca listens, nodding from time to time. She has smooth olive skin, deeply tanned, and dark, silver-streaked hair. How old can she be? Early fifties, perhaps?
“Lucca is beautiful. But first you are spending time in Florence?”
He hadn’t planned to. Should he? Francesca nods emphatically. In all of Italy, perhaps the world, it is the most beautiful city, she says.
She holds up a thermos. Would he like some tea? Frank takes the cup, grateful. Without air conditioning, the train is getting hot. He sips the lukewarm liquid. It tastes of something cool, soothing. Mint?
“Thank you, this is delicious.”
“My own herbal blend.” Mysterious smile. “Do you cook?”
“I can just about boil water,” Frank says. Viv had been a competent but uninspired cook. It’s not her food he misses, or even the physical side of things. It’s the hugs. Sharing jokes. Making plans.
“Then you must come to my cooking class. I’m teaching a new group this week. You’d be surprised what you can learn about Italy through its food.”
Frank looks at the woman in wonder. Cooking class? He would never have imagined such a thing. Yet — why not?
By the time the train begins to move again, it is decided. Francesca knows a pensione, not far from the Duomo. She will be happy to introduce him to the others, mostly tourists. It will be fun.
That’s it, thinks Frank. Fun. Not being stuck to a plan. Or a list.
“Susan? Can you hear me? In the space between the cars, he calls her. The background noise is deafening. “Change in plans. I’ve decided to stay —”
His daughter’s voice is muffled.
“What? No, I won’t be coming now. At least not right away.”
“But Dad, you said —”
“I know what I said but I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to see Florence. Take a cooking class.”
Silence.
“You asked me what I wanted, right?”
A garble of words, something about wanting him to be happy.
The call cuts off. Damn phones.
***
That evening, after he’s checked into his room at the pensione, he meets up with Francesca —Fran — in a tiny osteria secreted along a cobblestone passage. She has brought her friend, Ilona, a tall woman with short blonde hair and massive glasses. The two women sit side by side, companionably close, intimately even. He notices how Fran’s eyes light up whenever Ilona looks at her. They taste things off each other’s plates.
Frank has never been a taster. “No thanks,” he says, when Ilona asks if he’d like to try her squid. There are limits.
The next day is the first cooking class. Frank wonders what the hell he is doing there. Among the dozen students there’s only one other male, a young guy who seems to enjoy being the centre of so much female attention. They all put on full-length aprons with the school’s logo, Scuola di Cucina Firenze, and Fran divides them into smaller groups. Their first assignment is to break eggs into a bowl and measure flour for pasta. Then they are to knead the dough and roll it out.
Frank has never been sure about breaking eggs. Do you crack them on the side of the bowl the way Viv used to? It seems to him a risky thing — bits of the shell can end up with the egg. He hardly dares ask the other two members of his group, both women absorbed in their tasks and speaking French together. What are their names again? He’d only listened to the introductions with half an ear, absorbed as he was in not making a fool of himself as he tied the big white apron over his waist. The taller one was called Dominique, but the other woman?
“Juliette,” she says, extending a hand a moment later. He looks at it, covered in flour and shakes it gingerly. The petite woman laughs, dark eyes sparkling. “Sorry, I’m a bit…dusty.“
He shrugs off her apology. “I’m Frank, by the way, and I don’t know anything about food. Other than eating it.”
Fran comes over and gives him a quick tutorial. Eggs, it seems, are better broken with a firm tap on a flat surface. She pats him on the shoulder and whispers, “Go for the gusto!”
Frank picks up a fork; it feels reassuringly familiar. Tools he can deal with. He stirs the eggs, trying to break the yolks delicately and whisk them into the flour like the others are doing. After a while he just stirs it all together, poking at the lumpy mass with his fork.
“You must use your hands, Frank,” Juliette says. And she begins kneading the dough, her small arms moving gently at first and then rather vigorously.
This is rather more than Frank is ready for. Will he admit how he hates the feel of sticky hands, always has? He touches the dough gingerly, then pokes at it, trying to get it to form a ball without getting the stuff all over his hands.
His two classmates find this funny. So he hams it up, pretending to attack the dough with the fork like a sword. The three of them are in fits of hilarity when Fran comes back to check on them. She looks at Frank and makes a face.
“What’s the matter, Frank? Afraid to get your hands dirty?”
Now he is stuck. He looks down at the dough and decides to grin and bear it, plunging the palm of his hands into the stuff.
“There you go!” Fran claps in approval. “You’re a natural.”
By the time they’ve rolled out their pasta and cut it into thick strips for pappardelle, Frank is feeling rather proud of his culinary skills. They grate parmesan and chop basil while Fran shows them the steps for making the rich ragu sauce which, given the time it takes, she has made ahead. Good news — Frank feels hungrier than he has in ages.
Then they gather around a long table and eat the fruits of their morning’s labours. They also indulge in the fruits of Tuscany’s vines — rather more copiously than Frank is ready for, especially so early in the day. A rush of feeling hits him. Is it the wine, or the company? He feels lighthearted, and also a little lightheaded. Tipsy, he thinks, remembering the word so long packed away. How perfect it is to describe this effervescence, this rush of feeling.
On their way out of the building after lunch, Frank is not expecting the step to be there. He misses it, spectacularly. Face plants on the pavement. At first, he feels nothing more than embarrassment, the physical shock of falling and the startled expressions as the group gathers around him on the street.
“I’m fine,” he rushes to say, rolling on his side to get up.
He is not fine. Two hands reach out to help him up but the pain shoots down his arm and through his chest like an arrow. He collapses. Something is dreadfully wrong with his shoulder.
“Don’t move! It may be dislocated.”
The authoritative voice takes him by surprise, especially when he realizes it belongs to Juliette. She removes the wrap from her shoulders and tucks it gently around him. Frank, between searing waves of pain, feels like an infant being swaddled. It is not entirely unpleasant.
“You’re lucky,” Dominique says. “Juliette’s a nurse.”
Frank’s not sure he would call it luck. But he is grateful, even awe-struck as he hears his new nurse speaking with authority on the phone.
“Don’t worry, we’re getting you an ambulance,” Juliette says, crouching down beside him. She gives his hand a squeeze.
Frank feels a prick of tears and closes his eyes. Overlaid on the pain he feels a stir of something, he’s not sure what. The distant sound of sirens grows louder. Help is on its way.
***
“Is there anyone you should call?” Juliette holds up Frank’s mobile phone as he lays on the hospital bed. He’s been admitted and given drugs for the pain. Now they are waiting for the results of a scan.
Frank considers. Susan will only worry. Worse, she will come and take over. “My daughter,” he says. “But no. Let’s not worry them yet.”
The “let’s” opens doors. They talk about their families. Juliette is divorced and has adult sons, one still at university; the older boy is married and lives in Vancouver. She is hoping for grandchildren soon.
Frank calculates. She must be at least 10 years younger, especially if she still works.
“I’m retiring next year,” Juliette smiles, as if reading his mind. “This trip is supposed to get me used to the idea of doing nothing.”
“That’s a fail, then. Here’s me bringing you back to work.”
“I don’t mind. You’re giving me a chance to practice my Italian.” Juliette’s father was originally from Sicily, she says, but they mostly spoke French at home in Montreal.
Frank is shamefaced. “I’m from Toronto. Never even been to Montreal.”
“Really? You’d like it, I think. A little closer to the old world.”
When it turns out his shoulder can be manipulated back into its socket with only local anaesthetic, Frank is relieved. He should be released the same day. After that it will be enough to immobilize his arm in a sling for a few weeks.
“I guess that’s it for my big Italian adventure.” Even to his own ears it comes out sounding like self-pity.
“It doesn’t have to be,” Juliette offers. “You just need to rest and be careful. You can do that here as well as at home.”
Frank lowers his eyes. “But how will I even —?”
“I can help. You can still come to cooking classes, although you might not be able to do much kneading.” She smiles.
Or much of anything else. The thought hangs over him like a cloud. “It’s very kind of you, Juliette, but . . .” Frank’s smile is full of regret. After all, he hardly knows the woman. However much he’d like to.
Juliette’s eyes are teasing but not unkind. “Perhaps you’re not quite ready for adventure?”
“Maybe not yet. And certainly not like this.” He gestures to his arm. “But I will be. Soon.”
***
In the end Frank goes to stay with Susan in Lucca. It only makes sense. Arriving at the villa, his daughter helps him unpack.
“What a beautiful scarf,” she says, fingering the rich fabric.
It is not Viv’s but Juliette’s. Somehow it had got mixed up in his things. And somehow, he had neglected to give it back.
“Oh, that’s my friend Juliette’s,” Frank says, looking away. “She’s a nurse. From Montreal.” The words are out before he has time to think about them. “I’m going to go and visit her when we get back.”
Susan says nothing, blinking in stupefaction.
Frank plunges ahead: “The thing is, Susan, I want to travel more. Take Italian lessons. And I’ve been thinking, maybe it’s time to put the house up for sale.” He pauses, letting his wishes sink in. Then he clears his throat. “That is, if you’ll help?”
“Of course,” she says, eyes bright.
Just then one of the boys sticks his head through the door.
“Hey Grandad, want to come outside with us and kick the ball around?”
Frank slips his good arm around his grandson’s shoulders. “Right now?” he nods. “There’s nothing I’d like more.”
***
M.E. Lewis hails from Toronto but has spent more than half her life abroad — first in the U.S., then France, and now in a sunny corner of the Swiss Alps. Her first job as an advertising copywriter inspired her to trim her unwieldy first name (Mary Ellen) into something more like her: short and to the point. Known as Mel throughout her professional life, she has published essays and fiction in various magazines and anthologies. She’s currently at work on both a novel and a memoir. On her blog, FranceSays, she shares reflections on life as an adopted French national.