Thieves Never Steal in the Rain Read online

  The cantina now held two long tables that stretched the room’s entire length, with enough canapés and cakes on them to feed 100 guests, though only about 40 were delicately picking at the array. Joanna placed her gift, which now seemed paltry compared to the others, on the table where unwrapped presents like those of a young bride were displayed: sets of ornately decorated demitasse cups, white satin sheets, silver vases, enormous majolica flower pots — all worthy of a couple starting out. Her aunt, tall and slim with her hair recently permed and brightened with a silver rinse, wore a black suit with a white blouse. Black because it was fashionable, or black because that’s what elderly Italian women wore? Black because she only had one good suit, or black because she could not allow herself to be too happy because she was still in mourning? Her uncle, a few inches shorter than her aunt and heavier, had also donned a black suit with a white shirt. With his full head of white hair and unlined olive complexion he was a younger copy of Joanna’s father. The Ficola men aged well, Joanna thought. “Mannaggia!” they said, hugging and kissing her and shaking her shoulders, cupping her face in their hands. “Mannaggia!” That’s what they always said when they first saw her. We can’t believe that you’ve come, that you’re here! It’s like a dream!

  “So much time has gone by since your last visit,” her uncle said.

  “Yes,” she said, somewhat apologetically.

  “You know that we understand. Everything. You know that.”

  “Yes.”

  “You know how sorry we are for you and Elliott. For my brother and his wife.”

  “I know. Thank you.” Her eyes became teary and she needed to change the subject, but he wouldn’t let her.

  “It takes time, carissima. And even then, there is not enough time in all the world. You understand?”

  She nodded, hot with discomfort, though she loved him more than ever at that moment. “But today is your day — yours and my aunt’s,” she insisted.

  “Yes. Today is a happy day. I won’t see many more days like this one.”

  Finally they were past it. It was over. Her uncle turned to greet other guests.

  “Take it easy,” she reminded Elliott as he filled his plate. “Pace yourself. You know what’s coming.”

  When everyone left for the church, she looked back at the table crammed with food that her cousins and aunt had worked all week to prepare. It appeared untouched.

  ***

  With a children’s choir singing the praises of a risen Christ, her aunt and uncle renewed their vows during the Mass. They did not leave the church with the briskness of newlyweds, however, as they tottered on arthritic legs, arms linked, each supporting the other. Classical music was piped out into the piazza as they stood at the portal and were congratulated by the townspeople. The priest climbed onto his motorcycle and sped off toward the mountaintop monastery where he lived by himself in what her uncle liked to call selfish hypocrisy. But today her uncle did not vent his disdain for the clergy: today was a joyous day, and the aromas — the profumo of simmering tomato sauce and browning roast — wafted down the long flights of steps lined with pots of red geraniums, stimulating their appetites for the long meal that would follow. Elliott took her hand as they strolled with the others to the restaurant. She squeezed it, and he smiled with gratitude.

  The guests sat in two long rows and the waiters came by again and again, filling their plates with crostini, prosciutto, formaggio, fettucine with tomato sauce, the wider pappardelle with truffles, several servings of green vegetables, one of roasted potatoes, chicken, pork, beef, rolled veal, salad, and finally the cream-filled wedding torte. Joanna translated the surrounding conversations that were beyond Elliott’s grasp.

  Her uncle gave a speech about his wife of 50 years, a woman whose strength and patience with him had helped their marriage endure. He could have said more about her, Joanna thought. She was an amazing woman who after the war had been forced to live in a shed with a dirt floor and who had cared for Joanna’s grandparents until their deaths. He thanked his guests for coming, and he acknowledged that Joanna and Elliott had traveled such a long distance. His greatest praise was reserved for his new daughter-in-law, the woman who had married his son-in-law after Joanna’s cousin Alessandra had died of cancer several years before Jill’s accident.

  Suddenly, the 15 courses were churning in Joanna’s stomach; the room became hot and stuffy; and she wanted to be anywhere else. She told Elliott she was going to the ladies’ room, but when she left the hall, she walked past it and out the door. Standing across the piazza, she moved down a dark narrow street whose buildings seemed to lean inward to keep out the threatening unknown: the cars, the tourists, the sun that made them much more vulnerable. She emerged into the light again, passing a new two-story apartment complex in what had once been considered the outskirts. Crossing the road, she mounted a hill and imagined herself an ant crawling up the head of a bald man who might at any moment sneeze and fling her off. At length she reached the place where they were all buried: her grandparents, her great-grandparents, and her cousin Alessandra.

  Her uncle had put his parents underground but had built a grand mausoleum for his daughter. It was white marble, with a large stained-glass image of Jesus exposing his pained sacred heart above the double brass doors. Elongated stained-glass angels on the narrow sidelights stood guard. Joanna peeked in as best she could through a clear pane between the angels’ wings: spaces for five more coffins awaited; a broom rested in the corner of a spotless marble floor. A large urn of fresh flowers on a pedestal in the opposite corner indicated that the tomb had been visited recently, and yet her uncle had spoken about his new daughter-in-law without shedding a tear. Even her aunt had forced a smile. Could they possibly have found a replacement for Alessandra? The amount of time it would take to get over a loss like this didn’t exist, her uncle had told her himself. And yet they had found a way to go on.

  Life was all about loss, a psychiatrist she’d seen after Jill’s death intoned, rattling off items as though reading a grocery list: job, property, homeland, a beloved, health, youth, beauty, money, reputation, self-esteem, confidence, desire, a mind. Life was about learning to do without. But sometimes it was possible to recoup one’s loss, wasn’t it? Sometimes it was only a matter of remembering where you’d deposited your treasure, finding that it had just taken a short vacation from you and mutated itself into a new form. Sometimes you rediscovered it hidden beneath a rock or a pile of dirty laundry, right under your nose.

  She didn’t know how long she sat there, but when she returned to the restaurant, the guests were pouring out. Elliott met her, his eyebrows raised.

  “That was one hell of a pee,” he said.

  “Sorry.”

  “I’ve had to put off people who noticed you were gone. Luckily, they don’t expect me to understand their questions.”

  “I’m sorry. Really.”

  “You all right?”

  “Better than that.”

  They returned to the house with the rest of the family and dug into the leftovers from the morning.

  “How do we do this?” she asked, meaning the marathon eating.

  “I don’t know, but I’m glad you do,” Elliott said, filling a paper plate and pouring some Chianti into a plastic cup.

  “We’ll see you tomorrow for lunch,” her aunt announced as they said their goodbyes.

  Her family clung to her like a dog that has taken the seat of your pants between his teeth. Elliott got the gist of the familiar conversation, and his reaction pulled Joanna to the opposing corner.

  “We’re heading to Rome for a few days,” Joanna said.

  “You come all this way for one day?” her aunt said.

  “We really don’t have much time this trip.”

  “For breakfast then. On your way out.”

  Be strong, Elliott’s eyes said. Hang tough. Remember, it’s all an act
.

  Joanna hesitated.

  “But you have to eat,” her aunt persisted gracefully, defying resistance.

  “For lunch,” Joanna conceded.

  Both her aunt and Elliott broke into grins, hers of victory, his, politeness. Now it was Joanna who seemed eager to leave. There were things she needed to discuss with Elliott, so many plans to make.

  ***

  Paolo’s car was gone when they arrived back at the villa. In their apartment, Elliott moved from behind her, as she began to undress, nuzzling his face against her cheek. He smelled like her father’s wine cellar.

  “Have a good time?” he asked.

  “Elliott, I want to stay here.”

  “Yeah. It’s a neat place. Wasn’t it a good idea of mine? Next time we’ll stay longer. But we’ve got three days at a pretty cool hotel in Rome.”

  “No. I mean I want to stay here.”

  “You don’t want to go to Rome?”

  “I don’t want to go home.”

  He lifted his head, and she turned to face him. “We could move here, Elliott. I could work with Paolo. He needs someone like me who speaks English. And you could find work, I’m sure of it. They’d be thrilled to have an American doctor.”

  “First of all, that’s not as easy as you think, but that’s beside the point. Why now? We’ve talked about spending time here when we retire. Why now?”

  “It’s Jill, Elliott. I know it. I see it in Elisabetta’s eyes, I feel it when I touch her. I dreamt about Jill last night. She was little again, and she had Elisabetta’s face. I understood it at the cemetery today. Alessandra was telling me, Jill, all the dead. And I can’t leave her.”

  Joanna had sat there on the rocky hill amidst them, straining in the silence, begging for a sign, wishing for a sudden fierce wind or a miraculous deluge out of sunny skies to bring her confirmation — something. Where was the wisdom that came from having met death, and what good was it, if not to serve the living? Yet they had smugly remained mute — all of them — as though honoring some code of silence: “We know; you have to find out for yourself.” But when the silence had reached a deafening crescendo, she heard them — daughter, cousin, grandmother, townspeople — all chanting in affirmation. “Yes,” they echoed. “Yes.”

  Elliott was silent for a moment. He took a deep breath and exhaled; he was losing his patience with her.

  “This is the only place you can be happy? Here with this child? Who, by the way, is not Jill. And even if she were, as you believe, Jill reincarnated, she’s not ours, Joanna. She belongs to somebody else.”

  “But we can be part of her life, Elliott. We can watch her grow. I can teach her things. I can help her not to make mistakes. Look, her mother’s still a child herself. Elisabetta needs me, Elliott. She needs both of us. And I do believe she’s Jill. She was born three days after Jill died. Jill’s spirit chose this baby’s body, Elliott.”

  “Three days? What took her so long?”

  “You’re despicable when you joke like that.”

  “I’m not joking, I’m incredulous. Look, Joanna, I understand you want a second chance to protect Jill, believe me. But if you actually mean what you’re saying, I feel sorry for you.”

  “I don’t want your pity.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “You said you’d give me time. You said whatever it took.”

  “It’s been almost four years! Four years, Joanna! I can’t continue like this. We’re growing farther and farther apart. You do nothing to ease my pain. You do nothing to help me go on with you. Jill died. We didn’t.” His eyes welled up.

  “There are times I can feel her slipping away. Times when I laugh or begin to enjoy myself, and she’s out of my thoughts for a second, and I hate myself.”

  “How do you think I feel? I’m an ER doc, and I couldn’t save my own daughter’s life when I found her lying there. How do you think it feels to live with that? One thing you’ve probably been right about is the eating — the sublimation part. But it’s time for us to wake up before it’s too late. This is our life now, Joanna. I don’t know how else to say it. This is our life.”

  “I hated the speech my uncle gave today. That’s why I had to walk out. I hated the part about thanking Cristina for taking Alessandra’s place. But at the cemetery I began to understand. They had to find a replacement — a reminder, a way not to forget.”

  “Do you think Alessandra is ever out of their thoughts? This is it, isn’t it? You’re afraid you’ll forget Jill.”

  “Sometimes I miss her so much I think I’ll go crazy, then other times it’s as though she’s away at college the way she used to be. That’s all, away for a while. She’ll be back again for the holidays. And it’s fine. And I catch myself, and I hate myself.”

  He dug his fingers into her arms and looked at her squarely.

  “Listen to me, Joanna. Listen to what I’m telling you. It’s okay to be happy. You won’t forget her. We can never forget. She was our baby. But we need to live for each other. Look at me, Joanna. See me. Love me.”

  “We could adopt her. We could give her a better life than Domenica can.”

  “For Chrissake, we’re in Italy, not Ethiopia!”

  “People do it in the States.”

  “People who decide to give up their children at birth. You haven’t heard a damn thing I’ve said, have you?”

  She laughed and conceded that her idea was absurd. She threw her arms around him and held him tight. She kissed his forehead, his nose, his lips. She would make love to him tonight. She would see him the way he wanted to be seen. Or at least he would think she did.

  ***

  She took her cappuccino and cornetto alone in the dining room early the next morning while Elliott showered. When Domenica and Elisabetta arrived, she presented the child with a colorful beaded necklace of hers, something she had picked up from a beach vendor in the Bahamas. She put it around Elisabetta’s neck and told her to go to the mirror in the bathroom and see how beautiful she looked. While she was gone, Joanna made her pitch.

  “Ma Lei è pazza!” Domenica screamed, stepping back from the crazy lady.

  Paolo came running from the kitchen into the foyer. “What is it? What’s happening?”

  “She’s mad!” Domenica’s eyes were wide with fear. “She wants to take Elisabetta to America!”

  “What are you saying?” Paolo asked Domenica.

  “Tell him. Tell him what you said.” She recoiled even further from Joanna.

  “Is this true, signora?” he asked.

  Elisabetta came skipping into the room but was quickly shielded by Domenica.

  If Joanna could just touch this little girl, make that physical connection, the child would realize where she belonged. They would all realize. Paolo had said it: at Villa Foresta, all things were possible. Joanna grabbed Elisabetta by the hand and ran outdoors, toward the parking lot. It was mother against mother.

  At the stairs that led to the parking lot, Joanna swept the child into her arms and started down. She could hear them behind her — a cacophony of shouts growing louder. That’s when Joanna lost her footing. She tried to hold on to Elisabetta, but the girl rolled away from her, as though she’d been snatched out of Joanna’s arms. Joanna went to get up, but her foot was entangled in something. “Elisabetta!” she cried, like a wounded animal in a trap.

  That was all she remembered.

  ***

  She awoke to the smell of antiseptic cleansers. A man in a green jumpsuit was sweeping a rag over every inch of the stretcher next to her.

  “This wouldn’t fly in the States,” Elliott said. “You can’t sanitize a room with a patient in it.” He was sitting beside her, holding her hand.

  “What kind of a hospital is this?” she asked.

  “Don’t worry. I haven’t committed you. Although I can’t say I didn’t th
ink about it. I wanted to get a scan. You were out for about ten minutes. I put you in the car and whisked you down here to Terni. To tell you the truth, I was hoping you wouldn’t wake up until we were the hell out of there. Or at least I was hoping you had the sense to fake it. They were about to call the police on you, and I can’t say I blame them. And there I was, like a mute, unable to explain your 15 minutes of insanity. You’ve been waking up on and off. Your head took a good bang when it hit the ground. You have a mild concussion, but nothing some peace and quiet won’t cure.”

  “Is my ankle broken?”

  “Your ankle’s fine.”

  “I got it caught in some vines on the steps.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “I must have.”

  “You weren’t caught in anything. There aren’t any vines on those steps; they’re concrete, busted concrete. You just tripped.”

  “I got tripped, Elliott, and I couldn’t free myself. Something had me in its grip.”

  “Okay, take it easy. You’re supposed to stay calm. Fine. You got tripped. Short-term memory is usually jarred by concussions.”

  “Elisabetta? Was she hurt?”

  “Not a scratch.”

  “What about my aunt and uncle? We were supposed to be there for lunch.”

  “I found a nurse who speaks some English. She called them for me and said that you’d had a little accident and that we’d used up all our time at the hospital. She told them we needed to get on to Rome — on with our lives …” His voice trailed off.