Just What I Needed… by J.D. Fratto
Just What I Needed… by J.D. Fratto
I walk in at 7:15: later than usual and Tara’s still not home; not in the kitchen, the TV room, the bedroom; not even the back yard. Ah: a note on the dining room table. “I’m off for the night; staying at sister Laura’s. I just don’t want to see you right now, given what you’ve done. If I could be relieved about anything, it would be that SHE is finally off the scene and there will be some peace here at home; that is, if you are able to say you are sorry for the pain you have caused me and for what you have done to our marriage. After all, it wasn’t her fault that you are who you are. Enough. So, for now, there’s peanut butter and jelly in the fridge or go to the diner – or go to… you know where.”
Well, here we go again. In the meantime, I’m just supposed to stew. She won’t be coming home tonight so I get to feel what it’s like to sleep in pajamas. OK; tomorrow is Saturday so let’s see what happens when she swings through the door.
Later, after stuffing myself with sweets, I toss and turn and at 3:15 I get up, walk into the ‘study’ and turn on the TV for an hour or so. It strikes me as I flip through the channels that late-late night TV is marketed for folks who can’t sleep and who groggily sofa themselves squinting at the screen while projecting a mild snore. Dawn strikes at around 5:15 here in the Northeast. A half-hour later, the morning paper slams the bottom of the front door. It’s been coming faithfully every day for three years and we have not once seen the he or she who delivers it. We communicate by envelope: Christmas-time tip-request and my under-generous response.
Saturday: noon arrives sooner than expected and still no word. She is really playing it hard and just as I was softening toward making her return agreeable. I even considered preparing dinner; her favorite: veal picante: not too lemony and very thin, along with a robust green salad mixture with a hint of mustard.
But by 2 PM all bets are off: still no word. Should I call Laura? Why should I? I’m sure everything’s fine, with the two of them probably having decided to go off shopping somewhere on a Sisters’ Day outing. Who cares about me?
I’ll tell you who – ME! Like the song says: “Anything she can do, I can do better.” But brother – and sister- when I do it, it’s never picayune and she knows it. We’ve been through this before. My response? Coffee with the guys? Lecture at the club? Read another mystery? Not this domestic felon. When I do it, it’s done right…or at least, MAJOR.
Anger now converts to planning. I go to my computer to check the numbers from AMEX: 200,000 points; more than I need. I make the call and it works. There’s a rear seat available on the 7:55 PM non-stop American Airlines flight to Venice–yes, the Italian one; arriving at 8:05 Sunday morning. Then, by autobus to Padua. I leave Tara a brisk note: “Off to Padua for 5 days, staying at our favorite boutique hotel. Coffee tomorrow and every day at Caffe Pedrocchi; after that, who knows – maybe up to Cortina? If you like, drop by. It’ll be like old times when you were rational. Who could forget those days? You, probably. P.S. Check your VISA points.”
Does it seem like I’m upset? No, and that’s the point. It’s about the latent ferocity of independence. That’s where there’s strength. If she decides to come, it won’t be as an act of forgiveness for my actions with that other HER who’s no longer on the scene. It’s because she worries that the otherwise alluring strength of my character might lead to a break-up and then she might have to get a job; or move-in with Laura, causing a steep dip in evening conversations.
AA hits the runway at Marco Polo on the minute and shortly I board what is becoming a familiar hour-long bus ride to Padua. Feigning pleasantness, I check-in to the understated but well serviced boutique hotel of prior visits; place my bag on my slightly crunchy, solitary double bed and head out to the Pedrocchi for a reminiscent outdoor morning’s espresso and croissant, while church bells add adventure to an already highly civilized scene. Here, the Italian intelligentsia would meet to discuss plans for divorcing Austria in the latter 19th Century and so, it ranks high on my list of politically romantic places. I sit comfortably and watch the well-turned-out locals and visitors moving about the cobbled streets, happily meandering toward somewhere of current preference. This is what I need; a bustling urban setting amidst history-ridden, sophisticated architecture. I check my phone: no word from Tara. Why would there be – it’s 3AM back home.
Let me tell you a little about my connection to Padua. Two years ago, I published a book on Galileo, attempting to link his revolutionary way of thinking about the universe with Italian culture’s shared penchant for creative, individualist thought and action. Among the few offshoots of the publication, I was invited to speak at an annual astrophysicist’s conference at Padua’s Thirteenth Century University, given in the very lecture hall where Galileo taught. Then, last year, since I was once again in the Veneto, only this time while on vacation, I agreed to lecture in an introductory physics class; its professor being Joanna Felladonzi, whom I had met in the prior visit. After the lecture, which was well received, I was graciously treated to lunch by la Professoressa.
Now, after a bumpy night’s sleep in second class and with no word from Tara, I am seated at Pedrocchi’s urban piazzina. Across from me sits a stylish, young women who looks my way frequently, yet casually. I persist in reading the daily press but before I know it, she is standing right there before me. “Can I help you”? I ask. She responds, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to intrude but aren’t you the gentleman who lectured on Galileo in Professoressa Felladonzi’s class?” Pleased to have been recognized, I affirm that I am and ask her to join me at the table.
She shyly accepts. Once seated, she apologizes for what might have been construed by me as an imposition on her part, though it wasn’t and asks how long will I be staying in Padua? I express my uncertainty, speculating that it might be a few days at most. The reason for her question is that she teaches at a local high school and wonders if I might speak to her students about Galileo. I tell her that I couldn’t commit myself because of scheduling concerns but if she would write down her phone number or give me her e-mail address, I would contact her if the timing worked. That sort of settled it, so it ended with that, and she politely left, giving me her name: Mauritsa Rossi.
After having enjoyed that pleasant welcoming experience, I take a brief walk through town; then, it’s back to the hotel’s small, statue-ridden garden; something I overlooked on our last trip. After sitting for a few minutes on a well sculpted bench, I return to my room and continue reading Luke Winterton’s ‘A Brief History of the Veneto’. However, as I enter the 4th century, there’s a ting on George; that’s my cell phone. It’s a message from Tara. “I’ll be there tomorrow – well, maybe not quite THERE but in the vicinity. You know how close everything is in Europe. I’ll let you know when I arrive. T”
Not the slightest hint of when arrival might occur nor where is ‘THERE’. However, I’m assuming she does mean here in Padua so all I have to do is wait it out until I get word – and wouldn’t you know it? I’m glad that she’s on her way.
A restless night as my brain floats into Monday morning. The weather is sublimely welcoming. At Pedrocchi’s, I pick a table, strategically with a 270 degree view of the Piazzina and its surrounding 16th century buildings and sit myself in anticipation of the subtle ding-a-ling of Georgey Boy. So much for anticipation.
So, two hours later and with no word from Tara, I walk the streets, cutting through the old college campus and its historic garden and ponder my oncoming desire for lunch simply out of nothing more pleasant to ponder; i.e. boredom has set in—so soon? Where could she be?
It’s mid-afternoon and, no, I’m not going to start thinking about dinner. I’m going back to the hotel garden and return to my paperback, realizing that this region is fast becoming my vacation point of choice. However, just when I get into the pivotal assaults on the area that involved the Romans, Goths and Lombards, wouldn’t you know it, George pings for attention and, yes, it’s her.
“I’ve arrived! And I love it here. The lake is glistening, and the surrounding hills beg for hikers.”
“You’re at a lake? Where are you?”
“Not too far. It’s just what I needed after the all-nighter in the sky.”
“Are you kidding me? You’re here, SOMEHERE but you’re
not going to tell me where? Am I supposed to figure it out like this is some kind of board game? Or have you simply lost your mind?”
“Oh relax. I’m sure we’ll get together. We are married, after all. Oh right; you do forget that on occasion, don’t you?”
“Let’s not bring that up. It’s over with. OK. I’ll be calm. So glad you’re here on the continent. Perhaps we’ll see each other soon. That would be just swell, even if it were an accident of sorts. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy yourself. I, myself, am having a grand time. Let’s talk later. OK?”
“Oh, I’m sure it will be fairly soon. Where are you? Did you say Padua? Maybe we’ll meet half-way.”
“Oh, sure. That could be in Brussels, which is half-way to Sweden. Or Zurich, in case you’re further south; say in Holland. Whatever.”
“Oh, don’t be silly. I’ll call you tomorrow and fill you in. I am looking forward to seeing you, despite your faults. What do they call it? Treason?”
“You’ll forgive me? Alas, what nobility!”
“I can not easily forgive your relationship with her and what it meant for me. That’s a fact.”
“But that’s over with. She is gone; off the scene.“
“And that’s supposed to make me feel better? You sound as though SHE were the problem.”
“Look Tara; let’s forget the whole thing. It’s over and we are in Europe almost together. All it would take is for us to join hands in this most romantic of all continents; in this country: the most romantic of all. These other matters will pass. Whether she’s here or there no longer matters.”
“Oh, no? Even that she is now gone does matter. It’s about the history. It’s about how you acted when she was on the scene and how now you attempt to solve the issue by simply sending her away. It’s as if you carry a social eraser in your mind that claims what is true is only what is NOW. That we are not responsible for
what we have done in the past, no matter what harm it might have caused others. Mark Jordan said he saw you walking down the street with her–our street- and you looked happy as you waived a phony neighborly, probably guilt-ridden, smile. That was a few days ago; possibly just before you dumped her.”
“Look; do you want to go through all this now? It really doesn’t matter does it? She’s gone. Why can’t we just meet and enjoy the pasta; that is if you’re not in Iceland.”
With that, she said, “Enjoy?” and hung up.
That evening, I thought about the situation. Charlotte was now off the scene so what could I do now to make things better? Here we are, in Europe. It’s the place where we love being – love being together. How can I take advantage of it? Oh sure, she knows all about its magic: the lakes, the mountains, the outdoor markets, the food. Right! That’s why she’s keeping her distance. She knows that if we’re together here, she’ll succumb to its romance and with that, forgiveness will emerge. She’s testing to see if being alone here has the same positive effect on her as when she’s with me. That is, does she really need to be with me to enjoy herself?
And now that I think of it, what about me? How do I feel being without her? Lousy, that’s how. I guess I’ll just have to see how this all plays out. Oh, oh: George wants me; it’s her.
“Pronto.”
“You don’t sound very Italian.”
“That’s because I’m Greek Orthodox; or used to be. What’s the latest from whatever it is you pack-into that hairy bulge between your ears. Will I see you?”
“It’s getting to that point but I’m not quite ready for it – having too much coastal fun.”
“Afraid I’ll bring the rain?”
“It’s already in the forecast.”
“Why don’t we quit this nonsense and say something that’s relevant. Am I going to see you or not? If not, fine; than I can do what I like without any mental disturbance from your ghost hovering about behind me. Either we have separate vacations: such as they might be, or we get together and have a real life, albeit with consequences. Yes or no. Let’s hear it.”
“I’ll call you back.”
She hangs up; has to think.
I almost wish I had left George home and would have, except that his text-driven cohort, Luke, is spending three days convalescing in Internal Medicine at Apple and George only has an identity when he’s with someone to bother.
Tuesday Morning:
George didn’t like what I said so he’s gone mute: an E-mail from Tara: “I’ll sacrifice my presence. I’m ready to leave Hergiswil. It’s just south of Lucerne on the lake. From Lucerne it’s six hours to Padua by train. Shall we meet there, or do you have another preference? Milan is half-way. If it’s Padua, I take the 10:30
train, arriving 4:25. If that works, meet me at the station.”
I respond: “You sound so loving. I can tell you can’t wait to see me. Padua: 4:25; that’s good. If I’m not here, try Bratislava. “
There were several things I could do to kill time until Tara arrives: Giotto’s Cappella? Been there twice. Oh; but I have yet to visit the medieval and modern art museum; perfect. That’ll be for after lunch at the Pedrocchi. On the way, I’ll stop at the cathedral for a quick prayer to St. Anthony, Patron of Lost Wives. He’ll understand. But what to do about Tara? I know it’s been rough on her but, hey, not that rough. And now that Charlotte is out of my – our lives for good, things will get better. And then, if she behaves, I’ll treat her tomorrow to a trip on the Brenta Canal to Venice for a romantic waterside luncheon .
4:25: Stazione di Padova; she exits the first-class car.
“Why first class? It’s expensive.”
“I don’t like crowds.”
“Well, do we kiss, or do I just take your bag?”
“Take my bag and then let’s go somewhere. I can use a Pinot Grigio.”
“OK; I’ll pay; no big deal.”
With a hint of spitefulness, she rejects the Pedrocchi and selects a wobbly chaired, side street café where a celebration of sorts was being held by what appears from their voice levels to be a gathering of Teamsters.
“Well, this is certainly cozy. Can you hear me or would you rather not?”
She looked me straight in the eyes and said, “So what’s become of Charlotte?
I answered, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“How did you leave her? Did you pass her on to someone else?”
“Why, in Heaven’s name, are you doing this? You came all the way across the ocean to continue this mess? Please, for now, while we are here; in this special haven that we both love; let’s take advantage of it and move on.”
“I guess you’re right but it’s hard for me to have gone through all this and then to simply drop it. “
“Well, you won’t have to go through it again and, by the way, in case you are interested, Charlotte is just fine. This morning, an e-mail from Jackie Kerrigan. He informed me that Charlotte’s been privileged to be assigned to the largest cage in the kennel. Satisfied? Now how about Pedrocchi’s for dinner?”
* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright J.D. Fratto 2024
