Among the Lovelies
The sky was just turning to a soft orange as she walked the Rome street. They had dreamed of visiting the cafe together for twenty years, ever since she had seen it in a travel magazine at the doctor’s office and torn out the page, fake sneezing to camouflage the sound of ripping paper. When she showed it to him that night, he said, “You say it, I plan it. It’s on the list, babe.” That had always been true and the realization manifested early on that she had to be careful about mentioning anything she had the slightest interest in as he would show up a few weeks later with tickets or fully packed backpacks in hand, walking through the front door with a huge, “Let’s gooooooo! The adventure is out there.” A warmth spread across her face at the memory of what he said most times just after as he would sweep her up in his arms and lift her from the ground. “But, we should probably have one more adventure here first, just in case we don’t make it back.”
Now, her heart raced and her breaths shallowed at the turn of the final corner in the ancient city. It was just as she had imagined: in real life as accurate as the photo in the magazine. They had talked about coming here a dozen times, but other adventures always intervened and Rome became an afterthought to other travel, life, work, and everything else. They went somewhere every year: beaches, Broadway, mountain trails, and country roads, but had never made this trip for some reason. Then, suddenly, there wasn’t time to make it with him.
This morning, her daughter and sister stayed behind to allow her to make a walk she needed to make without them tagging along. They were both great traveling companions, but it wasn’t the same as going places with him. She had grown up independent, used to doing everything for herself and her first marriage had been a confirmation of the lesson that nobody cared about you like you wanted them to, so you learned not to expect much and not to trust when you got what felt like too much.
She didn’t have much choice after they met though and too much became the usual. She quickly got used to him carrying her bags and holding the doors. “You don’t have to do that,” she had said at the beginning.
“I ain’t got to do nothing, but I’m going to open this door. You get to decide if you want to walk through, babe,” he usually replied, exaggerating his drawl. Though she soon acquiesced, she never quite got used to the smiling looks from others when he would stand every time she left or came back to the table in a restaurant. “This isn’t the 1950’s,” she would say.
“And you’re not Shirley MacLaine,” he always replied. “You’re prettier.”
All over the country and world, whether a trail in Appalachia or a Calgary to Vancouver train, he never met a stranger and they collected a set of friends who visited them at their tidy home off the beaten path when they came anywhere close by. Once, in the crowded stalls of a market in Bombay, a city she had mentioned in a moment of passing fancy early on and in which they had surprisingly ended up in three months later when he got a deal on a last-minute airfare, they had been separated for a moment. As the crowd pressed and rubbed against her, the panic of claustrophobia began to set in. She couldn’t turn her body, but only swivel her head, searching for him.
When she saw the navy, Braves cap with the red brim bobbing a few yards away, she lunged through the throng and was able to grab his arm. A space had mystically cleared around him and he stood in a circle of calm, speaking with a tall, thin Indian man who was shaking his hand vigorously. He looked at her and gave her the big, crooked grin which was in all the photos she loved and said, “Hey, there you are.” He gestured at the other man. “This nice fella is going to give us a tour.”
After a hectic day in the streets and alleys of the most foreign place she’d ever been, they ended up eating with the man’s family that evening, savory and wondrous aromas permeating her being and overwhelming her senses. Afterwards, they spent another two hours in the home, passing around a bottle of MaCallan he had convinced a local merchant to pull out from under a counter and sell over mild protest and exorbitant markup, talking late into the night, and departing as newly minted best friends.
A little boy of eight sat in the room that evening, wide eyed at the exotic couple eating their food and making his father fall over laughing in uproarious outbursts of which he hadn’t imagined his father capable. He sneaked a sip of his father’s glass and coughed so loudly and for so long, trying to say, “It burns. It burns,” as he hopped around the room, all attempts at discretion having been abandoned. The adults had laughed even more until his mother produced a cup of milk which calmed the fire and the mirth until the next story made his father tumble again. Sixteen years later, the twenty-four year old man sat in their living room in America, stopping by on his way to graduate school. They shared a bottle and spoke for long hours, all laughing at the “It burns” story. The young man’s wife sat beside him, wide-eyed and seeing a part of him not yet revealed and she smiled quietly, surprised to realize she liked it.
When they traveled, he wore a cap wherever they went, usually an Atlanta one which he bought before each trip. “You’ll be able to find me in a crowd,” he said. It was true. She was never lost as all she had to do was look around and she would spy his head. Sometimes, it was off the trail, a dozen steps into the woods where he had meandered to look at an interesting leaf or in pursuit of a snake or squirrel, murmuring “Oh, aren’t you lovely,” about the venomous and the cuddly alike. Other times, it would appear bobbing along above the crowd, his height making it a beacon to guide her to him, where she would slide her hand into his, getting a return squeeze as the acknowledgement he was always there.
By the time they got home from a trip, the cap would be beat up and dusty, packed with ceramic pins he picked up at every opportunity, either by purchase or by trade. He carried a bag full of Palmetto Tree pins he dispensed along their route. “Spreading the gospel of the New South,” he always said. “”Dum Spiro Spero” and “Full Speed Ahead” were his battle cries as they lay siege to the world; benevolent Shermans, spreading a fire that burned happy and bright.
He was never lost though she wondered sometimes as she watched him study a train schedule or ask a passer-by for directions and get what she felt were very unspecific responses, but his height and deep voice, tinged with an authoritative politeness always made him stand out and locals fell over themselves to help them. She engendered the same responses with her striking looks and confidence, but she felt safe in his gaze and in the security that they would end up where they needed to be at the end of the day, no matter the side trips and unplanned bounty each day brought.
Strong as she was these days after the weakness of the last six months, she still felt a little lost without his arm to hold onto as she and the other women had strolled the unfamiliar streets on this trip. Her walk to the café this morning had been sure though, as though he had been beside her, his hand holding hers as they walked the cobblestones together. On arrival, she sat at a table in the corner of the patio. It was the table they would have chosen. She sat facing the street and looked at the empty chair across from her where he should have been. He always gave her the view of the city or forest, saying, “I came here to see you. You’re the best view around."
The waiter came over and took her order and a crowd began to filter in as the sun rose higher. There were no fanny packs or cameras visible in their hands. It was obviously where the locals came to eat breakfast and she heard no English other than from the waiter who graciously allowed her to attempt her Duolingo Italian on him. If he had been there, he would have ordered their biggest meal of which she would have taken small bites as her appetite normally didn't fully arrive until lunch. “Fueling up, babe. We’ve got a big day ahead of us,” he would say. There were always big days when they were together.
The waiter returned and she picked at the bread and butter and sipped her coffee. The room moved around her as she sat while she looked at the patrons and the city, her glances always returning to the empty chair.
Her daughter and sister appeared about thirty minutes later as they had planned. She stood and kissed them both as they sat. "Thank you. I needed to sit with him for a while by myself." They both hugged her quietly, ordered, and sat and enjoyed the attention of each other and the regular crowd, eager at the novelty of three Americans so far from the normal touristy spots. Her daughter took her hand at one point and said, "He would have loved this place.”
She smiled and squeezed in return. "Yes. He really would." Before she left, she asked the waiter for a coffee bean which he brought without question. She wrapped it in a napkin and placed it carefully in her purse where it would stay until she could bury it in his favorite spot, those dozen or so steps off the trail close to the cabin where they had spent the last month together, walking out when his strength waxed enough to allow it, where his ashes now were, out there among all his lovelies. In return for the bean, she gave the server a palmetto tree pin which she had taken off her own red-brimmed cap she had bought for the trip and presented it to him who took it with great solemnity and thanks, turning the blue trinket over in his hands, his face screwed up in a question she would have loved to answer, but other tables beckoned and the pin ended up with his daughter who attached it to the ear of her favorite stuffed animal, an alpaca she had named Bella, where it stayed until the eyes had fallen off and the faux fur rubbed slick.
Before the last trip to the mountains, they had spent a few weeks at the house of a friend, close to the beach where they sat and soaked up the sun and she could feel the warmth of his eyes watching her as they always did. It was her favorite place and he had wanted to share it with her again. They walked the beach slowly at sunrise and sunset and fed the deer and raccoons that came to their door at night despite the signs telling them not to; one final act of rebellion. He had taken to calling her a “Disney Princess,” surrounded by the eager fauna of the island. Then one day, he said, “It’s time, baby. I need to go home.” They woke the next morning and walked out to the beach, sharing a cup of coffee as the sun rose. His arm reached around her, still big though thinner than even the month before and he brought his mouth to her ear, “Thank you for the adventures.” She tried not to let him see the tears, but he turned her body towards his, his strength still evident and took her face in her hands. “It’s OK, babe. The sea can handle the salt and so can I,” before he kissed her cheeks under the brightening sky.
