Читать книгу Francesca's Kitchen - Peter Pezzelli - Страница 15

The newspaper lay in an orange plastic bag at the bottom of the front walk when Francesca looked out the window early the next morning. The sun had only partially risen, so the front yard was still in shadows. From where she stood, the newspaper looked like some sort of small, bright orange creature curled up asleep on the icy pavement.

Francesca let out a grunt of consternation. Once upon a time, the paperboy would have at least made certain that he tossed her morning newspaper up onto the front step so that, one, it would stay dry, and two, she wouldn’t need to go traipsing through the snow or rain to retrieve it. She remembered Jimmy, their paperboy when she and Leo had first moved into the house. Jimmy had been up every morning at the crack of dawn, his sack of newspapers slung over his shoulder as he pedaled his bike from house to house before school. In those days, The Providence Journal also put out an afternoon edition, The Evening Bulletin, so Jimmy would come around again after school. He was the nicest, most polite young man she had ever met, and she always gave him something extra when she paid him each week.

Nowadays, though, there was no longer an afternoon edition of the newspaper, and one person in a car did the job of ten paperboys. This arrangement, she presumed, is what some people referred to as progress. Francesca did not think of it that way. Whoever it was that drove by every morning at five a.m. had no time for niceties such as making it easier for an old lady to pick up her newspaper. She often awoke to the sound of the newspapers plopping against the sidewalks on her street. As best as she could discern, the driver never stopped, but simply flung the papers out the window as the car passed, letting them land wherever. Sometimes hers came to rest within easy reach; sometimes it landed in the middle of a puddle on a rainy day. Francesca was lucky, she supposed, that her daily newspaper had not yet ended up stuck in a tree someplace—but then again, it was probably only a matter of time.

At lunchtime, the newspaper still rested on the same spot. Lately, the headlines had been proclaiming nothing but gloom, something that Francesca felt she already had in ample supply; there was no need to hurry out to get more. Besides, it was a bitter cold day, and she had been disinclined to brave the elements that morning. Instead, she had spent the early part of the day upstairs, rummaging through the bedroom closets. It always amazed Francesca to discover how much clutter her children had left behind. No matter how many times she straightened out the attic or closets, she inevitably found something that she had previously overlooked. Truth be told, much of what was left was old clothes that were beyond use. Many of these she simply tossed out from time to time, when she had the chance. The clothes that were out of style but still in good condition she usually gave away.

Certain things, however, were still too precious to Francesca to give away when she came across them. Whether it was a dress Rosie had once worn, or perhaps a bonnet Alice had adored as a little girl, the clothes from when her children were small were always the ones that affected Francesca the deepest. On this particular morning, she held up a little blue cardigan sweater that she happened to pull out of Joey’s closet. Her son had last worn it, she well remembered, for Christmas back when he was all of four years old. Hanging beside it was the shirt and the pair of corduroys Francesca had dressed him in that day. Down below on the floor, she found the tiny pair of shiny black shoes in which he had clomped about the house so proudly. She knelt to take a closer look at them. Holding the shoes up, she recalled how he had looked so adorable that day that everyone had just wanted to pick him up and hug him for all they were worth. Joey was too much of a little boy, of course, to let anyone hold him, so he inevitably managed to squirm out of their arms before long.

Now, as she knelt there thinking back on that day, remembering her son and daughters as they were, wishing for all the world that she could have them back like that again for just a little while, Francesca breathed in the scent of the wool and squeezed the little sweater to her heart. In her mind, she understood that time marched on, that these things for which she sometimes yearned could not and should not ever be. Still the tears ran freely from her eyes, until she carefully placed the sweater back on its hanger and tucked the shoes back in their place. Then, drying her cheeks with the back of her hand, she closed the closet door and returned downstairs.

Later, Francesca finally went out for the newspaper while the last of the soup she had made the previous weekend was heating up on the stove. Muttering something uncomplimentary about whoever it was that had delivered her newspaper, she hurried back inside with it, hoping she wouldn’t slip and fall in the process. A shiver raced up her spine when she finally made it back into the front hall. She shook off her coat and went into the kitchen to warm up.

Francesca looked over the newspaper while she sat at the kitchen table, eating her soup. As she often did, she gave the front page only a cursory examination before going directly to the obituaries. Perhaps it might seem odd that someone who was feeling so gloomy would be so anxious to read the death notices. In truth, though Francesca read them with dread, praying that she would not find the name of anyone she knew, it seemed like wakes and funerals were the only time she saw her old friends anymore. In an odd sort of way, they were something to look forward to. Besides, when Francesca was feeling glum, as she did at this particular moment, the fact that she did not find her own name listed there was something of a consolation.

Relieved to find that none of her acquaintances had chosen to leave this world, Francesca turned her attention back to the front page and looked over the headlines of the day. As she leafed through the rest of the paper, she found little that held her interest among the usual accounts of scandal and calamity. She set the paper down for a moment and gave a sigh; she just wasn’t in the mood for it all. Francesca often wondered why they called it the news when it seemed like nothing truly new ever happened. With each turn of the page, she always hoped to find some newsworthy item that would spark her imagination, something that would inspire her and snap her out of the doldrums. As she stared blankly across the room, her gaze fell on the clock above the stove, and suddenly she became acutely aware of the passage of time. It was then that Francesca realized that what had been troubling her most that day was the feeling that she had grown weary of reading about what other people were doing, of watching them on television, and of hearing of their exploits, as if her time had passed and now she was only a spectator and not a participant in life. She was sick of the feeling that she was just sitting on the sidelines, watching it all go by. She longed to get back in the game—for however long God would allow her to play.

Francesca looked down at the newspaper. She was just about ready to fold it all up and toss it into the recycling bin when she noticed the classified section peeking out from the bottom. Not sure of exactly what she was looking for, she pulled out the section and opened it to the help-wanted ads. Her gloom turned to dismay when she beheld the columns of employment opportunities. As she scanned the page, she found nothing for which she was even remotely qualified. Francesca was good with numbers, but she was certainly no accountant. She was as good a cook as any restaurant could hope for, but she had no formal training or license. She possessed no bachelor’s degree in any subject, nor did she have any computer skills. She would have loved to offer her services to the local school district as a substitute teacher, for she was certain that there was a lot she could teach the kids, but even those temporary positions required a degree and certification from the state.

Francesca sighed and put the paper down again. She had just made up her mind to forget about the whole thing and toss the paper out when her eye spied a very small help-wanted ad near the bottom of the page. Her first inclination was to skip over it, but then she leaned closer and gave it a quick read. Then she read it again more carefully. Somewhere inside the back of her mind the light of a new idea suddenly flickered to life. At first, she tried to dismiss the notion, but try as she might, it only seemed to glow that much brighter. Francesca sat there for a time, wondering what she should do. It would help to talk to someone. She needed to talk to someone, but who? Rosie and Alice were sure to have a conniption if they found out what she was contemplating, and Joey was off to the other side of the world. She stayed there, turning the matter over and over again in her mind, until at last she came to a decision and stood. A few minutes later, bundled up in her coat and hat and boots and gloves, Francesca grabbed her book bag and opened the front door. She stood there for a few moments, wondering if she was doing the right thing.

“I’ve waited long enough,” she finally muttered. Then she stepped outside, locked the door behind her, and went to the car.