Читать книгу Francesca's Kitchen - Peter Pezzelli - Страница 8

No one was there to greet Francesca when the plane arrived at T.F. Green Airport in Warwick, a few miles outside of Providence. This had been the cause of no small amount of consternation on the part of Roseanne, who had wrung her hands about it the entire day before her mother flew home. Wasn’t there anyone who could give her a ride from the airport, her daughter had asked? Who would carry her suitcase, and who would make sure she got safely in the door? And what if something was amiss in the house? It was winter back in the Northeast, cold and snowy. What if she slipped and fell walking up the steps? Why didn’t she move out of that stupid old house and into an apartment in a nice building where they made sure the walks were always shoveled and clean? Or why couldn’t Francesca just move to Florida or Oregon, where at least one sister or the other could look after her?

It was always the same for Roseanne, and for her sister, Alice, as well. No matter how well or poorly a visit with their mother might have gone, the day of parting was inevitably one filled with pangs of regret and guilt at the thought of the old woman being forced to fly all the way home by herself. The one consolation was always that their brother, Joey, could be counted on to be there at the airport to pick her up. Thirty-two and unmarried, Joey was the youngest of Francesca’s three children and the only one to stay close to home. This time, however, Joey himself was away on vacation. He and his rugby friends had decided to take a trip to Australia to see, his sisters and mother could only surmise, if banging into one another’s heads felt any different in that part of the world than it did in New England. In any case, Joey would be gone for the better part of a month, so Francesca was on her own.

Not that she minded.

When the plane landed and Francesca began to make her way out with the rest of the herd, she knew that she would be perfectly capable of carrying her one small suitcase out of the airport, of finding a taxicab to carry her home, and of negotiating the perilous ten paces up the walkway to her front door. Of this she had tried in vain to assure her daughter that day she flew home from Florida. She was a big girl, she told her. And so, when she finally collected her suitcase and made her way to the exit, Francesca was unperturbed by the bone-chilling blast of cold air that swept across the parking lot like a wave of ice water to welcome her when she stepped outside. It affected her little that the bright Florida sunshine and warm, caressing breeze was replaced by the pale gray shroud of a January sky hanging gloomily over the city as she rode home in the taxi. She didn’t mind trudging through the crusty snow that blanketed the walkway to the front steps; the cab driver, after all, was kind enough to carry her suitcase for her. These were all things for which Francesca had prepared herself. How could she have done otherwise? She was a New Englander born and bred.

There was, however, one thing for which Francesca was never quite ready, something that always took her by surprise whenever she came home. That particular day, as was so often the case, she encountered it in that very first moment after she stepped inside the house. Francesca set her suitcase on the floor and closed the door behind her. Somewhere in the back of her mind, of course, she knew that it had been there all along, biding its time, waiting for her return. Still, she chose to forget about it, to push even the thought of it as far back into her subconscious as she possibly could, for it was the one thing that made coming home very difficult, the one thing that, if she dwelt on it, was able to let the harbingers of despair creep into her soul.

The silence.

Alone in the hallway, unwinding the scarf from around her neck, Francesca felt the heavy stillness of the house pressing in all around her, squeezing the breath out of her, keeping her from moving further within. It was like standing in the middle of an elevator that was becoming more and more crowded at each successive floor. Except here, there were no people crushing in on her, only the memories of those who had once happily occupied that same space with her and the echoes of their voices. The joys and sorrows, the laughter and tears, the tranquil and chaotic moments alike, all rushed in and smothered her, like little children greeting a work-weary parent at the door.

Francesca stood there for a time, listening intently. The house, she soon realized, was not completely silent. From the kitchen came the humming of the refrigerator, and from the living room the relentless tock tock tock of the clock on the mantel. Added to these was the low grumble of the furnace in the basement. The monotonous tones, however, did little to dispel the gloomy quiet. There was something unsettling about them that served only to deepen her sense of isolation, and in their monotony, they drove home all the more emphatically the point that there was no one there but her.

Francesca tugged off her overcoat, hung it in the closet, then reached down to collect the pile of bills and solicitations that the mailman had deposited through the slot in the front door. Everything was still addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Leonard Campanile. Leo had been gone for over eight years, but Francesca had never bothered to change the name on her mailing address to reflect the fact that she was a widow. Somehow, seeing their names together on the envelopes kept a glimmer of hope burning inside that her husband, even though she could no longer see him, was still in the parlor watching television while awaiting her return, or sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper like he always did, or perhaps upstairs on the bed taking a nap. She half-expected to find him there waiting for her every time she walked through the front door; that half of her felt it keenly when, inevitably, she did not.

Sifting through the mail, Francesca’s spirits brightened when she spied a postcard nestled between the electric bill and a credit card offer. It was from Australia. The front side of the card showed two photographs side by side. Francesca regarded the pictures uneasily. The one on the left was of a young man standing atop the railing of what appeared to be a rather high bridge. Around his ankle was tied some sort of rope. Behind him, a group of smiling onlookers seemed to be cheering the young fool on. The photograph to the right showed the man in midair, his eyes and mouth as wide as saucers as he plummeted off the side of the bridge toward the water far below. The caption on the card read: TAKING THE PLUNGE DOWN UNDER!

Francesca shuddered at the thought of her son doing such a thing. She made the sign of the cross and flipped the card over. It read:

Hi Mom!

Having a wonderful time! Just as well you’re not here.

Joey

“Dio mio!” Francesca exclaimed, looking up to heaven. “What an idiot!”

Refusing to give it another thought, for the whole idea of her son jumping off a bridge just for fun gave her the jimjams, Francesca dropped the postcard back in with the rest of the mail and went to the kitchen. Along the way, she paused to check the thermostat, which she had left set at fifty-five degrees. It was now only slightly warmer than that in the house, and Francesca considered nudging it up a few degrees. She paused and considered the newly arrived gas bill. Pulling the collar of her sweater more tightly about her neck, she decided to leave the thermostat just as it was.

Once in the kitchen, she set the mail onto the table in a neat stack and turned to look out the window over the sink. If the interior of her home seemed gloomy to her, the exterior was positively bleak. It was late afternoon, and the barren trees and shrubs swayed back and forth in the cold wind, while the sun slowly fell off to the west. A thin cover of hard, frozen snow lay across most of the backyard, though here and there a patch of ground managed to show itself. The picnic table at which Francesca liked to sit during the warm weather was blanketed, as were the nearby gardens in which she occasionally liked to putter around. Across the yard, a bird feeder clung to a tree branch. Francesca had filled it before leaving for Florida, but now it was empty, swinging to-and-fro like a pendulum in the wind, not a bird in sight. This saddened Francesca, because she welcomed the sight of the birds happily pecking away at the feeder. They were a sign that life was still close by, even though it was the dead of winter.

Francesca gave a little sigh, turned away from the window, and went to the refrigerator. It was several hours since she had last eaten. The stewardess had offered her a snack during the flight home, but Francesca had said no. She had been too nervous to eat. Besides, Roseanne had packed a pepper-and-egg sandwich for her in case she really became hungry. She had ended up giving it to the young man sitting next to her. He had never before tasted a pepper-and-egg sandwich, so the look of surprise and pleasure on his face when he took his first bite had been the only bright spot of the journey. The rest was just a long blur of nervous anxiety.

Now, peering into the refrigerator, Francesca realized that the anxiety had all passed, but she still did not feel hungry, or if she did, she didn’t care. There was plenty on hand in the refrigerator for her to whip up something quick, but the thought of eating alone at that particular moment took away any satisfaction the meal might have given her. Added to that was the sudden weariness that settled in on her like someone had just handed her a sack of potatoes. She was too tired to cook.

Francesca closed the refrigerator door and walked out of the kitchen to the front hall. Her daughter, she well knew, would be waiting by the telephone back in Florida, anxious to hear that her mother had made it home safely. Francesca would call her from the bedroom and then lie down to rest. She took hold of her suitcase and turned toward the staircase.

“Leo,” she called as she started up the stairs, “I’m home.”