I'm the One Who Got Away Read online

  We passed through the first-class corridor—each compartment a blur of tortoiseshell sunglasses perched in elegant coifs, designer handbags shutting with hushed snaps. A regally bronzed woman smoothed her skirt as her husband tucked into the seat beside her, his hair a crown of silver waves. In another compartment, three well-dressed youths— high school or college age—reminded me of the flirty teens I’d seen earlier. One leaned out the window and called to someone on the platform. I noted the tilt of his hips and his broad shoulders before I caught his friend’s brown eyes following me as I passed.

  The conductor took me to the only empty seats on the train—in the restaurant car. Depositing me there, he said something to the waiters who were polishing glasses. Puzzling for clues to my disaster, they looked me up and down. They went back to their work as the train began to move. Relieved for the moment, I sat down at one of the tables. I watched the Firenze sign pass by the window. I had done it. I’d found a train. I’d followed our plan. In three hours when I reached Rome, we would be reunited. As the train barreled along, I was convinced my mother would be proud of how deftly I’d handled the situation.

  But as I sped to Rome, my mother was standing on a platform in the town of Arezzo, Danieli by her side. They would wait for four trains before finally deciding that I was not coming to Arezzo, the true “next stop.” Danieli did not abandon my mother. On the contrary, the old man secured passage for the two of them back to Florence on a full train with no money exchanged, and from what my mother could gather, no questions asked. They rode without speaking, sitting on jump seats attached to the wall in the engineer’s car. Their luggage—our luggage, because my mother had mine as well—lay in a heap on the grimy floor of the big open car where men operated the train. My mother studied Danieli, trying to understand who he was and why the conductor, the train personnel, and the station policemen were all notably deferential. Was he a government official? An affluent businessman? She didn’t know and never would.

  As the Tuscan countryside passed me by, I couldn’t help thinking that if I had kept my mouth shut the night before, none of this would have happened. It should have been the perfect evening to end our Venice stay.

  To make up for the room mix-up on the first night, the hotel had given us a gorgeous suite. Mornings, we’d breakfasted in the little garden we’d seen the first day. We’d been to St. Mark’s Basilica, Doge’s Palace, and the opera at Teatro La Fenice. For our final dinner, my mother chose one of the best restaurants in the city— La Caravella.

  A man in a beautiful suit had been seated at the table next to ours. Sitting on the banquette beside my mother, dining alone, he soon struck up a conversation with us. The divide between our tables seemed to disappear a little more with each course until it was as if the three of us were enjoying the meal together. Between the veal carpaccio and risotto with fennel, he leaned nearer to her. By the oven-roasted turbot, he’d touched her elbow twice. His hair was thin, but he had nice teeth. As the dark chocolate mousse arrived, he began telling a charming story that was supposedly meant for me while his eyes addressed her.

  After we left the restaurant, I started the argument, keeping it in until we were walking down the hall back to our room. “Why do you talk to them?” I demanded even as I tried to keep my voice low so other guests behind their closed doors wouldn’t hear.

  “I was just being polite,” my mother said, sliding the heavy key into the hotel room door.

  “It’s like you don’t even know what they want.” I spat the words at her. I’m not sure what made me angrier. That she seemed to glide around, oblivious to her charms, responding to these men as if she had no clue about the effect she was having on them. Or that she never used these charms to close the deal, marry again, and be like everyone else’s mother.

  “I believe I know a thing or two,” she said, stepping out of her peau de soie heels and sinking to the floor in stocking feet.

  “Not lately,” I said. We both knew what I meant. When was the last time she’d been on a date? She’d had one relationship when I was in elementary school and that was it. If she knew so much about being with men, I certainly hadn’t seen any evidence of it.

  “And why do you suppose that is?” She stared at me.

  Was she saying that if I hadn’t been there she would have pursued the flirtations of the man in the restaurant? In that moment I saw his hand at the small of her back, guiding her as they strolled to one of the little cafés on the square. Or perhaps on their way to a Campari and soda in the bar of his hotel. From there, who knew?

  Not once had I ever heard her openly rue our situation. Never had I heard her say she wished to be free of me even for an evening. Was she finally saying it was my fault that she was still alone? Didn’t she know that’s what I worried about most: that I’d kept her from a happy life? Afraid of what she might say next, I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth.

  When I came out, I saw she had gone out to the balcony. Still in her dinner dress, she stood looking at the building tops and dark sky. I watched her for a moment. I knew if I gave her the chance she’d take back what she’d said. She’d say I was the best thing that had ever happened to her, like she always did. But sometimes that made it worse, because her life never looked like enough to me. I knew that as her constant companion, I must hold her back. I wanted more for her and for me.

  I climbed into bed, turning my face to the wall. As I drifted asleep, I imagined not for the first time, what it would have been like for her if she’d never had me. Would she have gone back to college after divorcing my father? Would she have become the photojournalist she’d longed to be as a girl? Would she have found a traveling companion truly worthy of her? For years, before that night and after, I daydreamed an alternate life for my mother, pictured her living abroad, walking down cobblestone streets arm in arm with a man who treasured her. How often I worried that, in the end, I would be the love of her life.

  We woke the next morning to a knock on the door and the morning’s breakfast tray. Realizing we’d overslept, we rushed to the station only to find the train we’d hoped to take was full—the train I was now riding to Rome.

  At one o’clock, the dining car began filling with the first-class passengers I’d seen earlier. The bronze woman and the silver-haired man sat at a table nearby. My appetite had left with my mother’s train, but now as I smelled sauces finessed with wine and saw baskets of bread being served, knowing that I seemed to have righted my situation, I felt free to be hungry again. Yet surely the conductor had not meant for me to eat. Waiting for someone to tell me to leave, I looked out the window at the yellow fields and distant hills rolling by.

  I heard the plate being placed on the table before I saw it.

  “Antipasto,” the waiter said, smiling. “Scampi.” Three large shrimp stared at me; their orange bodies, with fountain-like feelers and black eyes, were arranged prettily on the plate. He nodded for me to try them. “Zrimps. Very good.” He moved on to the next table.

  As I cut into the sweet, chewy shrimp, the three young men I’d seen earlier entered the dining car. They scanned the car, and somehow I knew they’d come looking for me. I sat up straighter, pretending not to notice at first. They were not the shy boys I was used to from home. After they spotted me, they gathered around like birds hopping closer to a park bench. Their leader, who introduced himself as Claudio, pointed to the chairs at my table. All it took was a dip of my head, the slightest signal of yes, and they were seated beside me. I saw the elegantly tanned older woman frown at the scene. Claudio was lanky with dark curls, brows, and lashes. His prominent Adam’s apple showed above his collared shirt tucked into slim jeans. His friends had the names of other Shakespearean characters—Mercutio and Antonio.

  “American?” he asked. I’d barely said a word. What was it about me that conveyed this? I’d always had the feeling that Europeans regarded Americans as children playing at being grown-ups.

  “Californian,” I said. “From where they mak
e the movies.” My mother often said this when we were making chitchat with strangers we met on our trips. It sounded dumb coming from me, but Claudio didn’t seem to think so. “Ah, Hollywood,” he said, as if I’d already confided something special to him.

  When the waiter brought their appetizers, they ordered wine, which startled me. I’d only had champagne on New Year’s Eve and at weddings. After the wine arrived, Claudio poured some into my glass. I lifted it to my lips and he watched me drink.

  He knew only a little English. His friends knew even less. But together we made our way through two more courses—veal battered and fried to golden with flecks of black pepper, lemon wedges fanned in a pinwheel beside it, followed by a dessert of berries and zabaglione. Through the meal, I gleaned from Claudio that he had two sisters. That he lived in Florence. That he was in his first year at university.

  I was exotic to them. That was clear as I tucked my hair behind my ear, aware of the way they took in my moves with appreciation. Under their gaze, I felt a swirl of pride rather than embarrassment at the display of my breasts beneath my summery pink dress.

  After the plates were cleared, Claudio leaned across the table, hunkering down for more conversation. It seemed impossibly intimate to be near enough to see where he had shaved away his dark beard. I pictured him standing in front of a mirror, shirtless. I heard the scrape of the razor against his handsome jaw. When he asked me how old I was, I didn’t know numbers in Italian but I lied with my hands, counting out seventeen instead of fifteen.

  Claudio had somehow made it clear to his friends that I was his. Either through one of their lilting Italian exchanges or simply because he was in charge, they seemed to have agreed that after the meal the others would go back to their compartment while he stayed.

  I was glad when they left. I tried not to look at Claudio too often, but each time I did I found him watching me, too. Perhaps it was the power I felt when I lifted my glass and let the wine with its buttery softness slide over my tongue and down my throat. Perhaps it was the fact that even though I’d been separated from my mother I was okay. Whatever it was, as the train moved forward, I felt like the figurehead on a ship pushing into my future.

  Claudio lit a cigarette. One brown eye squinted as he blew the smoke upward. I reached for the little box of matches he’d laid on the table. We listened to the matchsticks rattle in the box as I turned it end over end. I imagined telling my mother about him. Already I’d envisioned him picking me up for a date at our hotel in Rome. We would sit beside each other in a taxi, or even better, one of those carriages you could hire. We’d sit beside each other the way my mother and I had in the gondola. As he brought his cigarette to his lips, I realized I was afraid to kiss someone who smoked. But I told myself that I would. Maybe I would even smoke, myself.

  Then Claudio said, “Napoli? You go to Napoli?”

  “Naples?” I didn’t understand.

  “Si, si. Tonight holiday.” He pronounced it like holy-day. “Big party. Bell’assai. Lights. Singing.” How could we not have covered this ground earlier? Until that moment, it had never occurred to me that he might be going anywhere but Rome.

  He leaned toward me again. “You will come?” He asked this almost in a whisper. He does like me, I thought. He does.

  Then I thought, Just one more stop. All I had to do was stay on the train. I pushed the idea of my frantic mother out of my head. Just one more stop. I could go to Napoli with Claudio and come back that night. I could tell my mother that I had made a mistake; the train didn’t stop in Rome. I had to go all the way to Naples and come back. The train people were nice. They’d helped me even though I had no money. I was almost sixteen. Not that much younger than she’d been when she married my father. I wasn’t going to make a mistake like that. No, I only wanted Claudio to kiss me. I only wanted to feel his boy-man arms hold me.

  “But I have to come back tonight,” I said, the thrill of “yes” on my lips.

  “Tonight. Yes. Tonight, Ahn-dre-ah,” he said, letting each vowel in my name linger in his mouth.

  As we neared Rome, the fields and hills gave way to factories and suburbs. Claudio had returned to his compartment to tell his friends I would be going with them. Would they clap him on the back, exchange a knowing smile? Would they envy him? I didn’t want to think too carefully about what I was doing.

  “Roma. Fra poco.”

  I turned from the window to see the young conductor who had let me on the train. He gestured outside. “Roma,” he said again.

  “Si,” I nodded. “Si.” I knew he was telling me to get ready—that Rome was the next stop. I thanked him and watched him move down the aisle. As soon as he’d gone, I headed in the opposite direction. I found the restroom and shut myself inside.

  Flushed from the wine, I leaned close to the spotty little mirror above the sink. I ran a brown paper towel across it, hoping to get a better look. I wanted, as always, to understand how people saw me. My father’s almond, deep-set eyes. My mother’s cheekbones and her strong jaw, always a little defiant. My nose too broad to make me beautiful.

  I bit my lips and watched them redden. Raising an eye-brow at my image, I saw that my looks were not equal to my mother’s. Her desirability did not have to be guessed at. But remembering how Claudio had said my name, I relished having an appeal all my own.

  The train was slowing now, arriving in Rome. I went back to the restaurant car, hoping Claudio would be there, but the car was empty. Even the waiters were gone. I passed by our table and noticed my box of cookies still on a chair. Tucking the box under my arm, I made my way to the open train door and stepped down the high metal steps. In the moments I’d studied myself in the mirror, I’d admitted the truth to myself. Naples wasn’t what I wanted. I wasn’t ready for that. Instead, it was enough to know that Claudio wanted me to go with him. It was enough to know that if I wanted to I could.

  My mother couldn’t possibly be in Rome yet, but I scanned the crowd on the platform anyway. As I headed toward the station, I heard the express train, now bound for Naples, start to lumber forward. Then I heard my name: “Ahn-dre-ah.” Turning, I saw Claudio leaning out his window. “Ahn-dre-ah,” he said again with a question on his face. I smiled and waved at him. “Ahn-dre-ah, marry me, Ahn-dre-ah,” he called as he sailed by.

  My mother and Danieli had searched the Florence station for me. They’d talked to the police there. They’d gone back to Arezzo. Finally, Danieli suggested they go on to Rome. It was nearly midnight when they arrived. My mother and I had been separated for ten hours.

  It was Danieli who saw me first. I was sitting on a circular bench in the center of the station, hunched forward, elbows on knees. He dropped his brown satchel and reached for my mother’s elbow. He tipped his head in my direction. He and my mother had been managing in this silent way all day. His fingers slipped from her arm as she moved in long strides toward me.

  “Where was I? Where were you?” she said, finally releasing me. She pretended her tone was playful, but she seemed grateful when the old man wagged his head, scolding me over the grief I’d caused her: “Andrea, Andrea, Andrea.” Neither of them could know that I liked hearing my name with the ahs that Claudio had used.

  “I went to the next stop,” I said. “Rome.” I waved my hand at the station around us. Did my mother notice the color in my cheeks? As I tried to defend myself, did she catch a glimmer of guilt over what I’d been tempted to do with Claudio?

  “Arezzo was the next stop,” she said evenly, but her breath was high and tight at the back of her throat. “We waited and waited.” I could see her panic returning.

  “The train schedule said Rome.” I looked from my mother to Danieli. I knew I wouldn’t convince them that I’d done the right thing.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said, quickly tamping down her fear again. Later, when we finally made it to our hotel in Rome, she would drink both the bottle and the split of champagne in the room’s minibar.

  I didn’t remind them that I h
ad been waiting, too. First for our original slow train to arrive, expecting my mother to emerge from it. Then when she hadn’t, I’d posted myself on a central bench, believing that she would find me eventually. Hours later, she had.

  The three of us stood in a little circle until I reached for my straw bag, which my mother had been carrying.

  “Shall we?” she said at last.

  Danieli adjusted his leather case over his shoulder. “Andiamo,” he said.

  We walked to the station’s ornate open entryway. Taxis lined the curb. Usually the drivers made me nervous with their hovering, their urgent vying to be chosen. That night we were not pestered. The old man steered us to the first cab in line and said something to the driver.

  Danieli, whose real name we never learned, held the taxi door open for us. Once we were inside, he gently closed it, remaining protectively by the window. Then he bowed the way he had when he first entered our train compartment. I waved at him. My mother’s face was turned to the window, so I could not see her expression. But I hoped she was rewarding him with another of her beautiful smiles. As the cab pulled away, we leaned back against the seat, reunited, our shoulders not quite touching.

  The Wolf and the Lamb

  A FEW BLOCKS FROM SUNSET BOULEVARD IN HIS WHITE stucco house perched on a hill, my father looks into the mirror above his bathroom sink. I imagine him taking in the shape of his head, his jaw, and the worth of each profile. He does this in one sweeping, practiced glance. He’s learned not to lean in close, not to bring into focus the scribble of red lines that began forming across the top of each chiseled cheekbone after he hit forty.

  He empties six ice trays into the sink’s basin and takes a deep breath before plunging his face into the cold. Paul Newman taught him the ice trick a dozen years before, when they met on a movie set. Back when Nick’s future was stretching out before him and the preservation of his looks was a serious matter.