“Listen, missy. You’ve got it. You know what I mean by ‘it,’ right? You’re cute and got nice legs, and you could model, sure, but you’ve also got something on that stage, and not many girls your age have it.” He points to the dance hall with his cigarette. “You have all those boys dreaming about you tonight and all those gals wishing they could do what you do. That’s one room of people in one little town. One day it could be the whole country or the whole world; you know that, right?”
It’s like all my fantasies have come to life, but I know this isn’t a dream because in a dream I would say yes unequivocally. I wouldn’t have problems with mothers or fathers or expectations or money. Instead, I watch the smoke from his cigarette twist into the sky, drifting away like a dream upon waking.
“I . . . I better go. Thank you for this.” I hold up the card, the most priceless item I’ve ever had in my possession and possibly the most useless.
“Wait. I promised you a taxi.” He points to the taxi stand across from the bus stop. The idea of riding in a cab anywhere sounds so cosmopolitan, but I don’t know how I’d explain it to my father.
“Oh, no thank you. But it was nice meeting you, Mr. Lombardo,” I say, shaking his hand lightly.
“Archie. And it was my pleasure, Miss Snow,” he says, placing his hand over his heart with a short bow. “See you on the first?”
I don’t say anything in return. With a quick curtsy, I walk away, down the street and toward home. If I walk quickly, I can make it there before the next bus even shows up. I’m only a little over a mile from my house. Plus, I need some space to think, away from Mr. Lombardo, away from his charming words and his eyes that see far more in me than I ever have.
CHAPTER 17
Elise
Present Day
Camp Atterbury
“This is for you,” Mehrvash, or Ash as she suggested we call her, says as a little girl in a long-sleeved blue T-shirt and patterned cotton pants holds up a coloring book page. She’s neatly filled in a dog character with markers and added little hand-drawn stick figures smiling and waving.
“Thank you!” I say, smiling at her as I inspect the drawing. “It’s beautiful.”
Ash is the interpreter assigned to the shoot for the day, and she relays my message in Farsi. I attempted to say a few phrases when Father Patrick introduced me to the class, but they giggled so much at my errors, Patrick suggested I let Ash step in.
Father Patrick and Ash have been invaluable today. With their help and the strict guidance of Atterbury’s PR rep, we’ve spent the day touring the facility and exploring the refugee program up close. Last week when Mac finally caught up with me after our fight in the sexton’s office and begged me to continue with the project, this was my bargaining chip.
I told Mac that if he’d include a segment on the refugees in the documentary and references for the charitable organizations that assist in this work domestically and internationally and pledge a percentage of the profits to the cause, I’d continue with the documentary.
After some discussion with attorneys and the officials at Camp Atterbury, Mac signed off on the deal. And so, we’re here, and it’s been a full day of filming. Mac is in and out, hardly engaging with the subjects, but it doesn’t matter to me how much of a selfish jerk he is because I finally, finally feel like this project has some meaning.
I’ve spent two of the past five days volunteering at the camp under the guidance of Father Patrick and his team. At first, I organized donations and helped in the kitchen, but at the end of the first day, Patrick invited me to his art therapy class.
I can’t speak the language, and I don’t have training in mental health or public service, but something about the camp calls to me and makes me want to do more. I spend so much of my life helping the privileged create and maintain a beautiful image that’s sold to the public to keep them wealthy or famous, and I’ve enjoyed being behind the scenes in the society I was brought up in, but volunteering here hits differently. It isn’t about making people look a certain way but about making actual change.
“I think that’s you and that’s Esin,” Father Patrick explains, pointing to the figures. Ash relays the analysis, and eight-year-old Esin nods her head.
“You are such an artist,” I say to the girl, who giggles when Ash tells her what I said. “It’s my turn. I’ll draw one for you,” I say, taking out a blank piece of paper and some crayons. I draw a little girl with dark hair and a tall woman in a long purple dress shaped like a triangle who is supposed to represent me. I write Esin in English under her figure and Elise under mine. Ash takes a moment to write both in Farsi beneath my crayon letters and then passes the final drawing to Esin. She hugs it and says, “Thank you,” in English and walks back to her seat. Mac gives a thumbs-up, and I hold on to my happy face, even though I’m still not in a good place with Mac.
“I should at least learn how to say thank you,” I say to Father Patrick and Ash, embarrassed that as an adult I can’t even learn one phrase in Farsi, while Esin is working to master an entire second language.
“We can work on it next time,” Ash says. The day is almost over, and there likely won’t be a “next time,” at least not with Mac involved. He reported at the beginning of the art class that he’s gotten everything he needs for this segment.
I had lunch with Esin’s family members, and they’ve signed a release to have their story told through the documentary. Mac says he’ll find a way to parallel the Italians’ and Afghans’ respective experiences in the camp. And I can see the similarities in their storylines.
More than 88 percent of the POWs left Camp Atterbury and the other 174 branch camps in the fall of 1943 when Italy left the Axis powers and joined the Italian Service Unit of the US Army. They spent the rest of the war in temporary housing in places with labor shortages until it was safe to be repatriated. Some stayed and made their homes here.
He’ll never admit it, but I can tell he knows this timely storyline will add more weight to his production. We still haven’t found common ground on the whole “grandpa grave” issue, but my mother’s flight lands tomorrow morning at eight o’clock, and I for one will be relieved to have her here. The wall of assistants and agents she’s built around herself over the years is virtually impenetrable when she wants it to be.
Father Patrick is preparing for the end of the day, and as soon as the kids file out, Mac will head back to the hotel. We have a dinner planned at Cracker Barrel, but I’m tired of the overly starchy menu, and other than talking with Lisa, I have little to look forward to, conversation-wise. In my free time these past few weeks, I sneak away to the small diner on East Main Cross Street in downtown Edinburgh. Their coffee is rich and as strong as their free Wi-Fi, and when I need to get some work done, Big Red’s Place has become my makeshift office.