I took a deep breath and then tried to frame my thoughts carefully for my father. I started once, stopped, then started again.
“Dad, I don’t know for sure what it all means with Jack. I love him. I know that. And I think he loves me. I know some of the timing may be a little awkward, but there’s always a glitch, right? Isn’t that what you say? Life is one long fight against glitches? Well, I’m starting this new job, and I will give it everything. I promise you that. But Jack counts for something, too. We could postpone everything, tell ourselves what we experienced here doesn’t count, but you didn’t raise me to think like that. You didn’t. Life doesn’t happen someplace in the future. You said that. You said life happens here and now, and it’s a fool’s bargain to let something good go now in the hope of something better at a later date. That’s almost a direct quote. So trust me, Dad. This is a good man. He sees the world in a way that interests me. We make a good team. Maybe it’s not the most convenient set of circumstances, but life is always full of glitches, right?”
“Always full of glitches,” Dad agreed.
It was his adage. He had to agree.
“Okay, sweetie, I guess that’s it. We’re looking forward to seeing you home here. Will Jack be with you here?”
“We haven’t discussed it, but yes, if that’s all right with you.”
“It’s your home, too, sweetheart. You’re always welcome no matter what.”
“And Jack?”
“If Jack’s okay with you, then he’s okay with us.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your saying that.”
“You’re not supposed to be growing up so fast, you know?”
“Not that fast, Daddy. I still feel like a ten-year-old.”
“Well, we all do in one way or another. All right, I’ll report back to headquarters. Mom will want to know the scoop. See you in what? A little over a week?”
“A little over a week.”
I thought for a second he hung up. But then he said what he always says.
“You’re still my pumpkin, you know.”
“I know, Daddy. I always will be.”
32
July 30, 1947
I arrived in a beautiful Italian city called Finale Ligure. It’s not really a city, I suppose. More of a village. It’s on the seacoast, the Gulf of Genoa. The war didn’t consume it as it consumed other places. Being near the sea air has improved my appetite. I ate two large bowls of tomato and noodles at lunch. Afterward, I slept a long time beside the ocean. I had one of those strange sleeps in which the sound of gulls plays in your dreams and you hardly know what is the dream and what is waking life.
“These must be the stone pillars he wrote about,” Jack said, the journal in his hand, his head turning back and forth from the café nearby to the line of pillars that now towered above us. They were heavy spears of stone jabbed into the earth as if someone had thrown them. No one seemed to pay them any mind except other tourists. One short, round man with enormous forearms stopped near us and explained in Italian that the pillars had once belonged to a Roman brothel, but I had a feeling he was having us on. I tried to google Roman brothel and Finale Ligure on my phone, but the phone claimed it was out of range. The Italian man laughed and walked off. We were the American dupes.
“Is the café name…?” I asked and borrowed the journal from Jack. The journal read Café Excalibur. The café now was called Café Caprazoppa, named after the great limestone rock that formed the mountains, but that did not necessarily mean it was not the same café.
“Put the journal in your backpack, will you? But wait. It says seven pillars, doesn’t it?”
I searched the entry. His grandfather had drawn pillars, fat tubes of rock, but he did not give a number in the text that I could find. I read it up and down while Jack wove in and out among the pillars, his eyes up. It was late afternoon, and the cafés had begun to fill with crowds taking late coffees or having their first cocktails.
“The drawing has seven pillars,” I said, my eyes going back and forth from the stones to the journal, then back again. “But I don’t see it in the text.”
“Imagine if he was here. I like thinking that he was here.”
“I suppose it could be plenty of places, but this seems like it has all the right ingredients. You don’t see pillars like these every day.”
“I’m still picturing this Vermont farm boy wandering around Europe all by himself. It’s strange in some ways.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, I guess most people’s impulse would have been to get home as soon as possible, but not Grandpa. I don’t think he left the farm more than a couple of times the rest of his life. It’s almost as if he knew he wanted to gather up some images for later reference. I don’t know. It’s kind of funny. I wonder if he resisted going home for some reason.”
“We passed the Benedictine abbey, didn’t we? That’s in Finale Pia, I think.”
“Why do you ask?”
“Just triangulating. Trying to get the layout.”
It occurred to me how different it was to travel with Jack. Here we were investigating random pillars in a small Italian town, when most people would have been on the beach or traipsing through the ruins. If I had been with Constance, there would not have been a question: we would have seen the sights suggested by the Lonely Planet guide, and that would have been that.
“Are you bored?” Jack asked, his hands on the pillars, his eyes up at the smooth rise of stone. “You’re probably bored, right?”
“I’m always bored around you, so it’s hard to distinguish one time from another.”
“Must be.”
“I wanted to learn more about pillars while I was in Europe. It was on my to-do list.”
“I figured.”
“I am going to take a couple of pictures of you,” I said.
“You’re so pushy.”
“If you do a book, you’ll want them. And even if you don’t, you’ll still want a picture of you standing where your grandpa stood.”
He started to say something, then he shrugged. I snapped a half dozen pictures of him. He smiled. He had a dazzling smile.
“Am I going to like your mom and dad?” he asked as I slipped my phone away, changing subjects, his hands still on the stone.
“Sure. Why not?”
“They probably think I’m digging for your gold. They probably think I’m your man-candy.”
“And that would be wrong how?”
“So you admit I am your man-candy. I thought so.”
“It’s okay. Men are the ultimate accessories. I thought you understood that.”
“Let’s go to the beach and find a nice café and have a good dinner,” he said. “You can show me off.”
“I’m pretty broke, Jack.”
“We need a good dinner in Italy. At least one. My treat.”
“And wine?” I asked, tucking the journal in my backpack.
“Plenty of wine.”
The next thing slipped out of my mouth before I could catch it. It had ghosted our conversation since the night of the mechanical bull. I couldn’t stand it any longer.
“Are we going to start saying we love each other out loud?” I asked.
I watched his expression carefully.
“You first,” he said.