Dark clouds appear, and it seems only an instant before the storm rushes at us—such a wild, fierce thunderstorm! A drenching rain quickly turns to a tumble of hail, pelting us mercilessly. Daddy yells, pointing. Over there—coal mine! We scramble in, huddle together in the black, dank space.
I shiver from cold. I am not afraid, though; the storm excites me.
A long, low rumble breaks into a loud crack above our heads, and Diccon reaches over to put his long arm around me, to reassure me. He speaks in his now familiar, teasing way. Don’t ye be worrying yourself, lassie, it’ll blow by soon. I want him to know how I love the rain, the storm, the great adventure of it all. But I am quiet. His warm hand on my arm makes me mute. I feel a sort of thrumming, an exquisite happiness. I most definitely do not want Diccon to remove his hand. The feeling is so new, so strange. Daddy and Cecco often put their arms around me and of course that’s wonderfully pleasant and comforting, but this . . . this is altogether different.
When Diccon releases me, he edges away just a bit, and a chilly draft flies up in the space between us. Where his hand has held my arm there is an imprint of ice. I try to recapture the thrum, but of course it’s no use.
Diccon has forgotten me. He fills his pipe. It takes all his attention.
It seems to me a loving act—the cradling of the pipe, his graceful fingers holding the match over the bowl; his lips around the stem, making little sucking noises as he draws in air. I imagine him kissing me then and a pure, galvanizing desire shoots all through me. That is what it is, though I cannot name it. I have no idea.
Diccon sits so close, he seems an extension of myself. But I can’t touch him. I can’t say anything. I sit there, dumb and tingling, as the aromatic smoke wraps itself around me. It is almost unbearable.
margery
The last time we saw Diccon that summer was when we hiked to Cwm Mawr, an abandoned farm high in the hills. I shall never forget it, but not for the shadowed hills or the stone relics or the surprise of the storm, though all those things were enchanting. It’s an image of Francesco that stays etched in my mind.
It happened so fast, that storm. The blackness simply barreled down over us, bringing wind and rain and hail. We ran, laughing, hopping like rabbits, until we found shelter in an abandoned mine where we sat together huddled, listening to the cracks of thunder and the wind whistling by. It all passed quickly. Still, by the time we reached the farm, it was close to midnight. The skies had cleared, and the moon was high and brilliant. We traipsed into the ancient barn, exhausted, and collapsed on piles of hay. In the morning we woke all in a heap, Pamela curled up against Diccon’s back, Cecco at his head.
Francesco was the first one to crawl out. He stood in his drawers and chemise, picking off bits of straw. Then he lifted off the clothes that he’d draped over a stall. The expression on his face was just like a baby who’s got a spoonful of mushed peas being jabbed at him over and over. He slumped his shoulders in an exaggerated fashion, and spoke with a mock peevishness.
“Oh, God! Oh, God!” he said, “I can’t bear it—the thought of putting on these cold, wet things. It makes my soul turn somersaults inside of me!”
It was pure Francesco. We all laughed, and it was just then that the emotion struck, catching me entirely off guard. I watched Francesco standing there, rumpled and bowlegged, and solidly male, and as everyone laughed and stomped about and complained of the wet, my insides swelled in an intense celebration. A sudden thankfulness: all was well with us, no great rift had ruined what we had.
I knew that I could never change Francesco, that I could never subdue him. Nor would I want to. What I wanted was to run over and grab him and let him know what I was thinking, how happy I was, but of course one never does those things.
I’ve seen how other women look at him sometimes. It’s not surprising. He’s handsome and terribly charming and all that. He’s also Italian—you do not want to debate with the man. Women like his forcefulness. Now there is a man I could count on, they think, a man who is in control, sure of himself. Strange, though, for all that he does seem oblivious. There are many things Francesco loves about himself, but I don’t think he’s ever appreciated his sexual attractiveness. His goal is not to seduce women. He simply wants to charm the entire world.
pamela
But now I see another image—another man sprawled. Not a hammock, this time. A bed. Taking up too much room. This man is in Italy. A beautiful man, naked, unconscious. I don’t know him.
He is my husband.
Robert.
I am too tired to dwell on those days.
Still . . . Lorenzo.
I should talk to Lorenzo about his father.
I really must try to do better for my son. I haven’t provided much of a family for the boy, not that I could help it. It can’t be easy for him, always being the only one with just a mother. Knowing so little about his father. I wouldn’t talk of him. When Lorenzo was small he asked me lots of questions. I was always quite vague. Your father went out west, that’s all I know. He didn’t really do anything, he fancied himself a poet. He was good-looking, I suppose, but you get your looks from your grandfather.
There’s not much I can tell him. And the one thing I know with certainty about Robert is not a thing to tell his son. Lorenzo knows only this: that his father left when he was a baby, went back to Portland.
It’s been years since Lorenzo asked anything at all. He gave up long ago. Still, I know he’d treasure any little scrap of information. Perhaps, now, I could tell him a few things. Tonight, over dinner. I could tell him about how I met his father, about those gay times when we were running all over the Village and Harlem. He’d like to hear those stories. Why not? What harm could it do?
Tonight. Lorenzo and I will have a fine supper. We’ll talk.
I’ve been wrong to be so silent.
margery
After the idyll in Wales, Diccon was a regular visitor in our home in Chelsea. He showed up on our doorstep almost daily. It seemed that we’d adopted each other, and we were all quite pleased with the arrangement. Often, of an afternoon, it would be just the two of us. Francesco was at his bookshop, Cecco was off at boarding school, and Pamela was working day and night, preparing for her second solo exhibition at Leicester Galleries.