Zach had just come back to Rome from the French Open and told a few anecdotes about Djokovic and Serena, using terms like “wide-open slams” and “long rallies.” I know nothing about tennis, but I loved the animated way he told a story. It was great to hear these two big men laughing and to be able to join in without thinking about enemy artillery and dirt storms and an O.R. full of mortally wounded children.
Marty was refilling my glass when his phone rang. He spoke with Tori briefly, hung up, and said, “She’s on her way. We can meet her at Leonardo’s in half an hour. You guys up for dinner?”
I was already shaking my head no when Marty said, “Brigid? You’re in Rome. Time to see some of it. Doctor’s orders.”
“In that case, absolutely,” I said.
Tori had opened her closet to me. She’s a generous size twelve, and I’m an emaciated size six. Her black dress floated around me, but I belted and bloused it, and it looked as if it were made for me. I was ready to go to an actual restaurant.
By the time the sun had set, the four of us were seated under the big, yellow awning outside a trattoria on a busy street less than a block from the Hewitts’ apartment.
We were still drinking, eating bread dipped in olive oil, while our dinners were being prepared, when Marty’s phone rang. Seconds later, Tori’s phone vibrated on the tabletop.
“Sorry, everyone,” said Marty. “The emergency room just filled up. It’s the full freakin’ moon. We have to go in.”
“Always happens,” Tori said. “Just when you can smell the lasagna, but before you get a fork in.”
I jumped to my feet out of pure reflex.
Tori said softly, “Where ya going, Brigid? You’re off duty.”
Oh.
“We’ve got a running tab here,” said Marty. “So enjoy. By the way, Brigid, Zach here is an avid baseball fan.”
“Really?” I said.
“Yankees all the way,” said Zach.
“Red Sox,” I said, setting my jaw.
“Oh, man,” Marty said, grinning widely. “I’d like to be a fly on the wall.”
And then the Hewitts were gone, and Zach and I were looking at each other over a steaming-hot dinner for four.
Chapter 28
THE WAITER had put the four enormous platters of everything in tomato sauce on the table. Zach unfolded his napkin and said, “So, you’re a Sox fan, huh?”
The waiter snapped my napkin open and laid it across my lap as I said to Zach, “Since as long as I can remember.”
Zach grinned, said, “My condolences.” And stabbed one of his shrimp scampi.
I kept my hands folded.
I said, “For what? Two thousand four, 2007, and 2013?”
“No. For the almost one hundred years it took after Babe Ruth left to win those World Series.”
I shot back, “Which would be Yankees time, correct?”
He took a gulp of vino and said, “As they say, do the math. Twenty-seven wins for the Yankees, three for the Sox.”
“Yeah, well that’s the old math. This is the new math, and we’ve won three World Series to your two since Y2K.”
“Don’t worry, we’re just warming up.”
“Well, I wish you the best getting loose.”
And suddenly, we both cracked up. It really was too funny to be sitting outdoors on a balmy night in Rome, talking about American baseball.
Zach said, “You should try this, Red. It really is the specialty of the house.”
Without waiting for me to say okay, he swapped out my untouched rigatoni alfredo for Marty’s steak pizzaiola.
“I’ll try it on your recommendation, Yank. Tell me about yourself,” I said, sawing into the steak.
Zach said, “Reporters don’t really like to talk about themselves, you know. We like to ask the questions.”
“Oh, try something new,” I said.
Then I tried the steak. It was, as advertised, very good.
Zach said, “Okay. Here I go. Born in Minnesota, degree in journalism from where else, Northwestern. Live in New York, and, as a single guy with no baggage, I’ve been assigned to the international sports desk and odds and ends, which is a dream come true. Mind if I have a bite of that?” he said, eyeing the steak. “You want to try the eggplant?”
“I’m not so big on eggplant.”
I put the plate of steak in the middle of the table, and we worked on it together.
And then Zach said, “Your turn, Red.”
I just shook my head no and kept going with the steak. I didn’t want to talk about myself. Not now, and maybe not ever. But Zach was one of those reporters who wouldn’t be brushed off.
“I hope you don’t mind that I grilled Marty about you.”
I glanced at him through my lashes, then dropped my eyes back to the table.
“He told me about the settlement being knocked down. Your injuries.”
“I can’t talk about that,” I said.
“Okay. I’m sorry, though. That you had to go through that.”
I put down my fork and knife.
I said, “Zach, the war was awful. Indescribable. But my life in South Sudan was about the displaced people who had less than nothing, the mothers with babies had no milk to feed them.”
I don’t know what came over me, but I sang right there at the table overflowing with food.
Baby boy, baby boy
Hello, baby, please be quiet
When your hunger is very painful
Just lie down and sleep
Better to just lie down and sleep.