A romance by Calibeachgirl
dedicated to all the veterans
All rights reserved, 2012
Thanks to my copy editor estragon, a graduate of the United States Army, Vietnam, class of 1969.
Saturday, February 15, 1969
Angelina put her few flowers on the grave and braced herself against the rainy cold wind. He had died on Valentine's Day, destroying the holiday for her but it didn't matter, she had avoided any chance of a new romance. After the second year, her friends began a concerted effort to find her a new love and yet, three years later, she was still alone.
It was a long slippery walk up the hill back to her car, and the inside of the car got wet as she got back in. She sat there, her tears all but washed away by the rain and when she started the little Volkswagen, the saddening, jarring sound of the radio startled her.
She turned the radio off, the Beatles fading away to be replaced by the whoosh, whoosh of the wiper blades. Without the rain, the tears flowed freely and she waited and waited for them to finally stop before pulling away from the curb near the graves and leaving the cemetery.
Driving down the road, she stopped at the same Italian grocery as she did every Saturday to get her food for the week. Prosciutto, provolone, crusty bread, spaghetti, olives and for Sunday breakfast, two cannoli... they all went into her basket.
"Buona mattina, Signora Vozzini..." said the short man behind the counter. "Today, for you, I've some special cookies, my treat." Smiling, Paolo Silvestri put a small bag into her basket. "Here, let me take that for you."
She shyly handed the basket over to him and as he rang up her purchases, he quietly slipped in a Toblerone chocolate bar into her sack. His heart broke every time he saw her and yet, even he, the neighborhood's repository of troubles, had no idea what to do with her these five years. He wished his son were back from Vietnam. He was sure the boy could bring the young widow out of her self-imposed exile and back into the sunshine.
"Ciao, Signor Silvestri, grazia per il canolli." The heartfelt statement, the voice young, soft, feminine, definitely thankful.... Just as she did every Saturday, she took her bag and walked out of the store and slowly drove to the empty home.
Sunday morning, Angelina went into her small kitchen and ate her canolli, enjoying the sweet ricotta cream as it rolled around her mouth. Once, she would have been in church, listening to the priest talk about the love of God and his mercy for sinners but since Phillip's death, the idea of going to church faded away with her memory of him. The knowledge that she was forgetting the sound of his voice, the scent of his body, the twinkle in his eye was just as frightening as the race every month to make her share of the mortgage payment.
She took her fine dark auburn hair, a gift from her Irish mother, looped it behind her ear, and sat up straight in the chair. She was home... home, where all things were familiar... and predictable. It wasn't that she didn't want to meet with her friends, it was just... so daunting, even after all this time.
A restlessness and hunger filled her; for a brief time, she had considered joining the church group for young singles. She sighed, sitting at the kitchen table all alone. Angelina closed her eyes again. Home was the same small house she had shared with her cousins since her husband had died, leaving her unable to continue living in their apartment by herself.
She yawned, wanting to return to her bed. Her bed... empty, frustratingly empty. In an age of women's liberation, she was a throwback to a different time, a time when women were women and men were men and both knew their place and liked it that way.
She looked at her empty bed. A wave of despair washed over her. She had only been married for such a short time. Guiltily, she pushed the traitorous thoughts away, the memory of her husband filling her mind. He had been a good man, kind and generous and more importantly, he had loved her, promising everything that she had wanted... a home, children, someone to hold at night.
The problem was he had never made her heart race; his kisses never left her breathless and wanting more. They were comfortable... that's how he had described it. She wondered what she had done wrong. They had been engaged and he never wanted to make love to her until they were married. 'Respect,' was what he had said... he respected her too much.
She remembered their last moment together... he had left her on the front porch of the apartment house with a pleasant but less than exciting kiss on the lips, and then he was gone... forever.
Her face reddened, thinking about it. Marrying him had not been exciting but it had been better than the alternative.
Wednesday, March 12
"Giacomo!" Lieutenant James Silvestri's mother ran and threw open the screen-door to let her son in. She grabbed him close, her arms around him and her kisses on his face. "O Dio... O Dio..." she said, quietly, thanking her God for his safe return.
"Mama," was all he was all he could say, everything else blocked out by the woman's quiet sobbing. Whatever he would have said never was, as his father walked into the living room and dropped the dishes he was carrying to the table, their shards flying across the floor.
"Jimmy! My God, when did you get home?"
"Last month, but I wanted to wait until I was out before coming home."
"You're out? Completely?"
"Yes, Papa. I'm out."
"Thank God," his parents both said, "Thank God."
"I'd like to wash up, if that's OK," he said, still holding his duffelbag. Inside, buried beneath everything else, were his four medals and he knew they would go from one hiding place to another, this time the bottom of his closet.
"It's OK that I stay here, right?" He never thought to ask. "If it's not...."
"Mio ragazzo, certamente." The woman hugged her son again. "You change and come to eat. I'll make spaghetti or do you want lasagna?"
"Mama, whatever you make is fine." He left the kitchen and went into his old room, dropping his duffelbag onto the floor and dropping himself onto his bed. It had been two years and as he stared up at the ceiling, his mind drifted back to the war....
...running, running, running, through the dark jungle, bullets flying, blood flowing, then water, water everywhere as black-clad figures rose from holes in the ground and threw grenades and disappeared....
...he startled awake, covered in sweat, his hands twisted up in the covers and he finally let out a long, wet gasp. "Damn...." On the radio, Hendrix was making love to his guitar as riffs from 'Watchtower' riffs filled the room.
There was a knock on the door. "Jimmy, you OK? I heard...."
"You heard nothing, Papa, OK? Nothing." 'Damn it,' he thought, 'now this. Just go away, Papa....'
"All right, if that's the way you want it but if you want to talk...." The man, suddenly old, stood in the bedroom doorway, watching his son lying there.
