Dust Devil (27 page)

There,
she stripped and showered, then drew a long, sleeveless nightgown of
diaphanous, lace-edged lawn over her naked body. Pulling aside the
lacy white sheers that covered the bank of windows and pair of French
doors that ran the length of one wall of her room, she stepped
outside onto the deck beyond, as she did every night, regardless of
the lateness of the hour. This was her quiet time, her moment of
reflection and introspection, treasured and as carefully guarded as
her heart. Suspended from the overhanging roof was the collection of
wind chimes she had started before Alex was born, refusing to admit
to herself that they reminded her of the woods at the abandoned
quarry and of bluebottle-fairies dancing on the wind while Renzo had
made love to her. The wind chimes tinkled now as the night air
stirred sluggishly. Moonlight slanted down, and from the shadowy edge
of the yard, where honeysuckle vines sprawled in riotous profusion,
the sweet perfume of their tiny white blossoms floated, and fireflies
flashed in the dark.

Bubba
was crazy, she thought as she slowly sipped the sweet red wine she
had poured herself earlier. A madman. Still, wasn’t it a
madness she could understand, that she
could
relate to, that she suffered from herself? His accusing words still
rang in her ears:
After
all these years, you’re still carrying a torch for him, aren’t
you?
If
she were honest with herself, Sarah knew she must admit she was. And
wasn’t that crazy? What woman in her right mind went on loving
a man who, until this summer, she hadn’t even seen, hadn’t
even heard from for more than a decade, a man who didn’t even
know or care if she still existed somewhere on this earth—to
whose very ends she once would have followed him?

But
that was the road not taken. She would never know where it would have
led her, to what far horizon. Her world was bounded by the limits of
the small town in which she had stayed behind, only its sky infinite,
stretching above her to places she would never see, would never know,
could only imagine as she gazed at the starry firmament.

There
was nothing on earth like the Midwestern sky at night, she thought.
The stars shone so brightly and hung so low that it was almost as
though she could have stretched out her hand and plucked them one by
one from the heavens. She had used to imagine that somewhere,
unbeknown to her, Renzo was standing outside, too, staring up at the
same black-velvet sky, the same pearl moon, the same diamond stars,
and thinking of her, as she thought of him. Was he even at this
moment standing in the yard of the Martinellis’ white bungalow
on Elm Street? she wondered now. Was he looking up through the
branches of the ancient, towering trees that had bequeathed their
name to the old, brick-paved avenue? Did he ever remember, as she
remembered? Did he ever lie in
his
bed in the still of a summer’s night and long to feel her naked
body pressed close against his in the darkness?

Somewhere
in the distance, an owl hooted and a solitary coyote bayed at the
silver-glowing moon, lonesome, wrenching sounds that tugged at
Sarah’s heartstrings. Sighing heavily, turning to go back
inside, she drew her hand idly across the strands of rainbow prisms
that dangled near the French doors. The colored crystals of the wind
chimes struck one another gently; their forlorn music soughed in the
night, echoing the sad song in her heart.

Stepping
inside, she drew the sheers shut and turned out her light. But she
lay awake in bed for a long while afterward in the darkness, unable
to sleep, yearning wistfully for the lost, halcyon days of her youth,
when life had been simple and sweet, and Renzo Cassavettes had loved
her.

Does
the imagination dwell the most

Upon
a woman won or a woman lost?

The
Tower

—
William
Butler Yeats

Since
coming home, Renzo had been principally occupied with the newspaper
and with his parents. They had put their Elm Street bungalow, in
which they had lived for more than thirty years, on the market. And
because the old house was lovely and well cared for, it had sold
immediately, to the very first couple who had looked at it, a pair of
hopeful Italian newlyweds, much as Joe and Madonna themselves had
been so many long years ago when they had bought the place.

Renzo
had contemplated purchasing the house himself from his parents. But
as much as he had loved it, he had known he would always associate it
with them. It would never have felt as though it were his very own,
but instead
would
have seemed theirs still—and empty and bereft without them. So
the day the lawyers and bankers okayed the sale and transfer of
the
Tri-State
Tribune
from
his father to him, he had started clearing out the loft over the
newspaper office, then had remodeled it and moved into it. He was
accustomed to lofts and apartments; it would serve adequately until
he decided to buy a house of his own.

Over
the years, his parents had saved frugally for the day when Joe
Martinelli could take early retirement and they would move to
Florida. In addition, Renzo had, over their protests, insisted on
paying them a very handsome sum for the
Tri-State
Tribune.

“
Pop,
I’ve made a lot of really smart investments over the years.
I’ve held good-paying jobs at more than one big-city newspaper
and had nobody and nothing to spend my money on but myself. I bought
a roadster, a watch, a couple of nice suits, that’s all. I’m
rich, Pop. I’m famous. Like you said, I can write my own
ticket. And I want to do this for you and Mom, to make you this
generous offer for the
Trib
to
repay you for everything you’ve ever done for me. Because if
you hadn’t taken me in all those years ago, God only knows
where I’d be now. Gunned down and lying dead in a ghetto gutter
somewhere, no doubt—just like the man who fathered me. So let
me do this for you, the both of you. Please.”

The
Martinellis had paid off the mortgage on their bungalow two years
ago. With the proceeds from the sale of their house, which had
escalated in value over time, they were able to buy a nice
condominium in Florida. The money Renzo paid them for the
Tri-State
Tribune,
he
helped
them invest in a portfolio of carefully selected stocks, bonds and
mutual funds, so his parents would be able to live out the remainder
of their lives is financial security, even if some unexpected mishap
should befall him.

Yesterday
a moving van had arrived to empty the bungalow of its contents. And
now, after a last look at their home and after exchanging emotional
good-byes and promises to visit with Renzo, his parents got into
their car and began to back out of the driveway for the last time.
They were halfway into the street when, at the last minute, Madonna
suddenly flung open her door and ran to Renzo, hugging him tightly,
fat tears rolling down her plump cheeks.

“
Son,
I just wanted to tell you that no matter what happens, if there
should ever come a time when you should think your father and
I...well, that we didn’t do right by you, that we wronged you
terribly somehow, please remember we always had your best interests
at heart.
Always!
”
she
insisted fiercely, her big brown eyes filled with both love and
anxiety as she gazed up at him intently, searchingly. “And we
never really knew...that is to say, we could never truly be sure
whether the... We
thought
so.
Perhaps we even hoped so, for your sake...and I think that in our
hearts, we always sensed the truth. And we would have helped, if ever
we’d been asked, needed.... But it wasn’t
our
place
to ask, to offer, you see. We had foolishly given up any right to be
a part of...So we could only watch from afar. And regret. Still, we
would have told you if we’d ever been certain. We would have
done whatever was necessary, whatever we could have to attempt to put
things right.... I want you to know that, Son.”

“
Mom,
Mom, I don’t understand you. What’re you trying to say to
me?”

“
Nothing.
Nothing.” Madonna shook her head, dabbing with her handkerchief
at her eyes. “I’m a foolish, middle-aged woman, standing
here rambling and weeping on your shoulder, while your father waits
impatiently to hit the road before the day grows so hot that the
pavement melts and the tires stick to the asphalt. Take care of
yourself, Son. Be sure to eat right and get plenty of rest. And
always remember we love you.”

“
I
love you and Pop, too, Mom.” Renzo smiled down at her, although
his eyes were puzzled and concerted at her earlier disjointed
dialogue. He wondered if her words had had anything to do with Sarah
Kincaid, but in the face of his mother’s emotional turmoil, he
couldn’t bring himself to ask. So all his questions remained
unanswered.

After
a long moment, during which it had seemed she would speak again,
Madonna finally turned away silently, climbing back into the car and
fastening her seat belt as Joe finished pulling out onto the street.

“
Did
you tell him, Mama?” he asked as they drove away slowly.

Madonna
glanced back over her shoulder, smiling tremulously and waving
vigorously at Renzo, despite the tears that continued to stream down
her cheeks. “No,” she sobbed, facing forward at last.
“Oh, Papa! How could I? It will break his heart! For so long as
I live, I’ll never forgive myself for what I did all those
years ago, what I wrote to him.
Never!
”

“
There,
there, now. Don’t cry, Mama. Please don’t cry. You’re
just upset, leaving our happy home, this town
where
we have so many good friends and have spent so many wonderful years
together. That’s all.” Joe patted her hand comfortingly.
“After all, we could never really be certain.”

“
No,
I’m sure. In here, Papa—” she laid her hand on her
heart “—I’m sure. The boy is the spitting image of
Renzo at that age. He’s Renzo’s son,
our
grandchild.
I know it! I should have told Renzo. All these years, I should have
swallowed my fear and told him. I should have called on Sarah
Kincaid, too—instead of being so afraid that she would only
curse me, spit on me and slam the door in my face. She loved him. She
loved our son, Papa. She bore his child, and she kept the boy. She
worked hard, and she held her head high in this town, regardless of
her shame. Now, when it’s too late, I would be proud to call
her my daughter. Oh, Papa! What have I done? What have I done?”

“
What
you thought was best at the time, Mama,” Joe said softly as the
car swept forward on to the highway, leaving the town behind. “And
no one in this whole wide world can ever do anything more than that.”

“
Morse,
I’ve got to run over to the courthouse for a little while,”
Renzo announced as he stuck his head into the older man’s
office at the newspaper. “I don’t know how long I’ll
be, and I may have to go elsewhere afterward. You want to hold down
the fort while I’m gone? Close up shop for me if I don’t
get back before six?”