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Authors: Rufi Thorpe
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go,” she said. “Sorry for being such a bummer.”
When Jim was killed during his second tour, I was in Rome on vacation. One of my Latin professors was married to a woman whose family wasdeeply connected to the Vatican and somehow he had gotten me reading privileges at the Vatican library, and had even arranged an adorable, if decaying, flat off the Piazza Barberini.
It was Dana who called to tell me.
“The funeral is next week,” she said. “And, of course, you’re welcome to stay with us or with Lorrie Ann. Your mama moved out to Fontana, didn’t she?”
I hesitated. I had only two more weeks in Rome. I didn’t particularly want to take a week and fly all the way back to California. More practically, such a last-minute international ticket would be insanely expensive, and I was a graduate student. I’d had to beg my father for the money to come to Rome in the first place.
“I don’t know if I can make it,” I said. “I’m in Rome.”
“I know you’re in Rome. How on earth do you think I called you?”
“Right,” I said. Just then a strip of wallpaper came unglued and peeled down in my living room, making a thick, wet unsticking sound. I watched it sway, dangling from the wall across from me. “I just, it was a really big deal that my professor set this up, and I don’t really know them well enough to explain, you know, and I don’t want him to think I’m jerking him around, and on top of that, you know, I actually don’t know if I’ll have the money for a ticket.”
“I’ll pay for your ticket,” Dana said.
That stumped me. It wasn’t just that I didn’t want to return to California for Jim’s funeral—I somehow already knew I wasn’t going to.
“Okay,” I said. “But that feels like too much. That’s too generous.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “I’ll have Bobby go online tonight.”
In what was the middle of the night my time, Dana called back to say that she’d had no idea what a flight from Rome to LA would run, and that she was sorry—she just couldn’t do it.
“Don’t worry,” I told her. “I kind of figured. Last-minute flights are crazy expensive.”
“I know you never liked him,” Dana said, “but he was a good boy.”
It was three in the morning and I hadn’t clicked on a light when I picked up the phone. I blinked in the darkness. “I know. He was a really good guy,” I said.
“He loved her,” Dana said, her voice trembling. “And he loved that little boy.”
“I know he did.”
“Well, good night,” she said. “It’d be nice if you called Lor.”
“Of course,” I said. “I didn’t know if she was … ready to talk, or—”
“She’s ready,” Dana said and hung up.
Once I was off the phone, my eyes adjusted slightly to the darkness and I felt less disoriented, able to make out the faint outline of my white curtains, the curling brass bed frame, the black ceramic lamp on the table. A wave of relief washed over me. I would not have to go. I would not have to eat tiny weenies swimming in barbecue sauce. I would not have to hug the other army wives who had been brainwashed to accept such happenings and who would whisper to me, “She’s got strong shoulders.” And most of all, I would not have to stand there like an idiot as Lor became more and more distant from me, sealed off behind the plate glass of grief. I knew that I should go, that I should find a way to go.
But instead, the following day I stayed in the apartment drinking two bottles of wine and then went out around dusk and ate so much gelato that I made myself sick.
I called Lor the next day, but I only got her voice mail. She didn’t call me back. I figured that she was busy, bereft, any number of things. I called again once I was back in the States, and again she didn’t return the call. I knew then that she was angry at me, cold, frozen angry with me, for not coming to the funeral. I wrote her a long, long e-mail, apologizing, trying to explain, and she
When Jim was killed during his second tour, I was in Rome on vacation. One of my Latin professors was married to a woman whose family wasdeeply connected to the Vatican and somehow he had gotten me reading privileges at the Vatican library, and had even arranged an adorable, if decaying, flat off the Piazza Barberini.
It was Dana who called to tell me.
“The funeral is next week,” she said. “And, of course, you’re welcome to stay with us or with Lorrie Ann. Your mama moved out to Fontana, didn’t she?”
I hesitated. I had only two more weeks in Rome. I didn’t particularly want to take a week and fly all the way back to California. More practically, such a last-minute international ticket would be insanely expensive, and I was a graduate student. I’d had to beg my father for the money to come to Rome in the first place.
“I don’t know if I can make it,” I said. “I’m in Rome.”
“I know you’re in Rome. How on earth do you think I called you?”
“Right,” I said. Just then a strip of wallpaper came unglued and peeled down in my living room, making a thick, wet unsticking sound. I watched it sway, dangling from the wall across from me. “I just, it was a really big deal that my professor set this up, and I don’t really know them well enough to explain, you know, and I don’t want him to think I’m jerking him around, and on top of that, you know, I actually don’t know if I’ll have the money for a ticket.”
“I’ll pay for your ticket,” Dana said.
That stumped me. It wasn’t just that I didn’t want to return to California for Jim’s funeral—I somehow already knew I wasn’t going to.
“Okay,” I said. “But that feels like too much. That’s too generous.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “I’ll have Bobby go online tonight.”
In what was the middle of the night my time, Dana called back to say that she’d had no idea what a flight from Rome to LA would run, and that she was sorry—she just couldn’t do it.
“Don’t worry,” I told her. “I kind of figured. Last-minute flights are crazy expensive.”
“I know you never liked him,” Dana said, “but he was a good boy.”
It was three in the morning and I hadn’t clicked on a light when I picked up the phone. I blinked in the darkness. “I know. He was a really good guy,” I said.
“He loved her,” Dana said, her voice trembling. “And he loved that little boy.”
“I know he did.”
“Well, good night,” she said. “It’d be nice if you called Lor.”
“Of course,” I said. “I didn’t know if she was … ready to talk, or—”
“She’s ready,” Dana said and hung up.
Once I was off the phone, my eyes adjusted slightly to the darkness and I felt less disoriented, able to make out the faint outline of my white curtains, the curling brass bed frame, the black ceramic lamp on the table. A wave of relief washed over me. I would not have to go. I would not have to eat tiny weenies swimming in barbecue sauce. I would not have to hug the other army wives who had been brainwashed to accept such happenings and who would whisper to me, “She’s got strong shoulders.” And most of all, I would not have to stand there like an idiot as Lor became more and more distant from me, sealed off behind the plate glass of grief. I knew that I should go, that I should find a way to go.
But instead, the following day I stayed in the apartment drinking two bottles of wine and then went out around dusk and ate so much gelato that I made myself sick.
I called Lor the next day, but I only got her voice mail. She didn’t call me back. I figured that she was busy, bereft, any number of things. I called again once I was back in the States, and again she didn’t return the call. I knew then that she was angry at me, cold, frozen angry with me, for not coming to the funeral. I wrote her a long, long e-mail, apologizing, trying to explain, and she
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