Salvatore Scibona - The End

A plow rumbled past, and her mother popped the brake and sped behind it. Twenty blocks of churchlike silence ensued.

Mrs. Marini twisted her knees to the passenger side of the gearshift so that they were pointed at Lina’s legs. Likewise, she dangled her right elbow behind the seat and turned her shoulders toward her. She took at least a minute to assume this position. Patrizia shifted the truck into third. Then, with the meat of her left hand, Mrs. Marini rapped the dashboard. “Now is the time when I am going to ask some questions and you are going to give some answers,” she said.

Lina said, “All right.”

“Where are your clothes.”

“In the back of the truck in my suitcase.”

“Where are the clothes that a rational person would wear in hostile weather such as this, such as woolen leggings and earmuffs.”

“I’m hot.”

“Are you experiencing the change of life.”

“I have been very, very hot for two days. No.”

“Do you have a fever? Let me check your head.”

“Yes, a little.”

“When was the last time you took Holy Communion.”

“Five years. Six years.”

“When was your last confession.”

“Six years ago.”

“What were you doing in Saskatchewan.”

“I had a job. It was Wyoming.”

“What kind of a job? I’ve heard rumors. I’ve heard ‘lumberjack’ and ‘stevedore’ and ‘football coach.’ I’ve heard all kind of innuendo, which I’ve had to go on because the horse’s mouth could not, evidently, pick up the telephone and give a call.”

“I was the cook at a school.”

“Were you unfaithful to your husband.”

Pause. “No.”

“Why would you allow yourself to leave the house in a state like this, without a little eye shadow, a little something to cover.”

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t care about me? About—”

“About what a stranger says or thinks.”

“Do you know how tall is your boy and what is the hair color.”

“No. I am assuming still brown.”

“That’s right.” Pause. “Don’t you want to know how tall? The answer is, For a boy his age, he is titanic. Why did you never call.”

“I didn’t have a telephone.”

“Did you forget the phone numbers of your husband and your mother?”

“I didn’t have a telephone.”

“For how long was the time of your stay in oater-movie-land? Boise, Medicine Hat, whatever.”

“Four or five years. It was Casper, Wyoming.”

“Where you worked at a school during which time.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Which the school had an office, presumably.”

“Yes.”

“Where they would have had a telephonic device of some type.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“Yet you did not ask permission to use this device to make contact with your husband or your mother or myself, nor write a postcard communicating the telephone number of this place where we might from time to time speak with you. You were too busy reading Riders of the Purple Sage and suchlike.”

“I wrote with the address.”

“I do not want to hear little stories which you believe to be excul patory. How often did you write?”

Patrizia piped in, “She wrote me every Christmas.”

But Mrs. Marini talked over her. “How often did you write to your husband or to the boy? I know the answer to this to be, Maybe every once in the cows-come-home.”

“Not regularly.”

“Why did you leave Tombstone or Santa Fe or whatever the place.”

“Casper.”

“Why.”

“I don’t know.”

“Make something up.”

“I had a friend, I had only the one friend, and they were going to fire her. She stole a can of potato chips, was all she’d done, and she was leaving, and she was passing through here, and I decided—”

“A moment, please. This friend.”

“A woman who was the other cook.”

“A friend of yours.”

“Yes.”

“Onward.”

“And I decided I was going to come back here.”

“Why.”

“I don’t know.”

“Liar.”

“I don’t know.”

“Turn your eyes inward toward the soul and describe what you see,” the old woman said in a rage.

“I decided. That’s all. I wanted to come back.”

“And yet you didn’t come back.”

“I–I sent Enzo a telegram about Can I come home, I’ll be arriving at this time and place; but he wasn’t at the station and I thought that meant—”

“What telegram?”

“I sent a telegram but I thought he got it but he didn’t come but I talked to him later on the phone but he didn’t get it. You see. He didn’t get the telegram. But I — but I could’ve said, I’d sent this telegram about Could I come, I will be arriving; but you weren’t there, but the telegram didn’t arrive, but I want to come home now. But I kept my mouth shut. But I could’ve. He would’ve come to get me. I know. But I was too afraid to ask him. Because what if he said no? But I was only in Pittsburgh by then. And I could have said please. And he might have said yes.”

“I know what he would have said.”

“Stop it, Costanza. Stop it right now,” Patrizia said.

“And you know what he would have said, too.”

“Stop it,” Patrizia said.

“You would have talked him awake or driven him home yourself.”

“That’s enough,” Lina said.

“You’re a fool. I love you. You’re a fool.”

“Shut your decrepit mouth,” Lina said.

“Why did you stay in Pittsburgh.”

“I got a job.”

“Coffee grinder. Monkey salesman.”

“I was sewing drapes in a department store.”

“How often did you write to your husband or to the boy — shut up, Patrizia, and let her answer the question.”

“Twice.”

“One time and then one more time.”

“Yes.”

“Are you experiencing the change of life?”

“Maybe, I’m not sure. My heart races.”

“Why did you leave Wyoming — you know you know you know.”

“Why was I in Wyoming to begin with? is what you mean.”

“Unstitch. Disassemble piece by piece.”

“Why was I in Wyoming.”

“Why were you in Wyoming.”

“Why did I take the job.”

“Why.”

“Why did I look for the job. Why did I stop in Douglas. Why did I sleep in the wayside in Wisconsin.”

“Don’t you want to know? If you don’t know, who knows?”

“Why wasn’t I here.”

“First one foot, then the other.”

“Why did I leave.”

“Yes.”

“It was humid out.”

“And then?”

“Why did I get in the car?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“It was humid and I didn’t want to get in the car, which would be more humid. Why was I getting in the car?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, I can tell you, but it isn’t what you want. It was insignificant.”

“It was? I bet it was.”

“Yes, but it was an insignificant errand, and afterward I got back in the car and thought, Wouldn’t it be nice to drive awhile with the window open? It had nothing to do with youse two or Enzo or Cheech or anyone.”

“This errand—”

“It was nothing — I was making cheese, but there was no rennet left. You see?”

Silence.

“And then I kept on driving.”

The plow veered onto a highway. Where they were, most of the streetlights were broken. Snow was falling. The snow cover was blue. The truck crawled up a hill. Lina’s face was stiff from the cold of the window. She remembered she still had the girl’s handkerchief in her dress pocket.

“How long are you staying?” Mrs. Marini asked.

“I have all my things.”

“Are you staying staying, then?”