Beach Music (41 page)

But Leah was crying again and I said, “No, Mama. I know what Leah’s after.”

“I just think it’s nonsense to dredge up bad memories,” Lucy said. “We’ve all been through enough. I’m so upset I forgot I had leukemia with the commotion and all.”

“Listen, Lucy,” I heard Ledare say as I began my story.

“On December 27, 1985, Jack McCall and his lovely daughter, Leah, were packing for their trip to South Carolina. Jack’s wicked mother, Lucy, was bawling out the maid, Maria, in English even though Maria only could speak Italian.”

“I resent that,” Lucy muttered.

“It’s only a story, Mama,” I said, then continued. “All of Leah’s friends from school had come to wish her a
buon viaggio!
and they lined up along the piazza singing to Leah as her taxi pulled away into the Rome traffic. I heard something I hadn’t heard for years. It was a familiar bark and I looked behind me and saw a small black dog with a white cross on its throat running after the cab …”

“It’s the Great Dog Chippie,” Leah said.

“I thought Chippie was dead because she’d disappeared years before in Waterford and my mother, the evil-hearted Lucy, told me that Chippie had gone off in the woods to die.”

“I used to have to feed that dumb dog,” Lucy protested.

“Every story needs a villain,” I explained.

“Believe me,” Lucy said, “this story’s gonna have some.”

“I told the cabdriver to stop and then opened the back door. The Great Dog Chippie jumped into the back of the cab and licked me on the face for a full five minutes. Then I introduced the Great Dog Chippie to the Great Girl Leah and Chippie licked her face for the next five minutes. Then Chippie saw Lucy and the hair on the back of her spine bristled and the Great Dog went
‘Gggg-rrrr.’
”

“I’ll admit that ratty dog didn’t like me,” Lucy said, “but she sure warmed up to me at mealtime.”

“Why didn’t she like you, Grandma?” Leah asked.

“I used to wop her on the butt with a broom when I caught her sleeping on the couch,” said Lucy. “Of course, that was about five times a day. You couldn’t teach that dog doodly.”

“The Great Dog Chippie was too busy performing heroic acts to learn silly animal tricks. So Chippie rode with us all the way to the Rome airport and I made plans to buy a special cage, so that we could bring the Great Dog Chippie back to South Carolina with us. The taxi pulled up to the main entrance and Leah, the Great Dog Chippie, and the wicked Lucy walked happily with me into the terminal. The first person they saw was Natasha Jones, with her wonderful white dog, Bianco. Leah went over to introduce the Great Dog Chippie to Bianco and it was decided that the two dogs would share the same cage for the trip back to the States …”

I sensed the room tense and I didn’t know why until I heard Ledare say, “Natasha Jones was killed during the massacre, Jack. Her father and brother were wounded.”

“Jesus Christ,” I said. “I don’t even remember seeing Natasha and her parents that day.”

“I didn’t go to her funeral because I wanted to be with you, Daddy,” Leah said, her voice fragile.

“You did right, Leah,” I said. “I needed you more than Natasha did. Could someone tell me what happened? I’m going to need some help if I’m going to finish this Great Dog Chippie story. I don’t remember another thing. Nothing.”

Ledare began talking because she saw that neither Lucy nor Leah could speak. “Four gunmen entered the airport with their weapons concealed. They carried thirteen hand grenades and four AK-47 automatic rifles. You were at the ticket counter when the shooting broke out,” Ledare continued. “You picked Leah up and threw her behind the counter where she lay flat on the ground until the shooting stopped. Then you ran and knocked your mother to the ground and shielded her from the bullets. That’s when you were hit. Once in the head just above the left eye. The bullet missed the brain by a centimeter. Once in the shoulder that lodged in your chest, piercing the left lung.”

“I don’t remember a single thing that happened,” I said.

“A man in Málaga, Spain, called up a radio station and took
credit for the airport attacks for the Abu Nidal Group and the PLO. There was another massacre in Vienna at the same time. Can you imagine the nerve?” Lucy said.

“Long live Israel,” I said. “Okay. Let’s get back to the story. As Chippie was getting to know Bianco, the Great Dog’s eye started roving around the airport. Chippie had an amazing ability to judge people’s characters just by looking at them. It was an instinct that Chippie was born with. Just like bird dogs have an incredible sense of smell, Chippie had a great sense of sniffing out good from evil. She looked around and saw happy people getting ready to take wonderful trips, until her eyes rested on four men she didn’t like. In fact, we can be brutally honest and say the Great Dog Chippie didn’t like these four losers at all.”

“Uh oh,” Leah said. “Those four guys are gonna get it now.”

“The Great Dog Chippie walked over to take a peek at what was going on. The nearer she got to those four the more cunning and wolflike the Great Dog Chippie became. In fact, she seemed to grow stockier and more muscular and her fangs sharpened as she caught a scent of evil like she’d never smelled before. She leapt up on the counter of the bar and moved like a great cat, stepping gingerly over coffee cups so that she didn’t spill anybody’s cappuccino. By the time she reached the end of that counter, the Great Dog Chippie had transformed herself into a dog of war, a dog of blood. The city where a wolf had once suckled Romulus and Remus had need of wolves again, fiercer and more bloodthirsty than the one who had mothered Rome’s founders. Rome called for a wolf …”

“And the Great Dog Chippie answered,” Leah cried out.

“The Great Dog Chippie answered, all right,” I said. “The four men began to take out their AK-47’s and their hand grenades. They then turned toward a crowd of people who had gathered at the Pan Am and El Al ticket counters. One of them pointed at sweet and wonderful Natasha Jones and another man pointed his rifle at the delightful and beautiful Leah McCall and just before they began firing, the four men heard something that froze the roots of their souls with fear.”

“Ggg-rrr,”
Leah snarled fiercely.

“Ggg-rrr,”
I snarled along with her.

“They had forgotten about one thing,” I said.

Leah said, “They’d forgotten about the Great Dog Chippie.”

“The Great Dog went for the first terrorist’s throat and her fangs severed the carotid artery as they tore through the neck of a man who’d never hurt anyone else again. His rifle went off, harmlessly spraying bullets into the ceiling. The second terrorist shot at the Great Dog Chippie but that dog had already sunk her fangs into that man’s genitalia and the scream from that man brought security police running from everywhere. Then Chippie whirled and ran through a hail of bullets as the remaining two men standing knew who their true enemy was now. The Great Dog Chippie was hit by one of the bullets, but one bullet isn’t enough to stop the Great Dog Chippie.”

“No way,” Leah said happily. “One bullet’s nothing to the Great Dog Chippie.”

“I sure as hell didn’t see that damn dog,” Lucy said.

“The third man had a knife scar that went the length of his face. The Great Dog Chippie went for that scar. Her fangs ripped into the man’s face and as the man hit the ground the dog leapt toward the throat of the last man standing. The last man stood his ground and fired all his bullets into the Great Dog Chippie. Chippie, the Great Dog, staggered toward the last man, but did not have the strength to make it. She turned to Jack and Leah and Lucy and gave them a last affectionate bark of farewell. Then the Great Dog Chippie put her head between her paws and died a sweet and peaceful death. An El Al security guard shot the man who killed the Great Dog Chippie and killed him on the spot.”

“No, Daddy,” Leah said. “The Great Dog Chippie can’t die. It’s not fair.”

“Chippie died when I was eighteen, sweetheart,” I said. “Because your mama died, I never wanted to tell you that Chippie’d died too.”

“Chippie’s grave’s in the backyard,” Lucy said. “It’s kind of pretty. Jack made the tombstone himself.”

“I’ve been waiting for that story since you were hurt, Daddy,” Leah said. “I wish it were true.”

“Stories don’t have to be true. They just have to help,” I said. “Now, darling, I’m exhausted.”

“Let him get some rest, Leah,” Lucy said. “I’ll take you home and feed you.”

“I’m staying here,” Leah said.

“You’ll do what I say, young lady,” Lucy insisted and I could hear the fear and the relief in my mother’s voice.

“Leah and I are a team, Mama,” I said. “Let her be.”

“Are we still going back to Waterford when you get well?” Leah asked.

“Yeh, kid. I didn’t do this right. You don’t know any of the stories that made you who you are.”

“The movie’s on, Jack,” Ledare said. “Mike sent me the first check when he heard you were shot. You’re hired whether you want to be or not.”

“Some of the stories Mike wants,” I said, “are the ones I need to tell Leah.”

“You tell the ones you know,” Ledare said. “I’ll fill in where I can.”

“Ledare?” I asked. “Did you come here because of the movie?”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Ledare answered. “I came because you needed me.”

“You’re welcome to Italy and everything in it,” my mother said. “I’ll be getting back to Waterford day after tomorrow. Need to get out of this crazy country. Course, I’m gonna hire an armored car to ride to the airport. I won’t feel safe again till I smell collard greens cooking.”

“We’ll follow you when we can, Mama,” I said.

“Jordan was on television,” Ledare said, “giving you the last rites. Mike has the tapes. So does General Elliott.”

“The plot thickens.”

“Why is Jordan hiding, Daddy?” Leah said. “He’s been here to the hospital a bunch of times. But always in the middle of the night.”

As I tried to answer, I felt myself falling away from all of them and sleep felt like a black hole where all time fell in an endless cascade that began with lost words at the touch of Leah’s hand against mine and ended in a sleep too soon in the coming.

I
left the hospital days later with a plum-tinged wound of entry that Leah touched tenderly as my bandages were removed for the last time. Dr. Guido Guccioli, who had saved my sight, gave me last pointers about the necessity of resting my eyes and the dangers of strain. He explained how the rods and cones clustered like colorless grapes along retinal nerves and how the operation he performed was much like tuning a piano the size of a quail’s egg. The doctor and three of the nurses came down into the street as Ledare and Leah helped me into the taxi that would take me home. “Hey, Guido. Can I French-kiss you?” I asked. “No, of course not, it would be undignified and unsanitary,” the doctor said as he kissed me on both cheeks. “But with Signora Ledare, it would be a different story.”

On the taxi ride home, I rolled the window down and let the soft, pillowed air flow over and through me. It was smooth as new linen across my face. Even the Tiber smelled rich and dark when we passed above it as it divided itself into two congruent fragments of river and embraced the sharp prow of the Isola Tiberina.

In the Piazza Farnese, a small group from the neighborhood had gathered outside of my building. Maria, her fingers entwined with her rosary, was there, as were a few neighbors; two nuns wearing gardening gloves emerged from their jewel-box cloister, the Ruggeri brothers ran over from the
alimentari
, their hands smelling of cheese;
there was Freddie in his white waiter’s coat, the olive man and two of the fruit ladies from the Campo, the chicken-and-egg lady, the beautiful blonde from the office-supply store, Edoardo the master of coffee and
cornetti
, Aldo the newsman, and the owner of the piazza’s single restaurant.

A small cheer went up among the assembled friends when I emerged from the taxi and made my way unsteadily toward the front door. Because of my being wounded, the massacre had touched this piazza in a direct and personal way. The merchants sent over fruit and vegetables from the Campo dei Fiori and would not take Ledare’s money during the first week of my return. The fishwives sent up mussels and cod. The chicken man brought up freshly killed hens. My generous neighbors took care of everything during the first weeks of my convalescence at home.

Each day, I walked among them through the narrow streets, building my strength.

Though I have traveled on almost every continent and spent time among scores of nationalities, I have never quite fathomed or understood the gruffness and originality that Romans bring to tenderness. Their instinct for the small gestures of friendship is unerring. The proficiency they bring to the task of embracing the acceptable stranger is a form of municipal cunning. My neighbors welcomed me back to the piazza, and rejoiced in my recovery. Romans, Romans, I thought. They cannot crook their little fingers without teaching the rest of the world inimitable lessons about pageantry and hospitality.

Watching my return, I later learned, through a pair of high-powered Nikon binoculars, was Jordan Elliott, clean-shaven and dressed in jeans, worker boots, and a well-cut Armani dress shirt. He watched as Ledare and I entered the building, me leaning more on her than on the tubular rubber-tipped walking cane they had given me at the hospital. The bureaucratic process for checking out of the hospital had just about finished me and the emotional homecoming so touched me that it took away the last bit of strength I could muster. The
portiere
held the door as though a prince were returning and I smiled my thanks to him. A photographer from
Il Messaggero
captured the authentic note of cordiality and nostalgia in the homecoming.
The flower ladies pressed bouquets of anemones and zinnias into Leah’s arms.

But there was little sentimentality in Jordan’s surveillance of the scene. His binoculars were trained on the crowd, not on me, as I disappeared into my apartment building, its huge black doors closing behind me like the wings of an archangel. Only when the crowd broke up did Jordan isolate the object of his patient oversight. The man was trim and soldierly in bearing and Jordan figured that he must have watched my return from the safety of the simple cafe on the piazza and emerged only when the crowd had begun its wordy dispersal. When he reached the fountain nearest my apartment, Jordan shivered as he reflected how odd it was to be studying in all the intimacy of magnification the robust figure of his own father. General Elliott moved with an infantryman’s attention and grace, studying each face as it passed by him. He was clearly looking for Jordan and Jordan could imagine his father’s impatience as he failed to see him in the crowd.