Lately I have been pondering some of life’s mysteries.
If I had gone out on that blind date in March of ’68 with Billâs twin brother Jim instead of Bill [which was the original plan], and married Jim instead of Bill, would I have experienced the same happiness and blessings in my life? Would I have had the long and loving relationship, the feeling of security I enjoy now? Would my spouse still have been my equal partner in every aspect of our marriage? Would I have conceived and given birth to the amazing children I raised who in turn have blessed me with incredible grandchildren? Would we be celebrating our 52nd wedding anniversary?
Or would I be a widow?
Two-and-a-half months ago, before my husbandâs brother died, I never thought about such things. Strange how death can make us wonder about life.
scattering stardust unanswerable questions swirling round my brain
The waiter silently glided up to my table carrying a silver tray with an empty glass, a decanter of ice cubes and a bottle of chilled limoncello. I watched as he expertly filled my glass halfway with ice, then with ease poured the moonglow yellow nectar over the cubes. I watched, mesmerized, as the oro liquido trickled down the inside of the glass and gently caressed the ice. A little twist of the wrist and he was done.
Not making eye contact, I thanked the waiter and told him to leave the bottle. He obliged.
I reached into my breast pocket and retrieved my silver cigarette case. Selecting a Muratti, I tapped it three times on the case and placed it between my lips. There was an ashtray and a book of matches on the table, compliments of the hotel; I lit my cigarette and inhaled deeply. I always got a rush from the feel of the slow burn of that first drag. I exhaled slowly watching the smoke rings break away and drift off.
Raising the glass of limoncello, I took a healthy sip and swirled it around in my mouth, savoring the refreshing lemony sweetness as I swallowed. I immediately began to feel a calm wash over me and I took another generous pull; it was unexpectedly heady. Placing the glass on the table, my hand remained suspended in midair as I spied the cursive inscription on my cigarette case:
To Nigel From Camilla Christmas, 2010
Plain, boring and emotionless …. exactly like Camilla was to me …. and I to her, no doubt. I quickly realized I hadn’t thought about her since that afternoon, since the accident. Even if there was anything left, which was doubtful considering the height of the cliffs and the number of times her frail body hit the rocks before disappearing into the choppy Mediterranean, there was no reason to assume it was anything but an accident. And that’s exactly what it was …. difficult to prove, though, if certain facts came to light
I put the cigarette case back into my pocket and thought about my next move. I refilled my glass, lit another Muratti and stared at the lights from the ships on the water. The longer I sat the more comfortable I became with my plan of action. It was imperative that nothing be rushed, not even a whiff of anything unusual lingering in the air.
Tomorrow I will leave Agrigento as planned. After lunch I’ll check out of the hotel; if anyone asks about Camilla, she had personal business to attend to. The concierge will arrange for my rental to be out front. Camilla preferred to travel light; it will be easy to add her bag to mine.
The waiter floated to my table, filled my glass with the last bit of limoncello, nodded politely and left, taking the empty bottle with him. I felt all traces of tension leave my body.
Three years ago my darling Nina, my life-force, my soulmate, was killed in a ghastly accident while riding her bicycle to the library. Iâd offered her a lift but she declined; Nina hated my motorcycle, calling it a deathtrap.
I remember the call, the ambulance and police, the excruciatingly long ride to the hospital, the lonely wait in the eerily quiet emergency room, the surgeonâs voice .⊠his words that torment me day after day after day. My wife is dead, our all-too-short marriage erased.
I am lost, blindly wandering Gehenna. I shut myself off from everything. Well-meaning friends brought Ninaâs bicycle to the studio where she taught ballet. I heard itâs a lovely memorial but I canât bring myself to go by.
Itâs time for me to leave, escape the painful memories and the desperation. Our friends stopped calling long ago and thereâs nothing left to do. Itâs time for me to go.
I remove my wedding band and place it on the dresser next to my phone and wallet.
âWill my motorcycle start up?â I wonder âOr has it died, too?â I grab my helmet and walk to the garage. My bike stands in the corner, covered by a tarp now buried under three years of regret and bitterness. I strap on my gloves, open the garage door and climb on my bike.
It is pouring rain; I have no idea where I am going. It doesnât matter; I’ve stopped caring. Now I need to stop the heartache.
The Elephant's Trunk 