Passeggiata (complete 2016)

Vico held Margherita by his side, and together they walked forward until they came to her bedside. Margherita's lips trembled, her eyes twitched and watered, and the old man held her tight to hide his own fear.

Of them all, only Toni seemed outwardly remote and untouched by the pain before him. He was numb, almost in shock. He was her baby boy, and always would be.

+++++

Springer left the still harbor under power; as soon as she cleared the cape Goodwin unfurled the main and fell off the wind. He rolled out the staysail and cut the engine, now all was quiet except for slowly building winds and waters parting at the bow before running along the hull, joining again behind the boat in a softly gurgling wake. He feathered the prop and pulled at the gennie, and Springer leapt into the wind...

Goodwin watched as Diogenes motored along the direct line to Rapallo; either Malcolm had grown tired of sailing or was below baking bread. Mary Ann was at the tiller staring ahead. Whatever the season, it was a glorious morning to sail and Goodwin felt renewed after the long night in surgery. It was a pity the Doncasters had lost sight of this simple pleasure. He twisted his head from side to side, his neck still stiff and hot.

Trudi remained silent, lost in memory as the boat heeled into a gust. Her long gray hair streamed behind in the wind, faint rays of pale yellow sunlight struggled from behind faraway clouds to wash over her, and she held her face in the bronze light, her mouth parted ever so slightly as if trying to drink in every last molecule of time.

She turned to Goodwin. "May I go forward?"

"Sure." He clipped her harness to the jack-line and tested the shackle. "Just remember to keep hold of something as you walk."

She nodded, staggered forward holding on to lifelines and handrails until she came to the bow pulpit. She sat with her feet dangling over the side, and for all the world Goodwin thought she looked like a young girl again.

Joy is such a simple thing, he remembered. Why do we grow away from it? Why do we become so reluctant to embrace such a simple thing?

He heard her squeal, saw her point at the water, and there they were.

Seven fins arced alongside Springer, dark gray darts slipping through the water with the barest sound; Two Scar settled aft beside Goodwin, the dolphin's grinning face alive with the pure joy of spinning through silver-blue seas, living life on the crest of a wave. Goodwin smiled at Two Scar and he replied by jumping high into the air, skipping across the sea like a flat rock thrown by a kid.

Trudi came alive as she watched the show. She leaned into the pulpit and smiled and laughed, then she lay along the gunwale, her hand reaching out to the sea. A fin sliced through the water, came to her seeking hand and in a sudden burst ran up and surfed on the bow wave for a moment, Trudi's hand resting on the dolphin's back. The dolphin slipped underwater only to fall back and run forward to the bow wave again and again. It was a game, it was joy, and they all watched and loved the feeling.

After perhaps a half hour, Two Scar came alongside. He seemed agitated and Goodwin looked to the far horizon. Angry black clouds seethed, lightning flashed across the mountains. He turned to Two Scar and nodded understanding.

"Alright! We'll head in now!"

He called Trudi, asked her to come back to the cockpit. When she was settled he came about and made his course for the breakwater at Rapallo. Springer now pushed into wind-driven seas, and when the bow slammed into a big rolling wave, roiled water arced through the air and fell back on them, then the Springer bulled her way through the next one. Goodwin looked at Trudi; she still seemed like a little girl full of the soaring expectation -- her radiant face freed from all the cares time had visited on her in recent years.

She turned and looked at Goodwin.

"Thank you," she said.

"No, Trudi. Thank you," he said as he took her hand and squeezed it.

+++++

Malcolm took Springer's lines as the boat pulled into the marina, Mary Ann helped Trudi cross to Diogenes while the men sorted out dock lines and fenders. Elsie seemed happy to see Goodwin; she jumped over to Springer and went to the rail where Trudi had lain with the dolphins; she sniffed around and looked back at Goodwin, her tail fanning the air.

Dark gray clouds raced through the city, slanting walls of white rain arrived, and even behind the marina's protective mole ragged gusts hit hard, stirring up choppy-rolling waves at the dock. Masts clanged with loose halyards as wind whipped through the aluminum forest, owners scurried about making lines fast while others sat in their cockpits drinking wine and watching all the activity with quiet, knowing smiles on their smug faces.

After things were stowed below Goodwin went to Diogenes and had tea, then called a number on his cell phone. He spoke cryptically in terse medical terms to the voice on the other end, nodded his head a couple of times.

"Alright, Jon, let me take a nap at least. Then I'll grab a taxi and come up. What? Alright, suit yourself. Down inside the mole, right behind the seawall. Green hull, sailboat, name on the stern is Springer. I'll leave the hatch open so come on in."

Everyone was looking at him -- again -- now full of manifest curiosity.

"I don't suppose you're going to tell us what's going on?" Malcolm pleaded.

"Margherita's mother. She crashed last night. Had to go in and fix a few things."

"Crashed?" Malcolm said.

"Go in?" Mary Ann stated. "You mean . . ."

"Yup. Italy accepted my credentials, I'm legal now."

"So, there are no license issues? How, did you...?"

"Yup. Don't ask."

"I see," she said.

"Good. Now, can we drop it?"

"Right," Malcolm said. "So, how far off did you two go? We almost lost sight of you."

"Well, when we tacked back in toward Rapallo we were about four miles out." Goodwin rolled his neck, tried to get the kink out again.

"Yes," Trudi added, "it was glorious. The dolphins came and swam with us for what seemed like forever. I even touched several of them!"

"Two Scar?" Malcolm asked.

"Yup," Tom said.

"Two Scar?" Trudi asked. "What . . ."

"Hey, hate to break this up, but I'm going to go get some shut-eye; y'all tell Trudi whatever you want, just let me get some sleep, okay?" Goodwin slipped below and into the shower and let the water run on his neck; after a quick, hot one he toweled off and put on a dry t-shirt, took some acetaminophen then flopped down on his berth -- and dropped off into a deep sleep. He was aware, in those last few glowing moments of consciousness, of a furry ball of warm dog curling up next to him. He felt a cold nose press against his and smiled.

"Tom? Tom, you can wake up now." It was a woman's voice, Swedish accent. "You have a guest. Tom. Wake up..."

"Do I have to?" He was acutely aware of his neck -- it still felt stiff, and hot...

"Yes. Dr Santoni is here. We've been talking for an hour. He asked us to let you sleep, but he must go back to the hospital soon, and he wants you to accompany him."

Goodwin felt the woman's hands running through his hair, and his eyes popped wide open.

"Tom," she said again, this time ever so gently, "Thank you for this morning. These are memories I will always cherish. Tom? You feel hot. Go wash up with cool water."

He listened as she walked up on deck; he heard swarms of voices buzzing about, almost as if a party was in full swing. He sat up and felt hair all over his face and mouth and began picking Springer hair from his lips as he stumbled into the head. He washed his face, looked at his reflection in the mirror; his eyes were blood red and he felt hot -- impossibly hot. He took a thermometer and stuck it under his tongue and padded into the galley. He pulled out a bottle of frigid mineral water, felt a line of sweat forming on his brow, then took the thermometer and held it up to a light.

"102.4 -- yikes!" He walked over to the companionway, made eye contact with Santoni and held up the thermometer.

"What is it?"

Goodwin handed Santoni the thermometer. "See if you see what I see, then wash your hands!"

"Shit! You better lie back down." Santoni got on his cell phone and called his hospital. When he finished he came and sat in the saloon across from his old friend and mentor. "I just added some antibiotics to Mrs Morretti's cocktail, and I'm having a nurse come down and draw blood. Have you any acetaminophen? And where do I put this thing?"

"Thermometer in the head, tube on counter. Tylenol in the cabinet over the sink, took some earlier. You know, I feel like shit."

"I'm not surprised. When did you first feel this come on?"

"About five minutes ago. No. My neck's been stiff all morning."

Santoni looked at Goodwin with narrowed eyes, rinsed the thermometer off and stuck it back under Goodwin's tongue. He looked at his wristwatch and felt Goodwin's pulse. After another minute he looked at the thermometer and shook his head.

"Okay, that's it. We're going to the hospital. Let's go."

"What is it now?"

"Over 103. Now, let's go. This isn't good, and you know it. You say your neck is stiff?"

"Jon? I think you'd better call an ambulance..." Goodwin's vision grew faraway and misty, then he felt the earth reaching up for him, pulling him down, and while it felt for a moment like he was falling...something about the moment felt odd and black.

+++++

He woke in the night; he could see someone sitting in a chair by the window inside a tiny, antiseptically bare room. The world smelled of strong disinfectant and garlic. He smiled, tried to lift his head from the starchy pillow and the pounding began . . .

"Crap! Son of a bitch!"

A small bedside lamp flipped on; Goodwin shielded his eyes: "Youch! Bright! Off!"

"Tom? Oh, thank God!"

He turned, saw Margherita in the brilliant light, saw tears on her face and in her eyes."

"Hey, kiddo. How's your mom doing?"

"Tom! Tom! You...she's fine, she's doing just fine. Going home tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? No way. It's way too soon for that. She needs at least two weeks..."

"Tom. You've been here almost two weeks. In a coma until three days ago, then the medicine began to work. We've been very worried, Tom. Very worried."

Her words drifted around the perimeter of his consciousness for a moment, then worked their way in. "Two weeks?"

"Yes, Tom."

A nun came in and looked at Goodwin and smiled, then ducked quickly out of the room. She came back a few minutes later with a glass full of water, crushed ice and a straw.

"Drink this," the old woman said. "Slowly, doctoré, slowly."

"Gad, my mouth tastes like a barnyard!"

Santoni came into the room. "Eh, so the lazy no good bum decides to wake up, does he? About time!"

"Jon? What the hell..."

"We'll talk about all that it in a while..." He was looking from Goodwin to Margherita surreptitiously, as if there was a secret he wanted to guard.

"Yeah, sure. How's Mrs Morretti?"

"Great, Tom. No problems. Now you? Tell me how you feel."

"Weak. And my head hurts."

"From the spinals. Sorry."

"Jeesh! How many did you do?"

"Several, my friend. Meningococcus, you understand?" Again Santoni averted his eyes while he spoke quietly.

"Meningitis?"

Santoni nodded. "We have been feeding you Ceftriaxone through a central line for quite some time now, and some Vancomycin too. To be on the safe side."

"No wonder I feel like shit."

"Yes, no wonder. Warmed over shit, too. Now you excuse me, okay Tom. I got to go and get ready for surgery."

"What time is it?"

"Eh, Margherita? You get him up to speed on things, okay. I see you in a while, Tom."

"Up to speed? On what?"

"Tom, we didn't know how ill you were, if you were going to make it. We didn't know what to do."

"And? Why do I get the feeling you've left out something important here?"

"We, uh, well, we called your father?"

"You didn't. Please God, tell me you didn't."

"Vico did. Yesterday. They talked yesterday."

"Is he here?"

"No. He's coming Friday. In a few days."

"Swell." Goodwin held his head as contradictory impulses flew through his mind. "Oh, well, c'est la vie. Comme il faut . . . oh, excuse me . . . this is as it should be, I suppose. Too many pieces of the puzzle missing. Anything else I need to know?"

"Elsie will not leave your boat. It is still in Rapallo, and the Doncasters stay there too. The woman Trudi stays there too, with Elsie."

"Swell."

"What does this word mean? This swell."

"Huh? Oh, something like 'oh, great,' but a close cousin of 'fuck,' 'shit,' 'damn,' and 'holy Mother of God!'"

She laughed and Goodwin thought once again how good it felt to hear her laughter; it washed over him and made the pain in his head roll away for a moment, but he could see she was still holding something back from him.

"Now, what aren't you telling me?" He looked at the reluctance in her eyes, reluctance, and a little mischief. "You're not telling me something. What?"

"No, Tom. You have enough on your mind now. With your father coming."

"Don't try to protect me, Margherita. Talk to me."

"Why shouldn't I protect you? I love you," she exploded. "I love you so much it hurts to breathe when I am away from you. I can not go to work, I can not eat, I can not leave this room, and I will not until you are well..." She looked away, embarrassed by her outburst.

"Oh." Tom seemed quiet now, almost embarrassed as well. "Margherita? What won't you tell me?"

"I think I am with child." She looked at him, measured him. "I think I am with your child."

He looked at her for a long time, held out his hand to her and she leaned into him, put her face on his fingers. He closed his eyes, and was soon asleep.

She heard his breathing grow calm, heard the gathering quiet take the room again, and she pulled back and looked at him.

He was smiling. Softly, gently smiling.

And she understood. Everything was beginning to make sense.

+++++

May, 1968

Portofino

Dino Morretti backhanded Maria Theresa and she flew across the kitchen, landing in a ragged heap in the corner of the room. Her stinging face, already bruised from several blows over the past week, hurt beyond words. The tears she cried came from a place inside she never knew existed. They came from despair unknown to her, and these mute feelings tore her apart.

Dino Morretti wasn't a simple dullard; even though he had lived in denial of basic truths for several months now, the urge to destroy Maria Theresa grew stronger each time he looked at the little bastard, this little child Paulo. The boy wasn't his -- he knew this beyond all measure of doubt -- and as far as he was concerned everyone in the village knew this as well. He knew this because he hadn't made love to his wife since Margherita was conceived, and unless someone was willing to come forward and make a good case for Immaculate Conception, the boy's origins were far from clear.

But he knew the truth. Oh yes, he knew.

Vico had done the deed. That was it!

He would always love Maria Theresa. He always had, and always would.

Vico has done this! He must have...

Earlier that day, Morretti vowed before God he would kill Vico, and Maria Theresa had grown so full of despair she had let slip all restraint and simply laughed violently at the little man. She had no other emotions left inside by that time; she simply let go of her fear and laughed -- even as she wept, she laughed. She felt hollow, like she was drifting, drifting slowly across that sunless sea -- homeward bound to faraway oblivion.

Had she wanted this to happen?

"It's not Vico, you fool," she said softly, reprovingly, and he had slugged her breast, hard, his face red, the veins in his neck pulsing with ageless venom. He circled the room like a boxer, out of his mind with black anger, then he saw her there and circled like a shark -- sensing fresh blood in the water. He moved to kick her, all the while his anger coiling like a snake, readying for the next strike.

'Why did I smile at him then?' she asked herself.

"You lying whore!" he yelled when he kicked her in the rear, but then he begun laughing. "So, the jokes on me, eh? You fucking whore!" He lunged forward, his foot lifting, drawing back again...

Maria -- already doubled over in pain -- raised her hands to defend herself from the next blow, but it never came. She heard someone banging on the door and Dino, his blood boiling, went to answer; she crawled into the bathroom and locked the door, all the while gasping from a sharp pain in her chest. She heard dark words, a struggle, fists falling and furniture breaking... footsteps running down old wooden stairs, other footsteps coming toward the bathroom, someone knocking on the door softly, gently, a voice so full of love and compassion, a voice full of mystery and the fount of her imagination, a voice from the past...

"Maria, it's me. Open the door." She heard Paul Goodwin's voice, and she fell to the floor, weeping.

+++++

There's had been a conspiracy of silence. The ties that bind had grown very strong over two lifetimes. Love endures anything but neglect, and Vico never relinquished his complete devotion to Maria Theresa. His love was simple and pure, a vow to himself beyond mortal release.

Maria held Vico to her secret after the first 'reunion' with Goodwin. Paul must never know, she told him, because she could not, would not use the child to bring him here against his will. He would come, she maintained, when he was ready to listen to the truth they had discovered. He would come when he was ready to listen to the music of the night, to simple chords of destiny, to the music of this unknown calling.

Then the beatings began. Everyone in the village knew the shame over their house, but not the cause. She became an outcast, then ever more reclusive.

Vico thought of his friend in faraway America, thought of their momentary roadside encounter, and of Goodwin's fair-haired son. Could he keep the nature of her secret from them? Could he find Goodwin and tell him and not betray the conspiracy? Vico knew where Paul Goodwin worked, and he struggled with loyalties and her desperate need; in the end he called Goodwin, and talked to him within these limits. He kept to his part of the conspiracy, he made what case he could. He pleaded, he waited.

And Paul Goodwin came to Portofino again. He came as if on wings afire, full of seething rage and unrequited fury. He came in love, to love once again.

+++++

Goodwin took a small apartment near Vico's ristorante; they moved her and the two children in the dead of night. Goodwin and Vico found a couple of tough guys to tell Dino if he came around or touched Maria Theresa again his body would never be found. The message was delivered with more force than had been asked for, and Dino Morretti faded from the scene for a couple of years. Maria Theresa began to mend, at least in body. Goodwin had saved her; she always knew he would. Her sense of destiny was so sure-footed; hadn't he always followed her through the rock and shoals?

But Vico saw over the coming weeks and months that something inside her soul had failed to mend, and that something was her undiminished need for Paul. Goodwin, of course, did not remain in Portofino, he remained true to his former self and took to the skies, and as such he was rarely around for more than a few days at a time, and these days followed the dictates of his schedule; he came, he stayed a day, then he flew home to New York, to, Vico assumed, his other family.

And, predictably, when those days of his various returns came less frequently, Maria Theresa simply lived all the more for them; it was as if she stopped breathing between his visits, and came to life again only when he returned to her. Paul brought toys from America for the children, he took her to Rome and Florence more than once, and finally one summer day in July, 1969, they went to Venice. They made love in a little hotel above a canal, as they always dreamed they might, but she knew their's was a passions borne of other-worldly need, simple, pure, with no guilt possible because the reason behind their union would always be beyond the laws of man. All the mystery came back in newfound lust, yet there was always something vacant and missing...the meaning of it all.