Timeshares Part 17

Monica looked at Anthony, then at the family, and then at Anthony again. He felt the wetness in his eyes, a tear running down his left cheek. He watched her piece together the snippets of his story, shared over coffee and pillows during their engagement. Her eyes widened, mouth shaping into a small O.

"Your grandfather," she said.

Anthony nodded, wiping away the tears from both cheeks. There were still a few people getting off the boat.

"The records say he was here. I haven't seen him yet," he said, gaze roving back across the faces. She punched his shoulder.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Monica stepped in front of him, pressing closer. The lavender of her perfume mixed with the lingering antiseptic scent. She grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at her. "Talk to me, husband."

Anthony closed his eyes, listening to the waves, the seagulls. The crowd was thinning; he could pick out individual voices, words in different languages. He took a deep breath, willing the dark despair back down his throat before opening his eyes.

"Talk to me, baby," she said. "Let me in your head."

"It doesn't matter." Anthony looked past her face, past the sunlight in her hair to the ferry beyond.

"Bulls.h.i.+t." Anthony's attention snapped back to her. Her cheeks burned red, the light flashed in her eyes. "It does matter. You brought me here, you chose this for our honeymoon, and you didn't tell me the real reason why."

It sounded stupid as he said it. "I thought you would be mad."

"Jesus," she whispered, pulling away and turning to look back at the boat. "I want to hold you and slap you at the same time."

The few immigrants who remained clutched multilingual handbills promising work while following better dressed men into the city. Anthony slowly reached out to her. When his hand brushed the soft hair on the side of her neck, she tensed, and then leaned back into him.

Her voice was soft. "This is your grandfather who had the stroke, right?"

"Yeah," Anthony said. "I was an idiot, arguing with him over stupid things. Probably sent his blood pressure through the roof. Caused it."

Monica slid under his arm until she was facing him again. "Good to know some things don't change," she said smiling, and kissed his cheek.

Anthony pulled her close and spoke into her hair. "They're raising the ramp now. I missed him. I only know he was on this ferry, then in the mines two weeks later." He sighed. "We only have a few hours left before we have to go."

Monica kissed him again. "We can finish the tour. We can just go to that speakeasy, baby, and try to enjoy ourselves."

Anthony tried to smile as they turned away from the dock. "This is the past, and I have to concentrate on the present, right?"

The alley outside the club stank of p.i.s.s and nausea. Inside, it was clean and glittering. The jazz quartet's jackets shone silky blue, and waiters brought gin in teacups to the tables. Cigarette smoke hung in a low cloud over the dancing crowd.

"Are you sure it's safe?" Monica asked when the music paused.

"Relax," Anthony said. "There's no raid here tonight. They checked that when they made up the itinerary."

With a musical slide of notes, the trumpet player led the band into another song. A young woman, hair bobbed and hose turned down, danced past their table. Her arms and legs flew in a frantic Charleston.

Monica drank the rest of her gin in a quick motion. "C'mon baby," she said, grabbing his hand. "Let's dance."

Despite the month of lessons at home, Anthony's limbs did not want to cooperate at first. A live band and a busy dance floor just seemed different from the living room floor and old recordings. But after a few missteps and one slightly mashed foot, he started to feel his body relax into the music. Monica's mouth had broken into a huge grin as their hands flitted from knee to knee.

Then Anthony saw him.

The busboy was clearing a table, as awkward as Anthony had originally felt on the dance floor. Anthony stumbled, his limbs suddenly numb and unresponsive. The earliest pictures of his grandfather had not prepared him for how much the young immigrant would resemble the man he had grown up with. The wood floor banged into Anthony's knee, a sharp spike of pain sweeping aside the rest of his confusion.

"Are you okay?" Monica asked as the band finished the song.

"He's here," he said, gesturing to the busboy. Monica glanced over while Anthony picked himself up. "I'm going to talk to the owner."

A ten dollar bribe and ten minutes later, Anthony watched confusion ripple across his grandfather's face. The stern man he expected was not there. The lines, the weariness from the mines, had not yet appeared. He was just a boy, alone in a new land, summoned away from his new job by a tip for more money than he would make in a week.

"How can I help you?" his grandfather said in his thick accent.

Anthony opened his mouth to speak, but his chest and throat tightened around the words. Monica spoke into his silence. "Are you Antonio Marinelli?"

His grandfather's eyes widened. "I am he. Who are you?"

Anthony felt the vibration in his pocket. Monica looked at him a second later; her recall device had vibrated its five-minute warning to her, too. Their vacation was nearly over. Anthony took a large drink from the teacup.

"What are your plans, Mr. Marinelli?" he asked.

His grandfather took a long look at Anthony, and then laughed. "Plans? I have a room I share with five men, and they say we are lucky! The padroni get me a room, this job, but they want me to work more. They tell to get me to go work in the mines, but . . ." His grandfather sank back in the chair. "Is it worth it? Perhaps I return to Italy soon instead. America could be a mistake."

The recall vibrated again. Three minutes. Anthony covered his grandfather's left hand with his own. "It will be worth it, I swear. All of it."

His grandfather's eyes narrowed. "Do you know me?"

Anthony kept his eyes locked with his grandfather. He spoke fast, hoping the man's English could keep up.

"It will be hard. After you leave the mine, when you think you are done with work and children, an ungrateful child will be in your home."

His grandfather tried to pull back, crossing himself with his free hand. "Una maledizione!" he whispered.

Anthony held tight. "No curse. You will think this child is a failure. He will be too stupid to appreciate you. One day, though, he will be successful. He would have made you proud. He will realize how much you meant to him." His grandfather stopped pulling his arm away, instead leaning toward Anthony. "But by then, it will be too late to tell you."

His grandfather lapsed into muttered Italian again for a moment, and then said, "Are you an angel? A demon?"

"I am no demon, Nonno." Anthony said. The room began to fade as his recall device pulled him back through the centuries. The music of the band faded, too, sounding less like a live band and more like a record played long ago.

Anthony threw himself on the bed, and then glared back at his grandfather through his bangs. The old man looked small next to the oversized black light posters, his starched white s.h.i.+rt and teeth glowing.

"You cannot go out with them, Anthony. You are grounded. They are bad boys, and you cannot go with them."

The ancient jazz from his grandfather's record player in the living room was yet another way the old man was behind the times.

"You don't understand! You can't understand. You're not even from this country. You don't get it!"

Anthony stared at his headboard, not wanting to even give his grandfather the satisfaction of eye contact. But out of the corner of his eye, Anthony saw the old man smile a little, his lips curving into the words, "You're welcome."

Anthony shook his grandfather's hand one last time. "Thank you," Anthony said.

And they were gone.

A Night to Forget C. A. Verstraete

Christine Verstraete is a Wisconsin journalist who did see the t.i.tanic t.i.tanic display in Chicago, but doesn't remember anything out of the ordinary happening. She's had short fiction published in the display in Chicago, but doesn't remember anything out of the ordinary happening. She's had short fiction published in the Dragons Composed Dragons Composed and and The Heat of the Moment The Heat of the Moment anthologies, in anthologies, in Mouth Full of Bullets Mouth Full of Bullets, and coming in The Bitter End The Bitter End. She is also the author of a middle grade novel, Searching for a Starry Night: A Miniature Art Mystery Searching for a Starry Night: A Miniature Art Mystery, a 2009 Eppie finalist for the e-book version. Contact her at her Web site: http://cverstraete.com or stop by her blog, or stop by her blog, http://candidcanine.blogspot.com.

The building's faded brick and dirty windows made Jessica Adams question whether she'd found the right place.

She eyed the ad once more before exiting the car. Matt should've come and checked the place like he promised. Would've saved her a trip, and a ton of aggravation, she muttered.

Her mood sour, Jess inched closer and tried to peer beyond the layer of dirt in the front window. The inside of the store was dim, its secrets well hidden. She rubbed the dirt from a section of a pane of gla.s.s, her effort providing a slightly improved view of the items piled haphazardly on the window ledge. The collection included a faded cruise program, a black-and-white image of a woman in an elegant, ankle-length dress, and a pair of lady's gloves, the tiny pearl b.u.t.tons dull with age, the cloth's once pristine white a memory.

The quaint scene seemed better suited to an antique shop than a place offering the kind of vacation she had in mind. She'd envisioned a private beach in the Caymans or a secluded cabin in the woods, just the two of them. Instead, Matt had begged off, telling her he was too busy for vacations. So, a little peeved, she went alone to investigate the new agency he'd seen advertised in the paper. She had half the mind to book a vacation for herself.

Her bravado faded now that she was here. She read the small, hand-lettered sign tucked into the bottom window pane and scoffed: TIMESHARES-ADVENTURE FOR THE AGES. The place was as likely to book her dream vacation as she was to win a million dollars. It sounded, well, kind of odd and a bit too good to be true.

"Good old Matt," she groused. "He did it again."

Disappointed, Jess refolded the newspaper page and shoved it in her bag. She needed a good strong cup of coffee. Maybe someone at the coffee shop could recommend another travel agency so the trip wouldn't be a total waste.

She was about to leave when a flicker behind the gla.s.s caught her eye. Had the owner arrived? Guess she could at least see what the place offered and hope that the pickings weren't as slim as she expected.

Finding the door open, she stepped inside. "h.e.l.lo? Anyone here?"

She blinked several times, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dimness. The view was staggering-row upon row of shelves stuffed with old books; faded ma.n.u.scripts covering the walls and stuffed in baskets. Then there was the art: paintings, the varnish brown and cracked, hung in every available open s.p.a.ce.

What a mess.

Still, the more she looked around, the more her curiosity grew. Each painting had a note tucked into the frame with the t.i.tle, name, date: The Battle of the Bulge, Napoleon, Cleopatra.

Annoyance gave way to fascination as she wandered around. Was the owner branching out? Probably a good idea from the look of the place, she thought, as her finger rubbed a layer of dust off a painting.

Her questions about the missing travel agent faded at sight of the next painting. She studied the majestic ocean liner streaking through the mist: Maiden Voyage, The Maiden Voyage, The t.i.tanic, the paper said. Not that she needed a note. She'd know the image anywhere. t.i.tanic, the paper said. Not that she needed a note. She'd know the image anywhere.

The tragedy of the t.i.tanic t.i.tanic had captured her imagination since she was a child, thanks to her mother. Besides cla.s.sic children's stories like Jack and the Beanstalk or Mother Goose, her mother's favorite, often-told tale had been about how her great-aunt had boarded the had captured her imagination since she was a child, thanks to her mother. Besides cla.s.sic children's stories like Jack and the Beanstalk or Mother Goose, her mother's favorite, often-told tale had been about how her great-aunt had boarded the t.i.tanic t.i.tanic as a child. She had perished with many of the other immigrants traveling in the bare-bones quarters in the s.h.i.+p's bowels. as a child. She had perished with many of the other immigrants traveling in the bare-bones quarters in the s.h.i.+p's bowels.

Jess had repeatedly studied the faded photo of a young, unsmiling Polish girl dressed in a matronly long dress, babushka on her head, and clunky, old lady shoes on her feet. The patched, battered carpetbag she held accented the girl's poverty.

She'd always suspected that the story of how the poor girl made it to England and onto the t.i.tanic t.i.tanic was just that-a fable. Family legend said the girl's uncle won the third-cla.s.s ticket playing dice (her mother said others insisted he stole it) and gave it to her in hopes of giving her a better life. So the story went. was just that-a fable. Family legend said the girl's uncle won the third-cla.s.s ticket playing dice (her mother said others insisted he stole it) and gave it to her in hopes of giving her a better life. So the story went.

Jess had begun her search for answers when her sixth grade teacher made everyone research and write an essay on a historical topic. To her surprise, she not only discovered that her mother's story was true, but a helpful librarian led her to a list of t.i.tanic t.i.tanic pa.s.sengers-which included her great-aunt. pa.s.sengers-which included her great-aunt.

Despite her continued research, she never learned more about the girl. Not that it mattered. That someone she "knew"-at least through stories-had been involved in such a tragedy made the event more personal. Ever since, she'd felt a strong emotional bond to the vessel.

An unexpected voice broke Jess's musing, making her jump. "What're you doing sneaking up on people!" she cried. Her outburst trailed off as she eyed the stooped little man behind her. He barely reached five feet and stood wringing his hands, his face sheepish.

"I'm sorry, miss, I didn't mean to frighten you." He gave her a timid smile and pointed at the painting. "That's always been my favorite," he said, his voice soft.

She returned his smile and turned back to the painting. "Mine, too. Someone in my family died on the t.i.tanic t.i.tanic."

"You don't say?" The man stroked the silvery mustache that draped the outer edges of his lips like antique lace. "I'm a.s.sumin' you've seen the doc.u.mentaries on the raisin' of the s.h.i.+p. Been to the exhibit?"

"Yes, I watched it on TV, but I haven't been to the exhibit yet."

"No? Well, it's somethin' you should see, especially with your connection. Hmm, I've just the thing if you're interested, something no t.i.tanic t.i.tanic fan would want to miss, I'm sure." fan would want to miss, I'm sure."

His smile and oily tone made Jess pause, but the bad feeling pa.s.sed just as quickly as it appeared. She pondered the idea. Maybe she could take a trip and see the exhibit at the same time, something Matt would hate. That made it even more attractive.

"Well . . . maybe it's a possibility. I'd like to go someplace different, and if I can see the exhibit, that'd be great."

He clapped his hands in delight. "Excellent, excellent! Any particular place you would like to visit?" He leaned toward her, his face anxious. The tip of his tongue licked his lips.

The image of a snake unfolded in her mind. Jess recoiled slightly, surprised at the thought. She'd better finish and take a break. Maybe she wouldn't be so jumpy once she ate. Blood sugar must be low.

"I've thought of going overseas or renting a cottage on Martha's Vineyard. I've never been there."

He scurried around the table, grabbed a giant black book from the shelf, and blew off the dust. She sneezed and tried to see the book's t.i.tle but failed as he flipped it open. He began to scan the pages of small writing.

"Hmm, no, there's nothing t.i.tanic t.i.tanic-related going on out east right now. Wait, yes, here we are. A new exhibition is opening at Chicago's Museum of Science and Industry."

Jess swallowed her disappointment. Romantic visions of floating down Venice's ca.n.a.ls in a gondola, staring at Mona Lisa Mona Lisa's smile, visiting the British Museum, or even celebrity watching at Martha's Vineyard faded.

Nothing against Chicago, of course. She'd visited her cousin there as a child, and never forgot the thrill of seeing the perfectly furnished miniature Thorne Rooms at the Art Inst.i.tute on Michigan Avenue. She still treasured the book her cousin bought her. But her dreams of actually seeing parts of the t.i.tanic t.i.tanic had always been linked in her mind with a much more exotic setting. had always been linked in her mind with a much more exotic setting.

"Here," the little man said, pus.h.i.+ng an envelope into her hand. "Take a peek at the tickets and itinerary. You won't be disappointed."

Her questions about how he'd gathered everything so fast disappeared like fog on a sunny day as she opened the envelope. She slid out the ticket dated April 14, then glanced at the schedule and felt a surge of excitement. A limo would pick her up at her home in Wisconsin and take her downtown. There were stops for lunch and snacks at first-cla.s.s restaurants. Shopping sites and other attractions along the route were listed. If she preferred, a private plane was available for an extra fee.

"You can stop anytime. Turn it into a several- day or all-week excursion if you want. We have connections at the finest accommodations. You'll find the suites fully furnished, complete with a new wardrobe, our compliments."

Her eyes widened. "A wardrobe? B-but that isn't necessary. I have my own clothing. How much does that add to the price?"

"I know our surroundings here . . ." he waved a hand, ". . . are less than satisfactory, but this is one of our oldest branches. Still, we believe in pampering our guests to the utmost. The smallest detail isn't too small. Everything is taken care of for you at no extra charge."

He handed her a handwritten bill and nodded.

"Everything is included, hotel, travel, museum admission, drinks, and meals. The garments as well. Inclusive."

She glanced at the itinerary again. "Okay, I'll take it."