NO SIMPLE REMEDY

SHORT STORIES AFTER EIGHT

Photo by Erik Mclean on Unsplash

  II

Three months after moving to Italy, Mother’s illness took a turn for the worst. It wasn’t something that came as a surprise to Uncle Charlie, or even Barbara I imagine; but me, I was devastated. I’d thought moving to Italy meant she’d be getting better. I never believed any of that, ‘I want to die in Florence,’ stuff she’d said back home.

Maybe it was naïveté on my part, but Richard, for whatever strange reason he may have had, seemed indifferent to the whole thing. He spent his days writing in his diary for hours on end sometimes, never seeming to pay any attention to what was going on around him. It got so that I wanted to scream at him.

Mother told me to let him be. He was dealing with things the only way he knew how. She said she knew he loved her, but sometimes, it was difficult for a person to express themselves because too many feelings got in the way. With Father gone, Richard thought he had to be the strong one, she said, for me, for Barbara—for all of us—because Father had always been the one to stand up for us in the past. If Richard thought that not showing his emotions was a sign of strength, who was I to say he was wrong, she asked me? He’d come around in his own good time, she added, and when he did, she’d be there waiting for him.

“But what if it’s too late?” I said, tears coming to me eyes.

“You stop that,” Barbara said, readjusting Mother’s pillow and giving her the crossword puzzle out of the English newspaper Uncle Charlie brought back from the university.

“Can I make you some tea, Mother?” she asked.

“Thank you. I can’t promise that I’ll finish it,” she said, turning to look at me again. “He’ll know the right time.”

“But how can you be sure?”

“I can’t. I can only hope, and maybe say a prayer for him. Now, are you going to help me with this?” she asked, waving the crossword at me and scooting over, making room for me on the bed as Barbara left to make tea.

Her name was Shu, which I thought was strange. Lilane told me it meant ‘Kind’ in Chinese, as if that was explanation enough, or maybe all I needed to know. She was a small woman, not much taller than me, with hair the colour of oil on a wet city street; dancing with shimmering colours when the light hit it just right, but with streaks of grey in it, too. She wore her hair in a short bob Mother said she wished she’d done herself years ago.

With a round face, and a pleasant smile, a gentle voice that never seemed to rise above a whisper whenever she spoke to me, she had light eyes—hazel I think you call them—not what I’d expected when I first met her. She had tiny hands and feet, and walked around the apartment with a duster, wiping down anything that wasn’t out of her reach. When she wasn’t dusting, she was either sweeping, making the beds, or changing the linen and walking a tied up bundle of clothing to the Chinese laundry around the corner.

She arrived every morning at 6:00 am, on foot, making a fresh pot of tea for herself, as well as breakfast and coffee for Uncle Charlie. She’d send him off to the University and then sit out on the balcony with her pot of tea and a cigarette, watching the sun come up over the Tuscan hills, brushing them with colours that washed up against the city’s ancient walls. She’d sit silent, her knees drawn up tight and her arms wrapped around herself as she held her tea and smoked her cigarette.

I could see her with her back to me whenever I came down the four short steps and around the corner. I’d pause and watch her. It was obvious how she was lost in her thoughts. Sometimes, I wondered what sort of strange memories were playing in her mind, just as often convinced there was a tear wending its way down her porcelain smooth cheeks. She’d look at her watch and run a hasty hand over her cheeks before stubbing out her cigarette and finishing her tea. As she stood up, I’d hurry up the four steps and back around the corner to my bedroom, pretending to have just woken up.

She’d greet me with a smile as she came in from the balcony, always calling me Master Dennis, and asking me if I wanted breakfast. I’d nod, not knowing what to say to her as I made my way to Mother’s room. Barbara was quite often sleeping in a chair with a book in her hands she’d read to Mother the night before.

“Why don’t you ever wake her up?” I asked.

“I can’t.”

“You can’t? You mean, you won’t. Why not? Just tell her to go to bed.”

“It’s not like her to fall asleep before I do. I’m always just as surprised to see it as you are. But she looks so peaceful when she sleeps. I don’t want to forget what she looks like; I deserve that much, at least.”

“But we have to get ready for school. Shu’s making breakfast.”

“Do you have to go?”

“You know we have to. Uncle Charlie will know if we don’t,” I added. I reached down and took the book out of Barbara’s hands. She stirred, looking up at me with a smile.

“I did it again,” she said, standing up and looking at Mother. She looked at me. “What time is it?”

“We’ve still got time. Richard isn’t even up yet.”

She looked at me again.

“I have to take care of Mummy,” she said.

“You have to get ready first,” Mother said.

“I will take care of Mother,” Shu said. “Your brother hired me to attend to this family. Your mother is a part of this family, so I’ll take care of her while you go to school.”

“Mother?” Barbara asked, perhaps waiting for Mother’s approval.

“I’ll be fine.”

The school Uncle Charlie signed us in to was a mix of Italian, French, and German students, as well as Lilane. It included primary grades, and Lower Secondary grades, where Lilane, Richard, Barbara, and I were. The school taught languages, as well as other subjects: history, geography, math, science, music, arts, and PE. Uncle Charlie had somehow made a deal where the three of us would attend the same Italian immersion class, because most of the other students were there to learn English. While I excelled at both math and English, and Richard his physical education, Barbara was at the top of the class.

It only took three days for Richard to get into a fight with one of the older students; this time, he was defending Lilane.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t tell Uncle Charlie?” Barbara asked as we made our way home along the via Borgo. I always tried remembering the walk home, but was never quite able to figure out the names of the streets and alleys we followed, at the same time knowing there were prompts that would remind me which way to go. There was a small restaurant nearby, where I could smell fresh baked bread and braising meat that seemed to linger in the air like a memory. I kicked a small stone and it skidded across the way, hitting a small recessed door and Barbara told me to knock it off, or she’d hit me.

“Charlie? Why would you tell Uncle Charlie?” Richard said, looking at her; he was pressing her handkerchief to a cut on his lip.

“Why? Why? Has it never occurred to you that you might have a problem, Richard? A behavioural problem? Have you ever thought of that? Do you ever think before you hit someone? Don’t you ever ask yourself why you’re always getting into fights? Don’t tell me it’s for my sake—it wasn’t even about me, this time. I doubt you even know what that guy said; your Italian can’t be that good after only a week. They’ve been doing studies in America, you know.”

“Studies?  About what? Oh wait, Behavioural Science, right? And what does whatever’s going on in America, have to do with me, here in Italy? You know they still have gunfights in America, don’t you? How’s that for behavioural bullshit?”

“What are you talking about?”

“They still think it’s the Wild West out there.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Barbara said.

“I’m not.”

“You are. But I’m not going to argue with you. I want to know why you feel you have to fight everybody you think is being mean to me, or Dennis, or anyone else for that matter.”

“He called her a Chink,” Richard said, checking the handkerchief he had pressed to his lip to see if the bleeding had stopped.

“It’s good,” I said, and he handed the tiny slip of satin back to Barbara.

“How do you know? You don’t speak Italian!” Barbara said, stuffing the handkerchief back into her bra.

“What do you mean, how do I know? What do you think Chino means? It isn’t too hard to figure out.”

“Lilane? Has anyone ever called you Chink before?” Barbara asked.

“Plenty of times,” she said, with a slow nod.

“And? What do you do when they call you that?”
“I don’t do anything.”

“There! See?” Barbara said.

“But I don’t do anything because I’m always outnumbered,” Lilane was quick to add. “People have always called me down for being Chinese, as if it’s a bad thing. They call me horrible names. I’m grateful Richard stood up for me.”

“You’re not helping matters any,” Barbara said, looking at her.

“I’m not trying to.”

“I can see that,” Barbara said.

“It’s just—no one’s ever stuck up for me before,” she said again.

“And so what if I got into a fight,” Richard said. “The sooner they know they can’t push us around, the better it’ll be.”

“For who?”

“For all of us!”

“You don’t have to fight every time you feel someone’s insulting us.”

“If I don’t do it, who will? You? Dennis? Can you see him fighting some kid who’s two or three years older than him? He’d get killed.”

“And what do you think Mummy’s going to say when you come home with that busted lip? She’s going to be mad at me. She’s going to ask me why I didn’t step in and stop you. And then she’s going to tell Uncle Charlie the moment he gets home and I’m going to get all holy-hell, again. First from her, then from him.”

“No you won’t.”

“Why would you say that? You know what Uncle Charlie says about you fighting.”

“Sure, he tells me I’d better not lose,” Richard laughed. “I didn’t.”

“Oh, he does not!”

We’d turned onto the via Delle Casa Nuovo, making our way through a small pathway Lilane said would take us to the via Delle Mura Castellane—a shortcut, she said—which ended up being nothing more than a narrow alley leading between two buildings and coming out on via Voltaia Nel Corso. There were cars parked along both sides of the street, as close to the walls as they could get, leaving a narrow lane for those three-wheeled Vespas and other small cars. Whenever a car came up the street, we had to back up against the parked cars to get out of the way. From there, it was a short walk to the Piazza Del Teatro, where our apartment was.

I ran up the stairs as fast as I could, bursting in through the front door, only to be greeted by Uncle Charlie.

“Hey, Kiddo!” he said, almost as startled to see me, as I was to see him.

“Why are you home so early?” I said.

I could see Mother behind him, shifting and trying to get comfortable on the bed; I stepped around Uncle Charlie and ran to her side. I let her put her arms around my neck and pull herself up as I adjusted the pillows behind her. She’d lost so much weight, I could feel her ribs and the knobs of her spine while I held her and adjusted her pillows. She looked different, and I realized Shu had cut her hair; she had rouge on her cheeks as well.

“Sorry Charlie, but I always help Mother as soon as we get home from school. It gives Barbara time to get changed, and that way I can tell her how my day was,” I said. “How come you’re home?” I asked, turning to give him a hug as Richard and Barbara stepped through the door with Lilane.

“Uncle Charlie!” Barbara called out, and dropping her books ran into his arms.

“I made snacks,” Shu said, coming in from the kitchen.

“I wondered where you’d gone to,” Uncle Charlie said, reaching for a sandwich.

“Who are you again? Oh yes, the brother? Right?” Shu said, smiling.

“Very funny,” Uncle Charlie said.

“You’re the daughter, right?” he said to Lilane, seeing her for the first time as Richard turned to go to his room.

“Richard,” Mother called out, her voice weak, and he stopped, waiting a moment before turning around.

“You’ve been fighting again,” she said, her voice soft.

Uncle Charlie turned to look at him.

“What have I told you about that?”

“I wasn’t,” Richard said with a slow shake of his head. “I knew that was the first thing you’d think. I wanted to clean up first before you saw me.

We were playing football and someone tackled me. It was a tosser thing for him to do. The teacher carded him and gave him a detention, too,” he added, the lie coming easy to him. The lies always seemed to come easy, I thought, and I wondered if that was what he’d been writing in his journals all these years, or if he had them on a separate page: Stories to tell my Mother.

“Is he telling the truth, Dennis?” Mother asked.

I saw Richard looking at me—his eyes cold and hard—then looked at Barbara and Lilane; I began by staring at the floor before nodding and looking up at Mother.

“Yes.”

I watched Richard close his eyes and shake his head, and somehow I knew that I’d let him down. I hadn’t meant to. I wanted to tell him that I was sorry. I didn’t know how to lie as well as he did.

“Well, it’s nice to see you stand up for your brother like you do,” Mother said, forcing a smile. “I used to be that way, too. Wasn’t I Charlie?”

“The best of sisters,” Uncle Charlie said.

“You have to stop fighting, Richard.”

“I’m not lying,” he said.

“Richard. I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed this about Dennis before, but he’s a horrible liar,” Mother said, her smile fading.

“I didn’t lie,” I said.

“No? Did you know you always look down at the floor before you lie to either your Uncle, or myself? Now go, both of you. I’m sure I heard Shu say she made something special for all of you.”

“Can I ask you something, Daph?” Uncle Charlie said, closing the door part way. I stood as silent as a sentinel on the other side. I wasn’t trying to listen, but I didn’t walk away, either. I could just turn my head enough to see Mother’s reflection in the mirror through the crack of the door. I could also hear the strain in her voice and wondered when that happened. Her eyes looked sunken, and dark; made all the more sad because her cheek held the light rouge Shu had applied earlier. Was it as simple as not paying attention? How had I failed to hear her faltering voice, or the harshness of her rasp? Had the strain and illness been so gradual, that the sudden realization of it was a shock to me?

“What is it, Charlie?” she asked, sounding defeated.

“Like I was saying, I won’t be in the way. I just need to get back on my feet.”

“But Charlie? Again?”

“Why do you have to say it like that?” he asked.

“How would you like me to say it? You got drunk and lost your job, and somehow it’s on me? This is the third time in as many years. The war’s over, Charlie. You have to move on. We all do.”

“That’s easy for you to say, Daph. But it’s a little different for me, isn’t it? I’m the one that was penned up for three years, Daph. Three years. It took me two years just to recover and get back home—that was 1947—and when I did, Mom and Dad didn’t even want to see me. Oh, they pretended like they did—they felt sorry and shed tears—but they didn’t know what to do, or say, to me. No one does. All I’m asking for is a helping hand.”

“I’m dying, Charlie.”

“I know you’re dying,” he said, his voice a harsh hiss. He was silent for a moment, and then said it again, only this time his voice was soft. “I know you are.”

“You can stay for a month.”

“A month?”

“I don’t want you here when I die,” she said.

“But why, Daphne?”

“I just don’t,” she said, and left it at that.