Treat! Treat!
-Glynn Sharpe
Rome awakens like any other city in the world. It stirs, stretches and readies itself for the chaos and congestion that will clog its arteries and when, in the springtime, if the wind is right, you can taste the Tiber River in your mouth. It's flat and damp and it leaves an aftertaste like cold tea. I'll never forget that taste, or the taste of the canals of Venice, or the smoked meat delicatessens of Montreal, or the burnt offerings of Calcutta that permeate your skin. Scents linger with you and, with time, slide from your pores and escape the confines of your body in an attempt to return to where they rightfully belong. Rome was fresh that morning from days of continuous rain. The wind carried with it a hint of lilacs and the aroma of baking bread and coffee. The traffic, a few kilometers away to the east, was a gentle murmur. My husband stirred beside me, mumbling in his sleep. The words were fragmented. I could make out a whispered "yes" and what I thought was "I will" and nothing else. I slipped my hand over his belly and coiled our arms together. His chest rose and fell with great swells of breath. My breathing was drawn into his and I could feel myself succumb again to sleep. My mind began to race in and between seemingly unconnected thoughts. Fleeting images of our grown children, dead grandparents, and falling snow mixed and played themselves out in the tapestry of my mind. They unraveled and meshed together. Most of my dreams are pleasant and easy, but one is terrifying and has dogged me my entire life. "Beverly! Beverly darling, listen to me and stop right where you are please." "Yes daddy, what is it?" "What does the sign say sweetie? Read it to me." "It says DANGER BARNACLES" "That's my girl! Barnacles are dangerous, so keep away from that area where the sign is. Mom and I are going to watch you from the shoreline, okay?" "Okay." The Gulf water was warm and inviting as it lapped up against my ankles. Fishermen dotted the shoreline around me, their long, thin rods held high in the air waiting for the hint of a strike. A school of fish cautiously approached me, and then darted away as one. I found their synchronous movements fascinating and tried to follow them with my eyes. I couldn't keep up and, undaunted, waded further out into the surf. Crashing waves made their way up to my stomach. I could hear my father then; his voice was distant and uninteresting. My shoulders and head slipped under the water with the ease and confidence of a child in a bubble bath. I could feel my rear end rest upon the ocean floor. The sand tickled me and made its way into my trunks. Having lost interest in the fish, I tried to right myself to the surface but couldn't move. A thousand tiny jaws locked onto my legs. I pushed with all my might to get away. My hands sank into the soft sand bed. The surface of the water was just beyond the reach of my outstretched arms. The rays of the noonday sun thrust their metal swords of light through the water. I tried to grab one, hoping to wrestle myself away, but they offered me no help. My lungs began to burn for oxygen as I searched the skies above for my father. I screamed, over and over, "FATHER, FATHER, FATHER." My arms were pleading, waiting for his embrace, but he did not come. I watched the words bubble to the surface, "FATHER, FATHER, FATHER........." My body convulsed as I rescued myself from the dream. I've had this nightmare a hundred times before and I'm still shaken by it. It doesn't get any easier with time. My brow was wet and my head, pressed into the nape of my husband's neck, ached for fresh air. I tucked my nightmare away, knowing full well that it will always be with me, roaming around the cavernous rooms of my mind. Uncoiling myself from Martin is easy; he's a heavy sleeper. He continued to sleep as I unfolded his arm from mine. It flopped back into place. Martin's face was puffy and pale in the early morning light. The strain of overseeing an inner city Church had taken its toll on him. Years of failed food drives, battered women, crack-addicted teenage mothers and a Church that was crumbling away have attached themselves to him and have slowly sucked away his life. These trips abroad take Martin away, however briefly, from the madness that he's forced to confront every day. I've watched him meet Priests and Ministers from around the world as they share their triumphs and tragedies and he always leaves somehow revitalized. Watching my husband and his colleagues during these conferences has become something of a sport for me. It's almost what I'd imagine bird watching might be like on a tropical island. Men of various shapes and sizes brilliantly adorned in their ceremonial colors, cautiously flying from perch to perch, their chests full of pride and self-righteousness. Smiling, but always alert and suspicious of one another. I've never made mention of these thoughts to my husband. He would be deeply hurt and he's been hurt enough in his life. It's his sacred vow, not mine, and he knows that. The only promise I've made in my life is to him and my children and my vow is as strong or stronger than his could ever be. I play the dutiful wife, not because I have to but because I love him. I'm certain of little else and it has sustained me through the most difficult of times. I have evolved into my role as a Minister's wife. It didn't come easy. I first met Martin while he was a student at Bible College and I was in my final year of University. The University kids mocked the "BC's" as we called them. They didn't drink or smoke or fraternize at the local bars. They kept to themselves mostly, preferring distance and polite smiles to any type of meaningful interaction. But Martin was different somehow. I remember first seeing him at a hockey game, standing alone in the bleachers, the steam from his coffee billowing around his face like a vaporous cloud. I was immediately taken with his good looks. His premature gray hair made him look dignified and important. I followed him into the canteen and struck up a conversation with him while we both waited for coffee. I was amazed by how large and delicate his hands were and how soft spoken he was. We stood there and talked in the warmth of the snack bar and I knew right then and there that I was going to marry this man and that I would never be unhappy. We were married three months after we graduated. We moved to Toronto where I took a job as a high school Science teacher and Martin began to shepherd his lost souls. Reaching out, I pushed Martin's hair from his eyes and bunched it over on to the side of his head. I put my lips to his forehead and kissed him quietly. His skin was warm, almost feverish. The room was dank and full of dead air. Unbuttoning the top eye of my nightgown, I slipped out of our bed. My bare feet clung to the tiled floor as I made my way to the balcony doors. The doorknob stuck to my sweaty palm as I inched the door open. It groaned in protest while I slipped out to the balcony. The air was surprisingly cold. The cement floor, moist from the morning dew, lapped up against my toes. My arms, held tightly to my chest, offered me little warmth. Tip-toeing out to the rail of the balcony, Rome jumped out at me, draped in the colors and splendor that make it the Eternal City. To the casual tourist, Rome unravels itself like a piece of hand woven silk: luxuriant, soft and gentle to the touch. But those who have penetrated its darker underbelly know the real heart of the city. The Catacombs, hidden and non descript, house the bones and blood that Rome has built its foundation upon. The chambers snake through the bowels of the city like ulcerous reminders of the sacrifices the early Christians made for their faith. They went underground, centuries ago, and emerged after years of huddled silence as martyrs. Martin and I have toured these early Churches often. The darkness is unable to mask Martin's enthusiasm yet it hides my secret discontent. But it was spring and Rome was alive. The early morning breeze brought with it the promise of unseasonable warmth and discarded jackets. The Dome of St.Peter rose in the east like a gilded memorial to the fallen. It's arch forever pointed to the heavens above as a reminder of the promise of things to come. I rocked on the souls of my feet so that no one part was subjected to the cold too long. A chill rippled through me as I turned my face, eyes closed, toward the sun for warmth. I'm not sure if the little comfort it offered me was real or imagined. I remained there a moment, hoping that the faint light would warm me enough to let me stay and watch the sun chase all the remnants of night away. A lone cloud, silent and unassuming, obscured the sun's light before slipping off to the west. My eyes, opened by the darkness, dropped to the cobbled streets below. Shop windows were opened and restaurants were being readied for the workday. Old men swept out their front steps while women dressed in tight fitting uniforms wiped dew from the metal tables that make up the rows of patios. They would soon be full of businessmen and tourists alike, sipping on coffee and thumbing through sections of the morning newspaper, oblivious of one another. The noise of her cart grabbed my attention. The front right wheel dragged on the stone walkway before correcting itself with its momentum. I recognized her face immediately. She looked up me at me and beamed. We shopped at her stand for fresh fruit and flowers every day that we were in Rome. Her face was earthen brown; the creases around her mouth and eyes were framed with gentle slopes of loose flesh. She stopped her cart just below our balcony and began to gesture with her hands. She mumbled something I couldn't make out. I leaned out over the ledge and strained to hear what she was trying to say. "I'm sorry, I'm having trouble hearing you," I said. Turning to a passerby, she talked furiously in Italian. It was too quiet and fast for me to understand, so I waited and wondered. She nodded her head and looked back up at me. "Treat, treat for you," she said in broken English. Like a magician, she pulled a red-checkered cloth that was spread over her cart and revealed an assortment of breads, meats and cheeses. She picked a loaf of bread from the pile. "Thank you, but no, it's okay, really," I said. She paid no attention to what I was trying to say. "Treat, treat for you." I didn't have time to respond. She took out a loaf, steadied herself, and tossed it up to me. I caught it with both hands. If I had more time to think, I know I would have dropped it. The bread was warm. I hugged it to my chest and absorbed as much of its heat that I could. I was about to thank her when I saw her reach further into her cart and draw out two eggs. I slipped the bread under my arm just as she tossed the first egg up. I cradled it in my shaking hands and placed it on the balcony table beside me. I looked down and readied myself for the second egg. She did a couple of practice gestures with her hand before letting go of the egg. The height of the throw was perfect but it was beyond my reach. The egg made its semi arced flight and stopped there, suspended in mid air. Time seemed to stand still as I gazed upon the floating egg. The emerging sun caressed its lines and highlighted its simple beauty. It held its position there so long that I was tempted to step out onto the balcony's ledge and snatch it away. Gravity took its toll and the egg made its descent to the earth below. It fell to the road like a meteor and exploded. The street sweeper jumped and looked at the broken egg, angry that he might have to be the one to clean it up. I looked at neither one of them, but only at the egg. The egg oozed and stretched over the slope of a cobblestone. Its broken shell retreated from it and stood rigid and sharp like sentries around a castle wall. The yellowish-orange liquid shimmered for a moment and then stopped. I was mesmerized by the egg's single, dark, unblinking eye. It was a black hole, trapped in space. It emitted no light. I could not escape it. It stared up at me, watching me as I gazed down at it. Wire-like tentacles shot from its vacuous eye. Its universe was not unlike our own or the others I imagined there to be. Forming, evolving and ever changing. There was little room for stagnation. "Treat, treat!" I could hear her. The words drifted up to me and, sensing my distraction, floated away with the breeze. I wanted to reach down and dip my finger into that black well. Feel its essence, put it to my lips and taste it. The wheels of her cart began to turn again as the women moved on to her stand. I jumped as the sticking wheel rolled over the egg and obliterated it. It was dragged away to nothingness. Collapsed, gone forever. "What's this?" "It's from the lady we buy our flowers from," I said. "Well wasn't that thoughtful. We'll have to drop by and thank her. Oh my God, what a beautiful day!" "It is," I said, as I ripped an end off the loaf and placed it into his yawning mouth. The egg made me think of the many philosophical discussions Martin and I have had about our existence. He has his beliefs, and I have mine. But for the first time I realized that we were both trapped in the same dream, desperately trying to connect, somehow, with our fathers. " It is a beautiful day," I repeated and smiled while taking his soft hand into mine. "No matter what way you look at it."
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