Among The Cloud Dwellers (Entrainment Series) (17 page)

“I think so.” I felt all warm inside as I said it.

Both she and the dog tilted their heads and nodded in sappy agreement. I guess with a name like Eros, he believed himself an expert in such matters, therefore entitled to express his approval or lack thereof. Maybe he was just trying to snatch the boomerang from Benedetta’s hands.

It was getting too hot for philosophical matters. Jet lag had begun to descend on me like a dull guillotine, hitting my neck right between head and shoulders.

“Bene, I’m going to go ahead and get back home.” I stood and began to clear the table.

“You look like you could use a nap,” she said. She followed me inside, carrying
the rest of the dishes. “Just leave everything in the sink. I’ll take care of it in a minute.”

I did as she told me and quickly hugged her.

“I’m happy for you, Porzia,” she said.

“Grazie.”

“I’m happy for myself. If you found somebody then there is hope for the rest of us,” she chuckled.

“Let’s just hope your cherries won’t rot while you wait.” I squeezed one of her cheeks and barely managed to avoid her kick.

*

I meant it when I told Benedetta about being happy to be back. There is a certain serene quality in coming home to find things as they were left, a strength and comfort in the idea that no matter what, there is a safe haven waiting with familiar, welcoming warmth.

All those loving feelings disappeared once I got home and noticed that there were no messages. I picked up my phone and listened to the dial tone, idiotically hoping it would explain why he hadn’t called.

I hung up.

I grabbed the phone.

I shook it a couple of times.

I dropped it back on the cradle and pushed all the buttons on it, each and every one of them—repeatedly. I managed to erase my own answering message, messed up the time, and almost called 911 on the re-dial.

Then it rang.

I jumped out of my skin.
Merda! Maybe I did call 911.
They have a way of getting back at you. I saw it once on one of those TV cop shows. In the rush to answer, I knocked the phone to the floor. I knelt to grab the receiver with one hand, the phone with the other, and managed to crawl back into my skin. “Hello?” I said rather breathlessly.

“Porzia—” His voice rose from way down . . . way past that spot where the sun suddenly falls off the horizon.

“Hello, Gabe.” I stretched my legs, sitting on the floor with my back against my bed.

“How you going, luv?”

“I’m fine,” I exhaled dreamily.
Now that I’m talking to you,
my heart told him silently.

“Did you get some rest?”

“Not as much as I would have liked. I’m sure I’ll sleep well tonight.” There was no way I would be able to take a nap after this.
Thump. Thump. There went my heart.
“How are you?”

“I’m OK,” he said. “Went to get Tess back from Clark. It was sort of empty here, especially after having you over for the last couple of days. Hard to sleep, too. It’s almost three thirty in the morning here, but I wanted to hear your voice.”

My thumping heart swelled and I closed my eyes, smiling to myself.

“Is she happy to be back?” I asked.

“Yes, like she never left. But I wanted to tell you that I had a great time while you were here and can’t wait to spend some more with you.”

“Even if I ask a lot of questions?”

“You’ve got more, eh?”

Smart man.
“Of course I do. Of the introspective kind.”

I believe I heard him groan. “Shoot. But I’ve got time for only one.”

“What scares you the most?

“Your questions, Porzia.”

I burst out laughing. “I hope you’re not serious.”

“Roight. I’ve got one for you. What have you got goin’ for the week?” he asked.

Amidst the laughter I had to think for a moment. “I’m driving to Georgia this Friday to write about beans for a different publication.” I wondered if Benedetta would care to join me.

“Beans?” he asked.

I chuckled. “Yes. Beans.”

“Sounds like fun, luv.”

He had said he would only have time for one question. “Do you need to go?”

“Yes.”

Dear God! This was going to be an intense ordeal.
“Thanks for calling me. Sleep well.”

“No worries. I miss you, luv. Cheers.”

“I miss you too. Bye.” I heard the soft click of his phone as I hung up my own receiver.

My bedroom’s billowing blue curtains reminded me of his ever-shifting eyes. A week ago they were just meaningless curtains. And if the relationship failed, I’d resent them, find them impossible to stare at any longer. I would have to get rid of them.

Dropping my head I raised my legs and rested my cheek on my knee. As the curtain filled with the marine breeze, I silently asked for strength and guidance. I really, really liked the blue.

CHAPTER 17

B
eans in Georgia; My next assignment after I polished, printed, and filed a copy of my Umeracha article for my records. I faxed and e-mailed the other copy to an eagerly awaiting Helen in Miami and moved on to the next adventure.

Benedetta ended up being quite taken with the idea of a weekend getaway before school started. The afternoon caught us driving up north, leaving the ocean and the pets safely lodged at the pet sitter’s place.

I had spoken to Gabe earlier in the week, and although the distance between us was a stretch, it seemed we both had our minds set to make it work.

I did miss him. A lot. Every time I heard his voice over the phone, I questioned my reasons to come back home. A tiny, resonant voice kept on telling me to throw all caution to the wind and pack a bag to join him in Australia for the rest of my days.

I knew I was going to get the phone bill from hell. We used e-mail as well, but it didn’t cut it. I didn’t like the impersonality of it. I have a weird phobia about electronics and modern gadgets—I just don’t trust them. I even call the magazines every time I fax my articles to let them know my stuff is on the way. Call me old-fashioned, but I like the sound of another human being’s voice replying to me instead of a metallic beep-beep. I don’t even own a cell phone. I refuse to.

Gabe, on the other hand, didn’t seem to mind electronics at all. And here I was, struggling with the several phone numbers and e-mail addresses he’d given me. He was getting all sorts of semi-funny, frustrated messages, loving every single one of them. He asked why I didn’t have a
mobile
and how would he get in touch with me while I was on my way to Georgia. I gave him Benedetta’s cell phone number, and she began calling it a mobile as well. She got all worked up at the thought of receiving a phone call from the legendary Gabe Miller.

“How should I answer?” she wondered aloud as we drove through green pastures where cows lazily brushed flies from their sides, sending us pungent whiffs of country life.

While fidgeting with the radio, I shot her a puzzled look. “What do you mean, how should you answer?”

“Oh, just kidding. I’m a little apprehensive at the prospect of talking to him, though.” She looked out the window. Low vegetation and straw-scented pastures edged the way. “How are we gonna know that we’re in Georgia? It all looks the same to me.”

“They should have a sign that says welcome to Georgia,” I told her. I smiled as the wheels in my brain clicked with the idea of a potential prank. “By it they’re going to have a little stand with a person offering peaches and information to folks driving up. Just like when you come to Florida they give you oranges . . .”

“Wow!” she said. “I sort of knew about the oranges, but I didn’t know they did that in all the states.”

I nodded. “But of course. Cheese in Wisconsin . . . corn in Kansas . . . barbeque in Missouri . . . suntan lotion or avocados in California—they’ve got to be different over there. Mardi Gras beads in Louisiana . . .”
Hmm, what else?
“Potatoes in Idaho . . . clam chowder in New England . . . lobster in Maine . . . peyote in Arizona . . . chilies in New Mexico . . . salmon in Washington . . . lines of credit and condoms in Nevada . . . hair spray and steaks in Texas—”

She hit me.

“
Ahia!
” I yelled, rubbing my leg where she had smacked me with her flip-flop. I noticed her toe polish. “Benedetta, that’s a nice color,” I said, admiring a pretty shade of pearly coral that set off her tanned feet.

She forgot all about me fibbing and lifted her foot up on the dashboard, gingerly admiring her pedicure. “It’s called Vulva Peach.”

Who was kidding whom here?

We drove in silence for a while, munching on some dried-fruit mix and listening to some depressing honky-tonk whining. I wondered if playing the songs backwards would make things better for the poor country fellow who lost dogs, women, jobs, and precious belongings; all in less time it would take them to spit a pinch of chew.

Benedetta opened a bottle of water and noisily gurgled some. I laughed, pointing at the approaching road sign welcoming us to Georgia. “Look.” I slowed down. “We can stop and snap some pics if you’d like.”

The water bottle gurgled and bobbed in agreement with her head.

The sun hung low in the western horizon beyond a grassy field where a distant pine forest ran endlessly along the road. Spectacular hues of purples and oranges streaked the sky against the solid black wall of trees. On our right, a waning moon rose, dragging along a darker mantle of dusking skies. We parked on the side of the road, and I snapped several photos of Benedetta hugging the Georgia sign. She does everything with the enthusiasm of somebody who almost died and was given a second chance. I love her dearly. I love her even more knowing that a few years back I might have lost her forever.

While in college she worked at a convenience store. One evening, during a graveyard shift, an idiot decided to rob the store. He hit Benedetta in the head with a jumbo beer can. He hit her really hard. She lost consciousness and was left for dead until a customer walked in and called an ambulance, saving her life. They caught the robber with the help of the security camera. He wasn’t new at this; third strike and he was out. Benedetta followed the trial from her hospital room. Nevertheless, even knowing that he had been locked behind bars, she still struggled with safety issues for months afterwards. Hence, Eros, her trained Doberman killing machine. Once in a while she gets horrible migraines, but most of the time she’s busy feeling, tasting, absorbing life, and hugging Georgia signs. And she discovered Wicca.

“Ready?” I asked her, before she would decide to get frisky with the sign and start licking it.

“Yeah,” she said.

She jumped back in my car and landed on the forgotten water bottle on her seat, smashing it. “Uh—I think I just had an accident,” she whined in a childlike voice. A dark stain spread like a shadow under her yellow shorts.

“Have you got a change of clothes?” I asked, assessing the damage.

“Yes, in my bag in the trunk.” She hopped out of the car, dripping water as she went.

I popped the trunk open and heard her rummage through her stuff, whistling softly under her breath. She’s an incredible whistler. We would have to hurry or the entire Georgia state bird population would soon show up to accompany her
.

*

She was still whistling when we pulled into the well-lit parking lot of Aunt Delilah’s Roadside Café.

The place buzzed with lively energy. I had to drive around the ample parking lot twice before I finally managed to squeeze my car in between two monstrous pick-ups, one of them sporting a huge rebel flag and a bumper sticker that read, “Fight violence, shoot back.” Indeed.

We stepped out of the car, filling our lungs with the breezy evening air and a strong whiff of whatever was cooking inside. With watering mouths we walked up to a spacious front porch where customers chatted. One tickled a guitar and lazily rocked on a swing. I couldn’t tell if they were waiting for tables or if they liked the food so much they had separation anxiety issues. Just like me a week earlier in Adelaide, but I was supposedly leaving the love of my life behind. These people had bean soup issues; but then, I hadn’t tasted the soup yet.

Framed in ancient wood that must have been painted light green circa the Civil War, a mosquito screen introduced itself to us as the front door. Amazingly, it didn’t squeak when we opened it. But who would have heard it anyway? The kind of southern blues that grips your soul reached our ears while our nostrils filled with the teasing aroma of smoked ham swirling weightlessly, directed by several ceiling fans working overtime.

The dining room was full. Packed.

As we entered, the entire room turned to look at us, and we stood there, a bit uncomfortably, taking it all in. I was wondering where to go from there when an older man wearing a stained apron welcomed us with a genuine gap-toothed grin. With a strong hand on my shoulder, he moved us to a table in the back of the restaurant by an open window.

“Welcome to Aunt Delilah’s. What cannah get you to drink?” A crooked smirk hooked his ageless face, reminding me of a well-tanned Popeye.

Benedetta often and randomly reads my mind. “Nice to meet you,
Pop
. My name is Benedetta, and this here is my friend Porzia.” She introduced me with her hand. “What do you recommend?”

Pop smiled. He patted Bene’s head lightly and mumbled something about leaving it up to him. In less than two minutes he reappeared, out of nowhere, with two jumbo, frosty mugs filled to the rim with ice-cold beer, and a platter of fried okra.

He winked at Bene, then turned to me and asked if I was there to meet Delilah.

I nodded, dipping my nose in the beer head.

“She’s in the kitchen, brewing tomorrow’s stock,” he said. “After you eat, I’ll take you back there.” He left us to tap our feet to the crescendo rhythm of the music.

I sipped my beer.
Caspita!
One of the best I’d had in a while.

By the time Pop came by, we had drained the mugs. He placed two bowls of the renowned bean soup in front of us along with a basket full of corn muffins and a crock of whipped butter.

It smelled heavenly, if heaven smelled of smoked ham and hearty beans.

He grabbed the empty beer mugs. “Ready for another round?”

We nodded.

In no time Pop brought us the second round and grabbed a chair from a nearby table. He sat on it backwards, using the chair’s back as a support for his elbows, wiping his forehead with his stained apron.

“How’d you like it?” he asked, pointing at the mugs.

“It’s excellent,” I answered. “What is it?”

He grinned and balanced the chair closer on two legs. A conspiratorial look spread across his face. “Delilah’s own secret brew.” He shifted his shrewd eyes to Benedetta. “So—your parents thought you were a blessing?” he asked as if it were the most natural thing on the planet to find an old grandpa at a truck stop able to translate Benedetta’s name.

“Yes, they did.” Benedetta lifted her head to answer. The soup had steamed up her glasses.

One would probably think we were nuts to eat hot soup on a sticky, warm August evening, but with my job’s deadlines I’m used to it, like models get used to wearing bathing suits in January. Besides, an entire dining room agreed with me this evening. The ice-cold beer married superbly with it, like
Parmigiano e maccheroni
.

Benedetta took her glasses off to wipe off the soup steam and smiled at Pop with her nearsighted, angelic blue eyes. She’s cute with her glasses on. She’s not of this world when she takes them off. I suspect the gods made her nearsighted so humans could handle looking at her, and vice versa.

“Hey, Dad, are you so busy charming these pretty young ladies you’ve forgot the rest of the room?”

Pop turned his head to look at an incredibly handsome man with chiseled features.

Did he just say “Dad”?
I wondered. My eyes darted, all unglued, between Pop and the black Adonis towering right behind him. It was like thinking of Geppetto manifesting the David instead of Pinocchio out of a piece of wood.

No way.

Benedetta’s glasses dropped in her soup.

“Ladies, may I introduce to you my son, Jason,” Pop said, grinning proudly, not without a hint of sarcasm. “Named for the leader of the Argonauts and Medea’s main love disaster.” Pop tugged at Jason’s shirt trying to make him take a bow.

I was speechless.
Pop a mythology expert? Oddio, what next?

Jason swatted a rolled kitchen towel at his astute father. He then shook hands with us, offering Benedetta another bowl of soup. She nodded, hastily wiping her glasses so she could take a better look at him.

Pop got up with a look that told us he wouldn’t be long and followed his stunning son into the kitchen.

“Benedetta, stop staring at his butt.”

She turned around. “Can’t help it.” She grinned and reached for her beer. She took a long gulp and smiled at me, curling up a white, foamy moustache. “This is a hell of a place.” She cast her arm out in a vague general direction. “Your mailman told you about it?”

I nodded with chipmunk-size cheeks grinding beans. “Uh-huh. He always has great tips.”

“I bet Pop’s real name is Aeson,” she said knowingly.

“Why do you say that?” I asked, busy counting the different varieties of beans in my bowl. So far I had recognized seven—no, eight—I had just noticed the black-eyed peas.

“You know I’m fascinated by Greek mythology. The Argonaut Jason, his father’s name in ancient mythology was Aeson, then the Medea disaster and blah, blah, blah . . .”

“When did you start learning all this?” I interrupted, curious.

She reached across the table to dunk half a corn muffin in my soup. “I was taking it in college when we met. Then continued researching on my own, among other things. Did you know that the philosophers called their narrations
myths
? Look how we’ve distorted the meaning of the word now and relegated it to something invented, fable-like.” She brought the soaked muffin up to her mouth and took a bite. Amazingly, it didn’t crumble. It made me want to do the same. I reached for the breadbasket as Jason approached the table carrying a professional camera and Benedetta’s soup.

“I should have known you were from
Gusto
. Dad just told me.” He extended his hand. “I’ll be taking the photos for your article,” he added, smiling.

I raised an eyebrow and shook his hand. “You’re the photographer?” I asked, not quite believing him.

He nodded. “They should have told you at the magazine that Delilah doesn’t allow strangers to take photos in her establishment.”

I liked that word: establishment.

I suddenly recalled my conversation with Oscar, the editor in chief of
Gusto
, the magazine that commissioned me for this article. He
had
mentioned something about Delilah’s voodoo belief that pictures could steal souls.