Dirty Secret (28 page)

MY LAST DAY
in New York I'm busy cleaning, doing the requisite laundry, and in the evening, saying good-bye to both of my parents. I'm worried about my dad because the last couple days his pain has moved from a five or six to a seven and once even an eight. Thankfully, we'll be able to communicate by email: One of the villagers told David we could share his internet account as long as we split the monthly bill. Apparently he strung a cord out his window, along the walls of three connected houses, across a narrow alley, and into our apartment. I make my dad promise to email me every day, and he laughs.

“I really mean it, Dad.”

“Okay, honey,” he says. “I'll check in with you every day.”

When I call my mother to say good-bye, she's in a good mood.

“Oh, Jessie, remember I told you about Marcy?”

“She's the career counselor, right?”

“She's helping me sue those motherfuckers, yes. Well, anyway, I went to see her today and I asked her if I looked shorter”—here she starts gasping for air, she's laughing so hard—“because, because, because I said, there are six inches less of me!”

“What are you talking about?”

Does she even remember that I'm leaving for Italy tomorrow? For a second I consider not telling her. Just running away.

“That's how much of my colon they removed! Six inches. So there are six inches less of me!”

After she's done laughing, I remind her that I'm leaving tomorrow.

“I know,” she says.

“And we won't have a phone.” My mom doesn't have email or a computer yet. “So I'll have to call you from pay phones. But I don't know how often I'll be able to.”

“Jessie, that's fine. Just go, have an adventure, and please don't worry about me. I want you to enjoy yourself. I've got so much to keep me busy right now—getting rid of the you-know-whats, and my lawsuit, and the gators—”

“Here's an idea,” I say, interrupting her. “Harness all that energy and use it toward cleaning your house.”

“Ha!” she says, thinking I'm joking. “That's a good one!”

AS I MAKE MY WAY TOWARD MY SEAT AT THE BACK of the plane, carrying a small backpack and with Abraham Lincoln in his duffel-shaped carrier slung over my shoulder, I'm thinking about what I hope to accomplish over the next six months in Italy: I have a novel to finish, I'd like to improve my horrendous Italian, and I'll be teaching an online writing class. And of course, I'm determined to get rid of the bugs.

Last week I found a company online that sells natural remedies specifically for scabies. The owner struggled with them herself for more than a year, and when she finally found something that got rid of them—in her case it was the Indian plant, neem, which David and I tried in pill form but not externally—she formulated the products. I ordered neem soap, neem lotion, neem oil, neem shampoo, and neem conditioner.

Between all the extra loads of laundry and various natural “cures,” not to mention the wasted time that can't be measured monetarily, I've spent hundreds of dollars on this entomological adventure. Stuffed inside my luggage in the belly of the plane are bottles of an enzyme cleanser that promises to “neutralize” scabies, giant bottles of tea tree oil shampoo and conditioner, glass vials of pure tea tree oil, and half a dozen neem products. For the entire six months in Italy, I'm bringing one mediumish rolling suitcase, one large backpack, and my small carry-on backpack. The potions and lotions and poisons for the bugs take up a quarter of my luggage space.

And besides the actual products, I'm bringing the bugs. Which means that now, not only has my mother's hoarding managed to cross the country from Minneapolis to New York City, but it's about to cross the Atlantic Ocean and make it all the way to Europe.

Because I'm traveling with Abraham Lincoln, one of the people at the gate told me to go to the front of the line and board with those traveling with small children or needing assistance. So I'm already settled into my seat—annoyingly in the last row before the restrooms—as the other passengers walk down the aisles and try to find room for their bags in the overhead compartments.

I'm flying Air France, and even though I took French for three years in junior high, when one of the flight attendants comes by and begins speaking to me in French, I haven't the slightest idea what she's saying.

“Sorry?” I say.

“Oh! I thought you were French. I just wanted to ask if you would like a pillow?” She's holding out a small white rectangle that I somehow missed before.

“Thank you,” I say, accepting it. I pull down my shirt to make
sure my skin is covered before I put the pillow behind my lower back.

I'm flattered that the flight attendant thought I was French. I like the idea of being someone else, from someplace else. My Italian teacher last semester used to say that it's helpful, when learning a new language, to come up with a new “self” for that language, to think in terms of your “Italian self,” when speaking Italian. When he said it I was intrigued: I liked the idea of having an Italian self. I liked it a lot. But I'd forgotten about it until now.

Perhaps in Italy I could be a new person—I could be less anxious, less shy. More outgoing. I could finally stop caring so much about other people's opinions of me. I could even be bug free.

The more I think about it, the more I like the idea of an Italian self.

My Italian self does not let her secrets eat at her. My Italian self doesn't even know what hoarding is. And why would she, when her life has never been touched by it? My Italian self had a lovely, idyllic childhood and as a result is bursting with self-esteem. Did my Italian self ride horses? She considers it . . . but no. My Italian self played tennis instead. Or maybe squash. My Italian self is never angry, nor is she self-pitying; she is totally unfamiliar with the concept of self-doubt and has never felt even vaguely ratty or ragged next to well-groomed, well-dressed strangers. Wherever she finds herself is exactly where she belongs and the people around her are lucky to have this Italian Jessie.

This Italian Jessie is downright high on herself.

Maybe, I think, I'll give it a try. I'll become another person once this plane lifts off. And because this new person is bug free, I get up and pull my backpack from the overhead bin. I slide
open the front pocket and take out the small bottle of neem oil I've kept there, with the thought that I'd rub some onto the areas of my skin that might touch the plane's upholstery. I pour about a teaspoon into my palm, slide my backpack into place and sit down again, rubbing the oil into my hands.

I've grown so used to tea tree oil, garlic, and now neem, that I've lost any sense of how bad these things smell. The scent of neem oil conjures up rancid almonds, motor oil, and flea dip.

To me, it's fine. No big deal.

But soon the people around me are sniffing the air with suspicious looks on their faces. Some of them point toward the bathroom. They think the dreadful odor is coming from there. But it's coming from me.

Even though I shouldn't leave Abraham Lincoln alone under the seat in front of me—the zipper on his carrier has been broken since we bought it and he knows how to maneuver his way out if I don't grab it in time—I have to wash this stinking oil off my hands. At least six people are looking around, toward me and toward the bathrooms, with disgusted looks on their faces. Some are even pinching their noses closed.

I leave my seat as quietly as possible, trying not to rustle Abraham Lincoln's carrier in the hopes he won't realize I'm gone and panic. In the bathroom, I turn on the water, soap up my hands, and wash them as best I can, but even after I've dried them with a scratchy paper towel my hands still feel greasy. I press them to my nose and breathe in. This stuff is clearly impossible to get off. My hands still reek.

But I can't leave Abraham Lincoln alone for too long. I exit the bathroom and take my seat again, sitting on my hands and praying the smell has dissipated in the cabin.

It hasn't. The plane has filled to capacity, but rather than buckling themselves into their seats, the passengers are standing,
some spilling out into the aisles, sniffing the air like truffle-hunting pigs. Two flight attendants have joined the search for the source of the stench and are going through the overhead compartments, pulling each piece of luggage to their faces and inhaling. One of them shakes her head and begins walking briskly to the front of the plane. Is she going to tell the pilot? Have I just caused the flight to be delayed or even cancelled? I have only a forty-five-minute layover between this flight and the one from Paris to Rome—I was already concerned about making my connection.

And David doesn't have a cell phone. If I miss my connecting flight I'll have no way to reach him other than email.

Jesus. All of this because of the neem. All of this because of the bugs. All of this because of my mother's hoarding.

“Excusez moi?”
a flight attendant says to me as she pops open the bin directly overhead.

I'm too nervous to be flattered about being taken for a Frenchwoman again.

“Yes?” I ask, trying to find a facial expression that says
I have no idea where that putrid smell originated. I certainly had nothing to do with it.

“Do you 'ave perfume in your bag, miss? Maybe some musk that broke?”

I shake my head vigorously. “No, I hate perfume,” I say, and right then Abraham Lincoln pops his snout from the carrier.

“Down,” I hiss at him and with my foot try to push the carrier farther back under the seat.

The flight attendant, in her smart blue skirt and jacket, reaches into the overhead bin and pulls my backpack toward her. “Maybe in 'ere?” she says and sniffs the outside of my bag.

Abraham Lincoln's whole head is out now.

“No,” I say, both to her and to Abraham Lincoln.

“Okay,” she says, and to my shock she slides my backpack inside again.

Abraham Lincoln, stuck half in, half out of his carrier, starts screeching. His smoke-detector-sounding screeches.

The flight attendant looks at me in horror as Abraham Lincoln breaks free from the carrier and leaps onto my lap, still screeching, his mouth pulled back in a wolflike grimace. His giant ears are pressed down close to his head. Poor thing. He's terrified. I wrap him inside my hooded sweatshirt in an attempt to soothe him. Normally when I fly with him, once the plane has lifted off I allow him out of the carrier and onto my lap, covering him with a blanket to keep him hidden. The few flight attendants who've ever noticed have smiled and said how cute he was. No one has ever reprimanded me.

Until this Air France flight attendant.

“Miss, she must be in this kennel!”

“Okay, sorry,” I say, struggling to peel Abraham Lincoln off my lap.

My poor Italian self. I miss her already. Murdered through neem overdose, she lasted about two minutes.

I finally get Abraham Lincoln's claws out of my jeans and try to shove him back into his carrier.

The flight attendant, still standing in the aisle with her arms crossed and a frown on her face, repeats, “She must be in this kennel!”

“I'm trying,” I snap. “This bag doesn't really close.”

Everyone is watching at this point. At least it's taken their minds off the noxious neem.

“If she is not in the kennel—”

“He,” I correct.

“—I will 'ave to tell the pilot.”

Finally I smush his head down and manage to get the carrier
zipped. The flight attendant gives me a curt nod and walks past the bathrooms to the back of the plane where she disappears behind a curtain. I fear she's discussing me with the other flight attendants; maybe they know I'm the one who stank up the plane and they're plotting a way to get me off. Me and my screeching dog.

The rest of the passengers are seated, the overhead bins closed, and people seem to have forgotten—or are ignoring—the smell. Finally the announcement comes over the intercom, in French and English, that we should prepare for takeoff.

ROME IS MY
favorite city, and not just because it's where David and I got married. I'm beyond relieved when Abraham Lincoln and I make it there without further incident. From the airport I take a train into the city; David and I have planned to meet in the station. He's there, waiting for me on the platform, smiling. As soon as I see him I know that coming here was the right decision. This is my life, my little family: my husband and our dog. And my dad and Sandy understand that, which is why they rejected my offer of skipping Italy and staying with them for the next six months. I'm filled with gratitude that they did. They're much smarter than I am.

We take a train, then a bus, to the village. As the bus turns a corner, our destination comes into view. I've been there before, but that doesn't make the sight any less breathtaking. The village sits like a floating island atop 450-foot cliffs that jut straight up from a lush valley. The jagged-roofed houses are made of the same sand-colored stone as the rock on which they sit, giving the whole place a dramatic, monochromatic eeriness. The village seems stolen from a fairy tale. Unreal.

The bus lets us off on the side of the road and we walk the rest of the way up the hill, across the parking lot and past the pay
phone I'll use to call my mother and my dad and Sandy, through the narrow archway in the town walls (an opening too small for cars, rendering the village pedestrian only), and up the serpentine path to the marble bench–lined town square. I feel like I've stepped inside a sepia-toned photograph.

Only one hundred people live in the village, many of them artists and aging hippies from all over Italy. It's a day-trip and weekend destination, which is why there are so many shops and restaurants for a place no bigger than a football field. The chunky, uneven stones used to pave the narrow streets were taken from the riverbed in the valley below. As we walk through the square we pass a store that sells colorful, flowing skirts—the kind of shop you might see on a college campus. The proprietor, a thin, dark-haired man clad in gauzy white, is sitting on the steps, smoking a cigarette.