Joseph K. Novara, of Kalamazoo, MI, has won three awards. This piece won a monetary prize and the other two, Getting To Camille and Sun, Sea And Celibacy won literary certificates.
THE MILE-LONG AFFAIR
by
Joseph Novara (copyright 1997 All Rights Reserved)
Loose stones exploded like flak on the underside of
Pete's van.
His wife stirred from a half-doze, "Why are we
driving down a dirt road," she muttered.
"I want to get some berries."
"They sell berries right next to the highway. Why
do we have to go down a dirt road?"
Good question, Pete thought to himself. Why am I
going a mile out of my way? Because of her. Nadja. The new woman
at work. I've got to know more about her.
"Testa dura," Gina mumbled as she went back to
sleep.
Hard head. His wife still called him names in
Italian even after 25 years.
Nadja didn't have any names for him. He wondered
if she even knew his name. Nadja - a cocklebur name snagged on
the edge of his imagination. Nadja with the mid-eastern,
natural-mascara eyes that never looked directly at him. Syrian
eyes - or maybe Indian - that looked askance, cutting glances.
Is it flirting, he wondered, or just the way women in that part
of the world are taught to interact with men? The way his wife
had looked at him, when he had first met her in Naples, at the
tail end of his European trip, his "Roots" trip.
********
Gina's eyes were dark. As black as the dress she
wore in mourning for her recently deceased father. Pete found
himself waiting for her to look up, waiting to meet her gaze
only to have her look down, away, anywhere but at him. She had
him playing eye-tag across the frigid, marble-floored sala. The
only game they could play in a room full of wizened relatives
perched in high back chairs like hawks in leafless trees
scanning the high speed romance. Her older brother glared like a
shopkeeper guarding his wares. Her mother stared at cupped
hands, a poker player waiting for someone to call, her
retirement plans at stake. Still Gina flashed glances. Pete
smiled at everyone, nodded, ate constantly to be polite and
tried not to be obvious about his
interest.
********
Then he married her. Swept her away to a better
life. Professor Higgins took unfinished, seventeen, unspoiled
Gina, his shy-smiling Mona Lisa, home. To his home, where he
could explore the treasures promised under her plain black
clothes. Where she could unfurl the tight-wound bun at the nape
of her neck, let it fall and flow where it would. The way Nadja
had teased her hair with splayed fingers, then let it fall back
and settle naturally in place that time he had looked over her
shoulder to proof the newsletter. Was she flirting, preening? Or
simply offering a moving target, trying to distract from the
occasional gray streaks?
Wouldn't it be nice, though, Pete mused, if she
and I had to stay after work to finish a project? Maybe I could
solve a problem with her page layout program. Or better yet, we
would have to work at a major deadline and I could whip out a
couple pages of copy in no time, and she would be impressed. And
we would eat a take-out dinner and get into that 'two of us in
this to- gether' feeling. And she would tell me about herself
and when she got to some sad part, I could hold her and float my
fingers through the waves in her hair.
A car approached dragging a contrail of dust. Pete
closed the windows. His wife stirred, draping a forearm across
the arm rest. He glanced at her hand. One of the first things he
had noticed about her. Strong hands. Lovely hands. Tanned from
outdoor work but not rough. Functional hands with thumbs that
seemed to roll back at the top joint with rounded fleshy pads
perfect for kneading bread.
Pete's mind slid back to his fantasy - kneading
Nadja's shoulders to work out a kink in her neck. Maybe she
would unbutton her blouse so he could reach further down her
back, across her shoulders, to her fullrounded arms. Not
slender, what's the word I want, Pete asked himself? Luscious.
Yeah. Nadja is luscious, that's what she is. No wedding band.
Maybe she's unattached, hurting for some attention, any
attention. God, that's cold, like I'm some kind of gigolo
looking for an easy mark. Still, I haven't felt this kind of
buzz in a long time. Got to be careful. What did my dad tell me
once, "You find yourself starting to get interested in another
woman, son, think of her with a hare lip, some kind of flaw or
you'll go nuts."
Pete remembered the time in Austria, just before
he went down to Naples. Salzburg. Sound of Music country. He had
fallen in love with the Austrian women. Young, old, it didn't
matter. Dirndls and rosy cheeks. Blond hair and open smiles. He
was desperate the morning he was due to leave. The waitress
leaned forward to take his order, her laced-up peasant vest
filled to bursting. He stammered his request. And then the buxom
jungfrau did him a favor. She sat at a nearby table, munched a
piece of sausage, a radish, and a green onion followed by a long
swallow of beer. He could never live with a woman who ate that
kind of breakfast.
Maybe Nadja has some kind of flaw, he wished. But
what if she's perfect? Sweet? Interested in me? Really wants me
to come on to her? If she's not involved in a serious
relationship, she could get real clingy. Want long term
commitments. Or what if she really only wants a little
excitement? Some fast, hard fun from a safely married guy.
That's scary. I haven't done that since, 25 years. And what if
we get cozy and I gotta produce but I can't? All that build-up
just to end up embarrassed.
Gina yawned, pushing her palms against the
dashboard, "These berries better be really good, for all this
trouble."
"Well, it's not just berries. They sell some pies
there, and I hear they've got a little craft and jewelry store
on the side."
"Ummm".
His wife. His Gina. Two grown children later, she's a
different person. Her hair is teased full - a mane surrounding
her tawny, handsome face. Her off-white blazer and black silk
blouse set off her permanent olive tan. Black is still her
color. She's sharp, he had to admit. A natural at sales, right
down to the patter made all the more fetching by her lingering
accent. It bothered Pete, from time to time, that she made more
money than he; that she was better at what she did; had more
snap, ambition, people savvy, than he could ever learn. But it
hurt now more than ever, since he found out that he was "on the
bubble". That's what his boss had told him,
"Pete, you're on the bubble here. It's not your
fault. We just have to cut back."
So, what am I trying to do here? Nothing. Nothing
yet. Really. I'm just driving down a dusty gravel road taking
hits in my fuselage so I can see some jewelry. Nadja's jewelry.
On consignment at a blueberry stand. Well, it's a clue. An
opening.
Maybe she's artistic, temperamental, so imaginative
that she'll be dangerous to get near - like sparks flying from a
grinding wheel. Or maybe she's crafty- paints red cheeked dolls
on school girl brooches and stuffs pillows with used panty hose.
Or maybe she's just ordinary and designs the kind of jewelry I
would like for my daughter. Then what?
Pete pulled into the parking lot, "Do you have
money?"
"Uh-huh."
Gina reached toward the back seat for her purse. Her
blouse pulled aside to reveal a safety pin on her bra. Safety
pins, Pete mused. Safety pins on bras and sprung elastic on
stretched-out panties. Sooner or later it gets to that. It has
to.
"Get five pounds. We could always freeze them. And if
the pies look good, pick one up."
Pete smiled at his wife as he took the money.
Table of contents