He nodded and remained thoughtful for a while. I said nothing and wondered if maybe I was being too cute.
“I don’t want to care,” he said, “but I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t, and for some reason, I’m not comfortable telling you lies.”
I was afraid to feel the same way toward him. I needed my lies. “Some say you’re arrogant. Some say you’re gay. A few have these wild images of you seeing a much older woman.”
“Really? Sort of like Benjamin Braddock in The Graduate with Mrs. Robinson?”
“Any of it true?”
“Too soon to confess,” he replied.
Now it was my turn to laugh. “Where are we going?”
“There’s this really special pizza place in a small town about twenty miles outside of Carbondale. Another mom-and-pop establishment. These people are authentic. Not only do they have a real pizza oven, but they had the stone shipped from Naples many years ago.”
“How do you find these places?”
“I like to go off the beaten path. You know, like Frost . . . take the road less traveled. That’s what I like about you.”
“What?” I asked quickly, afraid he had somehow found out more about me than I wanted anyone here to know.
“You seem like someone who isn’t afraid of turning down a side road.”
I smiled. He knew nothing, really. If anything, I was someone who would be terrified of turning down side roads now. I wanted everywhere I went to be brightly lit and busy. Just the mention of the concept of a side road revived my memory of the road on which Anthony Cabot’s family farmhouse was located. I could shout for help all day and night and be heard only by rabbits and squirrels. I couldn’t even see the cars passing by, if there were any.
“You okay with this?” he asked when I was quiet for so long. “I mean, I could take you to downtown Carbondale or to a mall or . . .”
“No, I’m fine with it. I’ve never eaten pizza cooked on a stone from Napoli.”
He smiled. “That’s right. Napoli.” He sped up and we did start taking dark side roads where houses were few and far between.
Drive down the dark voices clamoring to be heard like ghosts in a graveyard, I told myself. When would they be gone forever? How long would it take for the memories to fade until they
seemed to be of things that happened to someone else?
“I’ve got about a dozen CDs in the glove compartment,” Troy said. “Maybe there’s something you like.”
I took them out and began to sort through them. There were folk songs, jazz albums, and two recordings of Mozart. Under those was one by someone named Tom Waits.
“Tom Waits? Really someone with that name? What’s he waiting for?”
“Try it,” he said.
I inserted the CD. He glanced at me with that wry smile of his and watched for my reaction. The first song was “All the World Is Green.”
“Well?” he asked halfway through it.
It had brought tears to my eyes, but I kept him from seeing it. All I could think of was the happy times in my life, when my father was still with us and Mother’s passion for keeping us loving sisters was something to behold and not fear. Back then, all the world was green for us.
“It’s beautiful. You’re full of surprises,” I said.
“I bet you are, too,” he replied.
Don’t find out, I prayed. Please don’t find out. We drove on.
I shook my head in wonder when he parked in front of a restaurant that had no sign in its window and nothing written on the window either. There was just the word MARIO’S over the dimly lit front door. I could see the place was small and almost all the tables were occupied.
“Someone had to tell you about this place,” I said. “Anyone would drive right by it.”