Chapter 4

Maria wandered the boardwalk alone, navigating her way through the motionless crowd. The boardwalk was filled with summer revelers escaping the crushing heat of the summer city, but here they were motionless and faded. She’s had this dream before, and years ago the dream was terrifying, now it’s merely annoying, but at least she now knew what to look for. He’s here somewhere. He’s in a different location every time she has this dream, but she can always find him because he’s the only animated one. Everyone else is immobile and their color is washed out. It’s like the creator of her dream always wants her to know that he’s there for her. This time she found Giuseppe D’Amato sitting at the edge of the water, enjoying the feeling of the waves as they roll over his feet.

“I wish I could do that,” she called from the edge of the boardwalk.

“Come on down and do it,” called Guiseppi.

“I can’t walk in the sand with crutches.”

“How do you know? You’ve never tried,” called Guiseppi, but it wasn’t his voice. It was Steve’s voice that said those exact words to her during their therapy sessions.

“Come get your Egg Cream before it goes flat,” Maria called and sat in the shade of the gaudily colored steel umbrella over her table at the boardwalk candy shop they love so much. Giuseppe was there in moments; he hates a flat Egg Cream. Maria sat and watched Giuseppe enjoy his treat, but soon he wanted to discuss something she was avoiding.

“Are you enjoying Florida?” he asked.

Maria frowned. In the past, they both laughed about New Yorkers flocking to Florida as they approached their “golden years” then later they made plans to join the southward migration. Then their plans were shattered when Giuseppe was killed by a junkie, and Maria went to Florida with their daughters, Jeannie and Natalia. Now Maria and Giuseppe were separated by time, space and worse. “It’s warm, the house is nice, the pool is great, but you can’t get an Egg Cream.”

“You will find one, or maybe one will find you, it’s going to happen.” An egg cream is a favorite from New York City made from milk, seltzer water, and a little bit of chocolate syrup stirred up until a foam rises at the top of the glass. It has no egg and no cream, and she liked them, but not nearly as much as her Giuseppe loved them. There’s a theory that the name Egg Cream came from the Yiddish words echt krim which means real cream, which is unlikely because there’s no cream in it, or it came from the Yiddish words echt keem which means genuine sweetness which is more likely. Her murdered husband took a long drink and sighed, “Oh yeah, that’s the real thing. How about you? I tried to find you the real thing. How is it working out?”

“If I just knew that this was right!” she cried. “Is this what you want for me?”

“How can you ask that question?” asked Guiseppi. “This is me, Juicy, and you know that all I ever wanted from you is that smile, and I see that smile whenever he is around...” Giuseppe reached out and took her hand in his and said softly, “give him that smile...”

And soon his playful smile was gone, and the feel of his hands holding hers faded from memory and the light from the rising sun pried her eyes open. She sat up and grabbed a tissue and with a resounding “honk!” she cleared the snot that clogged her morning sinuses. “Oh yeah, Steve is going to like hearing that in the morning,” she complained to herself, but somehow, she knew he would learn just like her “Juicy” did, and her sister’s husband and her oldest daughter’s husband did, sinus issues were an issue with women that have Bellini blood in their veins. With the resurgence of the memory of her private nickname for him, she knew that the man in her dream was Guiseppi, her own Juicy, that spoke to her about Steve last night.

She snatched her phone from the nightstand and sent two quick texts. One was to Steve begging him to give her more time, and one to Sally Anne, asking her to call back as soon as possible.

Steve spent the rest of that horrible evening sitting on the beach watching the stars, cursing himself for ruining the most wonderful thing that ever happened to him. After sunrise, he drove back up to Sebastian and, reaching a small nature walk, he parked the truck and grabbed a backpack out of the truck and went for a walk. The jungle was thick and enchanting, and the natural beauty almost took his mind off of the mess that he made of his life. He reached a spot on the path that paralleled a river. The water was filled with cypress knees and “pointy birds” on long legs that poked through the mud for snacks. He took off the backpack, unzipped it, and began unfolding. The backpack became an inflatable kayak, and in just a matter of minutes, he was paddling through the backwaters of the St. Sebastian river.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, he pulled out his phone and turned it on. Ignoring the cacophony of tones and rings, he dialed a number and held the phone to his ear. “At the sound of the tone please leave your message...”

“Doctor Albertson, this is Steve, I’ve had an issue arise and I need to take a personal day on Monday. I have an open schedule on Monday, so nothing needs to be covered. I will be there on Tuesday, see you then.”

He turned off his phone and put it in a Ziplock baggie and paddled along in the streams where Johnny Weissmuller played Tarzan for the movie cameras almost 100 years ago. That evening he drove into town and got some hot dogs and hotdog rolls and some grapes at the Walmart, then returned to the park he rented a site from the night before. There he rented a primitive site where he put up his pup tent and slept there in a sleeping bag. He caught his first sleep in 48 hours, sleeping on a bed of soft sand.

On Monday, he woke, re-inflated his kayak and walked down to the river and went kayaking on the St. Sebastian river. He splashed along, working his anger and self-loathing out with every stroke of the paddle. Just as he was turning on to a side stream, he heard an outboard motor approaching from behind, and he thought he heard someone shout his name. “They can’t be calling for me,” he told himself. “I don’t exist today.” Steve paddled up the side stream that was partially blocked by fallen limbs and logs, a trip that a boat with a motor couldn’t follow. Being inflatable, his kayak had a draft of maybe one inch. The motorboat couldn’t follow him over the submerged logs that he floated over easily.

Steve paddled along watching the birds skim over the surface of the water, branches that stuck out over the water were lined with turtles that would drop off the branch as he neared, hitting the surface of the water with a loud “ker-plunk!” Eventually the side stream curved back around and rejoined the St. Sebastian River where Detective Bruce McLaren waited for him in a rented 10’ long motorboat. “You know I’m going to find you eventually captain.”

“Not today, you’re not going to find me today.” When Bruce looked confused, Steve explained, “I don’t exist today.”

Bruce nodded. He understood that. In Afghanistan, Steve would disappear, especially after a horrific kill. He would refuse radio traffic and the orders that did come in were not ignored. They just weren’t acted on with the expedience that one was used to when dealing with Captain Anderson. “What should I tell her?”

“Whatever you want, I’m just taking some ‘me time’ to clear my head.”

Bruce looked at his friend sadly and said, “Let’s go shoot some pool and work it out like men. With beer.” Steve didn’t say a word, he just sighed and his paddle bit into the river and he sailed away. “Damn,” muttered Bruce.

Steve spent most of Monday paddling his little kayak. As he paddled back and forth across the wide St. Sebastian River, his phone remained locked in his truck, so Bruce couldn’t hunt him down with the GPS again. That evening, he had a surprisingly splendid dinner at the Portside Pub and Grille, then he headed back to Vero Beach where he entered his dark little apartment and stared at a wall until he faded into the darkness too.

Maria “blew up his phone” with texts all day Sunday and Monday, and all morning long on Tuesday morning. Sweet little texts assuring him that she couldn’t wait to see him on Tuesday and that she just needed time to get her head together as well. He read every one of them at lunch on Tuesday out on the hospital’s shaded patio outside of the employee cafeteria where he could sit in private.

Finally, on Tuesday afternoon, she entered The Dungeon and Steve was waiting for her on table number four. His heart leapt when he saw her. Her hair was perfect, her eyes were glittering, and her t-shirt clung tightly to her large, heavy breasts. She wore that T-shirt just for him because she was daring him to stare at her boobs. “Missus D’Amato,” he said. His throat was dry, and it was hard to talk.

“Il mio amante,” she said with a smile.

“I don’t know what that means,” said Steve as she laid back, her large breasts daring him to stare at them.

“You will,” she promised, “soon enough.” The Italian phrase Il mio amante means “my lover,” and she had plans to help him with that translation. The appointment went smoothly and there was nothing but smiles for each other. As always, his hands felt smooth as silk as he gave her a “warm up” massage and the pain that she saw in his eyes on Saturday night disappeared as she looked up at him and traced the tip of her tongue around her lips and waggled an eyebrow up at him.

“Don’t! You’re making me laugh!” In reply, she simply answered him with a kiss blown at him. He then followed up with a rigorous set of exercises that they had never tried before. Maria, who never liked the more strident exercises, actually enjoyed these. They were working her leg muscles in a way that they hadn’t been worked in a decade.

When the appointment was over, she looked up from the table panting; it was a good workout. Their last therapy set was a workout on “The Wall,” a workout machine mounted to the wall that worked all parts of the body. He placed her against the wall with her right shoulder and right hip against the wall and a strap connected to pulleys and weights on her left ankle. She had to raise her leg outwards and hold it for a count of ten. Then he turned to her and did the same thing with her right leg. Once they did three sets of these “crotch busters” he handed her the crutches she had to live with but instead of taking them she put her arms around his neck and pulled him to her, “carry me,” she whispered.

“Won’t that be a little awkward?” he asked. “People are watching.”

“Then carry me in your heart,” she whispered and then gave him the type of kiss that she hadn’t given to anyone in ten years. Her tongue prodded Steve’s lips, and he opened to accept her tongue in and soon their tongues were gently sliding over each other, their arms holding tighter. A little whimper of excitement from both Steve and Maria escaped as they kissed. When their lips parted and their panting breath slowed, she whispered, “I know it’s a little late ... but ... I love you too,” and their lips met in another kiss that Steve could only dream about ... until today. When their tongues retreated and their lips parted, she looked into his glittering blue eyes and said, “let’s go find Doctor Albertson.”

“Let’s do that,” Steve said, smiling at her, and now she took her crutches. Ignoring the stares they received from Melissa Combs, an RN in the PT department, Steve led Maria to Dr. Albertson’s office and Steve knocked “Shave and a Haircut” on his door, the little rhythm that the nurses and therapists used to let the doctor know that they have a problem that needs his immediate attention.

“Come in,” the doctor called, and Steve opened the door, and they entered. Dr. Albertson was a large, muscular black man with closely cropped hair and the look of a professional athlete about him. He was a trainer for an NFL team for a few years before he took this job in Vero Beach, Florida.

Maria centered herself in front of Dr. Albertsons’ desk and boldly said, “I have a problem with one of your silly rules.” She could hear Steve groan behind her, but Dr. Albertson looked up at her, trying to conceal a smile.

“And which silly rule would that be? I have quite a few of them.”

“Steve says it’s a rule that because we fell in love with each other, I now have to find a new physical therapist.”

Dr. Daryl Albertson looked at Steve, who was trying to choke down his shock at her admission. There are ways that a woman can say “I love you too” that do not threaten a man’s career. Clearly, Maria did not choose to follow that route. “Mister Anderson!” Dr. Albertson sounded terrifyingly like Hugo Weaving as Agent Smith from the Matrix as he said, “Would it be possible for you to conduct yourself professionally while performing therapeutic ministrations in this hospital?”

“Pardon sir?” gasped Steve, shocked at the entire goings on.

“Can you keep it in your pants while working with Mizz D’Amato, Mister Anderson?”

“Uhhh yes sir.”

Then turning to Maria, he growled, “Mizz D’Amato, would it be possible for you to maintain your composure knowing that Mister Anderson is making his living touching other women with the same intent as he has been touching you within these confines for the past months?”

Maria was shocked. She didn’t expect this, and the question gave her pause. Of course, Steve would touch other women ... wait a minute ... her Steve would touch other women? HER Steve? Maria hadn’t thought of that possibility. How is she going to feel about that ... She sighed and remembered the feel of his lips on hers and pitied the poor women who will never feel that, and she said, “I will be at our home waiting for his return, trusting that he will retain his professional composure until he gets home to me.”

“Good answer!” he looked back down at his paperwork. “Please enjoy the rest of your day ... elsewhere.”

As they left Dr. Albertson’s office, Maria turned to Steve and said, “can you give me a ride home? Darlene is off and I didn’t arrange for an Über.”

Steve’s heart leapt at the thought that he had Maria for a few extra moments that day and he said, “sure.” They took the elevator down to the employee’s parking lot and when the door opened for a few nurses waiting for the elevator on the underground parking level, they saw Steve and Maria kissing as the doors slid open. “Excuse us,” muttered an embarrassed Steve, but Maria just showed off her crutches. She has learned that as a crutch-bound patient, she can get away with almost anything.

“Do you mind if I call you Annamaria?” asked Steve, as he easily hoisted her up into the passenger seat.

“I don’t know, it’s what my mother called me when she was mad at me.” Then crossing her arms, she imitated her angry mother saying, “Annamaria Giacinta Bellini! Lascia stare quei polli!”

“What was that?” chuckled Steve as he got in the truck.

“She yelled that at me quite a bit when I was little. She said, Annamaria Giacinta Bellini! Leave those chickens alone!”

“Leave the chickens alone?”

“When I was young we lived on a farm and when the chickens were young, I thought the chicks were pets. It wasn’t until later I discovered that they were the key ingredient in some of my favorite meals.”

“What was your very favorite meal?” asked Steve.

Maria smiled and said, “When I was a little girl it was zuppa di tagliatelle alla Paolina.”

The words rolled off her tongue with the same artistic measure that she used when making incredible, delicious Italian specialties for him. Whatever she just named sounded delicious and exotic. It must have been another amazing Italian dish that he’s never had before. “What is that?”

“Chicken noodle soup made with Paolina,” Maria said with a smile. “When I was little we had a huge red chicken that used to terrify me, Paolina was her name and we ate off that bird for days when her time came, and when I found out that Paolina went into that soup I was never afraid of a chicken ever again.” She sighed at the childhood memories of Paolina. “I couldn’t conceive that the bird that terrified me and chased me out of the yard was made of meat.”

“Aww, that’s cute ... Can I call you Annamaria and not use your middle name?” They happily drove home relating stories of their childhood, they couldn’t fully relate to each other’s stories as Maria was a big city girl most of her life and Steve was a child of the fields and forest all of his life, but they had fun explaining the eccentricities of their upbringing. As they neared the area where their route took them alongside the ocean, Steve said, “You’ve never been on a beach, have you?”

“Not here, at Coney Island I used to go all the time.”

“Coney Island?” Like everyone from outside of the five boroughs, Steve thought of Coney Island as nothing more than an amusement park where you could see the ocean from the top of the roller coaster. He was sure the only thing it was famous for was a brand of so-so wieners named “Nathans.”

“It’s usually really crowded but there is a beach there. On hot days Juicy and I used to meet there after school.”

“Juicy?” asked Steve. “Why did you call Giuseppe ‘Jucy?’ There’s got to be a story behind that.”

Maria suddenly blushed and mumbled an excuse but Steve kept pressing her until she finally said, “It was our first handjob, ok?”

“Hand job?” said Steve with a laugh. “Did you say hand job?”

Maria took a deep sigh and said, “I was a good Catholic girl and Giuseppe was a good catholic boy and I gave him a pair of blue balls that were so swollen they clanked when he walked.”