I’m here, Tess. Where are you staying?
I immediately wrote:
Meet me at the Ponte Umbertino.
Then I pulled some fresh clothes from my bag and got dressed. I grabbed my room key and took the elevator down to the lobby where there was no desk clerk on duty. I continued out the door and into the streets of late night Siracusa.
The town was ghostly and I wondered if walking through it was the best thing to be doing right now. But once I got used to the quiet, and the feel of the stones beneath my feet, I felt my heart rate begin to drop.
I walked past the Chiesa San Leonardo, the lonely church that I had passed earlier. At night, it looked even smaller: just one door and a window, the entrance to its tiny courtyardchained off. I wondered if there were people buried beneath it. A few priests of local renown. Maybe a saint.
When I reached the Ponte Umbertino, I spied some drunken tourists, tottering home in the amber lights. On the other side of the water was a small wine bar. AnenotecaDaniel had called it. Outside of it, a boy of about ten played the accordion and waited patiently for the occasional tip.
I took out my phone and turned on the camera. I pointed it at the scene in front of me and watched the world pulse in and out of focus. I hadn’t taken a single picture since I arrived in Sicily. Now I had the sudden urge to capture all of it at once.
I went to press the digital shutter, but I heard footsteps behind me. And when I turned, I found a woman walking toward me from the other side of the bridge, and I knew it was her.
Grace the Rower.
She had come by land this time.
I expected to get a lecture right off the bat. Some tough love, or just toughness without the love. What I found was a woman in no shape to lecture anyone. Her lids were heavy, and her hair was spilling out of a loose tie. When she got closer, I noticed she was carrying a bottle of wine.
“It’s table wine,” said Grace. “I know because I took it from a table.”
She sat down and set the bottle next to her. She closed her eyes and leaned against the side of the bridge.
“Grace,” I said. “Are you okay?”
She didn’t say anything for a moment. She just took a few deep breaths. Then she opened her eyes and pointed off toward the distance.
“Do you see that church out there? That giant cement teardrop? It’s supposed to be the site of a miracle. Did you know that? There was a statue of the Virgin that wept actual tears for three days in the 1950s. Now people go there to see the origin of the miracle and pray for more.”
I looked out over the city and found the church. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed it before. It was the oddest-looking building I had ever seen. A gray conical structure coming to a point at the top.
“It looks like an upside-down ice-cream cone,” I said.
Grace smiled, but only for an instant.
“Hey,” I said. “Seriously. What’s going on?”
“I’m here to bring you home,” she said, and took a drink of wine.
I grabbed the bottle out of her hand.
“I understand that,” I said. “But why are you drunk?”
She closed her eyes.
“Today’s the anniversary,” she said.
“Of what?” I asked.
“Of my daughter’s death.”
“Oh.”
“It’s been three years.”
