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Keefe
Keefe twisted pasta on his fork with no intention of eating it. His appetite had waned before he’d finished half the plate, maybe because he had something on his mind, something he needed to say.
Papa, taking his time, had put away every bit of his pasta, sausage, fresh bread and cheese, and fried zucchini . . . though he hadn’t looked interested in his dessert, a fruit-topped panna cotta.
Setting out early, hours early, they had taken a ten-minute drive from Bagno di Romagna to a nearby municipality for an appointment. Papa, having assumed the leisurely disposition of the locals, had gone directly to a restaurant where he planned to remain until the appointment.
Papa leaned back in the patio chair, wine glass in hand, and gazed off in the direction of a nearby pond. When not actively working, and sometimes when he was, Papa often had a faraway look in his eyes and seemed lost in thought, perhaps going over plans, but more than likely returning to a memory from his past. Some memory of Mama.
Voices carried from people below the patio and Papa’s gaze shifted.
Keefe took the opportunity to speak. “Papa, I’d like us to go to church again.”
Papa stared a moment before answering. “It’s less than five miles from here. Take a walk. You’ve been useless on my appointments anyway. I don’t know where your head is.” He smiled and leaned across the table to muss Keefe’s hair. “Really, I don’t need you for this appointment, so go take a break.”
“I’m sorry. I know my mind’s been somewhere else.” Keefe yanked the band from his hair so he could fix what Papa had messed up. “I guess my concentration is worse now than back in Florence. I bet you’re wishing you’d taken Roland instead of me.”
Papa chuckled into his wine glass and downed the last sip.
“But I didn’t mean the Basilica of Saint Mary. I meant, I want to, I mean . . . Could we start going to Mass on Sunday?”
Papa coughed, set the empty glass down, and patted his shirt pockets. Papa had stopped going to church after Mama died. Maybe he blamed God for taking her so young, or maybe going to Sunday Mass brought back too many memories. With the exception of Roland, who recently began attending Saint Michael’s Church with friends, they hadn’t been since.
He brought out his pipe and tobacco. “You’re sixteen. You want to go to Mass, go to Mass. You hardly need my permission for that.”
Keefe needed to say more. Would he be out of line? He had many things he needed to change in his life, none of them easy. If he didn’t start now, when would he? He pushed back the doubt and steeled himself for Papa’s reaction. “I’d like you to go, too. I think it was wrong of us to stop going.”
Papa grimaced, his blue eyes squinting into the tobacco pack. “Yeeeah, I suppose you’re right.” Pipe in hand, he stood and shook his pant legs down over his boots. “I’ll meet you back at the hotel around dinner time.”
Watching Papa descend the patio steps then stroll through well-manicured grounds toward the lake, Keefe decided to head back to Bagno di Romagna. Maybe he would visit the basilica again. He had something to sort out in his mind.
He needed only to take a single road to return to Bagno, but the way it twisted and curved made him think he might somehow get lost. So after walking for ten minutes, when he happened by a parked car that he thought was a taxi, he tried to find the driver.
Two men smoking cigarettes stood under the awning of a nearby restaurant. They both looked him over as he approached. One mumbled to the other. They laughed.
“Is this your taxi?” Keefe pointed, wishing his Italian wasn’t limited to Where is the bathroom? and Do you speak English?
The less friendly looking of the two men, thinner and dressed in a suede jacket and jeans, stepped forward. He glanced at his watch, said something in Italian, then gestured to the right and left. The other man chuckled.
Assuming he wondered where Keefe wanted to go, Keefe said, “Bagno di Romagna.”
The man repeated him and said a few more things in Italian, annoyance showing in his attitude. He raised a hand and rubbed his fingers together while he spoke.
“Yeah, I’ve got money.” Keefe reached for his wallet.
The driver’s mouth curled up in a crooked grin. He glanced at his watch, gestured toward the taxi, and mumbled something else, this time with a more resigned tone.
As the taxi rolled down the twisty road and a warm breeze blew, Keefe’s mind returned to the basilica and to what God had done for him. The promise he had made came to him.
I will listen to Your voice. I will live knowing You are with me and that You love me, knowing that You shed your blood for me. I will not forget, no matter whom I’m with or what temptation I face.
God’s presence overwhelmed him for one fleeting moment. He decided he would turn his promise into a prayer and remind himself of it daily lest he forget. Making the promise felt important to who he was, who he would become, but somehow incomplete. There must be some way of cementing it, like married people exchanging rings or religious putting on habits.
Just then, the wind blew a curl of his hair into his eyes, and he knew what he would do.
He ran his hand over his hair. His hair. He kept it long like Jarret did, down to his shoulders. Jarret was determined to let his grow halfway down his back. They had hair like Mama’s and that made it special. It felt like a connection to her in some mystical way. But it had also made Keefe vain. He liked the way girls looked at him when he wore it free. And he had wasted time admiring himself in the mirror, though not to the same degree as Jarret.
Within ten minutes, they reached the edge of town. Keefe leaned forward. “Hey, do you know where I can get my hair cut?” He pointed to his hair.
The driver glanced over his shoulder and made a polite examination of Keefe’s hair. “Bella e lunga.”
Keefe made pretend scissors with his fingers. “I don’t want it long anymore. I want it cut.” He cut at his hair. “Haircut.”
“Ohh. Negozio di barbiere.” The man nodded and started talking as if Keefe could understand him.
A moment later, the taxi stopped and the driver, still talking, gestured to one of the buildings in a piazza, a two-story with dark green shutters and a heavy, carved door.
After paying the driver a considerable sum of money, Keefe stepped inside to cement his commitment to the Lord with a tangible sign of his promise.
It had taken him several tries to get the barber to understand what he wanted. His phone kept ringing while he was trying to explain, so he’d shut it off. The barber kept combing Keefe’s hair and running his fingers through the curls, stretching them out, and commenting—probably on their length, but altogether acting reluctant to take the scissors to them. When he had finally given in, he must’ve wanted to do something with the cut locks because he gathered them up with care.
Keefe winced at his shorthaired reflection in the mirror. His face looked strange, and his ears stuck out. But then his heart stirred, making him certain that he’d pleased God, and he smiled.
He left the barbershop walking on air and, having had done something so radical, bursting with the desire to tell someone. He turned his phone on to check the time. Papa wouldn’t meet up with him until later. But on the way to the barbershop he’d caught a glimpse of the clock tower and, though he couldn’t see it now, he knew it was near. The basilica! It felt right to return to the place where he’d made his promise. Now that he decided to go there, he couldn’t walk fast enough.
Stepping around the corner of the next building, the basilica came into view. Then his cell phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID. Jarret. Did he want to share this with Jarret? Why shouldn’t he? He had never kept things from his twin. Of course, he’d never had something like this to share. Jarret almost considered their hair sacred.
Keefe shook the doubts from his mind as he answered the phone. He couldn’t let Jarret’s reactions influence his choices in life. He would tell Jarret. Besides, Jarret would find out soon enough.
“Hey, Jarret.” Eyes on the Romanesque front door, he strolled toward the basilica.
“Hey, man, what’cha up to?”
Hesitant to get into it, Keefe said, “Must be early over there.”
“Yeah, I just got up.”
“Still camping?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve been worried about the little boy you said was lost.”
Jarret made a breathy sort of chuckle that Keefe immediately interpreted. Something about that situation had worked out in Jarret’s favor. “I joined the search after all. Guess who found him?”
“You did? That’s great.”
“Yeah, I’m a hero. All the girls love me. Even Peter likes me. He invited me along with his friends on a midnight rampage down to the river last night.”
“Rampage? That sounds like trouble.”
“Nah. This is Peter Brandt we’re talking about. Just a bunch of hootin’ and hollerin’ and getting wet.” He was silent for a moment. “Hey, I got a new girlfriend.”
“Yeah? Who?” Keefe stepped into the shadow cast by the clock tower, his gaze still on the dark doors. He felt driven by the need to probe and counsel his twin.
“You’ve seen her in school. Zoe McGowan. Long, dark hair. Walks like a model. She’s really hot.”
“Isn’t she a freshman?”
“So? She’s fifteen. I’m sixteen. Saying I’m too old?” He laughed.
“No, it’s just . . .” What was it? “You’re respecting her, aren’t you?”
He chuckled. “Yeah, sure. Don’t worry. I haven’t had her in my tent . . . yet.”
“Roland’s in your tent, isn’t he?”
“Man, you sound really worried about it. So what about you? What you been up to? I tried calling a few minutes ago.”
“Yeah, I was getting my hair cut.” There. He said it. Quick and painless and now—he took a breath—for the aftermath.
“Oh, yeah? Did you get some new Italian do?”
“Uh, actually . . .”
“Actually?”
Keefe detected suspicion in Jarret’s tone. “Yeah, I decided to have it cut short. I’ll send you a picture with my phone.”
“Short?” Jarret sounded shocked. “Uh, whaddya mean by short? How short?”
With his eyes fixed on the door to the basilica, he ran his hand over his hair. “Very short. The barber took a trimmer to it, you know, in the back.” Keefe cleared his throat and swallowed. “It’s a little longer on the top. I’ll send you a picture, okay?”
Jarret didn’t reply.
“Jarret? Are you there?”