I tried to push the whole case out of my head as I sang along with Barbra Streisand, wondering who had talked a Jewish woman into making a Christmas album.
I dressed casually for lunch with Peter, partly because it was Saturday and partly to diminish the importance of the event. As I pulled on my black wool pants, I admitted to myself another reason—I knew Peter still preferred dresses and skirts on women.
Once again fully wrapped in my new winter clothes, I went to the garage, coming upon Guido, the sweet young student from Italy who cleaned the building on Saturday mornings. Whenever we met, Guido and I had a routine exchange of Italian, during which I practiced the language I was once fluent in.
“Buon giorno,” I said.
“Che porta?” Guido asked, pointing to the large, gaily wrapped book I had for Peter.
“Una cosa per natale,” I said, using the ridiculous phrase, “a thing for Christmas,” since I didn’t know the word for “present.”
Guido always gave me a thumbs-up anyway, no matter how poorly I responded.
Peter had chosen Russo’s café, near the center of town, where the police station, Revere City Hall, the main post office, and the Journal office all sat within not more than a hundred yards of each other.
The first thing that worried me when I saw Peter, already sipping a mocha, was the tiny box near his napkin. It looked more the right size for a locket than for a gift certificate. Not off to a great start, I thought, and so much for Rose’s powers of persuasion.
“I’ve ordered an antipasto, and the pasta primavera for both of us,” Peter said, and even that annoyed me, as just another sign of his male chauvinist attitudes. And I was going to have to choose between Russo’s delicious, delicately fried zucchini and making a feminist statement by fasting.
I barely focused on our conversation during the meal, distilling phrases like “more of each other in the new year” and “so much to catch up on.” I concentrated on my pasta, glancing now and then at the tiramisu in the pastry case.
“Present time!” Peter announced, with a big smile.
I took a deep breath and handed Peter’s package across the table.
He put the short edge on his lap, leaned on it, and handed me the small box.
“You first,” I said, hoping Peter would see the trend, take back the box, and pull a gift certificate out of his pocket.
Peter opened his package carefully, as if he intended to use the paper and the cellophane tape again.
“You can exchange it for something else if you already have it,” I said as he was lifting the book from its wrapper. What I meant was, “this gift has no personal significance, and is interchangeable with all the other gifts in the world.”
He seemed pleased with the wonders of Italy and assured me that he didn’t already have a copy and that he’d been wanting one.
There was no more stalling; it was my turn. I tore the paper off the small box. I had a strange recollection of opening the box Rocky Busso had handed me not so long ago.
On a bed of white silk I saw a gold heart-shaped pendant, about two centimeters down the middle. At least it wasn’t a locket with his photo in it, I thought, trying to smile at the same time.
“This is beautiful, Peter. Thank you.”
“I wanted to get you something special.”
“Peter ...”
“Don’t say anything, Gloria. I know you’ve been busy and haven’t had time for socializing, but as I said a few minutes ago, I hope that’ll change in the new year.”
“I don’t—”
“Why don’t we wait till all this holiday rush is over and spend some time together. I’ll be gone for two weeks, and when I come back—”
It was my turn to interrupt, and it took a giant effort for me not to scream.
“Peter, I can’t see us ever spending a lot of time together,” I said. “I hope we can be friends without complicating things.”
Peter’s jaw stiffened as he pinched his eyes closed and breathed in deeply.
“I don’t want to hear this now,” he said. “I have a meeting this afternoon, and there’s no time to really talk.”
He looked at his watch and signaled for the check. I thought about making a move to pay my share, but felt I’d done enough damage to Peter for one holiday season. He left bills on the table and stood up. Without my noticing, he’d managed to rewrap his book with no detectable wrinkles. He tucked it under his arm and leaned over to kiss me on the forehead.
“Sorry I have to run,” he said. “I’ll see you on Monday.”
I ordered another coffee and sat at the table for a while, wondering what made people like Peter tick. We certainly had different responses to rejection. Whenever anyone expressed the slightest displeasure with me, I backed away immediately, apologizing for being in the way. Josephine’s training, I realized, and couldn’t fault it.