Becca’s Book: A Fictional Memoir

by

Jeffrey Anderson

SERIAL #14

Copyright 2013 by Jeffrey AndersonReading and Recipes Edition

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No part of this manuscript may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without express permission of the author.

This story is a work of fiction.Names, characters, places, and incidents

either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Becca’s Book: Serial #14

Sad Eyes

Zach knew the minute he opened the door and saw her, the doubts were back. Her eyes

were too honest, his heart too vulnerable, for him to miss a fact so plain. He tried to dismiss the

foreboding as the result of travel fatigue and nervousness at this long-anticipated reunion. She

was here, after all, as she’d promised. Wasn’t that proof enough of her love and commitment?

She smiled wanly and stepped up into his living room. He pushed the door shut then folded her

into his arms. She pressed her face into his chest, her hands still at her sides. He leaned his cheek

against the top of her head. They stayed like that for a long time.

It was 10 PM on Sunday, March 16. Zach and Barton had waked twenty hours earlier to a

clear and warm spring morning in Rome. After coffee with Monsignor Sposito at their hotel,

they’d been driven to Da Vinci International Airport and spent the rest of their day in airports

and in the air from Rome to New York, New York to North Carolina. Zach had arrived at his

apartment twenty minutes earlier and called Becca even before taking off his coat. She’d been

waiting for his call all night and had driven straight over after grabbing a few clothes and

toiletries and stuffing them into her book bag.

After his long and stressful day, after an enjoyable but tiring week, Zach would’ve been

happy to stand there wrapped around Becca till they could stand no longer, then simply lie down

where they were and go to sleep in each other’s arms. This embrace had been all he’d thought

about, when he’d had time to let his mind drift, for the ten days since he’d seen her last. Now

claimed, he didn’t want to let it go.

But he was worried about Becca—worried about what he’d seen in her eyes, worried

about her face pressed so desperately into his chest. He would protect her forever, but thought he

needed to know what he was protecting her from—having forgot, just that fast, he already had

his answer.

He kept his arms around her but leaned his torso back from her face. At first she leaned

into his retreat, kept her face pressed against his flannel shirt. Finally she reneged, stood straight

up, granted a few inches of space between her face and his chest.

“You O.K.?” Zach asked.

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At first she wouldn’t look at him then she did. Her eyes were so sad, seemed lost. “I

missed you too much, Zach.”

“I missed you that much and more.”

She shook her head in resignation. “No, you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know you are. That’s one thing I know for sure.”

“Can I help?”

“Can we go to bed and you just hold me?”

“Till the cows come home.”

“How about till we fall asleep?”

“Whichever comes first.”

Becca looked up at him and offered her best effort at a warm smile. It was more than

enough to lift his heart. “Thank you, Zach.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him lightly on

the lips. “Welcome home.”

“Wish I’d never left.”

“Me too.” She slid past him to put on her pajamas, brush her teeth, slide into bed. He

followed after she’d finished.

In the darkest moment of that dark late-winter night, with Zach and Becca both sound

asleep and still in each other’s arms, facing each other inches apart on their separate pillows,

their legs twined under the blankets, their feet touching lightly, their breaths rising and falling in

unison—God stood over them. He loved them both, knew them well. Before time and the

universe, he’d willed each into being. He’d watched them grow in separate spheres, both strong

and smart and sensitive. He’d seen the approach of their intersection from far off and blessed it,

even (and this against his own rules) gave their headlong rush toward each other a few gentle

nudges, rare gifts of hope and promise. He reveled in their union, their moments of transcendent

love—of his heart but not of his willing: they’d discovered or stumbled into that joy on their

own, reaped its rewards. Nor had he willed this looming fracture. But he mourned it, cradled it in

his heart of infinite suffering.

But he wasn’t here to mourn—there’d be time enough for that. He stood here to gaze one

last time at the perfect harmony this pair shaped, at their union of flesh and sense and spirit—gift

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for them, gift for him—that was the latest return of the love he’d sent forth at the dawn of time.

He could only hope for them that this vision of perfection survived the coming discord—he

could do no more. Then he left his beloved children locked in their last touch of divine love.

Becca rose first, showered, and dressed for class. She’d already made herself tea and

toasted an English muffin when Zach walked into the kitchen in his underwear. He rubbed his

eyes and tried to get himself awake. “What time is it?”

Becca laughed at the helpless vulnerable child in a man’s body standing before her. She

rarely saw Zach helpless—the sight was charming. “Eight o’clock, sleepyhead.”

“Feels like I slept ten years.”

“More like ten hours. It’s called jet-lag, Zach. You’ll get over it. Hey, it’s two o’clock in

Rome—already lunch time.”

Zach turned and trudged back into the dim bedroom. “Call me for supper,” he said and

lay back down on the bed.

A few minutes later, Becca knelt on the floor beside the bed. “I’m off to the library. I

need to do some research before class.” She leaned over and kissed him then stood.

“See you tonight?” he asked, his words muffled by the pillow.

“Sure,” she said. “But I can’t spend the night.”

He was too tired to protest or ask why.

She headed out into the bright new day.

Zach finally rose for good around noon. A long hot shower washed away whatever fog

lingered over his senses. By the time he’d shaved and dressed, he felt close to normal, if still a bit

disoriented about the time of day. He ate a light lunch and unpacked from the trip. He checked

his mailbox, stuffed full with a week’s leavings—all bills except a small envelope addressed in

Becca’s hand and bearing a Greensboro postmark from the middle of last week. He tore it open

while standing barefoot on the cold concrete slab in front of the building’s bank of mailboxes.

The envelope contained a small folded sheet of pale green, rough-cut fine linen paper

with no initials or markings on the face. Inside in steep sloping script it read: Where are you? I

can’t stand this. B. Zach wanted to cry and sing-out both. Instead he slipped the note back into

its envelope and jogged up the stairs to his apartment.

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He paid the oldest bills and addressed and stamped the envelopes. He pulled a bowl of

beef burgundy, the leftovers from a dinner party he’d hosted for several professors and their

wives a few weeks before Rome, out of the freezer to thaw. He made a short grocery list then

headed out the door to run by the bank, the post office, and the supermarket. He returned late in

the afternoon and spent the rest of the day preparing for dinner. He set his bar-table with a linen

tablecloth, his best two plates (the only ones that weren’t chipped), his utilitarian stainless

silverware shined as best he could, two wine glasses, a single candle in a small glass holder, and

a daffodil he’d picked from the edge of the parking lot in a juice-glass vase. He clumsily

wrapped Becca’s gifts from Rome in a double layer of white tissue paper. He spent a few

minutes sprucing up the living room and its upholstered chair and couch. He then changed into a

pair of dark dress pants and a neat if well-worn light blue shirt. By the time Becca tapped at the

door shortly after dark, he had his feet solidly planted on North Carolina turf and his heart tightly

bound in love.

He opened the door and she stepped into the room with a bulging book bag over her right

shoulder and a stack of a half-dozen books cradled in her left arm and tucked against her chest.

She dropped the stack of books on Zach’s coffee table and he helped her slide the heavy book

bag off her shoulder. She wore baggy gray sweatpants and a gray sweatshirt over a white T-shirt

with its crewneck collar showing above the sweatshirt. Her long blond hair, still damp from a

shower, was woven into a single braid tied at the tip with a rubber band. Wisps of hair had

worked loose from the braid and the hair pulled tightly over her ears and head, giving her the

appearance of one busy but not quite harried, radiating grace through stress. Her appearance

reminded Zach of Botticelli’s Zipporah, daughter of Jethro the Midiannite, from the Moses Cycle

fresco on the wall of the Sistine Chapel, the image of all the myriad artworks he’d seen in Rome

that had held his attention the longest, and for obvious reason. Becca could’ve donned a queen’s

robes or Cinderella’s gown of finest satin and he would’ve found her no more lovely than she

was at that moment.

Becca slid off her field coat and dropped it on the couch then turned to Zach. “I’m beat.”

“Long day for you.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Sit down. Rest.”

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She flopped down on the couch. “But only for a minute,” she said. “Too much work to

do.”

“Some wine?”

“No way—I’d be asleep in two minutes.”

“Tea then?”

“That sounds great.”

When Zach returned with the cup of hot tea, she was curled up on the couch asleep. He

knew she’d be furious if he let her sleep, but he took a moment to gaze down on the loveliest

sight he’d ever seen or ever would see, the beginning and end of his life’s search. Then he set the

cup on the coffee table, knelt beside the couch, and kissed her lightly on the lips.

She opened her eyes inches from his. “My prince,” she whispered and smiled.

“I wish I could’ve let you sleep.”

She grinned. “You know when the best time for sleep is?”

He nodded and they said in unison, “Later.”

She sat up, cradled the teacup between her two hands, and sipped it lightly. “Thanks,

Zach.”

He sat in the armchair that was perpendicular to the end of the couch, retrieved the three

gifts from the end table, and handed them to her.

“You shouldn’t have.”

“I should have and did.”

She opened the first. It was a hardcover copy of a Henry James novel, The Europeans, in

Italian. Becca opened the book and laughed loudly, the best sound Zach had heard since

returning home. “How am I going to read this?”

“You’ve had two years of Italian.”

“Maybe good for ordering dinner, but reading a novel? Henry James?” She laughed

again.

“A challenge,” Zach said. “So when we go together, you can take care of me.”

“Well, when you put it like that—.” She set the book aside.

The second gift was a silk scarf in a burgundy paisley print. “This is gorgeous.”

“The nicest I could afford, from a boutique in Piazza Navonna.”

“Thank you, but you better not have spent your lunch money.”

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“Spam from now on.”

Then she opened the small box. It contained a two-inch tall crucifix—a silver Jesus

hanging from a walnut cross. She held it to the light of the table lamp.

“From the gift shop at the top of the Dome of St. Peter’s,” Zach said. “And blessed by the

Pope.”

Becca nodded. “I can use all the help I can get.”

“That’ll bring it.”

She set the gifts and the crumpled paper to one side, rose and took one step toward Zach,

and sat on his lap. “Thank you, Prince.” She kissed him and hugged his face.

“Hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Give me about ten minutes.”

Becca slid off his lap and back to the couch. “I’ll polish off this James novel while I

wait.”

“There will be a test, all in Italian, later tonight.”

“I’ll be ready,” Becca replied; but she was already unpacking her book bag to work on

her History thesis.

When he called Becca to the table, the lights of the kitchen were off and the table’s lone

candle lit, the wine glasses were full (Becca’s with ice water, his with French burgundy leftover

from making the entrée weeks before), and the food—beef burgundy over noodles and steamed

broccoli tossed in fresh lemon juice on warmed plates, tossed salad on salad plates, and crusty

French rolls in a bread basket—was carefully and lovingly arranged at the two place settings.

Becca standing in the entry to the kitchen gasped at the sight. “Zach, what did you do?”

He laughed. “For you,” then added, “and for me.” He thought a moment then said, “For

us.”

“I feel so under-dressed.”

“Not in Zach’s Restaurant.” He came around to her side of the table and pulled out the

stool for her to sit, which she did with a grace befitting the setting.

Becca said, “What did I do to deserve this? What did I do to deserve you?”

Zach smiled. “Let me show you something I learned in Rome.” He retrieved a saucer

from the kitchen counter and in the candlelight put a sprinkle of salt in the middle then added a

6

stream of olive oil from a flask at the far end of the table then poured alongside the oil a small

amount of wine vinegar from a matching flask. He took two narrow-tined forks, wedged the

handle of one between the first and second fingers of his right hand and the handle of the other

between the third and fourth fingers, and proceeded to rapidly spin the paired forks in the oil and

vinegar on the plate. His hand spun so fast that the tines of the forks were a blur. He stopped

spinning the forks and added some coarsely ground black pepper and some freshly grated

parmesan cheese from finger bowls on the counter then resumed spinning the forks in the

mixture. About a minute later, he set the forks on the counter and held the saucer in the

candlelight for Becca’s inspection. The mix of distinct ingredients had become a homogenized

salad dressing.

“Voila,” he said. “A cracked-pepper and parmesan vinaigrette for Mademoiselle.” He

poured half of it on Becca’s salad and the balance on his. “Sorry about the French—a week in

Rome and it’s still the only Romance language I’ll venture.”

“That’s amazing. Where’d you learn that?”

“At Il Passetto, the nicest restaurant we went to. We ate there twice. They have

apprentice waiters that do nothing except prepare salad dressings to order at tableside. They have

a cart with all sorts of things to add—minced anchovies, chopped scallions, ground hazelnuts,

sun-dried tomatoes, capers, various mustards, several kinds of honey: you name it, they’ll mix it

into your dressing before your eyes.”

“And they taught you?”

“Well, I watched carefully then taught myself this afternoon—with vegetable oil and

cider vinegar. Just as well you missed the practice round—oil everywhere!”

“Well, I’m impressed.”

“Good. You’re supposed to be.”

Becca raised her wineglass of water. “To learning new skills.”

“With old hands.”

They clinked goblets, drank, then ate.

The silence that settled over the candlelit meal was portentous for both, but in divergent

ways. For Zach, the silence seemed to encircle and affirm the glimpses of perfection he’d seen in

Rome and the glimpses of perfection he’d shaped with Becca the two weekends prior to his trip.

For Becca, the silence reminded her of the nearly paralytic emptiness she’d felt in Zach’s

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absence, an emptiness and dependence that undermined everything else in her life she valued and

needed. She didn’t want to and didn’t expect to give Zach up (such a sudden development would

cause a core tremor all its own), but she knew she couldn’t give up everything else for him.

“Did you get my note?” she said finally, her plate empty but while still nibbling on a

crust of roll.

Zach nodded. “I’m sorry you were so lonely.”

“I wasn’t lonely, Zach. I had my parents and Sarah and Katie. I had plenty of company.

But I was lost on the inside. I don’t want to be that lost; I can’t be that lost.”

“I certainly don’t want you to suffer like that.”

“I know you don’t. Please help me find a balance that works.”

Zach felt something in his heart give way but chose to ignore it. “I’ll try,” he said, then

began to clear their plates.

Becca stood to help.

When they’d finished clearing the table and setting the plates and silverware in the sink,

Zach said, “Dessert is a surprise.”

“As if the rest wasn’t?”

“More surprise then, but it’ll take a minute.”

“That’s O.K.—give me a chance to digest all that dinner.”

“Want more tea?”

She said, “Please. And can I clear the table and spread my books out here? I’d like to be

near you while I’m studying.”

He wrapped his arms loosely around her waist. “You mean I won’t be too much of a

distraction?”

“Not tonight, Mister Chef par Excellence.”

He kissed her then stepped back. “Bring your books in here.”

Becca turned on the overhead light, blew out the candle and set it and the daffodil on the

kitchen counter, then carefully folded the tablecloth.

Zach boiled water in a pot and made her another cup of tea.

Becca gathered the books and notebooks she needed from the couch, spread them out on

the table, and resumed her note-taking.

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Zach set her cup of tea on the only spot on the table big enough to hold it. “That’s a lot of

books.”

“This is just for the History thesis. I’ve got my German Lit paper and two other term

papers to finish in a month, not to mention the trip to the marine lab.”

He shrugged. “It’ll all work out.”

“Easy for you to say—I can’t just sit down and have this beautiful concise eloquent prose

come out. Writing is hard for me.”

“Can I help?”

“You can’t write my papers, Zach. You helped give me some ideas. The rest is on me.”

“How about I finish dessert?”

She smiled. “That’ll help for sure.”

As Zach hand-whipped the heavy cream with a wire whisk in a chilled bowl, a dark

foreboding settled over him—the foreboding he’d felt a few minutes earlier, the foreboding he’d

felt on first seeing Becca the night before, the foreboding that seemed to lurk ever near despite

their recent joy, a foreboding all the darker for the brilliance of that which it threatened. By the

time the cream had finally thickened in the glass bowl, he was in a deep trough. All the fears

he’d held at bay these past few weeks had regrouped in a powerful counterattack and overrun his

hopes, his ever tenuous grasp on optimism. His spirit was suddenly as dense and dark as the

bittersweet-chocolate hazelnut mousse over which he spooned the fresh whipped cream.

As he stood before Becca with a bowl of mousse in each hand and waited for her to clear

space on the table, he wondered what had changed. She was still what she had been from the

start—cause and vessel for every ounce of love he would ever have to give. That certainty

remained unshaken in him. But just now that love seemed more burden than blessing, more

sacrifice than solace.

Becca looked closely at the mousse he set before her. “Is that what I think it is?”

Zach managed a grin. “Try it.”

She did, then jumped out of her seat and ran around the table and gave him a hug and

mousse-fringed kiss. “Stan’s bittersweet-chocolate hazelnut mousse! I can’t believe you got the

recipe and made it!”

“What are friends for?” he sighed.

“Just for me.”

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She gave him another kiss then returned to her stool to savor each spoonful of her

surprise treat. When she’d finished by licking the rim of the bowl (acceptable in Zach’s

Restaurant), she said, “You’re the best.”

He nodded. “Thank you.”

“Is it O.K. if I get back to studying?”

“Study away.” He collected the bowls and carried them toward the sink.

“And it’s O.K. if I don’t spend the night?”

Zach turned in front of the sink and faced her from across the kitchen. “Why can’t you?”

“I told you—I’ve got too much to do.”

“You’ve got to sleep. Why not here? Your clothes are here, your books.”

“Even if all we do is sleep, it’s not the same as sleeping by myself.”

“Why not?”

“I’m too wrapped up in you. It doesn’t leave room for anything else.”

“And that’s bad?”

“Zach,” she shouted. “What have I been telling you? Yes, it’s bad for everything else;

and it’s bad for me.”

“What if it’s what I need?”

Becca’s eyes suddenly lost their anger and revealed the sadness that seemed now their

natural state, a condition that had been barely held at bay through concerted effort these last

twenty-four hours. “Please don’t put that question before me, Zach,” she said, little more than a

whisper.

Zach stood a moment in silence gazing at those eyes, at what they spelled to them both.

Then he turned toward the sink to wash their dishes.

Becca, her heart heavy, tried to refocus on the mountain of work before her.

After washing and drying their dishes and putting them away, Zach did his best not to

disturb her. He went to his desk in the bedroom and reviewed his reading assignments and notes

for class the next day. He pulled out his journal and wrote the entry for the last day in Rome. He

went through the various souvenirs he’d collected on the trip, and set some on his desk (the

limited edition Vatican coin the Monsignor had given him, the golf-ball sized marble chip he’d

picked up in the Forum) while storing others on the bookshelves or in the closet. While going

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through these materials, he discovered that his 35 mm camera had one picture left unexposed in

its roll of thirty-six exposures.

He walked into the kitchen and touched Becca lightly on the shoulder.

She jumped at his touch. “You scared me.”

“Sorry.” He held out the camera. “I’ve got one picture left. Can I take it of you?”

“I must look terrible.”

Zach circled around in front of her and studied her face. “Nope. Don’t see any terrible

there.”

She looked doubtful.

“Besides, I don’t have any pictures of you.”

Becca shrugged. “If you insist.”

Zach smiled. “I insist.” He backed a few feet into the kitchen to get a clear shot.

Becca slid her stack of books to one side, sat up straight as she could manage in the stool

with its short back, and stared straight ahead at Zach, never once touching her hair or face.

Zach brought her into focus, got her face centered in the frame, and snapped the picture.

He stepped forward, kissed her on the forehead, and said, “Thank you.” He wound the film as he

walked around the table toward the bedroom.

Becca nodded as he walked past then returned to her note-taking.

It was 1:00 AM when Becca finally closed her books and gathered up her papers spread

across the table. She packed her books and notes into her book bag then carefully laid her gifts

on top of the books and closed the zippered flap. They’d hardly spoken since dinner, not out of

overt anger or misunderstanding but in fatigue—from the long day and the highly emotional

several weeks they’d had—and for lack of anything to add, at present anyway, to what had

already been said. Besides, Becca had needed to concentrate on her studies and, truth be told,

Zach needed to give some attention to his schoolwork as well.

Zach emerged from the bedroom and followed Becca into the living room in his bare feet.

He helped her put on her coat then hoisted the book bag onto her shoulder.

“Can I leave those here?” she asked, pointing to the stack of books on his coffee table.

“Sure.”

“I’ll get them later in the week.”

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“No problem.” He opened the door on the cool and cloudy night.

Becca hesitated a minute in the doorway, looking out into the night. She took a deep

breath and released it slowly in a quiet sigh then faced Zach. “I wish I could stay, Zach. I really

do.”

Zach nodded.

She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you for the gifts, the wonderful

dinner, and for your love and patience.” She tried to smile in the face of his neutral stare but

couldn’t quite pull it off. So she turned and left.

As he closed the door in her wake, Zach surrendered any hope of finding a lesser love

that might prove sustainable to them both. He would give her all his love, always, whether she

accepted it or not. But he would not give her any less; he couldn’t.

They saw each other for dinner and a movie the following weekend, and Becca picked up

her remaining books. They had a light supper together in his apartment a few days later. Then

Becca went on her Marine Biology field trip for five days. Then she had a bad cold and stayed

with her parents in Greensboro to recover. They talked about getting together but never found a

time that worked—Becca was busy, Zach also. They didn’t see each other except in class for

over a month.

When the roll of Rome pictures came back from the developer several weeks later, Zach

opened the mailer while standing just inside the door to his apartment. He flipped through the

snapshots of Barton and the photos of Roman monuments and Italian landscapes with fond

recollection. The photo of Becca at the bottom of the stack caught him by surprise. He’d

forgotten he’d taken it.

He gazed at the picture for long minutes—those bottomless eyes, his permanent calling

and purpose, so distant and sad. He slipped the picture into a plain white envelope, sealed the

flap, and didn’t open it for decades. In all those years of recalling the image of those eyes burned

into his heart, he always saw them as a symbol of his sacrifice and loss. It wasn’t until he

unsealed the envelope and looked again that he also saw the imprint of his guilt and shame.

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A Dream—Lost Food

Sometime during the month of not seeing Becca following his return from Rome, Zach

had a powerful dream which he documented in his journal the next morning:

I recall now that I acted the dream, physically performed in response to what my

subconscious was telling me.

It started like this: plain sleep slowly filling with imagery—normal dream, harmless. But

at some point the play got serious. Somewhere nearby, hidden, there was a message that would

save my life. That the message was from you, I was absolutely certain. But how and when it

arrived was a mystery. And it was somewhere near—in the apartment, probably in the bedroom,

maybe even within reach.

Here my body entered the fray. I know now what I did, remember the acts, but was not

conscious of what I was doing at the time. I turned on the lone light, threw back the sheets, and

searched the bed. I believe I spoke then, simple questions like “Where?” or “How?” and a plea

“Help me.” No response. Then I thought you were somewhere near and frantically searched the

rooms. No luck.

I paused to pee, perhaps hoping that act would yank me back to reality. But thirty

seconds and a toilet flush later, I was back in the bedroom searching your message. My total

ignorance of its contents made my search all the more desperate.

Then I knew—my books. I went to my desk, adjusted the light, and leafed through every

page of every book I had there, sure your message was hidden somewhere in those pages. Why

the books? And, of course, no message.

I was near full consciousness by then, my waking mind struggling with lingering dream

to claim rights to my exhausted body. Neither side won. I switched off the light, returned to bed,

finally found dreamless sleep.

Your message remains hidden. Or does it? I spent a frantic half hour in blind and

vulnerable search for something I knew you’d given me that’d been misplaced—message

enough.

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The End

of

Becca’s Book, Serial #14

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