Free In Wilde Country Page A

style her hair, put her in a Chanel gown and she’d still look like what
     she was, a woman who adored sex.
    Sex with him.
    Besides, the bottom line was that the relationship was temporary.
    She understood that.
    How could she not?
    Except in bed, they were like two people from different planets.
    On day three, Angelica showed up at the door with a string bag that held some clothes.
    “I am going to stay with you, Gianni,” she said happily.
    It worried him that she’d done it without him asking.
    It delighted him that she wanted to be with him.
    “Won’t your grandmother ask questions?” he said, and she assured him that nonna believed she was spending the week in Palermo with a girlfriend.
    It worried him a little, but what the hell, why not enjoy their time together without
     interruption?
    The days sped by and then, one morning, it was time for him to leave.
    He had told Angelica about it. Still, she wept as he packed his small suitcase and
     when he came to the bed to kiss her goodbye, she wrapped her arms around his neck
     and tried to drag him onto the mattress beside her.
    “Baby,” he said, “ I can’t. I have a plane to catch…”
    She kissed him. Sank her teeth lightly into his bottom lip. Unzipped his fly, put
     her hand inside and clasped his penis.
    “Angelica,” he said, and then he groaned, pushed away her hand, parted her thighs
     and buried himself inside her.
    “When will you return to me?” she said when they were done.
    He rose, wiped himself off and zipped up.
    “When I can.”
    “When, Gianni? When?” Her tone of voice was half demand, half plea, and he felt the
     first nagging suspicion that he might have made a mistake in getting himself so involved.
    On the plane heading for Paris, which was where his general was now located, he thought
     of two other things.
    One was that he hadn’t used a condom that first time on the beach.
    The second was that he hadn’t used one this morning, either.
    * * * *
    Work consumed him.
    The general was posted from Paris to Geneva. John, of course, went with him.
    Angelica slipped to the back of his thoughts and slipped further when the general
     called him to his office one morning and held out a telegram.
    “I’m so sorry, John,” he said.
    Amos Wilde was dead.
    John didn’t feel much of anything, but he nodded and said all the necessary things,
     and flew home to Wilde’s Crossing.
    Most of the town turned out for the funeral.
    John shook hands, accepted words of comfort, returned to the big house at El Sue ño , where the housekeeper had had the presence of mind to prepare and lay out a funeral
     feast. He thanked her; he sure as hell hadn’t thought of planning anything.
    He shook more hands, accepted more condolences and, after a while, had to fight against
     telling the lawyers, the doctors, the shopkeepers and the endless stream of politicos
     that there was no need to tell him how sorry they were that his old man was gone when
     the truth was that Amos had pretty much always been gone from his life.
    The gathering took on the kind of party atmosphere such things generally did.
    Johnny poured his third or maybe his fourth Jack Daniel’s and wandered away from the
     crowd. He walked through the rooms and looked at them through the eyes of a stranger.
     There were few good memories, and little of his childhood. His old bedroom had become
     a guest room. As if this enormous house needed yet another guest room, he thought
     as he let the warmth of the whiskey slip down his throat.
    The old football posters were gone. So were his helmet, his awards and trophies.
    Johnny Wilde might never have lived here.
    It was different when he went across the hall and opened the door to what had been
     Alden’s room.
    The hair rose on the nape of his neck.
    Here, time had stopped.
    Alden’s clothes hung in the closet. His framed academic awards were on display. There
     was a neat stack of textbooks on his desk. A framed photo of the parade grounds at