Free Love Is The Beginning (Valerie Dearborn) by Caroline Hanson

Jesolo, Italy 2000
     
    Jack walked out of his parent’s hotel, the bright sun making
him squint. Absently, he watched his feet, careful of the cobbled walkway even
though he'd been down this street every day of his life. This was his favorite
time of day—late afternoon when the sun was high overhead, and all the stone
around him was baking, sending heat back into the streets. It was kind of like
living in an oven.
    He looked at the lira in his hand and contemplated the
serious problem of which ice cream he would get today. One scoop stracciatella,
for sure. That took care of chocolate and vanilla, but maybe something fruity
too. Strawberry, pistachio, mango? He'd wait. See all the options. He didn't
want to rush into anything.
    Jack was still undecided when he entered the shop, but he
liked having this debate with himself and fantasizing about all the positive
choices. The shop was hot and cramped. A small and thoroughly inadequate fan
shifted the air around the room, political radio on in the background. Vicente
came out from the back, cigarette dangling from his mouth. Jack got his ice
cream quickly, sweat slipping down from his neck and into his shirt.
    Pistachio.
    He always chose pistachio.
    He liked to think he might get something different, but when
the choice was upon him, he always stayed loyal to pistachio.
    Jack continued his walk, finding the beach that was at the
end of a long winding street. He finished his ice cream in one big bite, the
cone poking him in the side of his cheek painfully, and took off his shoes and
socks to walk on the scorching sand. When he was close to the water's edge, he
disrobed quickly, watching the still water, the sea almost too warm on such hot
summer days.  
    He’d been told that the water was cold in other places like
Germany and England. He'd never been anywhere, so he didn't know for sure what
that would be like, but it sounded awful. Jack turned onto his back and swam,
closing his eyes against the blinding sun.
    He put his feet on the sandy bottom, the water rising only
up to his chest. He looked back at the shore and thought about oceans that were
a dark, bottomless blue-black color with crashing waves. His feet wouldn't be
able to touch the bottom there. He shivered. Dismissing the thought, he turned
over, floating, until it was time to go home.
    That night, his mama made pasta with tomatoes, olives and
beef.  His mouth watered as he watched her put the food on his plate. His papa saw
his covetous look and laughed. “Jackie, I see you looking at that food! How
long will it take for his plate to be empty tonight, Mama? Two minutes or
three.” His mother hushed his father and threw him a fond glance.
    His father continued in a mock-serious voice, “I want to
know where all this food goes. No one can eat so much food and not be a giant.
One of these days he will shoot up to the sky.” He made expansive gestures as he
talked, thrusting his hand into the air to demonstrate how quickly and how high
his son would grow. He was Italian. It was his heritage to gesture
emphatically, and later in life when Jack thought about his parents, that was
what he'd remember—how happy they both had been, and how much they had looked
forward to the future and the man he might become.
    Jack ate on autopilot, food magically vanishing, while his
parents talked about the guests that would arrive tomorrow.  His mama was
drinking a glass of wine and watching her family eat, a faintly proud
expression on her face as the food was devoured. Then she frowned.
    “I don't understand why they won't eat. What will these
people do, drinking only wine with no food? You know what will happen?” Here,
there was a dramatic pause as she looked at her little family. Jack knew what
she was going to say. “It will be a terrible ruckus. ”
    She loved the word ‘ruckus’. Even though it was an English
word and his parents didn't speak English very well, this was one word his
mother loved. His father