The Education of Sebastian & the Education of Caroline

“Thank you,” I said, awkwardly.

  He didn’t reply and I had to look away first. The intensity of his gaze made me feel uncomfortable—and in my own home, too, damn it! Yes, and annoyed. I took refuge, hunting through the refrigerator, trying to restore some equilibrium.

  “I’ve got soda or a lemon pressé,” my voice was half swallowed by the fridge.

  “I’ve never had a lemon pressé. What’s that?”

  “Oh well, just lemon juice and sparkling mineral water.”

  “I’ll try that, please, Mrs. Wilson.”

  The tension left my body and I smiled at him.

  “Sebastian, you can call me Caroline. Mrs. Wilson is so formal … and it makes me feel ancient.”

  “Okay, Caroline,” he grinned at me.

  “Now, I can make you a chicken salad sub or … tricolored salad.”

  “Insalata tricolore, per favore.”

  I turned to him in surprise.

  “I’ve been learning Italian,” he announced proudly. “A correspondence course. My high school only offered Spanish.”

  “Really? Molto bene!”

  “And I’ve been listening to opera, too. I like Verdi.”

  “The fallen woman.”

  “Excuse me?” he gasped.

  “La Traviata: I presume that’s what you mean when you say you like Verdi. Or maybe Aïda? Rigoletto?”

  He let his breath out in a gust. “Yeah, all of those.”

  “I thought teenage boys only listened to heavy rock music,” I teased him.

  He looked wounded and I regretted my comment. He was obviously trying to impress me.

  “I’m glad you like opera; my father loved it.”

  “I remember. I remember you and him singing opera in your kitchen.”

  “Really, you remember that?”

  He nodded, serious. “I remember everything.”

  I sighed. “That was a great visit when Papa came to stay.”

  Sebastian smiled. “Yeah, he was fun. We blew up a lot of things.”

  I rolled my eyes at the memory. “Yes, David wasn’t very happy about it.”

  Why I mentioned David at that moment, I couldn’t say.

  Sebastian frowned. “How is your dad?”

  And the painful memory lanced through me. My dear father, lying shrunken and in pain, tiny and helpless in a hospital bed; the morphine failing to tame the pain of cancer that devoured him whole.

  “He passed away—two years ago.”

  I could barely speak the words, taken by surprise at the crushing force of the memory. I felt tears hot in my eyes. Ridiculous, I scolded myself.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” Sebastian whispered.

  He looked like he wanted to say something else, but now I was craving his absence. I heartily wished I hadn’t offered him lunch.

  “Thank you for your help this morning, Sebastian. It was really very thoughtful of you, but I’m going to have to insist that you go and do some studying as soon as we’ve eaten. I don’t want to get you into any more trouble.”

  He pouted, suddenly looking his age. It made me want to laugh, but I truly didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Especially not when he’d been so helpful. I changed the subject.

  “Will you go surfing with your friends again soon?”

  He sighed. “Maybe. I’ll have to borrow a board.”

  “Oh, what happened to the blue one?”

  “Dad trashed it—snapped it in half. Said I wasn’t to waste any more time surfing.”

  He said the words casually, but I could hear the anger and hurt beneath them; I remembered his father’s threat at the barbecue.

  “That’s awful. And it’s all my fault. I should never have said…”

  He interrupted me, speaking softly. “It’s not your fault that my father is a sadistic bastard, Caroline.”

  My hand fled to my mouth as he spoke, my eyes fixed on his.

  “I’m so sorry.” My words were whispered and faint.

  He shrugged. “No big deal. I’m used to it.”

  “I must buy you a new board, Sebastian. That’s all there is to it.”

  I tried to lighten the mood.

  “Thanks, Caroline, but it’s cool. I can always borrow one of Ches’s. His dad surfs, too.”

  “Well, let me give you a ride home after we’ve eaten. It’s the least I can do.”

  He grinned at me, and the tense moment had dissolved.

  I sliced some mozzarella and tomatoes, diced the avocado, drizzled virgin olive oil, and ground some black pepper. I was irritated that I hadn’t had time to buy any fresh basil to shred over it. It would have to do.

  I found some bread I was going to use for bruschetta, and put a plate in the middle of the table; I imagined a teenage boy would eat a lot more than me.

  He tucked in with gusto, swallowing everything in sight.

  “Boy, you really can cook, Caroline.”

  I laughed at his enthusiasm. “This isn’t cooking, Sebastian.”

  “Mom never cooks anything,” he said, raising his eyebrows at me. “Dad thinks she does, but it’s all store bought.”

  “Hmm … well, anything you say or do can and will be held against you in a court of law.”

  He looked horrified. “Don’t tell her I told you!”

  “What’s it worth?” I teased him.

  “My ass!” he said, forcefully.

  The expression on his face made me laugh out loud.

  “Oh, Sebastian, you’ve left yourself open to blackmail now.”

  “You can blackmail me anytime, Caroline,” he said huskily.

  His eyes were suddenly intense, and I blinked at him in surprise.

  “Time to go,” I said blandly, and began to stack the dishes.

  He stood and watched me uncertainly for a moment, then helped me clear the kitchen table.

  “That insalata was good,” he said, shyly.

  “Thanks. Glad you liked it.”

  I looked at my watch, a not very subtle gesture. “I’ll get my car keys.”

  I played the same CD that I’d listened to yesterday, but I didn’t feel like singing now; the atmosphere in the car was uncomfortable again. I was having trouble keeping up with Sebastian’s mood swings. It must be a nightmare living with a teenager, I reasoned, even one as seemingly mature as Sebastian. Or maybe it was just men in general—David’s mood swings could almost be set by a metronome. The thought made me grimace.

  “Can you drop me here?” he said suddenly.

  “But we’re not at your place yet?” I said, confused by the request.

  He twisted his mouth in the semblance of a smile. “There’ll be fewer questions this way,” he said.

  I felt guilty again—he’d spent the whole morning helping me when he should have been studying. And it was obvious his mother had no idea what he’d been doing. I hoped Donna didn’t mention anything to her.

  I pulled the car to the curb and waited for him to get out.

  He sat for a moment, fiddling with his seatbelt.

  “Will I see you again?” he said.

  I frowned, puzzled by his odd question. “I expect so. Everyone bumps into everyone on the Base. Now, promise me you’ll study this afternoon.”

  He forced a muted smile. “Okay, Caroline. See you later.”

  “Bye, Sebastian.”

  I drove away. I couldn’t help glancing in the rear-view mirror; he was still watching.

  Donna’s words came back to me: You’ve got an admirer there.

  Oh hell. Just what I didn’t need—a teenager with a crush on me.

  Irritated, I returned to my duties in the garage. By the time everything was put away and each assorted oddment had been found a home, I was bone weary. I was grateful to Sebastian—I would never have finished so soon without his help. I didn’t have much experience of boys his age even when I was his age, but in my opinion he seemed different … more mature than I would have expected. I wondered if he really did like opera, or whether that was jus
t for my benefit.

  God, what it must have been like growing up with those parents. Although Estelle was disturbingly like my own mother, at least I had one parent who’d loved me unconditionally.

  I poured myself a glass of water, and took it to the yard to sit in the sun for a few moments of peace. I felt curiously adrift, as if the ties to my life were unraveling one by one. My mother, long absent by mutual choice, my father dead, my job gone; even David was AWOL in spirit.

  And I was a shadow.

  Oh, stop being so melodramatic.

  I blamed my father: the Italian genes.

  I needed to get out of the house, off the Base, and do something.

  I threw myself in the shower, washing off the grime, and pulled on jeans and a t-shirt. That was deliberate—David hated seeing me in jeans, but today, right now, I wanted to feel like me—just for a few, precious hours.

  I pulled out of the driveway and drove, too fast, down the road and past the hospital. From the corner of my eye, I recognized the figure walking away from me. I almost drove on, but something made me stop.

  I leaned over and rolled down the passenger window.

  “Hi. You need a ride somewhere?”

  Sebastian’s face lit up.

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  He climbed in, folding his long legs into my compact Pinto, and grinned. I waited for him to give me directions, but he just leaned back in his seat and smiled.

  “So, where can I take you?”

  He shrugged. “Anywhere.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I just needed to get out of the house—you know, get some space. Mom is … well, Mom.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  I felt awkward. I wouldn’t have offered him a ride if I’d imagined he was just out for a walk.

  “Did you finish your work?”

  I really didn’t want to be responsible for him neglecting his studies twice in one day.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Well, I was going to go downtown. You want to come?”

  Part of me hoped he wouldn’t; things were already awkward enough.

  “Sure, that’d be great, Caroline.”

  There was a short pause while I thought of something to say. We’d chatted so easily this morning in the garage, but now I felt awkward. Maybe it was the memory of his intense gaze, the way his body had pressed against mine as he’d reached for the drinking glasses. I shook my head to clear it.

  “How is the studying going?”

  He shrugged, as if bored of that topic.

  “Not a problem. On practice tests, I’ve scored high. It’s all good.”

  “What AP classes are you doing?”

  He glanced sideways at me. “Math, English Lit … and Italian.”

  “Oh, well … that’s good.”

  I knew I ought to ask why those particular subjects—except I could guess, one of them at least.

  “I want to do an Associate of Arts degree. It’s only two years.”

  “So I understand,” I said, briskly.

  He looked like he wanted to say more, but instead turned to gaze out of the window.

  “Why don’t you put the radio on?” I said, hoping it would provide a suitable diversion.

  “Okay,” he said evenly.

  It’s ridiculous that this 18-year-old boy is more at ease than I am. Come on, Venzi, pull yourself together. Even after 11 years of marriage, there were times when Caroline Wilson was still Carolina, feisty daughter of the immigrant Marco Venzi.

  The radio hissed and crackled until Sebastian found a reasonably clear signal—Blue Grass. His choice surprised me—from Verdi to this? It made me smile.

  “You like Doc Watson?”

  “I like all kinds of music.”

  I parked in a lot on Harbor Drive and we wandered up the hill to Little Italy, talking about music and food. I remembered this area from when I’d lived here before. There was a Mercarto every Saturday, and I looked forward to being able to buy Italian specialty oils and vegetables that weren’t stocked in regular stores.

  “Do you want to grab a coffee?” Sebastian said, sounding hopeful.

  Mmm. Good Italian coffee. “Oh, a real espresso. Yes, that would be lovely.”

  Too much enthusiasm. Don’t encourage him—no mixed signals.

  But the day was too beautiful to be half-hearted, and I found myself delighted with all the pretty cafés, gelateria, and ristorantes.

  We stopped at a tiny coffee shop just off India Street. The owner’s wife came out to serve us and was ecstatic when I spoke to her in Italian. She kissed me on both cheeks and summoned the rest of her family to come out and meet me. Sebastian looked overwhelmed, then offered a few careful Italian phrases and was engulfed in the bosom of the family. I couldn’t help laughing—their exuberance reminded me so much of my father.

  They rattled out Italian like peanuts, with such speed and vigor, each talking over one another, that I struggled to catch everything they said. Sebastian probably only caught one word in fifty, but he sat there grinning, only wincing when the owner’s mother, a little, round nonna of about eighty, grabbed him with both hands and kissed him repeatedly.

  Then they all pulled up chairs and surrounded our small table, which soon overflowed with affection. Someone fetched half-a-dozen espresso cups and I sipped happily at the thick, bitter coffee. I was amused to see that Sebastian added several spoonfuls of sugar before he found the rich brew palatable.

  Eventually some more patrons arrived and the family scattered, returning to their various roles of cook, cleaner, chef and bottle-washer.

  “Whoa! That was something else,” said Sebastian, as we were left to our own devices.

  “Wonderful, wasn’t it?”

  “They kind of reminded me of your dad.”

  I sighed and leaned back in the uncomfortable chair.

  “Yes, crazy—just like Papa.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly, “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

  Then he laid his hand on mine and I felt his gentle touch. My eyes flew open in surprise and I jerked my hand away.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again, his cheeks heating.

  “No, that was rude of me. I was just…”

  Tension returned and to my horror, I found my hands were shaking. I fumbled in my wallet for some money and placed the bills on the table under an abandoned coffee cup.

  “I’ve got money,” he said, awkwardly.

  “No, it’s fine. I’ve got it,” I muttered. “I have to get back now.”

  Sebastian stood in silence, then followed me back onto the main street.

  “Aspetti, signore!”

  The coffee shop owner had followed us and was waving the notes I’d left on the table.

  I stared, bewildered as he forced the bills into Sebastian’s hand.

  “No, please. You and your beautiful wife must come again. You are like family. Please!”

  Refusing to keep the money, he kissed us both and trotted away smiling.

  Sebastian’s bemusement turned into a broad grin as he passed the money to me. “For you, signora. Beautiful wife, huh? Well, he was half right.”

  It was my turn to flush, but I tried to laugh it off. “Free coffee always tastes the best.”

  “Yeah! We should definitely do this again.”

  I couldn’t return his puppyish enthusiasm; I simply smiled weakly.

  “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I only got about one word in every sentence. I thought my Italian was better than that. Hell, I’ve been studying it for four years. Maybe you could teach me; I mean, just some Italian conversation practice. That would be awesome!”

  My automatic response was a big NO, but I didn’t get the chance.

  “Hey, Seb. What’s up?”

  Sebastian’s face froze.

  “What do you want, Jack?”

  “Who’s your cute friend?”

  A look of anger and deep dislike crossed Sebastian’s face.

&nb
sp; “Ah, come on, dude! I’m just saying.”

  I was pretty certain Jack was one of the surf rats that I’d seen with Sebastian the day before. He was slightly older than Sebastian and his friends, with dark hair and dark, feral eyes; I disliked him from the first sentence he spoke.

  “Caroline Wilson,” I said, hoping to defuse the sudden tension.

  “Howdy, Mrs. Wilson,” he said slyly, his eyes swiveling from my wedding rings to my cleavage.

  We both looked at Sebastian, who seemed very ill at ease.

  “Well, it was nice bumping into you again, Sebastian. Do you want a ride back to the Base or perhaps you’d prefer to stay with your friend.”

  I waited less than a second before I fixed an insincere smile to my face.

  “See you around then. Ciao.”

  And I walked away.

  I was furious with myself. Why had I pretended we’d just bumped into each other? It had all been perfectly innocent, so why lie?

  And then I remembered the touch of his hand on mine and my ridiculous over-reaction.

  Oh, this was not good, not good at all.

  My temper was free-wheeling by the time I got back to the car. I was angry with Sebastian, with myself, with the loathsome Jack: stupid, pathetic little shit. He’d made me feel … guilty, and I hadn’t done anything. I was used to David making me feel guilty, but this was insufferable.

  I wound down the windows before I got in, to let the heat escape, feeling some release of pent-up energy in the trivial task.

  When I heard footsteps behind me, I didn’t need to turn to see who it was.

  “Caroline, I’m sorry, I…” his words trailed off.

  “What? What!”

  The words came out more forcefully than I’d meant. He stared at me, wounded. I badly wanted to kick something.

  I took a deep breath, and reminded myself it wasn’t his fault.

  “Do you want a ride back?”

  He nodded, still looking hurt.

  I drove in a quiet rage. After a few minutes, I felt calm enough to risk a glance at Sebastian; he was gazing out of the window.

  Eventually, he broke the heavy silence.

  “I’m sorry about Jack and what he said.” There was a brief pause, then he added, “The guy’s an asshole.”

  I exhaled slowly, forcing some of the tension and irritation from my body in one long breath.

  “Yes, he is, but don’t worry about it.”