Listen ...The Life and Death of Lizzie Morris

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF LIZZIE MORRIS
by Robert Hays
Available in Print and All Ebook Formats

Bradley had always placed a return to Sicily at the top of the list of things he never wanted to do. But just a few weeks ago, after a series of particularly bad nights, he’d gone through a wrenching epiphany. There was a key somewhere that would open the door to inner harmony, destroying his demons and erasing the graphic images of carnage that vibrated through his subconscious mind. It was up to him to find it. Like a knight of the Dark Ages, he would face his fire-breathing dragons head-on.

Perhaps it was a desperate last resort, and it might not work, but he hoped that retracing his grisly wartime path would help bring an end to his nightmares. He expected no miracles; even a modest level of healing would make the trip worthwhile. Give him the slightest crack in that elusive door and he’d kick it open wide.

Bradley was confident that he had the power within himself to accomplish this mission, especially with Lizzie at his side. It was a duty he was determined to see through to the end.

Lizzie, as always, had been a rock of support. She’d taken the initiative to find out about passports and immunizations and the other things they would have to take care of, then put her foot down. They weren’t getting any younger, she said. And then, perhaps worrying that he needed a final inducement, she had proposed that they return home by way of Chicago and visit Matthew and Sarah and the grandsons.

When Bradley agreed, Lizzie’s smile was all the reward he would have asked for.

Lizzie couldn’t read his mind, but after all their years together she knew him as well as he knew himself. It often seemed as if his thoughts were her thoughts, her words his, like two musicians reading notes from the same page.

He needn’t try to explain why he wanted to stand on the beach somewhere east of Gela where his invasion force had landed and walk in sunshine where once he’d suffered unimaginable terror in the black of night. Lizzie understood. And she would hurt as he hurt, crouching silently on a forbidding hillside where the din of war had dulled his senses—the battlefield, if he could find it, where German and Italian artillery and rifle fire had snatched the lives of Carson Streator and who knew how many others and left Bradley with wounds that by any measure should have been lethal.

They had put themselves wholly into the hands of a pretty, infinitely patient young woman in a shopping-mall travel agency. She’d made their reservations, bought airline tickets, and outlined their schedule to Rome and then to Sicily and then back to Chicago and finally home again. They would spend five days on the island. There was no detailed itinerary beyond a single night’s reservation at an unpretentious Gela hotel, but a modest travel guide Lizzie had bought at a Memphis bookstore would serve their needs well enough. They would make the most of the time they had.

It was late afternoon by the time they reached their hotel. The check-in process went awkwardly, and their room’s “first floor” designation led to some confusion until they understood the Sicilian innkeeper’s explanation that this meant one flight up. A man who had been sweeping the sidewalk in front of the building lugged their small bags up the steep, narrow stairs. The room was poorly lit and sparsely furnished, the only touch of elegance a worn but exquisitely brocaded bedspread.

The man dropped their bags in the middle of the room, rebuffed Bradley’s efforts to give him money, and left them alone.

Bradley turned to Lizzie with an expression of surprise. “Why wouldn’t he take a tip?” he said. “Did I do something wrong?”

“I don’t think so. I think he’s a janitor or something. Janitors don’t expect tips.”

Lizzie hurried into the bathroom while Bradley sat on the bed, rocking and bouncing to test the firmness of the mattress. “Couldn’t we maybe walk around the block before dinner?” she called. “We’ve spent a lot of time sitting.”

Bradley agreed. After the flight to the island and the drive from Catania, his bad leg was stiff and sore. He also wanted to get his bearings and get a better feel for this place before dark.

They left the hotel by the front door and turned at the first street corner. An old woman was hunched behind a small, bright-green wooden table that nearly blocked the sidewalk. She watched intently as they approached and motioned for them to come.

“Buongiorno,” she said as they drew close, smiling. “Desidero parlare con lei.”

“Buongiorno,” Lizzie said. “And I’m afraid that’s all the Italian I know.”

“Ah, tourists,” the old woman responded. She said the word benevolently. “It’s good. I speak English. Come. Let me tell you things.”

Bradley looked at Lizzie warily, but she laughed. “Please,” she said to the old woman. “What do you want to tell us?”

“I know your future. Show me your hands. The gentleman first, please.”

Lizzie nudged Bradley with her elbow. He reached out stiffly to the woman behind the table, palms down. She grasped his hands gently and turned them over. “You have had big things in your life,” she said, after studying his palms a few seconds. “But I believe your best story is yet to be told. Your palms read well. You are strong. You will face troubles, but you will overcome.” Then, turning to Lizzie, “The lady has beautiful hands. May I see?”

Lizzie held out her hands, palms up. The old woman looked closely at one, then the other, then back to the first, slightly squinting while her eyes moved over Lizzie’s palms as if she were reading a page of fine print in a book. When she spoke, her voice was low, barely above a whisper. “There is happiness,” she said, “and also shadows. Forgive me. I think I am not reading you well.”

“Let’s just go with the happiness,” Lizzie said. “Brad is going to overcome his troubles, and I will be happy.”