“They could use a break,” I agreed.
Aaron and his wife had just moved here from southern
California with their adorable 18-month-old son. Aaron had called and asked if
he could join the rugby team, a move that utterly melted The Hubs’ heart from
the first moment. Aaron is a great blue-eyed freckled giant, a medical intern
and former policeman, great rugby material and something of a Renaissance man.
His wife is a spunky pixie, hardy and utterly devoted to their son who is a
clever angel whose beginning language skills include sign language.
We had helped them find a cute little house to rent near our
friend Mimi. John had described nearby shopping and we had offered them a spare
refrigerator that wasn’t needed after all. We knew what it was like being
young, starting a new adventure in a new place, moving and living out of boxes.
We wanted them to know that our town can be a welcoming
place with nice people, support systems. We wanted them to feel they had people
they can call on for help. We felt vaguely parental, of course, but want to
introduce them to people their own age too. We plotted to have them come to a
holiday picnic as our guests so they can meet more people and start to feel
that this could be something like home, no matter how long they stay.
I had worked hard all week and the thought of a Napoli pizza
was a treat, a reward for wrestling with software analysis and stubborn
co-workers. My work Friday had ended on a quietly happy note. A last-minute
request from someone I had met with a few weeks ago came in. Everyone else had
gone home for the holiday weekend and we laughed at the thought that we were the
only people at work so late. I was pleased she had taken my suggestion for an
easy solution and it took just a matter of minutes to update the system so she
could track the success of her workgroup’s efforts. It was satisfying to be
able to help someone quickly and make her work life just a little easier. I was
ready for the holiday weekend.
The Hubs has long declared Napoli pizza as “the best pizza
in the world.” He accepts no arguments. His decision is final. Tony and his
family run Napoli’s. The one closest to the rugby pitch is the mothership, but
there are two other newer locations. We like the old place. We are always
interested in who is making the pizza tonight. For instance, if it’s John (not
The Hubs) we know we will get the thin-crust, extra-crispy we have in mind. We
love Tony too, but typical of any owner, Tony has very specific ideas of what a
pizza should be. He has a special mix of sausage that is celestial.
For 15 years we have ordered a “Tony’s Special, thin crust,
extra crispy.” It was so predictable, when we called it in, they knew our
voices and responded, “OK, one John Kelly Special!” Then last year we changed
our order. Now we order pepperoni, mushrooms and double sausage, still thin
crust, still extra crispy. You’ve got to keep your pizza people on their toes,
right?
We met the kids at Napoli’s and even at 6:30 pm, ok, 6:45 pm
it was crowded. We usually order take-out so I was surprised it was so busy so
early. But we got a booth and started playing with the baby instead of looking
at the menu. After all, we knew what we wanted. So did Aaron’s son, who clearly
gestured towards the cup of ice water that he please wanted an ice cube right
now.
We ordered our pizzas, a pitcher of beer and I threw caution
to the wind and ordered a diet Pepsi. We clinked our glasses together in toast
to welcome them to Vallejo and continued talking about their move, the house
they rented, what to do with the floors, the old Wedgewood stove, how to repair
the space in the fence where the dogs can get out.
Then Aaron’s eyes riveted past my shoulder and an uproar, a
hubbub started. Someone yelled, “Get out! Get out!” Someone said, “Gun.”
I turned around and uniformed and padded officers came
through the glass doorway with assault rifles and turned through the second
dining room towards the restaurant’s rest rooms.
“Get out! Get out!”
I grabbed my purse and turned out of the booth. There was
pizza splattered on the floor between me and the doorway. Someone dropped their
pizza, I thought. It’s funny what occurs to you in an emergency. I dropped to
the floor, thinking if there’s gunfire, it will be about waist-high. I felt The
Hubs drop on top of me.
That’s so sweet, I thought. He’s protecting me. But he’s
likely to get himself killed doing it.
He pushed me up. I dodged the spilled pizza slices, not
wanting to tear my knee up again and slipped out the front door to the
sidewalk. I pulled my Pashmina shawl around me and kept walking. There were police
cars everywhere. Down the sidewalk, a uniformed policeman beckoned me.
“Come on,” he said urgently, gently. “Keep going.”
Where was my husband? Where were Aaron, his wife and the
baby? I couldn’t look back, sure a bullet would find me in the bright twilight
if I did. I walked past the barbershop to the fence that bordered the vacant
lot next to the barber. I put my arms on the fence and sobbed. A young woman,
someone I do not know, came up behind me and said, “Breathe with me.”
“Yes,” I said. Inhale, one, two, three, exhale. And again.
She was no longer there. I turned to see she had run across the usually busy
street to be with a friend. And John was there suddenly, talking to the men
from the barbershop. He hugged me. They asked me if I wanted to sit down. I
did. They asked me if I wanted some water. I did. I choked back more sobs.
A thin, tousle-haired young man with his arms behind him lurched
in front of the barbershop windows, shouting over his shoulder, another
uniformed policeman holding his cuffed wrists. He wore a baseball jersey. Not
the Giants, I thought. No, he’s not on my team. He looked at me, agitated but
without the wild-eyes of insanity. I was curious, stunned. This was the face of
Death, so ordinary, so impersonal.
“He’s gone now,” an officer said. I walked out of the
barbershop where John was talking. I thanked them and hugged the big guy who
had brought me water. Aaron, his wife and baby were there and Aaron hugged me.
We went back to Napoli’s, sat down in our booth. Our
waitress brought our pizzas. One of the officers came around to each of the
tables and apologized for disturbing our dinner. I held his hand for a moment.
We ate. I tried to be normal again. We joked about the picnic on Sunday being a
lot less exciting than this. No one was hurt but I don’t think I will be the
same.
On our way home I told John, “I think that was the best
pizza I ever had.”
Best wishes.
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