Heaven Is Paved With Oreos Read online

  I truly didn’t think I could get pregnant. Can you imagine someone so dim? A college student with glaring examples all around me—my own mother!—and yet if I thought about it at all (which I barely did), I thought, But this is Rome . . . He’s so nice . . . I’m in college. But I never thought to think, Watch out for oops!

  Grandchildren, I am warning you: love will make you shockingly stupid.

  Well, I snuck back to my hotel at 5:00 a.m. to find six American girls waiting for me, desperate to Hear All. I hope I satisfied them. To their credit, not one of them later said I told you so. One girl wrote me to say I’d introduced her to true love. She was terribly sweet about it, all things considered. That letter I kept for a long time.

  I didn’t see Paolo again. The next day was more museums . . . endless paintings of fat ladies . . . and an afternoon in the Villa Borghese gardens. The professor must have suspected something, for he and the hotel staff kept an eagle eye on me. No more sneaking out for this love-struck Wisconsin schoolgirl, no matter how deviously I plotted. And then we left. Flew back to New York—far, far from my Paul McCartney of Rome.

  I spent the rest of the summer waitressing, baby-sitting, taking odd jobs—I tried to make it as a typist, but no one ever asked me back. Whenever I could, I’d go to the clubs. The folk singers, the rock singers. I never met Bob Dylan (much as I dreamt of it!) but I saw so many other brilliant stars—too many to list. It was a wild time. I’d thought I could present myself as a hip girl intellectual, but New York was teeming with those. The one thing the city didn’t have, though, was a girl from Two Geese! If people knew me for anything, it was that. Isn’t that funny? I couldn’t wait to get away . . . and then I couldn’t get away!

  That fall I returned to college, but the classes didn’t grip. Who cared about Greek archeology when soldiers were dying in Vietnam? My own brother was going to Vietnam! Your great-uncle Johnny was drafted into the U.S. Army. He didn’t even attempt to avoid it. I tried to get him to flee to Canada—to become a conscientious objector—to go to prison—but to no avail. He was determined to be a patriotic American. Besides, I had my own problems. I denied it for months—months!—but by the end of that semester there was no hiding it: I was definitely oops.

  The college kicked me out without a second thought. Smears to its reputation were booted at once. I had no choice but to return to Two Geese and wait it out, then give the oops away. Get it adopted so I could get on with my life.

  The judgment from the people in Two Geese . . . I don’t know how I survived it. It wasn’t that I was pregnant—most girls I knew got married pregnant; Two Geese Elementary School was packed with children born six months after the honeymoon. It was that I hadn’t made an honest woman of myself. That’s what drove me crazy: even good girls could have sex, they just had to get married afterward. They had to pay for it. And whatever boys did . . . well, boys will be boys. That’s what the people in Two Geese said. And now snooty Alice Zorn had gone east and gotten herself knocked up. That’s what happened when a girl went to New York. It’s funny: everyone focused on New York City. Sin City.

  I was so angry that I let them think it. I wasn’t going to ruin my memory of Rome. Paolo was better than that.

  I felt so trapped. It was winter in Wisconsin, and I hated going out, hated seeing anyone—I spent four months ironing. I think I ironed the carpets—there was nothing else to do! I don’t think I would have survived if it hadn’t been for Grandma Ann. Whenever I’d get depressed, she’d say, “Everyone has skeletons in their closet. Anyone who says otherwise isn’t looking hard enough.”

  Up until the day he was born, I intended to give my baby up for adoption. I wanted to be an artist—a folk singer—an anything-that’s-far-from-Two-Geese. If I’d stayed in Two Geese as a single mom, I would have been judged. Your father would have been judged. Now, looking back, I’m not quite so certain of that—I’ve met others who did it and were stronger in the end, and more supported by their communities than I would have thought. But I didn’t believe it then.

  I wrote Paolo, you know. We wrote many, many letters back and forth. But what was I supposed to say? I cherished that memory of the Spanish Steps so much—I didn’t want to ruin it, and letting him know about oops would have ruined it for certain. How do you say “oops” in Italian? (I am sure there are many ways to say it!) Instead I hinted at it, as cautiously as I could, and read his letters backwards and forward to see his response. I’d say, “Do you want to have a family?” and he’d write that he wanted many years of freedom before that happened. It broke my heart. After a while I stopped writing; it was too painful. Then I lost his address. The last time I wrote him, though, I reminded him that we were going to meet on the Spanish Steps on the day I turned sixty-four, and he wrote back that he remembered. He wrote again after that, but I didn’t have the stomach to answer.

  Then Johnny died. Your great-uncle Johnny, my patriotic younger brother. He didn’t even make it to Vietnam. He died in a car accident on an army base. It could have happened anywhere . . . but if he hadn’t been drafted, maybe it wouldn’t have happened at all.

  Nothing prepares you for that kind of pain. Your great-grandparents died a little that day. First their daughter—the first of the Zorns to go to college—sent home in shame, and then their golden-haired boy dead in a car crash . . . I cannot imagine.

  That’s when Grandma Ann said she wanted my baby. She wanted a child to make up for the child she’d lost. The two children she’d lost, now that I think on it . . . because I was pretty lost too. She had three children at home; another wouldn’t be that much more. I named the baby Robert Zimmerman Zorn after a man who’d been born not far from us, in a town not much bigger than Two Geese, who’d escaped to become the greatest folk singer in the world. The voice of our generation. If people wanted to think this was Bob Dylan’s child, that was fine with me. There are worse crimes.

  Grandma Ann loved your father so much. She poured all the love she’d had for Johnny into little Bobby. And other people kept their judgment to themselves. The Zorns had earned this baby.

  I left Two Geese as soon as I could, and I didn’t go back often. Changed my name to Azalea and never answered to Alice again—no matter how much your aunt Janie tried. I’ll admit: sometimes I thought of Bobby as my son, but other times I’d see him with Grandma Ann and his uncles and aunts, and I knew he was hers. What was I supposed to do—take him with me to hippie, freaky California? A kid needs a bath occasionally. He needs a mom who isn’t coming home from rock concerts at 3:00 a.m. A mom who has a car that works and an apartment with hot water, who’s not falling madly in love with that British singer who’s going to be the next Mick Jagger—I swear it, luv! A kid needs a mom who’s not a kid herself. And by “kid,” I don’t mean young—I mean immature.

  So, speaking of immature . . . I grew up, finally, a little. When your great-grandmother Ann got sick, I came back to Wisconsin to take care of her as she’d taken care of my son, and then I realized I actually kind of liked the place. It helps that I live in Prophetstown, which has always been wacky. I don’t return much to Two Geese. It also helped that I fell in love with my two beautiful grandchildren. I have a friend, a wise friend, who says that even the most terrible parents can somehow become decent grandparents, and I am the world’s premier example of that! If heaven is paved with Oreos, it’s because they were laid by you.

  You both know (Sarah knows; by the time Paul reads this, I’m sure he’ll know)—that Paolo didn’t show up on the Spanish Steps on the evening of my sixty-fourth birthday. I never thought he would. I almost never thought he would. Why would he—we met over forty-five years ago! We were two silly young lovers—devoted, yes, but silly too; the two go hand in hand—who’d completely lost touch as people do. As I planned the trip, I kept telling myself I was only going because of my birthday, and because Rome is lovely and spiritual, and because of Miss Hesselgrave. Because I wanted to do the pilgrimage right. I can only imagine Miss Hesselgrave’s reacti
on, were she to learn the deep secret beneath my enthusiasm for repeating her journey—she might swallow a tea cup!

  I didn’t want to go alone. I had friends I could ask who would understand everything, but I couldn’t bear that. If Paolo did reappear—if if if! But he wouldn’t wouldn’t wouldn’t!—I wanted to show that I’d made something of my life. That I wasn’t simply a ditzy American yoga instructor traveling with her latest divorced friend. But I didn’t have much else to show to him. Yoga only goes so far. Jack Russell George doesn’t travel well.

  No, my very best accomplishment was my family. I don’t know how it happened—I certainly had nothing to do with it!—but little Bobby had grown up into a wonderful husband and engineer and dad. He feeds millions of people—do you understand that? Do you, really? Thanks to Robert Zimmerman Zorn, I can say that I have helped the world because I created a son who does.

  Problem was, I wasn’t ever going to get your father to Rome. He won’t drive to Minneapolis during corn season! He has all he needs in Red Bend. (Lucky man—he carries his peace with him rather than searching the world like a shell-less snail.) And I didn’t have the courage to tell him the truth and present this crazy scheme to him. I didn’t have the courage to present it to myself!

  I decided instead to take my grandchildren. Paul, imagine if (if if if!) you got to meet Paolo—another musician! But how could I take you away from your music? Besides, you have the peace of your dad—I could tell you had no desire to go.

  Sarah, you are such a natural traveler—so levelheaded and curious. You listen and you walk, which are the two skills a tourist needs most. Miss Hesselgrave would be so proud! So off we went, Sarah and I, the perfect travel team, and I swore I wouldn’t even visit the Spanish Steps, though perhaps I’d tell my romantic story to my granddaughter, and warn her to protect herself. Protect in every way. Each day in Rome, I’d think that nothing would happen, that we were only in the city by coincidence, that this had nothing to do with your grandfather . . . Did I hide it well? I think I did. I certainly hid it from myself! And then my birthday, and the waiters singing that song . . . that’s when I realized I had a lot more vested in this trip than I’d ever admitted. That I’d met Paolo after the sixth church. That I couldn’t complete Miss Hesselgrave’s pilgrimage until I saw him—until I had the chance to meet him again.

  Suddenly I so desperately wanted to meet him again. I prayed to God and Caravaggio to make it happen. Sarah, when we sat down on the Spanish Steps, my heart was in my throat—I’m surprised you couldn’t hear it beating! I’m surprised the handbag hawkers couldn’t hear it!

  Did you notice how I stared at every person there? Especially men who’d be sixty-eight now, with light brown hair (or balding or gray) and blue eyes that I’m sure still make women weak at the knees. I knew Paolo wouldn’t come . . . but I couldn’t stop hoping. With every passing moment, with each dip of the sun, I hoped more. Forty-six years of hoping, let free at last!

  And then he didn’t come—why would he?—and I had to admit I’d made a mistake. I’d hung my heart on an ancient wisp of a promise, and now I was paying the price. Sarah, you were there: you saw how I fell apart. For a while I thought my world had ended. I tried to explain, but I don’t think I did a very good job. I certainly don’t feel I did a good job—all I felt was your confusion and your disappointment. You certainly had a right to disappointment!

  I’m disappointed too. I’m disappointed in myself, but I’m also disappointed that Paolo didn’t get to meet my wonderful granddaughter. His wonderful granddaughter! He may have granddaughters of his own—who knows? Men who claim they don’t want to settle are always the ones who drop with a thump. You could have dozens of Italian cousins by now—cousins who appreciate Caravaggio. Or perhaps Paolo’s not even alive any more. That’s the horrible part of not knowing: you just don’t know.

  Instead I ruined your vacation. I’ve screwed up everything. You didn’t get to finish your pilgrimage . . . but I could never have gone to San Sebastiano. Not after that. Not after I realized I was such a screwup. I know you’re mad at me. Paul, you’re probably mad at me too. I deserve it. But please understand that I didn’t want to screw up. I just wanted everyone to be happy. I wanted to tie up the strings of my big hippie story with a big shiny Italian bow. Well, at least I’m consistent. I’ve been bungling things my whole life: why stop now?

  I love you both very much, and I hope that someday—maybe when you’re sixty-four—you’ll understand a little better what I’ve been through. Love is the hardest thing in the world. I know you’ll both do it well.

  Your devoted grandmother,

  Z

  Friday, July 19

  As you can see, I have started using my new journal. So much for saving this special Italian giornale for a special occasion. Although this is a special occasion if you consider it a special occasion to be losing your mind.

  I read Z’s journal. It was hard, but I did it. Actually, it was only hard at the beginning, and then I got into it. Then I was too busy reading. Now that I’ve finished, though, it is hard again. Hard2.

  If Z took what she just wrote—what she wrote in her fancy Italian notebook with her expensive Italian fountain pen—and turned it in as a school English paper, she would get an A. She would probably win a school award or a state award for writing such a good memoir. A normal person would read it and think, Wow, this woman has had a remarkable life! Fooling around can have serious consequences! She really loves her family!

  Not me, though. Because I can see what is missing, and what she has blurred. She wrote a story as crisp as The Conversion of St. Paul . . . but Caravaggio left a lot out of his painting too.

  Now I am irked. No, not irked: furious. Here are all the reasons why:

  Z said she wanted to go to Rome to reconnect with God and because she liked Miss Hesselgrave. But Z didn’t want to reconnect with God, really—she wanted to reconnect with Paolo! And she doesn’t even like Miss Hesselgrave. Z enjoys Miss Hesselgrave, but she doesn’t like her—no one does. Z lied to me!

  Paolo didn’t show up (I don’t blame him—he probably forgot all about it. You’d do that after forty-six years). But what if he had shown up and had met his one-night-girlfriend-now-sixty-four-year-old-yoga-instructor and the first thing she says is “Surprise! Here’s your granddaughter!” That is a surprise like having a bomb dropped on you is a surprise. (And I’ve looked up pictures of San Lorenzo after the bomb dropped on it—the church was in a million surprised little pieces.) She could have given him a heart attack! He could have run away screaming and slipped on the Spanish Steps (they’re extremely slippery) and broken his neck and died! He could have pulled out a knife and stabbed us! Okay, that last one probably wouldn’t happen, but you never know. Z never knew because she never even thought to warn him. Just like she didn’t warn me. Instead of a big friendly new-family surprise hug, we all could have been utterly traumatized.

  But Paolo didn’t come. So why did she even bother telling me about him? Now all I can think about are the cool Italian cousins I might have and the cool art-history Italian grandfather I might have, a grandfather with wonderful Italian English and blue eyes. I want to meet them all, and I can’t! I’ve been promised a gift I’ll never get to open—I don’t even know what’s inside the box! I don’t even know if anything’s inside it! But now I have to sit there and stare at the wrapping paper forever.

  Z’s the one who screwed their relationship up. Did you notice? Paolo wanted to keep writing, but she’s the one who stopped. She never told him she was having a baby (= my father). She only “hinted” at it. That is not a fair thing to do to someone, especially for something as important as a baby. If she hinted to me about how nice kids are in Italy and how we could be friends, I wouldn’t immediately jump to “I can’t wait to have Italian cousins!” No, I’d say that it would be hard to talk in Italian or that kids there probably have lots of friends already . . . and Z would hear that and think I didn’t want to meet my Italian rel
ations. I don’t know what Paolo would have done if she told him she was having a baby, but Z doesn’t know either. He might have freaked, but he might not have. Heck, he might have moved to California with her and followed rock bands for ten years. The point is that she never gave him the choice.

  What about Dad??? Obviously Dad knows about Paolo or he wouldn’t have named my brother Paul. When we were little, Mom and Dad used to joke that Paul was named after Paul McCartney, especially when our Paul started playing guitar. But it turns out they weren’t joking, because Paul McCartney --› Paolo the Italian guitar-playing Paul McCartney fan --› Paul Zorn. They just never mentioned that extremely important middleman who also happens to be Dad’s father. Who Dad has never talked about! Once, when I asked Dad about his dad, he said he didn’t need a dad because he had family enough already. “Too much,” he said with a laugh, describing all his cousins and uncles and aunts. Why didn’t he ever tell me?

  What will Mom do when she finds out about Z’s big fuzzy plan to meet Paolo? I know: she’ll freak. Look how she freaked when she found out I walked three blocks by myself in broad daylight in the safest neighborhood in Rome. When she learns Z really took me to Rome to introduce me to a grandfather who didn’t know I existed and then spent the next day crying while I bought food so we wouldn’t starve . . . That will not be good. Mom will disown both of us. She is good at legal forms. She could do it.

  This sounds extremely petty compared with everything else on this list, but I still get mad that we didn’t make it to all the churches. People keep asking me, “So, are you a pilgrim? Did you visit the seven churches?” (which, just to clarify, no one in Red Bend even knew about before I told them). When I say no, they always look disappointed, and I always feel guilty and embarrassed and mad. But what am I supposed to say? “My grandmother was really upset that she didn’t meet a guy she hasn’t talked to in forty years who, by the way, is my grandfather”? No.