Elaine from Philadelphia

Elaine from Philadelphia

Francisco’s invitations to the fund-raiser luncheon at the Cuban Club sat on his dresser like a trio of flashing yellow lights. He’d purchased the tickets in an impulsive wave of nostalgia with no idea of whom to invite. Miguel worked on Saturdays, and Jose and Maria were sipping umbrella drinks on a cruise ship. Who else? Since his wife’s death from cancer a year ago, Francisco had lost their friends and maybe his mind. He’d quit his job, sold his house, and moved into a retirement community redolent of air fresheners and power-chairs.

His new neighbors, friendly on the surface, would never agree to eat Ropa Vieja with him. They preferred their little cliques and comfort food. And nobody spoke Spanish. Who was left?

Two names came to mind: Thomas and Rosamie. He knew them from volunteering at Saint Lawrence’s food pantry; they might come. His thoughts jumped from the huge church to the little chapel on the third floor of his building. He’d seen a nice woman there, the one who read aloud from the Lectionary at the weekday Mass and smiled like she had a wonderful secret. Even though he didn’t know her name, he could ask her to the luncheon. Maybe the Holy Spirit was guiding him. Or maybe just his own loneliness. It would take all his courage to approach her with his awkward English, but he had to try.

So, he asked. First, Thomas and Rosamie, who accepted with childlike enthusiasm because they’d never eaten Cuban food. The couple had met in the Philippines during his stint in the Army. Thomas thanked God every day for Rosamie’s cheerful, outgoing nature, which complemented his own shy and even taciturn ways. Francisco could count on her for lively conversation.

Then, the harder challenge. Francisco attended Thursday morning Mass, where the tall, slim, silver-haired woman read from the Scriptures with fervor. She also served as the sacristan, cleaning up after the service. Francisco remained in his chair near the door, stomach fluttering as if he’d swallowed a flock of finches. When she locked the sacristy, he leaped to his feet.

“I am Francisco Perez,” he said with a fake smile borrowed from his favorite movie actor. “I see you here sometimes. What is your name?”

The woman nodded, her eyes wary, as skittish as a doe in the forest. “Yes, I’ve seen you here before. I’m Elaine Southerby.”

“It is nice to meet you.” He bowed his head in a gesture of respect.

A smile lit up her face. “And nice to meet you.” She turned toward the door.

He reached out, lightly touching her arm. “Can I ask you a question?”

Elaine turned back to face him, tilting her head like people do when they expect something odd. “Yes, of course. What is it?”

Now that she was close to him, he saw her age spots and crooked teeth, but it didn’t matter. He yanked the invitation out before it burned a hole in his pocket. “Elaine, I ask you for lunch on March 20, okay? It is a Saturday. At the Cuban Club downtown. I have this ticket, and I don’t know who to ask. We meet at 11:15 at the circle. I drive you there. Can you come?” His breath caught as he waited for her response.

Her expression shifted, as if she were considering excuses. Finally, she said, “Is anyone else coming?”

So that was it—she thought it was a date. “Yes,” he said quickly. Thomas and Rosamie. You know them, I think?”

“Oh, yes. They live in my building.” Her voice softening, she said, “I’ll have to check my calendar, but I think I’m free that day. As long as I’m back here by 4:00.”

He let out the breath he’d been holding. “Of course. Yes. I have you back here on time. Here is the invitation.” He extended an ornate card with golden filigreed decorations and elegant calligraphy.

Elaine pulled out her cellphone, and they exchanged numbers. “I’ll see if I’m free, and I’ll text you,” she said as she picked up her heavy bag and started through the door.

“Thank you, Elaine. Thank you so much!” He beamed like the winner of a marathon.

“Goodbye, Francisco.” She gave him a parting wave and turned to the right in the hallway.

As he turned to the left, he sent up a prayer of thanks.

By Thursday, he had his ‘yes.’ On Friday, he prepared for the big day by washing and vacuuming the car, pressing his best shirt and pants as if for a wedding, and scrubbing himself clean in the shower. He even clipped his ear hair.

As he waited in his car at the circle on Saturday morning, his palms sweating, he calmed himself with deep breathing and a Hail Mary decade.

Thomas and Rosamie arrived first. Francisco ran to usher Elaine, wearing a flowered dress and a cautious expression, to the front door of the Corolla. He drove more carefully than ever before, a classic chauffeur, while his passengers chatted about the information he’d printed for them on the Cuban Club and its Spanish-immigrant heritage. He promised to show them around the century-old building as he pulled into a parking place.

Flushed with pride, Francisco led them through the majestic high-ceilinged ballroom, the spacious theatre with plush red velvet chairs, and the library. His guests took photos of the grandeur with their phones. At lunch, everyone complimented the catered meal while Francisco told stories about his ancestors in Andalusia and his own journey from Cuba to America.

“I am happy I am a naturalized American citizen,” he said.

“Me, too!” said Rosamie, as they clinked wine glasses. They all shared a smile, and Elaine even chuckled.

The four returned home on the interstate in a convivial spirit. An adroit conversationalist, Rosamie asked Elaine if she’d always lived in Tampa.

“No, I came here in 1987,” she said. “It was for treatment at a hospital for a medical condition, and I just stayed.” Elaine’s voice tightened as if this was dangerous territory.

“Oh, we came in 1987, too. Where did you come from before that?” Rosamie’s loud question drew everyone’s attention.

“Philadelphia. I was born and raised and went to college there.”

“Philadelphia?” Francisco almost swerved the car into another lane. “My wife came from Philadelphia. And her name was Elaine, too!”

Rosamie clapped her hands. “Elaine from Philadelphia! Francisco, maybe God brought you two together.”

Francisco and Elaine locked eyes in the rearview mirror. Is she the one? he wondered. The answer to my prayer? He struggled to concentrate on his driving as they exited the interstate onto a busy avenue. Hope, long forgotten, bloomed in his heart.

* * *

Elaine didn’t come to Mass on Monday morning. Or Tuesday. By Wednesday, he fretted that she must be in the hospital. But on Thursday, Elaine was preparing the chapel when he arrived. She appeared blissfully unaware that everything had changed. He found her even more beautiful despite her casual T-shirt and drawstring pants. Francisco thought only of her as she proclaimed the Scriptures.

When Mass ended, he perched on a chair near the door and pretended to read the Missalette without comprehending a word. Just as she turned out the lights, he stood. “Elaine, you work so hard here. Let’s go to breakfast. We go to the Bob Evans, do you know it? I like that place.”

Her furrowed brows stopped him. Had he used the wrong English words? Why did she look so confused?

“I have plans, Francisco,” she said. “I had my breakfast already, and there are things I need to do at home.” She took a step back.

“No, you can just come for coffee with me, okay?”

Her smile was polite and a little frightened. “Not today. I have to go now.” She edged toward the door.

He panicked. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Then, dinner. I pay. I pick you up at 5:00. Any restaurant you want. You choose.” His heart was pounding like a demented woodpecker.

“No, that is not possible. I have dinner with my friends tonight.”

He couldn’t help himself as the words poured out. “Just tell me the time and the place. We go anywhere you want. We drive around the city, or I show you my favorite park…” He faltered. She was looking down the hall as if searching for a rescuer. “I am a good driver, a safe driver. I used to drive for work. I am your driver.”

She shook her head and frowned. “Francisco, that is very kind, but I don’t need a driver. And I really need to go now. Goodbye.”

He came close to touching her on the elbow but pulled his hand back. “Okay, Elaine. But if you want to go somewhere, you call me. I am your friend. Okay?”

She responded with a polite smile and a wave as she hurried down the hallway.

* * *

In the next few days, he checked his phone every few minutes, but she never called, and she didn’t come to Mass. He found excuses to loiter near the doorway of her building like a teenager with a crush, hiding flowers behind his back. When he couldn’t stand it another minute, he called her on Tuesday night.

“Hello, Francisco. How are you? What do you want? I’m in the middle of something right now, but I have a couple of minutes.”

“Hello, Elaine. I just wanted to speak with you a little. I love to hear your voice; it is so musical. It is lovely, like you. Are you ready to go to breakfast yet?”

There was a long pause. “You are very sweet, but you must understand something. I am very busy. I am writing a book, and I don’t have time to drive around or go out with you.” She spoke in a hurry, like a person who needed to turn the gas off under a pot of boiling soup.

He refused to be discouraged. “But sometimes you must go to the doctor or buy food. I will take you there. Remember, I am your driver.”

“Francisco, I don’t need a driver. I don’t want a driver.” Her voice, louder now, sounded even more lovely to his ears.

“Okay, you don’t want a driver, but I can be your friend, Elaine. Will you be my friend?”

She hesitated again. “Fine, we can be just friends. But you can’t call me every day, and I don’t need a driver. Do you understand?”

He raised a hand in joy: Friends! “It will be as you say. Friends. I will be your friend, and you will be my friend. You never have such a good friend as me.”

“That’s great. Look, I need to get back to work now, okay? Goodbye.”

She’d already ended the call when he said, “Goodbye, Elaine from Philadelphia.”

The next morning, he brought a small bouquet of flowers and a letter to Elaine’s door at 6:00. When she answered the door in her bathrobe, hair in tangles, he said, “You look beautiful. I know you wake early, so I bring you these.” He held the bouquet and an envelope out, and she accepted them with wide eyes and gaping mouth. Like he’d shown up holding a kangaroo.

“Thank you, Francisco.” She pulled the door shut.

He made a quick turn and walked down the hall, grinning as he heard the door click Yes! Mission accomplished. He’d been up all night writing the letter in longhand on lined paper, scratching out his mistakes, searching for words in the Spanish-to-English dictionary. In twelve pages, he had written about his childhood, his first jobs, the Cuban Revolution in 1959, his hatred of socialism, his coming to America in 1980, his marriage, his work, the loss of his wife, and his retirement.

The last line of the letter was the best: The hot blood of my Andalusian ancestors runs in my veins, and I am a person of passion.

* * *

The next day, he received a text notification on his phone. He opened the app in anticipation.

Thank you for the flowers and the letter, Francisco. I am very sorry. I cannot be your friend after all. You came into my life like a tornado, and I don’t want tornados to upset the quiet, calm life I’ve built here. My friends are all women, and that is what is best for me. I cannot be the person you want me to be. I’m sorry. Elaine.

Francisco dropped onto his couch with a groan. He stared at the phone as if it were responsible for this disaster. Elaine from Philadelphia was abandoning him. How could she be so cruel? Did she look down on him because he was Cuban? Because she was educated and he was just a driver? Because his English was not good enough for her? He wasn’t a tornado, no, he was a hurricane!

Rage sent fire through his body. If Elaine wasn’t the one, he would find another woman and marry her. Elizabeth across the hall, or Lorraine in the next building, or Martha with heavily penciled eyebrows. You will see, Elaine from Philadelphia. Francisco Perez will show you what a real woman is like.

And so, the next day, spiffy in his best suit and cologne, he began his campaign.

(2,235 words)