After Graduation

In the sunroom at Café Limonaia, the last lemons are still hanging on the tree, and Alex has leaves stuck to his shoes. He spent the whole afternoon raking Grandma Lucia's yard, and Lucia paid him the way she always does: cash in an envelope and a piece of tiramisu big enough for two. Nora is picking him up, like she sometimes does on Wednesdays. Over at the chalkboard, Daria, Lucia's youngest granddaughter, is standing on a chair writing “Pumpkin Soup” with a lot of flourish and three exclamation points.

Alex pulls a folded sheet of paper out of his jacket pocket and slides it across the table. “My guidance counselor gave me this.” It's a paid apprenticeship in mechatronics with a company that builds machines for entire factories. Three years of working and studying, an engineering degree at the end, and a paycheck from day one. “They take twelve people a year,” Alex says. “Applications are due at the end of November.” He says it the way he says everything, like he's talking about the weather. Nora reads the name of the town. She only knows it from the departures board at the train station. “Three hours by train,” she says. “Grandpa says two fifty if you take the early one.”

“Nice,” Nora says. It's her word for things she likes. Today it sounds like a door quietly closing. She eats the tiramisu and doesn't taste any of it. Victoria comes by to clear the cups, looks from one of them to the other, and Nora is grateful that Victoria is the kind of person who doesn't say anything.

On the walk home, Nora talks about everything. The math test, David hitting golf balls every evening in the field behind the farm, Chiara's new skirt, the practice drive with her dad where she stalled twice. She talks faster than she thinks, and Alex lets her finish. In front of his house they sit down on the bench. “You said ‘nice,’” he says, “the way other people say ‘Brussels sprouts.’”

Nora pulls her sleeves over her hands. She knows exactly which sentence would keep him here. She'd just have to say it quietly enough, a little sad, and Alex, who always wants to be there for everybody, would put that sheet in his desk drawer and never take it out again. She knows that, and it scares her how easy it would be.

“I don't want you to go,” she says instead. “That's true. But it's only half of it.” She takes a breath. “The other half is that after graduation I want to go away for a year. By myself. Somewhere nobody knows me. I've been saving for it, every Saturday at the bakery, for a year. Not even Chiara knows.”

Alex doesn't say anything for a long time. Nora counts the windows on the first floor so she doesn't have to look at his face. Then he asks, “Where?” “I don't know yet. Far enough.” She waits for him to start planning, to pull out his phone and look up routes the way he always does when somebody has a problem. He leaves his phone in his pocket. “Do you want me to think about it with you?” he asks. “Or is it yours for now?”

It might be the best thing he's ever said to her, and it's a question. “Mine for now,” Nora says. He nods. “Then you're applying,” she says. “I don't know yet,” Alex says. “There's stuff here too. And my dad still hopes I'll end up in his workshop someday, even if he never says it.” He rubs his thumb over the glass of his watch. “And then there's you.”

“Don't not apply because of me,” Nora says. “And don't apply because of me either.” He looks at her, and then he laughs, his slow laugh that always shows up a minute late. “You're going to have to write that down for me.” “I don't write things down. You know that.”

The first-floor door opens and Grandpa Emil comes out in his slippers with a bag of trash. He sees the two of them on the bench, touches a cap he isn't wearing, “Young lady,” and says as he passes, to no one in particular, “Every train runs on its own track.” Then he goes back inside, and a moment later his radio gets a little louder.

“Was he listening?” Nora asks. “He drove trains for over forty years,” Alex says. “He hears everything that happens on a track.” She leans her head on his shoulder. Neither of them says “We'll make it work.” It would have been a nice thing to say. It just wouldn't have been true yet, and they both know it, and in a strange way that's easier than if one of them had said it.

When Nora crosses the street to go home, the sheet is still lying on the bench. She goes back, folds it neatly, and tucks it into the chest pocket of Alex's jacket, next to the pen that's always there. He watches her do it and doesn't say anything. There's still time until the end of November. For him and for her.