Twenty-Nine Footfalls

By Debra Danz-Solitario

Twenty-Nine Footfalls led Debra Danz-Solitario to reclaim a functional heart, and kept all but her feet from falling.

Through 29-photographs and short stories Debra pays tribute to her late husband's photography collection. Writing became her lifeline after her husband's fatal accident. In an attempt t

• Language: English
• Publisher: Debra Danz Solitario
• Release date: Oct 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9783952509418

Debra Danz-Solitario

Debra Danz was born in Brooklyn, New York, where, as a child, two of her favorite hobbies were ballet and writing poetry. An interest in politics led to involvement in the punk-rock movement, but having formally studied economics, she eventually gave up safety pins for dress suits, and became a credit analyst at Credit Suisse N.Y. It was there that she met her Swiss husband, Tom. The couple transferred to Credit Suisse Zürich soon afterwards, and later raised a family on the outskirts of canton Aargau, where she also dedicated a great deal of her free time to equestrian sports. Debra currently resides in Zug, Switzerland, with her children. Debra's work has appeared in 50-Word Stories, Journal of Microliterature, Apeiron Review, The Writing Women of Zurich Blog, and both The Bookends Review, and The Bookends 2014 Anthology.

Book preview

Introduction

After retiring from a career in finance, my late husband, Tom pursued his lifelong hobby of photography more actively, until a tragic accident took his life. Through the stages of grief that followed, writing has been my lifeline. The craft has served me well, not only in the form of therapy, but also as a second self, guiding my passage through many dark days and nights. Writing enables me to learn from the shadows and the pain I have encountered there. Walking in darkness helped silence the secrets of loneliness. Fortunately, I have since realized that in order for there to be a shadow, there must be a ray of light; for there to be pain, there must be a functional heart. As such, I am on a quest to reclaim both through the words that my imagination conjures up and pours out onto the page.

According to the Kübler-Ross model, the first stage of the grief process is denial. I enjoyed lingering there for a while, long enough to build barriers around my heart and to realize that even my most basic thinking processes had been affected. That temporary protection eventually wore off, reality inevitably set in, and the barriers of denial were quickly torn down. It was only then that I started looking for another means of survival. In a subconscious effort to open a new chapter of life and to order my memories of Tom, I began to write fiction. Today, my written work includes these twenty-nine short stories, each one based on a photograph in Tom’s collection.

Dedication

Twenty-Nine Footfalls isn’t dedicated to my late husband: it’s a tribute to him. Truth be told, this book is for my children, Francesca and Marc-Philip. I want them to experience the conscious unity of their parents’ two art forms as an immortal reminder they can carry deep within their hearts. Eventually, they’ll put the book on a shelf and dust it off from time to time, but dust has a way of magically twirling into spellbinding glitter—bearing the fruits of yet another untold story.

Part One

Denial

Dearly

Beloved

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…to have and to hold, from this day forward.

Angela stepped into the stretch limousine which Papa had insisted on paying for, even though he knew it would set him back a few. Thanks to Papa’s hard work and thriftiness, she had already ridden in a limousine twice before. Papa paced the cobblestone path leading to the driveway; practically engraving a small path of his own.

Get in the limo, Papa, so the driver can shut the door. The wind is playing havoc with my veil.

Papa sat next to Angela and reached for her restless hand. He caressed and patted it in a way that seemed to say, Remember, I’ll always be there for you.

I have a feeling it’s going to be a very long ride to the chapel, Papa. I’m glad you’re sitting beside me.

Where else would I be, Angie? You’re still my baby, and always will be. I vowed to take care of you from the day you were born, and I won’t ever let you down.

Things will never be the same again, will they, Papa? He was too choked up to answer, but his speechless gesture of rhythmic hand beats continued to give Angela the reassurance she needed to face the day ahead.

…for better or for worse.

You were a terrible teenager, sweetie. I’m glad those punk rock days are behind you. Guess you were just being rebellious because I was so strict with you. Who knows? But one thing’s for sure, you were fearless in those days—and I hate to admit this, kid, but I admired you for that. You need to conjure up some of that fearlessness today, Angie; you’re quivering like a leaf hanging on for dear life! It’s difficult not to be afraid of the unknown or the unforeseen future. So here’s what I want you to do; as soon as you walk into that chapel, be sure to fix your eyes on Tony’s face. You have a keen eye for detail; once you see how content he is, you’ll know that eternal happiness really exists.

You’re right Papa, I just need to see his face. I’m sure that will calm me down. I didn’t get to see him yesterday because of all the preparations and …well, you know. I want to look at him and let him know that I’ll love him forever. With that in mind, Angela rested an arrangement of calla lilies on the seat beside her. She wondered just how long forever might be; she wondered if flowers had a forever …and ever…and ever.

…for richer, or for poorer.

Angie, sweetie, I want you to know that I’m very proud of everything you’ve accomplished. I didn’t think you’d turn out to be such a successful banker. I remember your first part-time job at Macy’s; I remember you spending your entire salary on just that one skirt, and then asking me to lend you the rest of the money. I couldn’t believe my little Brooklyn girl had such expensive tastes. You did good, kid; you studied hard and put your heart into it. I don’t regret getting that second job to put you through college. I’m really proud of you baby, really proud.

Oh Papa, you always know how to bring a smile to my face, even when I feel like crying.

Angela reflected on all of the smiles and laughs she’d had with Tony. She thought about the way Tony proposed to her on the ice rink at the Rockefeller Center. He’d purposely collided with her in front the Rock Center Café, hoping that they would abandon their skating and snuggle up with a cup of hot chocolate instead. She remembered the promise in his eyes; she remembered the ambition in his voice; and she remembered the tender touch of his hand when he slipped that modest engagement ring onto her finger. Most of all, she remembered the feeling of being protected; Tony made her feel safe. It was the same feeling Papa gave her, only with an added bond of marital fidelity.

…in sickness and in health.

I know it was tough growing up without a mother. I tried my best to be both parents to you. You have to admit, I could cook a plate of pasta just as well as your mother used to. Angela avoided his eyes as she stroked one of the calla lily petals. The sight and smell of calla lilies brought back memories of Mamma’s funeral. She’d been only nine when Mamma died. She still regrets not visiting her in the hospital those last few days. But then again, how could she have known they were her last few days? Angela’s eyes welled up with tears, mascara running down her cheeks; a single droplet fell on the white flower arrangement, leaving a conspicuous black mark, staining its purity.

…until death do us part.

Angela entered the chapel through a Gothic archway that ornamented the big, brass entrance door. The chapel door was left open symbolically at all times, even during Mass. She fixed her eyes on her beloved Tony like Papa had said, scanning every detail of his appearance. He looks so calm and serene; I’ve never seen that look on his face before, Angela thought. He looks as if he doesn’t have a care in the world, as if everything will be fine from this day forward. His pale, thin lips are peacefully closed for a change. His thick, unmanageable eyebrows aren’t in their usual arched position, forcing wrinkles to appear on his forehead. His fidgety hands are steady and placed one on top of the other; they lie ever so gently covering the last button of his suit jacket. Looking at his ringless left hand I only now realize what long fingers he has.

Angela took her place in the front pew of the chapel, Papa once again sitting by her side. The two-o’clock bells settled into a dull tone; the Mass was about to start. Father Russo entered from a door behind the altar, the open back door creating a sweeping crosswind that added to the goose bumps running up and down Angela’s arms. The wind blew Angela’s netted, black veil, causing it to stick repeatedly to her damp and ghostly cheeks. After handing Angela a tissue, Papa clasped his hands in prayer. Father Russo cleared his throat, signaling that he was ready to proceed, and Angela knew exactly what Father Russo was about to say—she’d heard the words before.

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to pay tribute and respect to the memory of our dearest departed…

The Lullaby

of Raindrops

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Outside my bedroom, oversized tear-shaped raindrops pelted relentlessly at the window. They thumped, then slid to the sill with loud, unsettling splashes. They formed small puddles in song of pitter-patter, welcoming and rejoicing in each other’s final plunge. Some slid quickly and fearlessly down the glass to their fate, while others seemed hesitant, afraid to fall. I watched and waited, following the weakest of them as they clustered to pick up momentum—dive, sweet drops—dive.

And when at night the rain thought I was settled in bed, the drops that remained on the window quivered in the winter wind. Maybe they sensed I was waiting for them … perhaps to save them? Perhaps to wipe them away with my fingertip?

Whoosh. A strong gust swept by and the mass scrambled; they were no longer fated for lyrical puddle-making. The night had rendered all things quiet, yet I couldn’t help but think about all those lost, glimmering moonlit drops hanging from the bottom of the sill, all still awaiting their destiny. Trying to capture the sparkle of light they had to share, I offered a finger to help them along. A single droplet resisted falling; like me, it was simply waiting.

How to Cook

Raw Spinach

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It whispered to her, that one raw spinach leaf that was sitting in a plastic bowl among its peers. It said something, but how could she be sure which one of all these leaves was trying to reach out to her? More importantly, what kind of secrets could that one leaf possibly have, and why on earth would a leaf of spinach whisper? Colette walked over to the kitchen counter and listened closely for a louder sound, but heard little. She gently picked up one leaf after the other, cradled each one in the palm of her hand, held it to her ear and then doused all the leaves under a stream of cold, running water. Colette washed each one, inspected it and placed it on a paper towel. She thought about how its perfection would be ending, how that fresh green plumpness would wither into tangled strings deluged in olive oil and smothered in the stench of garlic. Was this to be the fate of all of them: shriveling away in the skillet of a middle-aged housewife, a woman who was starting to shrivel herself? Colette examined each leaf again, looking for lines or birthmarks or family resemblance. Finding a few with similar markings, she laid them out on a separate square of paper towel and put them aside. She suspected that seclusion might give them a chance to kill one another in head-on family combat, like her own family when forced to converse at the dinner table.

Colette reflected on the bonds which held her nearest and dearest together. She thought about the nervous energy of her workaholic husband. He’d been a good provider, she thought (except perhaps in bed); she gladly recalled the naïve glow on her daughter’s face; the child who never looked her directly in the eye for fear of turning into a duplicate of her mother. She thought about the arrogant shield of her son, who barred her from his ivory tower of academia.

Oh, the joys of a flawless family! she shouted to the spinach. And yes, indeed, here’s one big perfectly privileged package: a dream house; a Mercedes out the front door; a Bentley in the garage; oblongs of platinum plastic burning holes in my Prada purse. But I, and I alone, dug myself into this colorless life. Such privilege only lulls me through my days, she concluded, kicking a few scattered crumbs under the pantry closet.

Watching the oil bubble in the skillet, Colette knew the flame was too high to cook those fragile leaves, but tossed them in regardless. She threw