I Libri Dei Desideri

“I want forgiveness. I want my husband back.”

Although I was certain no one would ever read these words, I wrote them in my finest hand, big, cursive, rolling letters. I then closed the book. I sat there waiting, thinking of what brought me to this place.

My visit to that Venice bookshop now seems so long ago. The tour guide had suggested since I love books, I visit the shop. Being the oldest in Venice, she thought I might find something of interest, and I did. In the back, among stacks of books so old that their bindings barely held them together, I found a small black notebook. Inside the front cover, in embossed letters were the words, I Libri Dei Desideri. Its parchment pages were so soft and clean it seemed newly made. A perfect journal to record our trip to Italy.

I took the book to the front of the shop. The old woman who sat in a chair behind the counter struggled to her feet, leaning heavily on her cane. “Quanto costo?” I said as I handed her the notebook. It was a phrase we were taught by our tour guide.

Tipping her head back, she stared down through her glasses at the end of a hawkish nose to examine the notebook. She smiled. “Siamo sorrele?” she asked.

“Non capito.” I said. Another phrase taught by our tour guide.

“Siamo sorrelle? Ti eserciti la vecchie religione?”

“I am sorry, I don’t understand. Non ka-pee-toe” I said more loudly and slowly.

“Ah,” she smiled a crooked toothless smile, then she handed me back the notebook, “è un regalo per te. Vai. Vai.” She gestured toward the door. I tried to argue, to pay for the book, but she kept pushing it back into my hands, repeating herself over and over; “vai, vai.” So, I left.

The next day they took us back to Rome where the tour ended. It was over so quickly. My husband Jim and I really couldn’t afford it. We were just a blue-collar couple from Sioux Falls, South Dakota that lived on a tight budget, but it was important. My husband Jim had strayed, as they say, and this trip was meant to heal those wounds. Still, it was a wonderful experience that ended far too quickly, except for the flight home. Bad weather and mechanical failures left us sitting in Rome’s airport for hours and hours.

“We are stuck here at the airport,” I began to write in my notebook. “So, I have decided while we wait to use my time to begin capturing all our memories from this trip. If I could just think straight. I am so hungry right now. I wish I had something to eat and we could get on our flight.” Getting up I turned to Jim. “Watch my stuff,” I said with a wink. “I am going to see what I could find to eat.”

Everything was so expensive; all I could find was a small bag of crackers I knew I would end up sharing with Jim. When I plopped down next to him, I opened the notebook to find written in bold capital letters; “IT SHALL BE AS YOU WISH.”

“Very Funny,” I said, playfully slugging him in the arm with the closed notebook.

“What are you talking about?” he asked confused.

“What? Don’t play innocent. What you wrote in my book.” I opened the notebook, but the pages were all blank even what I had written was gone. “But it was…”

“Would James Stowe and Adrian Stowe please report to Gate 18?” We were being called to the gate. My heart sank; we were going to be bumped from our flight.

“James and Adrian Stowe?” the woman behind the counter asked. “We had to change to a larger plane because of mechanical issues. Since first-class is larger, we are upgrading our passengers who have status with the airlines.”

“I am sorry,” Jim said. “But we don’t have any status with your airlines. It is the first time we have ever flown.”

“Well, the computer has upgraded you. You can argue with me and stay in coach or take the upgrade.” She smiled. “I suggest you take the upgrade.”

The flight back was a wonderful experience. As we waited to take off, they served champagne and it seemed as if we ate and drank all the way home. Of course, Jim drank more than he should have, but he didn’t do anything embarrassing, just fell asleep. I stayed awake for the entire trip; I did not want to miss one moment.

Everything was perfect, at least until we walked in our front door. A pipe had burst in the second-floor bathroom. The first floor looked like a swimming pool. Much of the ceiling had collapsed and the drywall was anything but. It was an old house bought from an estate sale. The previous owner, an old woman who had died without any family, did not maintain it well. We cleaned up what we could that night and called Mike a neighbor who was a contractor the next day.

“Well, with time and labor, I am thinking it will cost ya around eighteen or nineteen grand, but that’s just an estimate. I wish I could give you more of a break, you being a neighbor and all, but I would charge anyone else twice that.”

We stood around and talked a bit more. Mike asked about our trip, but the excitement of Italy was dampened by the burst pipe. And yes, that pun was intended.

As Jim showed Mike the way out, I opened my journal that was sitting on the counter. Remembering what had happened at the airport, knowing it was a silly thing to do, I wrote; “Oh how I wish that we had the money to fix everything. To make everything right again.” I closed it and stood looking out the kitchen window.

“Cute,” I heard Jim say. He had come up behind me as he came back into the kitchen. As I turned he handed me the open notebook. There beneath what I had written in the same block letters as before were the words “IT SHALL BE AS YOU WISH.” He looked at me and laughed. “Well, while you are waiting for that book of your’s to start spitting out money, I need to get some of this mess cleaned up.”

He walked out of the room, then not more than ten minutes later, I heard him call in his best Rocky imitation; “Hey, Adrian.” I wondered what could be the matter now. Before I could answer he walked back into the kitchen carrying a grey mettle strongbox. “Do you recognize this? I found it behind the drywall.”

“I have never seen it before. What do you think is in it?”

“Only one way to find out.” He went into the garage, returning with a hammer and screwdriver. He made quick work of opening it and that was when the real shock came. There was twenty thousand dollars in that box, all twenties and fifties.

“I don’t like this, Adrian.” Then looking over at my notebook, he said; “This ain’t good. There is some sort of witchcraft going on here.”

“Witchcraft!” I said as I snatched the book, holding it protectively against my chest. “What foolishness. We finally get a break and you are worried about witches.” I turned and left the kitchen.

The following couple of weeks were happy ones. Remembering the old saying to be careful what you wished for, I’d make little wishes in my notebook; things I didn’t think anyone would notice. I’d like to lose ten pounds, or for Jim’s hair to start to grow back, but a few people started to make comments here and there. They noticed that things were finally going well for us. My notebook wasn’t like the monkey’s paw, though, there were no unforeseen penalties that went with my wishes. Everything was fine, for a while.

Then Jim started acting strangely, he was back to his old ways. As the weeks progressed he started coming home late without explanation. Whenever I tried to call him on his cell phone it would go right to voice mail, but when it rang while he was home with me, he would jump up like he had been shocked, not answering it until he was in another room. Then one day he came home smelling like a French whorehouse. He was never a very good liar. When I confronted him, he hemmed and hawed then finally started yelling. I’ve seen him act like this before.

Then, one morning while he was in the shower, I snuck a peek at his cell phone to see what he was trying to keep from me. Even though he kept it locked, his combination was easy enough to figure out, his mother’s birthday, 07041940. I saw his text messages to Shelly Brennan, the slut from work whose boobs were bigger than her brains. “Adrian has no idea what is going on. I’ll meet you at the usual place during lunch. Can’t wait.” Sure enough, it was the same thing all over again.

After he left for work that morning, kissing me good-bye, all sweetness and smiles, I rushed to my nightstand, pulling out my notebook. I wrote; “I want Jim dead. I want him to die in pain.” I closed the book and opened it again. This time the page was blank, so I wrote again; “I want Jim dead. I want him to die in pain.” I waited again, this time a bit longer, and opened the book. There they were, the words I had hoped to see, but written in letters that were less bold than before; “IT SHALL BE AS YOU WISH.”

I was not surprised when I answered the door and two policemen were standing there.

“Adrian Stowe? Wife of James Stowe?” one of the officers asked. I nodded. “Mam, I am sorry, but your husband was killed in an accident. A gasoline tanker collided with his car and … well … the tanker exploded and he was trapped in his car.” Then, after a pause, “We are sorry for your loss, mam.”

Of course, that night friends and family gathered around to comfort me, not knowing that in my heart I felt victorious, avenged. Among that group was Shelly Brennan. She walked straight up to me, as bold as anything, and handed me a small box. I was confused. I opened it to find a ring with a diamond that looked like a doorknob.

“This is for you,” she said as tears rolled down her cheeks. “Jim bought this for you. He had been working overtime for months to save the money. When he told me why he was working so much, I gave him such a hug that he complained of smelling like my perfume for the rest of the day. That is when I introduced him to my cousin the jeweler who gave him a really good price. He was supposed to get it from me today.”

That was it. He wanted to give me a new wedding ring. Not one that came from some wish, but something he had earned.

So, now I open my notebook. The pages are blank. The words “I wish for forgiveness. I wish to have my husband back” are gone. The book is empty and the house is silent.