The Brotherhood of the Grape (13 page)

A
FTER BREAKFAST
I telephoned Virgil and told him that the old man was in the Auburn Hospital. Without giving me a chance to elaborate he asked, “Is he drunk?”

“He’s not drunk. He’s sick.”

“How much is it going to cost?”

“He’s very sick with diabetes. He was in a coma for five hours.”

“Diabetes?” He was relieved. “That’s not so bad. He’s on Medicare, you know.”

“He almost died.”

“So what? He’s alive, isn’t he?”

“Barely.”

After a silence: “Gee.”

I told him Mama was having dinner for the immediate family at six and she wanted him there with the others. Afterward we would drive up to the Auburn Hospital and pay the old man a visit.

“Can’t make it,” he said. “This is my bowling night.”

“Don’t be a jerk,” I said. “For once let’s do something as a family. We owe it to Papa. You’re his favorite, Virge. I guess you know that.”

It made him cackle.

“That’s very funny, Henry, specially since his dislike for us is evenly divided.”

“Will you come?”

“What’s Mama cooking?”

“What’s the difference. This isn’t a celebration, it’s a solemn moment.”

“Veal with peppers, and I’ll show up.”

“You got it.”

Trying to contact my brother Mario was beset with the usual complications. Kids hollered in the background, and the television was on full blast. My sister-in-law answered.

“Hello, Peggy. Is Mario mere?”

“He’s asleep. You still around?”

“Will you wake him, please. It’s important.”

“What keeps you in San Elmo, Henry? Don’t tell me you’re writing a sex novel about your father and mother.”

“Peggy, listen. Papa’s in the hospital.”

“So he got flattened again. Good.”

“He’s very sick with diabetes.”

“Really? My aunt had diabetes. He’ll be okay. Just give him plenty of orange juice.”

“Great idea, Peggy. I’ll tell Dr. Maselli. Will you please call Mario to the phone?”

That was it. End of conversation. She left the phone off the hook and completely forgot me. For twenty minutes I sat by the telephone waiting, listening to children squalling, doors opening, dogs barking. I heard Peggy spanking the little girl’s ass, and the child’s shrieks. Then the fall of furniture and the wails of the boy. I heard Mario cursing and demanding his breakfast. He must have kicked the dog, for it yelped in pain. A brawl ensued, man and wife in combat, the thud of bodies, the breaking of dishes, the screams of children, the wild barking of dogs, the sputter of a truck engine, the howl of burning rubber, the clatter of the truck bed as the car ground its gears and spun off.

An hour later I reached Mario at the railroad dispatch office.

“When are we going to get together?” he asked.

I told him about Papa.

“Jesus,” he said. “That’s awful. At his age, too. Diabetes…what’s diabetes? Isn’t it some kind of venereal disease?”

“Nothing like that, you dope. It’s an excess of sugar in the blood and urine.”

“That’s right. I knew it had something to do with urine. Where did he contact it?”

“You don’t contact it because it’s not contagious.”

“That’s funny. Papa hates sugar.”

“He’s better now. We’re going to the hospital tonight, all of us, and that includes you. Mama wants you at the house for dinner at six. Okay?”

“I’ll come to dinner, but not the hospital. Old Nick hates my guts. I’ll only upset him.”

“You’re wrong, man, dead wrong. Papa
likes
you. He told me so just the other day. You’re his favorite. Of all of us you’re the only one who tried to learn his trade. Me and Virgil gave up, but you were loyal, Mario, a good son. You did your best. You failed, but that’s not the point. You tried. He remembers that. He thinks you’ve still got the makings of a great bricklayer. He may not show it—you know how he is—but he’s crazy about you, Mario. He respects you. He barely tolerates me, and he doesn’t like Virgil at all. But you’re the apple of his eye.”

His voice softened.

“I like him too, damn it. Always have. Maybe we’ve had some battles, but I don’t hold it against him.”

“Good for you, Mario. Forget the past. Come to the hospital with us. He’s an old man now. He may die any day. So make peace with him. Have a clear conscience. Let him know you love him as much as he loves you.”

“I will, Henry. Maybe I could bring him something. How about a jug of Angelo Musso?”

“He can’t have any wine.”

“How about flowers. A plant.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe bedroom slippers.”

“Perfect.”

“And a robe.”

“Fine.”

“See you at Mama’s.”

Suddenly I realized he was putting me on—and himself—that he had no intention of coming to dinner, or of buying his father a gift, or of visiting him in the hospital, for Mario was a dreamer who never followed through on his good intentions.

W
E WAITED
for him at dinner, seated around the kitchen table, Stella, Virgil and I, sipping wine, crunching slivers of carrots and celery while my mother brooded over her stove, tending the main dish, which was tripe,
trippa Milanese
, something plain and austere, in keeping with the grim occasion. She had set a place at the head of the table for her husband, a sort of homage to him, and his absence was heavy in the air.

At six-thirty she walked out on the front porch to look for her wayward son. With folded arms she looked up and down the street before returning to the kitchen.

“We eat,” she announced.

The
trippa Milanese
was neither plain nor austere, it was wild and ravishing, squares of honeycomb tripe prepared with rice, bell peppers and tomato sauce, sprinkled with Parmesan cheese and seasoned with butter and spices.

Virgil forgot his wish for veal and peppers and ate like a famished dog, swiftly clearing his plate and demanding more, a glutton at a feast rather than a concerned son about to visit his ailing father. He finished off with a vulgar belch, gulped down wine, and announced that the time had come to face reality, the facts of life.

“Let’s take things in their proper perspective,” he said like the president of the Bank of America. “First, there’s the matter of our father’s insurance. Have any of you thought about it lately? Is it in order? Has anyone read the fine print?”

Stella flung down her napkin.

“Shut up, Virgil!”

He stared innocently.

“Have I offended someone? Am I not permitted a simple inquiry? In the banking business the approach is direct and to the point. Sentiment is ruled out.”

“Papa isn’t dead,” Stella said. “He’s sick.”

“You can’t run and hide from these problems.” Virgil smiled condescendingly. “Face them courageously, honestly: insurance, funeral costs, Mama’s future…”

He might as well have punched his mother in the stomach. She got to her feet and staggered from the room. We heard her sob as she closed the bedroom door. Virgil shook his head doubtfully.

“Nice going,” I said.

Stella snatched up a slice of bread and flung it into his face. “You’re a beast!” she said. “You always were. I hate you!”

He stared at his fingers as we sat there listening to Mama opening drawers and moving about in the bedroom. She came out dressed for the visit to the hospital. There was too much powder on her face and she was draped in that disreputable whorehouse coat of Aunt Carmelina’s. Dangling from her arm was a huge black patent leather purse.

“I’m ready,” she said.

“Must you wear that awful coat?” Stella complained.

“I like that coat,” Virgil said, trying to make amends. “It looks nice on you.”

“It’s cheap,” Stella said. She glanced at Mama’s feet. “Look at your stockings, all wrinkled.”

Reaching beneath her coat and brown satin dress. Mama hitched up both stockings with one motion.

“There.”

“Oh, God,” Stella said.

She brought Mama to the light of the window, moistened a napkin with spittle, and dabbed away heavy blotches of face powder under Mama’s eyes and around her neck.

“Try to look nice, for Papa’s sake.”

“He don’t care,” Mama said crossly.

We walked out to Stella’s Pontiac. Mama and Virgil got in the back seat and I sat up front with Stella. It was twenty miles to the Auburn Hospital. As Stella started the car my mother said, “Wait. I forgot to leave a note for Mario.”

“What for?” Virgil said.

“To meet us at the hospital.”

“Forget it. He won’t show up.”

“He might,” Mama said, groping about, having difficulty getting out of the car.

“I’ll do it,” I said, stepping out.

“Put the note in the refrigerator,” Mama said. “He’ll look for it there.”

I went to the kitchen, scribbled the note, and placed it atop a freshly baked apple cobbler in the refrigerator.

Then we drove to the hospital.

T
WO BY TWO
we trooped past the reception desk and down the glossy hospital corridor, Mama and Virgil, Stella and I. At the door to my father’s room we paused for a consultation. Mama was a little breathless. The powder had vanished from her flushed face and she pushed the fur collar away from her hot neck.

“How do I look?”

“You’d look a lot better if you took off that damned coat,” Stella said, reaching out to strip it from Mama’s shoulders. “I’ll carry it for you.”

Mama relented and Stella bundled the coat in her arms. The brown satin dress beneath the coat looked shabby and wrinkled, as if it might have come from the Salvation Army or the nineteenth century. There were places where her underwear bulged and the dress hung crookedly, the hem on the bias.

“Pull up your stockings,” Stella said.

“Oh, he doesn’t bother with things like that anymore,” Mama said, but she nevertheless gave her stockings a hitch. All of us examined her critically. Poor Mama. Even Dior could not have improved matters. It was the way she stood there, kinda bow-legged, in somebody else’s dress and falling-down stockings and shoes mat looked too big.

“Ready?” I said, reaching for the door handle.

Stella gave Mama a reassuring hug.

“Stay cool now. Don’t cry.”

That started the tears immediately, but she choked them off as we entered the room. Nick sat up on the high hospital bed, serene, almost languid. We gathered around him, saying hello and touching him. He looked splendid, clean-shaven, hair trimmed and combed, mustache clipped, fresh and rested, not sick at all. Mama gazed at him and wilted like warm butter, her eyes filling. She bent down and kissed him, and so did Stella. A strong aroma of shaving lotion wafted from him.

“Where’s Mario?” he asked.

“He had to work,” I said.

“Still mad at me about that baseball business.”

“Not so,” Stella said. “Mario has a family now. He’s forgotten all about it.”

“Not Mario. He don’t forget anything.”

Mama squeezed his hand.

“Do they treat you good?”

“Real good.”

I had never seen him so composed, at such ease. Maybe it was the Valium.

“You look thin,” Mama said. “Do you get enough to eat?”

“Plenty to eat. Asparagus with toast for supper. String beans and Jell-O.”

“Jell-O? You won’t eat Jell-O.”

“Tasted good.”

“What kind of sauce on the asparagus?”

“No sauce.”

Mama was appalled.

“What kind of a place is this?”

“Nice place. Nurses, nice.”

“You look pale.” She turned to us. “Don’t you think he looks pale?”

We didn’t think so.

“I feel good,” he said. Then, pleased: “I take insulin now.”

I asked if he gave the injection to himself.

“Miss Quinlan gave it to me.”

“That’ll be your job from now on, Mama,” Stella said.

“Every day, from now on,” Papa said. “Talk to Miss Quinlan. She’ll show you what to do.”

“Who’s Miss Quinlan?” Mama said.

“My nurse,” Papa said.

It bothered Mama. She folded her arms.

“Lots to learn,” he went on. “What I eat, what I can’t eat. Not like the old days. No more pasta. Not much, anyway.”

Mama was astonished. “No pasta…no spaghetti?”

“A little bit. Once a week.”

“Lasagne?”

“Christmas and Easter.”

“Pastina? The little ones, in garlic and oil?”

“Talk to Miss Quinlan. She’s got a list.”

“I’ll talk to Dr. Maselli. I don’t need to talk to a nurse.”

Virgil had a gift for him, a pack of Italian stogies. He took the pack tentatively, then passed it back. “I don’t smoke no more, son. I quit for good.”

“I don’t believe it,” Virgil said.

“Doctor’s orders. No more wine, no more cigars.”

“And no pasta?” Stella smiled doubtfully. “It won’t be easy, Papa.”

His eyes shone.

“I’ll make it.”

Mama clasped his wrist. “Course you will. First, get out of this place. Come home. Rest a few days, until you feel good. No more work, no more mountains. Sleep in your own bed. Go downtown, walk around. Talk to the menfolks at the Roma. Maybe one cigar after supper. Pretty soon you’ll feel better. I don’t care what the doctor says: one cigar never hurt anybody. Same with a little spaghetti, and a glass of wine. You ain’t gonna live forever, so enjoy it while you can. I’ll talk to Dr. Maselli. He understands.”

It made the old man smile.

“We’ll see.”

A preposterous dilemma. I didn’t think much of his chances. Sixty-five years of wine and pasta and cigars, and now he proposed changing to a life of self-denial. How could he resist the siren fragrances wafted from his wife’s cauldrons? Every room in his house was scented with the good life, the Mediterranean life. I looked down at him in that stark hospital gown, eyes bright with the determination to stay alive, his jaw as square as a stone, fists in his lap, this strong, decaying man, all shot to hell on the inside, who now proposed to pit himself against the tender guile of a woman who had kept him vigorous and content through the thousands of days of his existence. Yet, in spite of everything, miracles did happen. A man could change, if only to survive.

A nurse entered the room. She was around forty, a bleached blonde, tall, attractive, cheerful, chatty, and carrying a specimen jar.

“Good evening all!” she greeted, and we fumbled out of her way as she moved to the bedside.

“And how’s my naughty boy tonight?”

“Purty good,” Papa grinned.

She fluffed his pillow, bending over him with hefty breasts in a tight uniform, rucking him in, brushing back his hair, embarrassing him as he avoided Mama’s cold glare.

“This is my family,” he said.

“How are you all?” the nurse said. “I’m Miss Quinlan. Doesn’t he look fine tonight? You should have seen him
last
night! It only goes to show what loving care can do. Such a good boy. Not a bit of trouble.”

“When can we take him home?”

“That’s for the doctor to decide.”

She held out the specimen jar to Papa.

“Have you got a bit of something for me, Daddy?”

Daddy!

You could see my mother writhe as she tried to destroy Miss Quinlan with a sneer while the nurse helped Papa out of bed and toward the bathroom, his gown open and flapping in back, his bare ass showing.

He entered, closed the door, bolted it carefully, then reappeared with the half-filled jar.

“What a lovely specimen!” Nurse Quinlan enthused, holding the bottle up to the light. “Clear as honey, the best so far.”

Nick cowered back into bed past Mama’s smoldering eyes, covering himself to the chin, as if to hide his body. Miss Quinlan fussed with his pillow, smoothed his blankets, pushed back his hair.

“Good night, sweetie,” she whispered, marching off with the specimen.

A gaping silence filled the space vacated by Miss Quinlan. Mama looked lost, etherized, a shambles. She glanced toward the door, as if Miss Quinlan were still there.

“Puttana!” she said.

The bell rang, signaling the end of the visiting hour. “Time to go,” Virgil said.

Mama bent to kiss her husband on the forehead, searching deeply into his eyes.

“Be careful,” she warned.

Stella kissed him and Virgil and I said good night. We left, looking back at him watching us, a lonely old man in a stark room, on a high bed, filtered, obfuscated, blended into a blue wall.

Down the corridor in a fast shuffle raced my mother, anxious to put the hospital behind her. Stella and Virgil quickened their steps to keep up but I hung back, intrigued by images on a television screen inside one of the hospital rooms. It was a baseball game. Sitting up in bed, a man watched.

“Who’s playing?” I asked.

“The Giants and the Dodgers.”

It explained what had happened to Mario.