I Know This Much Is True

by Wally Lamb

  “Explain, please?”

  “It’s . . . well, the whole thing—what I read so far, anyway—it keeps going on and on about how great he is. Compared to everyone else in his village, compared to his two brothers. . . . I didn’t even know this thing existed until, maybe, four or five months before my mother died. I went over there to visit her one afternoon and she just gives it to me, out of the blue. This big, bulky thing she’d been keeping in a strongbox. It’s over a hundred pages. . . . She was pretty sick by then—that day she gave it to me. She said I could share it with Thomas—that he could read it if he wanted to—but it was me she wanted to give it to.”

  “Her father’s story? Why you?”

  “I don’t know, really. I didn’t ask her. . . . ‘The Story of a Great Man from Humble Beginnings.’ I got this big idea that I was going to have it translated for her. Give it to her as a present. Have it translated and bound into a book, or whatever, so that, you know, she could read her father’s history before she died.”

  “She had never read it?”

  “No. She said she knew some Sicilian, but not enough to read it page by page. But anyway, I got this big idea. Hired a translator and everything.”

  “What a lovely gesture,” Dr. Patel said. “Your mother must have been very pleased to receive her gift.”

  “She didn’t receive it. The translation took much longer than I figured it would. And then she got worse. She went downhill pretty fast near the end. . . . And then the damn thing got lost.”

  “Lost? The manuscript?”

  “Well, not lost, exactly. It’s a long story.” I was damned if I was going to get into Nedra Frank with her—the way she’d suddenly reappeared in her cowgirl outfit, at the foot of my hospital bed, like one of my morphine nightmares. Thunk! She’d practically aimed Domenico’s goddamned manuscript at my busted foot.

  “Just as well, though,” I said. “That Ma never read it. Now that I’m finally getting around to reading the thing myself, I don’t think I would have given it to her anyway.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because . . . well, for one thing, he bad-mouthed her pretty bad in it.”

  “Your mother? Why do you—?”

  “Right in the middle of dictating his big life story? Talking about what a great man he is—how all the ‘sons of Italy’ should follow his example? He starts crabbing about what a nuisance she is. Calls her ‘rabbit-face.’ ‘Cracked jug.’ Says how she’s so homely, she can’t get a husband. Can’t give him any grandchildren the way she’s supposed to. . . . Rabbit-face: what did he think? That she wanted to be born with that cleft lip? That it was her fault or something? . . . And the pitiful thing is, she worshipped the guy. When we were kids? Thomas and me? It was always, ‘Papa said this, Papa did that.’ . . . I don’t know. I’m glad she never read it, actually. It just would have hurt her feelings, reading that shit.”

  “Dominick?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You seem very tense. Why do you think—?”

  “You know what his whole reason for writing it was? Did I tell you that? So that young Italian boys could read about him and get . . . inspired or whatever. You can just tell what a pompous asshole he was. Keeps going on and on about how ‘special’ he is. What a martyr he is because of what he’s had to put up with from everyone who’s less perfect than he is.”

  “In what respect did your grandfather feel he was special?”

  “In every respect. Intelligence-wise, morality-wise. He sees himself as God’s chosen . . .”

  “Why did you stop just now, Dominick? What are you thinking about?”

  What I was thinking about was Thomas. God’s Chosen One, Part II. But I dodged the bullet. “I don’t know. I’m not that far into it—fifteen, twenty pages. I probably won’t even finish it.”

  “Dominick? Tell me about your grandfather’s ‘closeness to God.’ “

  “Hmm? Oh, he . . . back in Italy? When he was a boy? He claims in this thing that some statue in their village started crying tears. And that he—Domenico—was the first one to see it.”

  “Domenico? You were named after your grandfather, then?”

  I nodded. “Guilty. Anyway, I guess because of this statue thing, they earmarked him to become a priest. Took up a collection in the village, sent him away to get educated. Then things got screwed up. He had this younger brother—”

  Brother problems, I thought, suddenly. We had that much in common, Papa and I.

  “I don’t know. I just don’t like the guy very much. All his I’m- better-than-this-one, I’m-better-than-that-one crap. He’s—what’s the word?—grandiose. . . . But, you know, it’s kind of interesting from a family history perspective or whatever. All the immigration stuff. How he established himself once he got here. It fills in some of the blanks.”

  “Yes? Tell me about that.”

  “Well, there’s this one guy he mentions named Drinkwater—Nabby Drinkwater. They worked in the mill together—this Drinkwater guy and my grandfather. And it’s weird because, well, because Thomas and I worked one summer with Ralph Drinkwater. Remember? We talked about that once: that summer when Thomas started falling apart? When we were all on that work crew. Gotta be the same family, right? Wequonnoc Indians named Drinkwater? . . . So, that’s kind of interesting: the coincidences. Seeing how his generation and ours . . .”

  Dr. Patel stared at me for a second or two more than I felt comfortable with, then jotted something down on the little pad in her lap.

  “What’d I just say?” She cocked her head a little. “You just wrote down something.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Well? Did I just say something incredibly revealing, or am I boring you so much that you’re working on your grocery list, or what? What did you write down?”

  “I wrote the word grandiose.”

  “Yeah? Why?”

  “I believe I mentioned earlier that, before you came here today, I was reviewing our past sessions. And I was struck, just now, by your use of the word grandiose.”

  “Yeah? Why? Because housepainters don’t usually use three-syllable words?”

  “No. Because you’ve used that word in here before. Do you recall the context?”

  I shook my head.

  “In connection with your brother. You were making the point, quite validly, that there was grandiosity in your brother’s position.”

  “His ‘position’ on what?”

  “His belief that God had somehow singled him out as His instrument in the prevention of conflict between the United States and Iraq. That God had ‘chosen’ him. And now, using the same word—grandiose—you’ve just told me that your maternal grandfather felt similarly ‘chosen.’ So, I found that interesting. Worthy of further exploration, perhaps.”

  I shifted in my seat. “Yeah, but . . . Thomas never even read this thing of my grandfather’s. He couldn’t possibly have gotten the idea from Domenico. If that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “I’m not ‘getting at’ anything, Dominick,” she said. “I’m merely recording observations. Looking for patterns that we may or may not wish to examine later.”

  “During the big autopsy?”

  “Ah,” she said. “Now that’s the third time you’ve used that word. May I inquire about your use of the metaphor, Dominick? If you see our work together here as an ‘autopsy,’ who, may I ask, is our corpse?”

  “I just—”

  “It’s the key ingredient, is it not? The body of the deceased? So tell me: whose cadaver are we examining?”

  “What . . . what are you being sarcastic for?”

  “You misinterpret me. I’m neither working on my shopping list nor being sarcastic. Answer my question, please. Our cadaver is . . . ?”

  “My grandfather?”

  I could tell from her expression that it wasn’t the answer she was looking for.

  “My brother? . . . Me?”

  She smiled as serenely as Shiva. “It was your metaphor, Dominick. Not
mine. May I ask you something else, as long as we are discussing the subject of grandiosity? Do you feel the word—grandiose—in any way describes you?”

  “Me?” It made me laugh. “Joe Shmoe? I don’t think so. . . . Far as I know, Jesus never asked me to stop a war. No statue’s ever cried tears for my benefit.”

  “And yet, earlier, you described yourself as fate’s test case. Likened your trials and tribulations to those of Job, who, of course, is legendary because of the way God tested his faith. So, I was just wondering. . . . More tea?”

  She told me I should keep reading—that books were mirrors, reflective in sometimes unpredictable ways. What the hell had she meant—was I grandiose? Where had that little zinger come from?

  “Look,” I said. “Do you think we can cut to the chase here? How much time do we have left, anyway?”

  She consulted the clock, cocked strategically at an angle so that the patient couldn’t read it. “About thirty-five minutes,” she said.

  “Because, no offense, I didn’t come here just to have a book discussion.”

  She nodded. “Why did you come, Dominick? Tell me.”

  I told her about seeing Rood’s face in the attic window.

  About Joy’s pregnancy—the way she’d tried to pass me off as the father of her kid.

  About the night I’d faced myself in the medicine cabinet mirror.

  Dr. Patel asked me if I had continued to have suicidal thoughts since that night—if I had continued to plan ways in which I might end my life. I shook my head. Told her that the worst despair had passed—that I’d weathered it.

  “You’re sure?”

  I nodded. I was sure, too. I wasn’t bullshitting her. That night had scared me enough so that I’d stepped back from the ledge and stayed there. Had started thinking, okay, maybe there is life beyond . . . beyond . . .

  I fished Joy’s cassette out of my jacket pocket, and the little cassette player I’d brought along. I told Dr. Patel about the night at the hospital when I’d awakened and found the Duchess standing there. “The gutless bastard was trying to sneak it onto my nightstand and get the hell out of there,” I said. “He was pretty good at sneaking. He was an expert. Only I woke up. Ruined his little getaway. Listen to this.”

  I hit “play.” Studied her as she listened to Joy’s confession.

  When I finished, she sighed. “What your girlfriend did was a terrible betrayal,” she said. “Obviously, she is a deeply troubled young woman. And yet . . .” She seemed stumped for a moment. Lost in thought. “And yet, Dominick, like you and me—like all of us, really—she is struggling. Working, I think, to develop some insight. To become a better person. Which is not to dismiss what she did—not at all. Tell me, how did you feel a moment ago—while you were listening again to her words?”

  “I just . . . I don’t know. I’ve listened to that damn tape so many times now, I don’t . . . I guess I’m numb.”

  “Why did you want to play the tape for me instead of just telling me about it?”

  “I just . . . I wanted you to hear what they did to me. I mean, taking the most intimate thing that two people can do together and . . . I just wanted you to hear it in her own words.”

  “So, you are not so much interested in exploring your feelings about Joy’s betrayal. Or the failure of your relationship. You are merely giving me a tour of the museum.”

  “The museum? . . . I don’t follow you.”

  “Your museum of pain. Your sanctuary of justifiable indignation.”

  “I, uh . . .”

  “We all superintend such a place, I suppose,” she said, “although some of us are more painstaking curators than others. That is the category in which I would certainly put you, Dominick. You are a meticulous steward of the pain and injustices people have visited upon you. Or, if you prefer, we could call you a scrupulous coroner.”

  “What . . . what do you mean? Curator of my—”

  “Well, let’s see. There is the monument to your having suffered a shared childhood with Thomas. And the frequently revisited exhibit of your stepfather’s many injustices. And, of course, the pièce de résistance: your shrine to your ex-wife.”

  “Uh . . . ?”

  “And now, this most recent acquisition. This tape which you have brought for me to listen to—which, as you say, you have listened to many, many times yourself. So many times, it has made you numb.” She took another sip of tea, smiling benignly. “The Dominick Birdsey Museum of Injustice and Misery,” she said. “Open year-round.”

  For the remainder of the hour, I was polite. Terse. I was damned if I was going to give her what she wanted: some truth-revealing tantrum, some anger-stoked baring of my soul so that we could dissect me the way her friend, what’s-his-face, had dissected all those fairy tales. She was sneaky, really. Devious. First she tricks me into promising I’ll come for four more sessions, then she whacks me between the eyes with a two-by-four.

  She walked me to the door. Her advice, she said, was to keep reading my grandfather’s transcripted story. Whatever I felt about him personally, he had given me a gift—something that very few ancestors who predeceased their descendants ever gave.

  “Yeah?” I said. “What’s that?”

  “His voice on the page. His history. Indirectly or not, Dominick, your grandfather is speaking to you.”

  I started the Escort, backed out of the handicapped space. I was already in traffic before it dawned on me that I’d negotiated my way back down Doc Patel’s long flight of stairs without panicking about falling. Without even really noticing my own descent.

  Papa’s voice. Thomas’s voices. Joy’s voice on that tape . . .

  The Dominick Birdsey Museum of Misery. Fuck her. At the red light, waiting to get back onto the access road, I took Joy’s cassette out of my pocket. Tossed the goddamned thing out the window. It felt good doing it, too.

  Felt real good.

  That’s how good a curator I was.

  Fuck her.

  35

  28 July 1949

  For two nights now, no sleep. I long to forget but weep to remember those strange days when my brother Pasquale became not the simplest, but the most puzzling of men. . . . Omertà, omertà, the Sicilian in me whispers. Silenzio! In the Old Country, the code of silence is a stone dropped into a pond. Its rings expand and encircle all. Siciliani remember but do not speak. And yet my brain hungers to understand—to crack open a brother’s secret and look inside. Pasquale, I speak not to dishonor your name, but to try one last time to understand and forgive. . . .

  Mama and Papa’s secondborn son was not blessed with my superior intelligence or my desire to embrace destiny. Unlike our amorous brother Vincenzo, Pasquale did not tempt women and women did not tempt him. His gifts were for simple labor and stubbornness and hearty eating. Each week, he paid Signora Siragusa seventy-five cents for the extra things she packed in the dinner pail he carried to the factory: a half-dozen of boiled eggs, a whole loaf of bread instead of half, a generous slab of cheese, a ring or two of the signora’s hot salsiccia.

  Sometimes, the signora included a special treat in Pasquale’s dinner pail—a jar of her pickled peppers, my brother’s favorite. Pasquale’s custom was to eat the peppers with his fingers—a kind of insalata improvvisata—and then wash the rest of the food down with gulps of the pickling brine. “That brother of yours has the appetite of three men!” the signora would often remark to me, always with a cackle of motherly approval. In his years at the mill, Pasquale became famous amongst the workers for those big dinners and valued by the bosses for the hard work the food fueled. Flynn, the agent, once stopped me and told me that Domenico Tempesta worked like a well-oiled machine and his brother Pasquale labored like a plowhorse!

  He did not talk much, my brother. Was it his years in the sulphur mines as my father’s caruso that made him so private and singular? His was a childhood spent underground in filth and toil, so different from my own sunny youth at the convent school, where I had been sent because
of my natura speciale and because the statue of the Vergine had wept in my presence. By the age of fifteen, I had eyed the sights of Palermo and Potenza! I had swum in the Adriatico, stood amidst the relics of Rome! But my poor, simple brother had known only the rock and darkness of the earth’s bowels, the stink of sulphur in his nose. . . .

  And yet, I remember Pasquale as a happy boy. Each Sunday when our family reunited, he laughed and ran through the village and the hills with his friends, fellow carusi—those boys as pale as mushrooms enjoying their one day a week in the Sicilian sun. A pack of young dogs they were, with their pranks and giuoco violento. The village wives would scold and chase them with brooms, frowning from one side of their mouths and smiling at the boys’ mischief from the other side. The leader of these naughty carusi was Pasquale’s best friend, Filippo, whose pale, pointed face and dark eyes my memory still sees. The terrible collapse that took Papa’s life also took the life of Pasquale’s beloved friend, Filippo. On that day, the happy part of Pasquale was buried in the mine forever.

  * * *

  It was Drinkwater, that goddamned lazy Indian, who ruined things for Pasquale at the mill. One night, he snuck whiskey into the plant and got my brother drunk. When Flynn came out of his office to investigate the source of the agitazione, he caught Pasquale singing and pissing into the dye vat while the spinning girls screamed and peeked between the fingers they held to their faces.

  Flynn fired Pasquale but not that no-good Indian, an injustice that fills me with anger to this day. Under other circumstances, I might have protested Flynn’s actions or even quit the mill in the name of dignità di famiglia. Ha! I would have gladly left Flynn to explain to Baxter, the mill owner’s son-in-law, the loss of his two best nighttime workers. But a man who vows to seek his destiny must be ready when opportunity arrives! Earlier that week, the newspaper had reported a transaction between the city of Three Rivers and old Rosemark’s widow. At long last, the old farmer’s hill property would be divided into city lots and put up for sale. A road was planned, the paper said, and a street name had been chosen: Hollyhock Avenue. The lots would be sold later that spring for five, six hundred each. By then, I had saved twelve hundred dollars. I would need all of that and more if I was to become the first Italiano in Three Rivers, Connecticut, to own his own land. Despite the injustice done to my brother Pasquale by American Woolen and Textile, I could not afford both family honor and a home of my own.