The Wally Lamb Fiction Collection: The Hour I First Believed, I Know This Much is True, We Are Water, and Wishin' and Hopin'

by Lamb, Wally

  “Everything else all right?” I said. “Anything else bothering you?” Tell me you and him are on the skids, I thought. Tell me it’s gone bad between you two.

  “You’ve got enough on your mind, Dominick,” she said. “You don’t need to hear about my stuff on top of it.”

  “No, tell me. What?”

  Sadie, she said. Sadie wasn’t doing too great.

  “Goofus? Why? What’s the matter with her?”

  “She’s old. Her heart’s bad, her kidneys. The vet said I should start thinking about the next step—whether or not I want her put to sleep.”

  I thought about the day I’d given her Sadie. Her twenty-fifth birthday, it was. I saw myself opening the pantry door of our old apartment, that damn puppy making a beeline right to her. Licking her bare feet. Big red bow I’d put on her. I remembered that day whole.

  The two of us just sat there, neither one of us saying anything.

  “And something else,” she finally said.

  What else what? Where were we?

  “Did you read that thing in the papers last week? About Eric Clapton’s little boy? God, this is so stupid.”

  “Little dude who fell out the window, right?” I said. “Fell from a skyscraper?”

  She got up. Walked over to the window. “Hey, it’s not like I was their close personal friend. You were always the big Clapton fan. Not me. . . . But I can’t stop thinking about that poor little boy. Conor, his name was. I’ve even dreamt about him.”

  “It’s Angela,” I said. She looked over at me. “Tell me the dream.”

  “No, never mind, Dominick. This is stupid. Compared to everything you’ve been through? My god.”

  “Tell me,” I said.

  In Dessa’s dream, the boy kneels on the windowsill, waving down at them—the crowd that’s gathered on the sidewalk below. They hold their breath every time he moves. He doesn’t understand how dangerous it is, what can happen. “Eric Clapton’s there,” Dessa said. “And the boy’s mother, the police. But somehow it’s me who’s responsible. I keep promising everyone that I’ll catch him if he falls. . . . And I know I’m not going to be able to do it, but I keep promising. Everyone’s counting on me. And then he slips. He starts to fall. . . .”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” I said. “It wasn’t anybody’s fault. She just died.”

  She turned back to me. Nodded. “Maybe Thomas just couldn’t take it anymore, Dominick. . . . Maybe he was just ready to stop fighting.”

  I got up and walked over to her. Put my arms around her. She leaned her face against my chest. For a minute or more, we just stood there, holding each other. “Come on,” I said. “Sit down.”

  Thomas and me in Davy Crockett pajamas. In our high school caps and gowns. . . . Domenico and Ma, hand in hand on the front steps. . . . Dessa and me on our wedding day. “Hey, who are these two hippie freaks?” I said. “They look vaguely familiar.” I could feel, rather than see, her smile.

  “Oh, my poor mother,” Dessa sighed. “Married on the beach instead of in the Greek church. Me in that thirty-nine-dollar peasant dress instead of something with seed pearls and a ten-foot train. Now I see what she meant. And you wearing those sandals. You don’t want to know how much grief I took about that.”

  Sandals, I thought. Father LaVie.

  Dessa said it amazed her to think how self-assured she had been at that point in her life—how confident she was that if she just planned a future, that that would be the future she would have. “Look how young we were,” she said. “No wonder.”

  “Better watch it, you two,” I told the scraggly wedding couple. “Life’s going to rear up, kick you in the ass.”

  I flipped the page. Our honeymoon in Puerto Rico, the two of us as godparents at Shannon’s christening. We were in the thick of it at that point, I remember: all that fertility counseling. “So,” I said. “How’s Dan the Man?”

  She talked about how busy he was—about some major buyer out in Santa Fe or something. “Dominick?” she said. “Do you ever talk about us? You and your therapist? Or is that considered ancient history?”

  I smiled. “My therapist’s got an anthropology degree,” I said. “Ancient history’s exactly what she’s into.” I turned a couple more pages of the album.

  “Yeah, I talk about us,” I finally said. “How it was my anger that made me march down there and get that stupid vasectomy. How beneath all this anger I’ve got is . . . is all this fear. Believe me—ancient history’s exactly what she wants me to muck around in. She says if I want any kind of a future, I gotta go back and face all that fear. Renovate the past or whatever. She’s big on that word: renovation. . . . I probably ought to go down to town hall and get a freakin’ building permit, I got so much renovating to do.”

  Dessa reached over and stroked my arm.

  “I been . . . I’ve been reading this thing my grandfather wrote? Ma’s father? His autobiography, or whatever. It was all in Italian. I had it translated.”

  “Papa,” Dessa said. “He was your mother’s hero.”

  “He was a prick,” I said. “A bully. You think I’m angry?”

  She stayed another half hour or so. I made us tea; she cut us each a piece of her chocolate pie. At the door, I thanked her for coming, for cleaning up the kitchen.

  “I love you,” I said. “I know you don’t want me to, but I can’t help it.”

  She nodded. Smiled. Told me to keep going to see Dr. Patel.

  “I can . . . if you want me to, I can drive you over to the cemetery some time. Visit his grave. Ma’s. . . . Maybe visit the baby’s grave, too, if you wanted to.”

  She nodded. Smiled the saddest smile I’d ever seen. She’d driven out to Angela’s grave that morning, she said. She liked visiting her; she usually went there once or twice a week. Someone had just planted flowers for her, she said. Angie, maybe. Or her father—she’d forgotten to ask.

  Red and white tulips, she said. They were so beautiful, they had made her cry.

  43

  16 August 1949

  After that victorious banquet in the church basement, everyone wanted the help of Domenico Tempesta for this thing, that thing.

  “Tempesta, we need your advice. . . .”

  “Tempesta, we’re forming a new group on such and such. . . .” “Tempesta, can’t you do us one small favor? If you do it, it gets done right.”

  I became member of Elks and Knights of Columbus and an elected officer in Sons of Italy. I helped the Republicans downtown register Italian voters and was named to the city planning commission (first Italian in Three Rivers history). I was so busy, I had to have a telephone brought into my house. That thing rang off the hook. Always there was someone on the other end who needed my help. “Hello, Domenico? . . . Good afternoon, Mr. Tempesta.” My mouth got tired from saying hello back to everyone who called needing something. Not just Italians calling, either. Now even Shanley, that crooked Irish mayor, knew that my first name was Domenico and my telephone number was 817.

  “How are you coming on your personal reflection?” Father Guglielmo asked me one morning after church. Ignazia, the girl, and I went faithfully to the nine o’clock Mass now and sat in the second pew. (I passed the basket and kept an eye on the other collectors for Guglielmo—made sure no one put “itchy fingers” on the church’s money. One of that priest’s problems was that he trusted everybody.)

  I laughed at Guglielmo’s question and told him I barely had time for a few hours’ sleep each day—no time at all to sit and write about forty-five years of living. I assured him his worrying was unnecessary. He should bother the parishioners with bigger sins on their souls than I had on mine. My family and I were at peace.

  I thought it was true. . . . I had stopped visiting the girl Hattie on Bickel Road. I was much too busy for that now—and too well known by the big shots in Three Rivers to be spotted at that place! Running from this meeting to that one gave me a rest from thinking too much about my wife’s flesh, though if anything, Ignazia�
��s contentment had made her a little plumper and more desirable.

  My work on the planning commission led to a little private friendship with Mrs. Josephine Reynolds, a stenographer who worked at City Hall and took the minutes at our meetings. Josie was not much next to Ignazia. A little too skinny on the top. Like every other ‘Mericana, she made coffee that tasted weak as dishwater. But she knew how to comfort a busy man and knew how to keep quiet about it, too. She lived up the road in Willimantic. I got up there when I could, not too often. Gave her a little friendship when I was able. I would not have looked twice at her if my wife hadn’t had a bad heart.

  I thought peace had come to my home. I wanted to think that—wanted to believe Guglielmo’s blessing had broken the other one’s curse. But underneath the surface, trouble ate away inside my house like termites in the cellar. Quietly, that goddamned termite named Prosperine was practicing her treachery—destroying what little peace we had enjoyed at 66-through-68 Hollyhock Avenue.

  17 August 1949

  Trouble came back to my house one Sunday after church.

  When we got home from Mass that day, Ignazia lit a fire under the macaroni pot and went to change out of her church dress. I was at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper. Concettina sat beside me, singing and scribbling little pictures on the funny papers. The Monkey opened the back door and came into the kitchen, pouting as always. That woman never spoke to me unless I spoke to her. And on that day, I wanted to speak to her, all right. That day I had things on my mind.

  The afternoon before, when I’d gone to Signora Siragusa’s to collect the Monkey’s weekly wages, the old woman had counted four dollars into my hand instead of six. Twice that week, she reported, Prosperine had claimed she was sick and stayed up in the attic. The signora was sick, too, she said: sick of doing her own work and Prosperine’s work as well. She complained, furthermore, that none of the boarders liked Prosperine. She never smiled or held up her side of a conversation. Two or three times the old woman had been awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of footsteps on the attic stairs. If she found that food or silverware was missing, the signora warned me, she would deduct that cost from the woman’s wage as well. And if Prosperine was sneaking down to meet one of the bachelors on the second floor, she would have to leave the boardinghouse. The signora wanted no stink of scandal in the place she ran. What if Father Guglielmo found out? What if the police came? Here, old Signora Loose-Tongue pulled me close and spoke her suspicion: maybe Prosperine’s sickness was the beginning of a baby inside of her. She herself had wanted to sleep away the day during four of her seven pregnancies.

  The thought of one of Signora Siragusa’s bachelors being blind or foolish enough to put his thing inside of that skinny bitch made me laugh. That crazy mignotta would probably castrate the poor man! Or poison him the next day! But I did not laugh about the two dollars missing from the palm of my hand. I told the signora I would straighten things out.

  “Eh?” I said now, even before Prosperine took off her coat that day in my kitchen. “What’s this I hear about you not doing your work over at the signora’s?”

  “I do my work,” she said.

  “Yesterday, I got four dollars instead of six. She doesn’t pay you to sit up in her attic and sleep.”

  “I was sick,” she said. “Sick as a dog.”

  “Sick from what?”

  She said nothing.

  “When I’m sick, I go to work anyway,” I told her. “I work sick.”

  “That’s what you do. I do something else. I’m lucky I don’t die of pneumonia at that place. The wind whistles through the open spaces in the roof. She won’t let me leave the door open and get a little heat up there. Not even a crack. She’s as stingy with her coal as you are.”

  “If it’s so cold up there, then go downstairs and warm yourself by doing honest labor. Then you’ll sleep through the night, all right, no matter what the wind is doing. And stop scowling at the boarders, while you’re at it. You’re ugly enough without making that puss. The signora has had several complaints about your bad disposizione. And what’s this about you sneaking downstairs in the night like a common burglar.”

  “Who sneaks downstairs like a burglar?”

  “She says you do. She hears you on the stairs.” I reached over and cupped my hands over Concettina’s ears. “She thinks you’re up to some funny business with the men in her house.”

  “Bah!” the Monkey said. “The only funny business I’m up to is using the toilet. Or trying to warm my bones.”

  “That had better be the reason,” I warned her. “I sent you over there to work, not to play the bachelors’ pipes. I better not come up short next week or I’ll wring your skinny neck for you.” I let go of Concettina’s ears and scooted her out of the room.

  “Why should I work like a mule to line your pockets?” Prosperine answered back.

  “Because I fed you and put up with you in my house for almost two years. Who knows where you would be right now if it wasn’t for my generosity? Probably out on the streets in New York, that’s where.”

  “Generoso? You?” she laughed. “You’re tighter than the paper on the wall.”

  Ignazia came into the room and saw the two of us glaring at each other. She rattled pots and walked between us. “Prosperine, grate this cheese for me,” she ordered. “Domenico, go down to the canning closet and get me a jar of peaches.” I rose slowly, staring all the while at the Monkey to show her I meant business. At the cellar door, I warned her that she and I would finish our little talk after we ate.

  “Talk until you lose your voice, then,” she said. “But when I’m sick, I’m sick.”

  All during that meal, we said nothing. The only sounds were forks and spoons against dishes. Even Concettina was quiet. Each time I looked up from my plate to glare at Prosperine, I saw her glaring back at me. If that one had mastered the dark art of il mal occhio from her witch-friend back in Pescara, she might have burst my brain and popped the eyeballs out of my head with the looks she gave me that day.

  It was my custom each Sunday morning to take my silver medaglia from its red velvet box and wear it to Mass. I would keep it on until after the afternoon meal, at which time I would go upstairs, get out of my good suit, unfasten my garters, and take my Sunday afternoon nap. So the silver medaglia was still around my neck that afternoon as we finished our long, silent meal. Ignazia and Prosperine got up and began to clear the dishes. I pointed to the Monkey’s chair and told her to sit back down. “Keep the child in the kitchen with you,” I told Ignazia.

  Prosperine sighed and sat. As I began my remarks, she tapped her fingers restlessly against the table, refusing to look at me; that one always knew how to show flagrant disrespect! I lifted the silver medaglia over my head, reached across the table, and swung it in front of her ugly face. “Take a good, long look,” I said. “Do you know why this was presented to me?”

  She said nothing.

  “It was given in recognition of hard work and superior efforts—for doing more than expected always, for never doing less—for laboring whether I was sick or well.”

  Her hands made fists on the table. Deep sigh of impazienza. Still, she refused to look me in the eye.

  “Why do you think they begged Tempesta to sit on the planning commission for this city? Why do you think the mayor knows my name and telephone number? This medaglia is a victory not just for me but for every Italiano who has immigrated to la ‘Merica. You must take a lesson from my example and begin to do some work over there that will make you proud. And smile at the boarders while you’re doing it, goddamn it!”

  She looked from the swaying medal up to my face, back to the medal, back to my face. “Go swallow your fancy medaglia and shit it out the other end,” she said. Then her head reared back, snapped forward, and the spittle flew from her mouth onto my medaglia.

  The filth from her mouth slid from the silver face of my medaglia—from the very crucifisso of Jesus Christ and the Lamp of Knowledge
and plop! onto the tablecloth. I rose and took hold of her scrawny arm, twisting it a little as I pulled her to her feet.

  “Now you have gone too far,” I said. “Apologize to me or I’ll twist until I hear the bone snap. Say your apology loud as you can, and then get the hell out of my house and stay out.”

  Ignazia rushed back into the room. “Stop it, Domenico!” she said. “Let her go before someone gets hurt. I’ll have none of this manhandling going on in my house.”

  “Shut up and stay out of this!” I warned. “This mona spat her filth out onto my silver medaglia.” Concettina hid behind her mother’s skirts and began to whimper. I gave the other one’s arm a good jerk to show her I meant business. “Apologize!” I ordered her again. “Do it quickly if you know what’s good for you.”

  Ignazia grabbed a table napkin and wiped my medal clean. “Do as he says now,” Ignazia told her. “What difference does it make?”

  But that stubborn bitch wouldn’t apologize. Far from it. Instead, she reached down and sank her teeth into the meat of my hand that held her!

  Crying out in pain, I let go of her and when I got hold again, it was by the coil of braids at the back of her neck. She tried to run out of there, but I tethered her and yanked her back by those braids of hers. I swatted her a couple of times in the face, to let her know who she had fooled with. That goddamned mignotta had broken the skin!

  Ignazia’s hands tried to slap and pull me away from the other one. Concettina cried. Her mother cried. But not that crazy bitch that had caused all the trouble in the first place! That one continued to put up a fight. Her hand swung up and banged me on the nose. Her other hand reached for the bread knife on the table. I grabbed hold of her and slammed her face into the wall. Slammed it again. She dropped that knife, all right.

  Behind me there was screaming. When I looked back, I saw my wife and child, sunk to the floor and cowering. Mother and daughter, screaming bloody murder.

  “Bruto! Bruto!” my wife shrieked. “What kind of monster beats poor, defenseless women and terrifies his own child?”