Our Roots Are Deep with Passion

by Lee Gutkind

  CHRISTINE PALAMIDESSI MOORE writes reviews, articles, and stories. Her novel, The Virgin Knows, was published by St. Martin’s Press. She teaches writing at Boston University.

  Mama, Che Cosa Vuoi Che Faccio?

  . . . . . . . .

  JAMES VESCOVI

  “Che cosa vuoi che faccio?!” my father hollered at his mother. “What do you want me to do?!”

  He knew what she wanted. I knew what she wanted. Even a man visiting his ailing wife seated near us knew what Desolina wanted, and he didn’t speak a word of Italian.

  Desolina Vescovi, my ninety-four-year-old grandmother, had broken her hip. She had passed through surgery with flying colors, but now came the hard part: physical therapy.

  “Che cosa vuoi che faccio?!” my father repeated. “Huh, Mama?!”

  My grandmother detested the nursing home, where she’d been sent two weeks earlier from the hospital. She’d expected to return to her pleasant room at Director’s Hall, an assisted living community whose residents had to be fully ambulatory. Until she could walk, however, she was stuck at the nursing home, where patients lined up along the halls in wheelchairs babbled all day.

  “You’ve abandoned me here,” she whimpered.

  “Mama, I’ve told you a hundred times. It’s not me who made you come here. It’s your doctor. When you’re walking again, you can go back to the other place.”

  Desolina waved that notion away. “Why do I have to learn to walk again? I’m an old woman!”

  My father bit his lower lip so hard I was afraid he’d draw blood. He turned to me for help. I was the grandson, whom Desolina and Antonio, my grandfather, had spoiled as a boy. My youth brought sunshine into their lives. Most importantly, my grandmother and I didn’t share an entangled history.

  “Nonna, what he says is right,” I said. “All you have to do is listen to the nurses.”

  Desolina had no interest in my opinions; she was fighting for her life. She gave me a glare that produced goose bumps on the back of my neck.

  The head nurse had told us that Desolina’s therapy was not going well. She refused to cooperate. Though she wouldn’t come out and say it, she wanted to give up, toss in the towel, and move in with my father.

  She did not want to accept that in American society this was no longer the norm. Most adult children didn’t give their parents twenty-four-hour care; they sent them to assisted living communities and nursing homes.

  What made the home arrangement truly impossible was their complex relationship. My father was an only child and, since his youth, Desolina had inserted herself into his life. She doted on him as a boy, tried to rein him in as a teenager, chastised him for moving away from her as an adult. He was her world. In my father’s eyes, what she passed off as love and affection were suffocating. Her moving in was out of the question. Mother and son hadn’t lived under the same roof since he was twenty-two, and he wasn’t going to allow it four decades later.

  “Mama, che cosa vuoi che faccio?” My father wiped his brow with a handkerchief.

  It was 10 A.M. We were sitting in a sunny atrium, Desolina in a wheelchair staring at her shoes.

  “What do you do all day?!” she asked. “You’re retired!”

  “Semi-retired,” my father shot back.

  Born in 1900 in a peasant hamlet in northern Italy called Casalasagna, Desolina had no conception of “semi” retirement. Either you worked or you didn’t.

  “Why do you still have to work? Don’t you have enough money in the bank?” she asked sarcastically.

  My father looked away and shook his head in disgust.

  “There was money when Papa died!” she continued.

  “He left it to you,” my father countered.

  The man near us was shifting uncomfortably. Even his wife, who seemed to have Alzheimer’s, looked alarmed at the scene.

  Feeling helpless, my grandmother attacked.

  “As soon as Papa died, you deserted me!” she cried. “You put me in this zoo!”

  My father’s face reddened; veins on his neck appeared. His eyes looked as if they would pop out of their sockets. I was afraid he was going to have a stroke and that my grandmother would get her wish: to spend her last days with him, though the two of them would be living side by side in a nursing home instead of his condominium. I grabbed his arm and pulled him outside to the parking lot.

  Throughout his adult life, my father was engaged in paying off a debt to his parents. He was thwarted at every turn. Tony and Desolina were from another time. They had grown up as impoverished peasants in the Province of Parma and immigrated to New York City in 1930. They’d fed my father, loved him, and kept him out of trouble. He’d gone on to college and become an executive in a Fortune 500 company. Some of his success, he believed, was the result of sacrifices they’d made. He wanted to pay them back, but he didn’t have a currency that they understood and accepted.

  After working for several years in New York, he and my mother moved away. Desolina was crestfallen. She didn’t understand that in 1962, an American businessman went where his company told him to go—in this case, to Kalamazoo, Michigan.

  Several years later, my grandfather retired from his job in the terrazzo trade. My father felt increasing pressure—some of it he himself created—to make their later years enjoyable and productive. Wasn’t this the American dream, after all? To work until you were sixty-five and then settle down to enjoy the fruits of your labor: travel, golf, cooking, tennis.

  My father encouraged Tony to spend afternoons with friends playing bocci or Briscola, but Tony wasn’t interested. His discomfort with using the telephone kept him from calling to get bus times to Asbury Park, New Jersey, where he and Desolina could have enjoyed a few days with friends at the beach. An evening at the cinema? Their English was too poor. And Fellini? Or Pasolini? For Italians who’d grown up in a culture that had hardly changed since medieval times? My father bought his parents subscriptions to Italian newspapers but, with only a third grade education, reading did not come easily to them.

  It pained my father to envision Tony and Desolina sitting around their kitchen watching the clock till the next meal. He took their obsolescence personally.

  Had my grandparents lived back on the farm in Italy, they would have been busy. Their grandparents had been sent to look for mushrooms. Or they fed chickens and darned socks. Or they looked after the babies and toddlers. There was a strange irony to the lives of Tony and Desolina. As youths in Italy, they had tended sheep in the mountains; as retirees in Queens, New York, they were like lost sheep.

  What made the situation worse was that their lives remained at a standstill until we came from Michigan for our yearly visit. Only then could they be persuaded to come into Manhattan for a dinner or spend $6 on a cab to visit cousins in Flushing. As soon as we left, we knew they returned to their tedious days.

  Guilt pounded away at my father. If he lived closer, he could enrich their lives. What was he doing all the way out in Kalamazoo? He called them every week. Occasionally, Desolina fired a broadside: “Noi hanno abbandonato! You’ve abandoned us!” After hanging up, he went off to mope for an hour.

  It was a strange juxtaposition of power. My father had four thousand people reporting to him at work. He paid his country club dues on time. He kept his sons in line. He’d once even knocked out a hippie harassing him in a Sears parking lot. But he could not make Tony and Desolina budge from their frozen world.

  From an early age I had a special affection for my grandparents. Our annual visits to New York were one of the high points of my year. We drove seven hundred miles overnight and arrived at their three-story apartment house in Astoria, Queens, just before lunch. Even before my father had thrown the Ford station wagon into park, I burst out of the car and, with my brother and sister at my heels, raced up the stoop and into the vestibule. We fought to press the bell. There was a wait that lasted only a few seconds but seemed interminable. The door buzzed loudly, like an obnoxious alarm clock, but to me it
was music. It meant the lock was disengaged, and we shoved open the door and raced down the hallway, its walls sculpted in fleur-de-lis.

  We ran up the stairs, two steps at a time. Soon, we could smell the scent of mothballs emanating from Desolina’s closet. My grandparents waited for us on the third floor landing, next to the dumbwaiter. When they saw us, they clapped their hands. Tears sparkled in their eyes.

  “Tesoro della Nonna!” my grandmother cried. “Grandmother’s treasure!”

  After hugs and kisses, we raced around the apartment like dogs that needed to sniff at familiar places. First stop: the aluminum breadbox in the kitchen. Yes! Stocked with marshmallow cookies we could not get in Michigan.

  “Tesoro della Nonna!” Desolina said.

  My brother put on Tony’s fedora and strutted around the apartment, while I slipped into the bathroom. The toilet had an old fashioned pull chain, the only one I had ever seen, and in a green plastic cup on the sink sat Tony and Desolina’s toothbrushes, the bristles yellowed like old newspaper.

  “Tesoro della Nonna!” Desolina yelled, to no one in particular.

  After suitcases were lugged upstairs we all sat down to eat. There was prosciutto, salami, capponata, and cheese. The crust of the fresh-baked bread from the pizzeria crackled when we broke it into sandwich lengths. My brother dug out the fluffy white, shaped it into a communion wafer, and slipped it on his tongue. After the antipasti, Desolina served up bowls of tortellini in brodo.

  None of my friends in Kalamazoo had grandparents like these. Theirs simply looked like older versions of their parents. Tony and Desolina were exotic. They spoke a strange dialect of Italian. They didn’t know how to drive a car and would never learn. Desolina, a short heavy woman with the smooth skin of a child, wore a dress and kerchief and, underneath, a girdle with a million snaps. Tony mixed his own shave cream, used a straight razor, and never shaved without a lit cigar in his mouth. It looked like a black licorice stick.

  My grandparents had grown up in villages within sight of each other. At the age of nine, they were pulled from school and made to work on the farm, which most years barely supported their families. Tony worked with the animals and, when older, in the fields. Desolina shepherded the cows up into the mountains. After arriving in America, my grandfather, a compact, muscular man with a square jaw, laid terrazzo in office towers and churches, while Desolina sewed pom-poms for a hat manufacturer and looked after my father.

  During our visits, while my parents spent their days shopping or visiting old friends, we shopped daily at small markets, threw a “Spaldeen” around on the stoop, and watched TV shows that we couldn’t get in Michigan. What was most peculiar about spending time with my grandparents was the lack of conversation. We hardly said a word to each other. Their philosophy was that if things were going well, there was no need to talk about it; if we needed help, they knew we would ask. We soaked up their aura and they soaked up our youth.

  The week went quickly and departing was painful—for all of us. Even brave Tony, who, when prodded, told my brother and me his World War I stories of combat, capture, and flight, wept.

  My father took extra time tying the suitcases onto the roof rack, then announced it was time to go. We said our final good-byes and drove off. My grandparents did not stop waving until we’d rounded the corner and headed for the Major Deegan Expressway. As my sister curled up with an Etch-a-Sketch and my brother pulled out a Hardy Boys book, my heart felt hollow. That emptiness was not assuaged until long after we crossed the George Washington Bridge.

  I am sure that my father felt relief. Like a good son, he’d done his duty, though the fact that they’d spend a year waiting for our next visit continued to eat at him.

  When I moved to New York in 1983 to attend graduate school, it must have been like a dream come true for my father: finally, someone he trusted to look in on his aging parents and add variety to their lives. He saw it not as a chance to abdicate his responsibility. He simply accepted my relocation as a gift, much the same as when, on a cleaning crew, one person says, “Windows? I don’t mind doing windows.”

  By my own choice, I visited my grandparents every Saturday. We had a ritual. I rang their bell; received sloppy kisses from Desolina, who still called me Tesoro della Nonna; the bowl with artificial fruit was moved from the center of the table; we ate antipasti followed by tortellini, ravioli, or spaghetti, with red wine served in small glasses; we sat on the stoop; there was a little talk; we went back in for dessert, usually vanilla ice cream and Entenmann’s apple pie. While my grandfather washed the dishes, Desolina returned to its place the fruit bowl, which had been sitting on top of the television next to an assemblage of family photographs. On these days, I felt like the happy, big-toothed seven-year-old I was in one of those photos.

  While my friends were eating eggs Benedict at Manhattan’s latest brunch spot and talking about sports or getting laid, I was eating mortadella wrapped around Stella D’oro bread sticks and listening to my grandfather recount stories from his youth, this time with details he’d left out in previous tellings. Each one was like finding a bit of gold. I played cards with my grandmother, who cheated when she could get away with it.

  I arrived home in the late afternoon and called my father. He liked to have a report after every visit. He listened carefully. He knew his parents well and could recognize any signs of trouble. That was his burden. It couldn’t be transferred to me. My role was simply to be the sun that rose in their lives once a week. He saw himself as the oxygen responsible for keeping them alive.

  Tony and Desolina were mostly self sufficient until their early 90s, and then things began to deteriorate quickly. Their diet fell apart. Their medical conditions needed frequent supervision. They grew forgetful. My father and I talked the situation over, and he decided the best option was to move them to Kalamazoo, where he could keep a close eye on them.

  Convincing them was not going to be easy. My grandfather was especially independent and stubborn. He hated nursing homes. He’d seen his friends enter them only to die.

  My father flew in from Michigan and sat them both down at the kitchen table. After a long prologue—I’m sure Tony knew what was coming—he explained in great detail how an assisted living facility was different from a nursing home. He produced brochures with photos of an elegant dining room, lounges, and an outdoor garden. He swore to them on a stack of bibles that he had seen the place, and it was clean and well operated.

  They shook their heads.

  “E che bel post! And it’s such a beautiful place,” he told them. “Look at the dining room and the garden. And I live five minutes away!”

  “No,” Desolina said flatly.

  He now tried to work on their stomachs. There was little more important in their lives than eating.

  “There are four meals a day! Breakfast, lunch, dinner, and un spuntino prima che dormire! A snack before bedtime!” he pleaded. “Hanno il ‘ros bif’ tutte le Domeniche. They serve prime rib every Sunday.”

  “No, Selvi, it’s time for you to come back here to take care of us,” my grandmother said.

  My father turned to his father, but Tony, wagging his index finger back and forth—which meant not in a million years—said he wouldn’t live under anyone else’s thumb and, besides, these places were expensive.

  My father now deployed all his firepower. He pointed out to Tony that, yes, he didn’t so much need help himself, but Desolina did. She was forgetful, a little unstable on her feet, and now needed help getting in and out of the bathtub. Tony knew it was true and also knew he was not equipped by age or temperament to assist her.

  Tears came to his eyes. He had lived in New York for more than six decades. Maybe it was time to go.

  My father now had to tip the scale and get Tony to say “yes.” He accomplished this by doing the one thing he rarely did—as a child or an adult. He lied to his father.

  “And Pa, you’re not going to believe it, but the place is free.”

  Tony wiped
his eyes and looked up.

  “È free?”

  “Sì.”

  “Ma, no!” Tony said.

  “Sì.”

  “Ma, chi paga? Who pays for this?”

  “My company. One of the benefits I get is to move into this beautiful place, but I don’t need it now. But, my parents can stay there—for free.”

  “È vero?” he asked. “Is this true?”

  My father nodded. “Tutto free. Everything is free.”

  Tony couldn’t stop shaking his head.

  Desolina, who was growing more and more deaf in her old age, leaned forward and asked: “What are you people talking about? E al Papa, perche al pianga? And why is Papa crying?”

  “Porco cane, free!” said Tony. “Che compagnia! God bless America!”

  “Then you’ll go? It really is a nice place, Papa,” my father said.

  Tony sighed. “Sì,” he said, and tears came again.

  “Selvi, perché piange il Babbo? Why is Papa crying?” Desolina repeated.

  “He said he’ll come to Kalamazoo,” my father replied.

  “No,” she said. “È vero?”

  My father nodded.

  “Tony,” she said to him across the table. “At ve a Kalamazoo?”

  He nodded.

  Desolina looked at her son. “Se va il Babbo, vengo anch’io. Well, if he’s going, I’m going.”

  And so on a hot August day they flew first class to Kalamazoo. My mother met them at the airport and chauffeured them to Director’s Hall, which had two hundred residents. At ninety-four and ninety-three, Tony and Desolina were not even the oldest couple in the place.