A Matter of Love in da Bronx

by Paul Argentini

  I fell on you as a... ...a shield, a chore at which we've become pretty adept. By the time I've clutched you to your knees--with no hysteria here, I might say--Louisa is back shouting for an ambulance. --It's Lou! she shouts to me. Which moves you. Out of the bar, and up the street.

  The scene brings you to your knees.

  Woman...she'll tell you all about it, ask any of us.

  CHAPTER 42

  PAIN, EXCRUCIATINGLY profound pain had shoved its barbs into his heart, and ragged his whole body as mercilessly as a crazed pit bull terrier clampjawed to the death. No human being could endure it more than a few moments, no less not die from it; and though no thought at all of this came to him at this moment, the enormity of what had brought it on had obliterated every feeling, every thought, every physical ability he possessed. He, Sam, couldn't care less if he soiled his pants, which he almost did if instinct hadn't moved him first. It was a reaction. He wished he could evacuate his brain, no! his heart! no! his soul! with the same ease! Would that he could expunge his memory! Out! Out! damn warm and delightful doings so they would not be remembered after so cold and callous a fact!Yet, no matter. There wasn't a split of a whit for another single wince of pain. Loaded to the gunwhales and swamping, he was. The worst of it didn't come when he raced out of the bar, up a ways, and into the street to kneel beside Lou. No, not then.

  --Sam...

  --Yah, I'm here.

  --Sam...

  --Don't try to talk, Lou. Don't try to move. You're going to be okay. The ambulance is on its way.

  --Sam...? If I'm going to be okay, why is the ambulance coming?

  --Relax, Lou. Just take it easy.

  --You relax, Sam. I know what's going on. Call the cop over here. ...do I have to get him myself? ...Listen...officer...whoever the driver... Salesman? Sure. It was my fault. I just piled in front of him. My fault...got it? God! I could use a hit.

  --Mary. I'm going with Lou. Medic says he'll take care of me, too. You and Louisa, take Lou's car...home.

  Sure.

  The worst didn't come in the ambulance.

  Still holding his hand. --Sam? Remember... remember what I told you about Nam?

  How he hated the sobriquet. Lou was bringing back the long discussions they had on Viet Nam, he was opening a few doors he knew needed to be opened. That was Lou. He had repeated over and over to Sam that he was one of the unlucky ones, he should've never come back from so guileless and juvenile a land. He left nothing there, brought all the impedimenta with him, as others had. He was to have died there. He knew it when he first heard the strange name of his destination. He knew it when he set foot on the land. There was an intercession. On his behalf. But, not the other fellow's. Lou knew his would catch up to him, but how did the other guy--the one who got his dog tag kicked in between his front teeth, the one who got stuffed in a body bag--get an extension to his subscription to life? Oh! Well! Somebody fucked up, and somebody would riffle through the records, and call Lou's attention to the error. He knew that as he knew the taste of Moosehead beer. So, there were no entanglements, no mess behind for someone else to slop, and wash, and rinse, especially not that little brunette that laughed the song of angels, and fit against him like the inside of his skin, and humped him like she could turn it inside out. He lived clean,not leaving any hurt behind, he was taking all of it with him, you bet. Wife and kids? Men with deathdates on their foreheads don't do wife and kids. No Medal of Honor situation here. --Sure, Lou.

  --Sam, none of that other shit. Hear? This is the way it's supposed to be. Don't get caught in it like I was...

  Guilt. That was the word he couldn't spit out. He got a complete transfusion, blood for guilt, in that mean land. The flat-faced, mouthdrawn, smoke-eyed gooks were the comic book enemies, the real bad guys sat right down with you for breakfast, some asshole punk kid from someplace-Omaha who looks at you while he's trying to hold his guts from spilling all over the place, his eyes asking why you weren't in his place where you were supposed to be --You mean, you fucking son-of-a-bitch, you're going to leave me here like this, dead, and you're going to go home! What the fuck! So you can, Holy Shit, on Veterans' Day, dance on my grave! I sure never did, nor ever would do that. And ever since, for all the guilt stacked in his brain pack, he never felt a bit worthwhile ever again.

  They wouldn't let Sam into the operating room, so he took time away from Lou to have himself tended to in the emergency room.

  The worst didn't come in the hospital room.

  Inspissating numbness of every fibre and feeling took place as the hours wore on, a compensating sedation similar to the patient's. Then, in the knelling light of earlymorning, Lou turned away from the window to the silhouette beside the bed. --You fed my soul. He turned his head, licked his lips, fell deeper into the bed. It was an effort. Another door for Sam.

  They were kids, P.S. 34, Annette Cosigliaro was everyone's love; though Alice Toomey had the biggests tits, the ones you want to feel; Rolly Bonizzo, world heavyweight boxing contender; with handball, stickball, and Sunday morning craps in the schoolyard; huge Mr. Humphrey sending everyone to the principal; with Mrs. McKnight washing her stockings while directing the graduation play; and that substitute teacher, what was her name, always loosing her shoes under the desk while reading fuck books behind the ledger; and Lou living with temporary foster parents. The first day they met, Sam brought Lou home for dinner. When Lou left, Sam was told the cost of it would come out of his allowance. So Sam had him over at least once a week. Then, Lou found out about it, Sam told him, no big deal; I feed you, you feed my soul. No, Lou told him,you feed my soul. Friends. Brothers? No, better than brothers. The only relative I have. Sam, you give me roots.

  The worst didn't come at 2:37 this Sunday afternoon.

  That's when the world and everything stopped for Lou.

  Sam found himself outside of Lou's room, in the corridor. He was in Mary's arms.

  She had seen the bandage-plastered automaton come out of the room, eyes filled with a putty-grey view, like a distant horizon. He blinked rapidly, as if he were either trying to bring the reality into focus, or keep it out of sight. She knew. Instantly. The twisting in her stomach, the tension pulling the muscles at her shoulders, the sweat wetting the small of her back. She knew it. She just knew it! Knew it! She would never hold the complete man again.

  --Mary, I loved him so much. Then, he saw the mooning, cow-face of Louisa, and he reached out to her to pull her close, too, the three of them, face to faces, not moving, barely making a sound, unaware of the implacable tear of intermixing tears.

  Then, Mary uttered a sob--for Sam, not for Lou--a startling sound in the ruthless cold of the corridor where everyone else in sight slipped sideways into shadowless beings dismally aware of the cordon of grief knotting the trio. It resounded to his core, awakening, too, his own elan; instantaneously aware of what was expected of him. He took each of the girls by the arm, guiding them to the solarium. Solingo solitudine solenne.

  --Next of kin? Pardon me, Mr. Scopia, who is the next or kin? Someone to contact?

  Professionalism, experience...thank God! Her voice was even, direct, matter-of-fact, no edges. His luck she wasn't some snippy, twenty-one-year-old social worker, just-graduated bitch. --I am.

  --You mentioned foster parents?

  --He lived with these people for a short while a long time ago. I spoke with them. At first they were going to come right down. Where there's a Will, there's a relative. I mentioned there'd be some expenses. They're sure they had the wrong person in mind. They never knew a Lou Harness. How is it it seems the Shitstains of this world live forever?

  --The balance of Nature--on the other side we have the Mr. Scopia's of the world.

  Oh! Lady, you'll fucking ruin my reputation. --I'll take care of the expenses...

  --Mr. Scopia, I get a lot of money for doing my job right, believe me. I can see that the expenses for Mr. Harness are taken care of rather than have them become a burden...to you...


  --Thank you. ...I appreciate... I can afford to have the money come from wherever it must come; what I cannot afford is to have that man go in charity. I'll need some time, but I'll see his bills are paid.

  Then came the police. There would be no charges placed against the driver of the car that struck Lou. And, no, he didn't know who the guys were, or why. But he had an idea.

  The worst came in Lou's room.

  It was precipitated by the deliberate effort he exerted to contain his emotions at the funeral home. The result was, when he walked into the world Lou left behind, there was very little reserve. Sam moved about the room with a deliberate, methodical punctuation to every object as he came to it. Like his attache case with six empties in it. It was the intermediary for turning every meeting into an event. It was a ritual, a protective act, a haven much as others stopped to have tea. The familiar leather tobacco pouch that held grass and rolling papers. This was something he would take and dispose, along with the vial that had traces of a white powder. On the desk, a notebook with five sharpened pencils holding it closed. On the first page Sam read: A major American novel by Lou Harness. On the next page, the unfinished declaration: Working title... At the top of the following page the number one. The rest of the pages were blank. Sam ran his finger along the titles of three books he kept apart from the others: The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, His Plays and Poems; Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller; and A Mass For The Dead by William Gibson. Then he got to the photo of the two of them, at thirteen, with their arms across each other's shoulders, a wiseass smirk set on Lou's face with the tough-guy butt hanging out of the corner of his mouth; Sam, shy, engaging. The convulsion that wracked Sam's gut came without warning. He just got his pants down, barely hitting the seat when the flood of water burst from him. There, now he was totally, completely empty.

  When Sam left the room, past midnight, he had disposed of almost all of Lou Harness's estate. Of his personal belongings he didn't throw away, he gave to the landlady to hold until it was picked up by The Salvation Army. When he left he took in the attache case the photograph, the three books, the Silver Star and Purple Heart medals awarded to Lou, a locket containing a tiny photo of the parents he had never known or seen, and a bank passbook containing $287.56.

  He picked up a pint of whiskey, and tossed it off as he sat on the edge of his bed.

  It hadn't changed a bit the sickness inside him that made him feel despairingly alone. Then, he thought of Mary.

  Tomorrow would be ninety-three years long.

  CHAPTER 43

  A-MAAAAAA-ZEE-EE-EE-ING grace, how sweet... she sang. Her voice seemed to open the small chapel to the crisp morning sky. She may have been a gospel singer, black, short, heavy; but of all things, she was a voice. And, for the way she was doing it, she might just as well have been atop the Lady's flame and giving it to the entire United States of America.

  The casket was a stark government issue, courtesy of the Veterans' Administration. It was covered by the American flag, one that had flown over the Capitol, proudly offered by the local VFW post. Pinned to it were his medals. Scattered atop were Lillies of the Valley. In the center, the photograph.

  His full-dress uniform impeccable, a sombre soldier stood rigid to one side.

  Sam, Mary, Louisa were seated, the only mourners. Sam had spoken to Lou's employer who grunted back. The landlady said she'd be there, positively.

  The minister that offered words of comfort for the experience of death, closed the ceremony honoring life.

  Sam took the girls, and the soldier to a restaurant where they could have breakfast while he saw to his affairs, and the funeral home saw to theirs. When he returned, he had closed out Lou's bank account, and had arranged for Lou's car to be used to pay for all expenses.

  Back at the funeral home, the four of them got into a limousine, the stillwarm asbestos box holding Lou's ashes between Sam and Mary. On the way into Manhattan, Mary commented on the cloud-filled, drab day. Sam thought of a line in one of Lou's plays, --Any day was a good day for a good man to go a good way.

  The driver dropped them off at the ferry to Staten Island which they boarded.

  On its journey, the striking New York skyline a backdrop, they gathered on the fantail where Sam opened the box, and tilted it to let thecontents slip to the sea while Mary and Louisa scattered the Lillies of the Valley. There was a break in the midmorning clouds when the soldier put the bugle to his lips. Starting soft, gentle, each note pure, bright in energy with the undertone of the ship's pumping engine and of the whooshing waters, Taps cut to the heavens welcoming the warrior's return, it's call--Tahhhhhh Tahhh Tahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-- filling the wind in the amphitheatre of his world like a lullaby to life. The memory of it would flood in Sam's heart forever.

  The bar had sawdust on the floor, bentwood chairs, round oak tables, and was dark and noisy. This will suit Lou perfectly, Sam said leading the three of them in. He beckoned the waiter. --Do you have Dom Perignon and caviar? The waiter tossed his head, closed his eyes and allowed as they did. You blase son-of-a-bitch, I could kiss you, Sam thought, then fanned the rest of Lou's money on the table, --Don't stop until it's gone, and remember yourself.

  --There's one more thing to be done for Lou. Sam looked directly into the soldier's eyes. He put Lou's medals on the table, and slid them toward him. I don't know anyone else who should have these. Thank you.