“I didn’t know that.”
“Well, now you do.” He flared his nostrils and reached his hand across the table. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Irene.”
She stared at his hand. The ruby of his pinky ring shone like a little lamp.
Rocco
Rocco Schillaci regarded himself in the hallway mirror with some disappointment. Three years ago, at his son Johnny’s funeral, the black suit was loose; and it fit perfectly last August when his father-in-law passed away. And now? It had been a long winter. He unbuckled his belt and let it out a notch. Yesterday, his cousin Joe Garzo died in hospital. Rocco had admired and respected Joe and had shared many fine moments with him and his family. Hard to believe he was gone. He’d been so fit for an eighty-year-old, sharp as a tack, even nimble. Then, a month ago, his abdomen swelled up. Tests revealed cirrhosis of the liver. The doctors could do nothing.
Isn’t it cruel? Rocco thought, squatting and pulling at the seat of his pants. You dodge all the bullets of life, avoid the calamities, then you hit eighty and parts wear out, the machine breaks down. There’s no escaping it. And if your body doesn’t go, the brain turns to cheese. His maternal grandfather, Luigi, came to mind: he lived to be ninety-three but spent his last ten years counting and recounting a demijohn full of pennies. Rocco undid his belt another notch. Anyway, not likely he’d live to be ninety-three. He was fifty-five, smoked a pack of cigarettes a day, drank too much, and ate like a pig. He’d be happy to make it to eighty, he’d be lucky.
He smoothed his lapels and stepped out on the deck for a smoke. They’d be burying Joe the day after tomorrow. Why the wait? he wondered. Why the spectacle? Let him go already. Rocco expected his wife, Domenica, back any minute from Sunday mass. Only the second of May and the twin magnolia trees behind the wood shack had shed their blooms; now forsythia pushed up against the old stone wall and tulips crayoned Domenica’s flower garden. The Schillacis had bought the homestead off Green’s Road near Winona back in the spring of ’75. It seemed they’d moved to the wilderness, but by the ’90s Winona, Fruitland, Stoney Creek, and most land east of Hamilton had been developed. Rocco loved the big house and the three lush acres, a far cry from the postage stamp lots being parceled out now. A creek ran along the end of the property line, beyond a row of scrolling birches. Rocco used to walk down there to smoke and reflect. But after Johnny died he stopped going, less taken to reflection. The way he saw it, all riches and joys, poverty and sorrow, were meted out in this lifetime. And that was fine.
At Friscolanti’s Funeral Home in downtown Hamilton, Rocco’s brother Pepe greeted him and Domenica in the foyer. Pepe’s wife, Petrina, in a drab purple dress, her black hair pinned back in a severe bun, didn’t acknowledge them. She and Domenica weren’t speaking; or rather she wasn’t speaking to Domenica for reasons unclear. Four years Rocco’s junior, Pepe looked it; the brothers came from the same mold. Yet they had little in common and seldom saw each other any more: each viewed the other’s wife as shrewish and controlling. Rocco considered Petrina a sourpuss; nothing made her smile, and she had a way of spreading her misery. Pepe, who long ago had courted Domenica, thought her the ultimate opportunist. She had said at the time that he wasn’t serious enough for her. Not serious enough? A year later she was married to his more “serious” brother.
“One by one they’re dropping,” Pepe said. “Petrina’s Zi Tomasso died in Thorold last week.”
“Sorry to hear. What of?”
“Stroke.”
“How old was he?”
“Eighty-one.”
Rocco sighed, passed a hand over his face. “Let’s go out for a smoke.”
“You know I don’t smoke.”
“Just step out with me.”
Pepe rolled his eyes, put his hands in his pockets, and followed his brother across the foyer to the front doors. They exited into the fresh air. Rocco loosened his tie and lit himself a cigarette. “How are Caterina and Miccu doing?” He hadn’t seen Pepe’s children since Christmas.
“Good. They’re good. Miccu just finished his third-year exams at Guelph, and Caterina is still with the City. And the boys? I saw Carlo at Maria’s the other day.”
“At my mother-in-law’s?”
“Yes, I was dropping off biscotti my wife baked for her. Poor Maria. All alone in that house.”
“And Carlo was there?”
“He was. He was clipping her toenails.”
Rocco squinted and brought the glowing cigarette to his lips. He looked up at the sleek evening sky and exhaled a bluish plume of smoke.
A fire engine clanged and wailed in the distance. He glanced at Pepe’s dull black shoes. Domenica wanted to take in Maria. His mother had been dead for years and, with the boys gone, rooms sat empty. But she hadn’t asked yet, and he wasn’t about to bring it up. Maria was a wretched hypochondriac. How ironic that her husband died first.
Ugo Troccoli, a friend of Joe Garzo’s and Rocco’s cousin by marriage, also stepped out for a smoke. He was a trim seventy-year-old, with cropped white hair and a raspy voice. “Rocco, Pepe.” He gently shook their hands and took a drag of his cigarette. “The King is dead,” he whispered.
“Yes,” Rocco said. Ugo had given Joe the moniker during their poker-playing days for his knack of drawing kings.
“Rocco,” Ugo’s tone changed. “Isabella tells me you’re getting rid of the Malibu.”
Rocco grimaced at the thought of that rust-bucket. He had spent thousands keeping it roadworthy, yet neither he nor the wife ever drove it, and his sons had their own vehicles. “Yes,” he said. “Cost me an arm and a leg this past year.”
“My grandson Luca is going for his licence tomorrow. How much do you want for it?”
“Zi Ugo, I don’t want anything.”
“Is it certifiable?”
“I think so. The transmission’s new, but the engine burns oil. It won’t last the year. You can have it if you want.”
Ugo seemed pleased. “How’s your mother-in-law?” he asked.
“She’s fine,” Rocco said.
“But she was on her deathbed, no?”
The men burst out laughing.
“Ah,” Ugo sighed, staring at the starry sky. “King.” His black eyes moistened.
After the funeral home Rocco and Domenica stopped by her mother’s house in Hamilton’s East End. She had her hair in angry curlers and a trademark scowl pinching her face. She was eighty, always ill with one enigmatic malady or another, but Rocco suspected that she’d outlive them all.
“Hi, Ma,” Domenica said, kissing both her cheeks. “We went to see Joe Garzo.”
“He’s joined Antonio now,” she droned. “But that’s okay. We’ll be joining them too. We’re all going there sooner or later. We’re all in line. The other day, diarrhea. I almost died. When is it going to end? Tell me. All this suffering. When? Let me die. Let me die now. Rocco, you don’t say anything?”
He shrugged.
“Yes,” she said, “You too, my boy. You too. Don’t worry.”
Rocco endured her laments while Domenica made espresso. Maria and he had never gotten along. She didn’t like him or his brother, considered them underachieving peasants. He had long ago stopped listening to anything she had to say. He shook his head as she went on. Life is a mess, he thought, watching her baleful mouth churn. It seems okay at times, but at bottom it’s a mess.
When they got home, Domenica and he sat at the kitchen table. She peeled and sliced a couple of pears. He looked at his wife, at her pale familiar neck, at the thin blue vein faintly striping her temple, the soft cheek . . . He remembered the first time he saw that profile. His brother had just started bringing her around. She was all of eighteen, shy as a doe. Born in Serradifalco, Sicily, she had just emigrated to Canada. Rocco couldn’t take his eyes off her. He hated coveting his brother’s girl, but he sensed that she shared his attraction. And she did.
“What are you looking at?” she asked.
“You, bella.”
Later, Marco the second-youngest came by to borrow his mother’s pasta-maker; he and his beautiful wife Giannamaria had invited friends over Friday evening for lasagna. She was five months pregnant. That girl was a miracle, a real mother’s daughter. Her lasagna rivaled Domenica’s. How she fell for Marco, of all people, was beyond him. He thought Marco the flimsiest of his five sons.
After one glass too many, Rocco started berating him for never going to his brother’s grave site—he had skipped the funeral. Marco claimed he didn’t have the strength. Didn’t have the strength? What did that mean? There was no mystery to it, in Rocco’s opinion. Marco’s attitude reeked of self-absorption and cowardice. A man had to face up to his responsibilities. Rocco was curious to see how he would deal with fatherhood, and how he would measure up in the event of a tragedy. Tomorrow, May third, marked the anniversary of Johnny’s death. Rocco had loved Johnny, his firstborn. Unlike the sombre, thin-necked Marco, Johnny could light up a room; Johnny had style.
“What did he ever do to you?” Rocco asked, his voice cracking.
Marco blinked.
Domenica put her hand on her husband’s shoulder.
Next morning, Rocco’s hangover had fur and green teeth and was gnawing on his brain. He smoked a cigarette upon waking and moments later rushed to the bathroom to vomit. Oddly hungry after that, he went down to the kitchen and fried himself two eggs. Domenica had left a note: she’d gone grocery shopping with Carlo, and don’t forget to shave, shower, and put on your black suit.
Rocco had booked the week off from his millwright’s job at Stelco, using up accumulated lieu time. Twenty-seven years toiling with steel and it felt like it. His shoulder was acting up again—he’d injured it a few years ago in a fall off a scaffold. Given Joe’s death and the anniversary of Johnny’s death, it was a good time to take a break.
He ate his eggs with an end of Calabrian bread and some black olives, washing it all down with a half-carton of orange juice. He drank a shot of cognac, smoked a cigarette, and then felt better. He felt quite fine considering—that is, until Domenica returned.
“So you managed to get up, eh?” she said. “Didn’t die in your sleep? Sounded like you might.”
“Where’s Carlo?”
“He dropped me off and went home. You’d better be planning to go back to work next week. I’ve had enough of you around the house. Want coffee? I see you already made yourself something to eat. You can cook when you have to, hmm? If you made a mess in the bathroom I’ll cut your head off.”
“Do you have to talk so loud?” Rocco pressed his fingertips to his temples.
Domenica brewed another pot of espresso and Rocco drank a sugar-thickened cupful with a dash of anisette. He smoked another cigarette. The telephone rang. Domenica answered. “It’s Benny,” she said.
Rocco covered his face with his hands. Benny was his youngest son and the brightest next to Johnny. But he’d been away at Dalhousie University for most of the last five years, and would be there for at least two more finishing his law degree. Rocco doubted he’d ever move back home.
“Your father’s hung over.”
“Dom—”
“Talk to him, Benny. Talk some sense to him.”
“Domenica!” Why wouldn’t she just let up?
She handed him the receiver. He glowered at her; he didn’t feel like talking to Benny, at least not now. He put the receiver to his ear.
“Pa?”
“Yeah, Benny. How are you, son?”
“I’m good. Did Ma tell you I’m staying in Halifax for the summer? I got a clerical job with a big law firm.”
“Yes, she told me. Good for you, Benny.”
“Pa, are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Pa—”
“Don’t worry about me, all right. I’m doing fine, kid. Anyway, I’m handing you over to your mother. Be good and call anytime.”
Benny had something else to say, but Rocco returned the receiver to Domenica. She snapped it out of his hand and cut her eyes at him. He got up and went to the bathroom. He checked the floor for splatters. He blew his nose with tissue paper, flushed it down the toilet, watching the swirling water until it grew still. He flushed again. Then he studied himself in the mirror. His eyes looked ruined, heavy and bloodshot; his cheeks bulged and his skin was florid. He felt short of breath. The doorbell rang.
“Dom,” he cried, “I’m in the bathroom!”
But the doorbell rang again: Domenica must have been out back. He dried his face and hands and hustled downstairs. He stubbed his bare toe against an umbrella rack and cursed. His brother stood there in a pale yellow jacket looking mournful.
“Pepe,” he said, rubbing the toe. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
“I’m on afternoons. Thought I’d pop by and pay my respects before I go in.”
Rocco seemed puzzled.
“For Johnny,” said his brother, frowning. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“You look terrible. Are you ill?”
“You could say that.”
Pepe shook his head. “You’re drinking again,” he said.
“Hey,” Rocco snapped. “Did you come here to break my balls or what?” He felt his temper thrashing under the baggage of his hangover.
“Roc, I’m just saying . . .”
“You’re always just saying.”
Pepe’s lips tightened.
“Anyway, forget about it,” Rocco said, his head pounding. “Come on, I’ll pour us an anisette.”
“It’s too early.”
“Come on.”
He led his brother into the kitchen. Pepe also worked at Stelco, as a crane operator. Rocco had helped him land the job after he signed on.
His relations with Pepe had never been close. Even as boys, Rocco had found his brother’s stubbornness and lack of verve annoying. Yet these were predominant family traits. His father and uncles were mulish and dull, never in a hurry for anything or anyone. Rocco considered himself an exception, more like his mother and aunts who were attractive and shrewd. The brothers shared a resemblance, but Pepe was slimmer, his eyes heavy-lidded like those of their father and uncles, men who always looked half-asleep.
“Sure?” Rocco said, handling the anisette bottle.
“Yes,” said Pepe.
Rocco poured himself a drink. In time Domenica joined them. She had been tending to her flower garden. Pepe hugged her and said a few quiet words.
“How are the kids?” Domenica asked.
“They’re fine, Dom.”
“Rocco, enough with the anisette!”
He looked up from the bottle, guilty.
“Coffee, Pepe?” she asked.
“Thanks, Dom. I will have a drop.”
Domenica made another pot of espresso and they drank it in silence. It was different, a young man dying the way Johnny did; it was different from breaking down in old age, or even meeting your end in an accident. At least you understood the causes.
Johnny was thirty, entering his prime. The doctors called the aneurysm an anomaly. Rocco imagined him standing in the hall, waiting for an opportune moment to leap into the kitchen, hooting and laughing. He saw himself jumping from his chair and hugging his son, then grabbing his face with both hands and shouting at him, Where the hell have you been?
But only the whirring of the refrigerator and Domenica’s sighs punctuated the silence; the kitchen remained unvisited, restrained. Then even the refrigerator fell silent; Rocco found himself staring at his wife, at his brother and, finally, at his hands.
After Pepe departed, Rocco returned to the bathroom for a shower and a shave. This made him feel marginally better, so he popped a couple of Valium and put on his black suit. The Valium was his little secret. He’d convinced Domenica the p
ills were painkillers, for his shoulder when it ached; but the truth was he relished their mindless buzz, especially when he was hung over. He told Domenica he’d be back by noon. He said he had to run a few errands, but he just wanted to go for a cruise. He jumped into the pickup truck and headed to Fruitland along Highway 8. The drive was pleasant, the escarpment shagged with spring green, the sky a luminous blue. The Valium took hold and he felt billowy and carefree. He stopped at a convenience store outside of Grimsby and bought himself a package of mints. He sat in the pickup for a few minutes sucking on a mint and feeling the warm sun on his face. A blue jay flared by the open window, a cool breeze gusted and he found the coolness delicious, hinting of pine and the bright north, of freshness and hope.
He drove back toward Stoney Creek to his Aunt Carmela’s house off Grays Road. His Uncle Calogero was out buying lottery tickets.
“What would he do if he ever won?” Rocco asked with a chuckle. The youngest of his mother’s three sisters, Aunt Carmela was the most beautiful. Rocco recalled what an elegant dancer she was. Time had taken its toll, to be sure, but her sharp blue eyes still sparkled and her carriage expressed a refinement and grace.
“I think he’d have an infarta,” she mused.
Rocco laughed but his head felt thick, his face hot and damp. His eyes and nostrils burned.
“You look awful this morning. Coming down with something?”
“Today’s May third, Zia.”
She searched her thoughts for a moment, then her eyebrows arched. “Oh, Rocco,” she put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I forgot—Johnny, of course.”
He nodded. His aunt covered her face and wept. A moment passed. Rocco sat staring at the white tablecloth, a dull roar in his ears. Then his aunt, dabbing her tears, got up and prepared espresso.
All the strength seeped from Rocco’s arms and shoulders. He had an overwhelming desire to rest his head on the table. He couldn’t keep his eyes open. He just wanted to sleep for a while.
The doorbell—poorly installed by his uncle—issued a wounded carillon that roused Rocco from his stupor.
Black Rabbit and Other Stories Page 15