River Mourn

by Bill Hopkins

Thursday Morning

  "Poverino, poverino."

  Rosswell's eyes were closed, yet he could see the red of the blood running through the veins of his eyelids thanks to a strong light. A hot light.

  Sunlight's shining on me. Either that or a majorly serious spotlight. Where am I?

  "Poverino, you wake up." Mrs. Bolzoni wiped Rosswell's face with a cold cloth. "Poor thing, you now wake up, okay?"

  Rosswell opened his eyes. "Mrs. Bolzoni? What are you doing?" He pressed his palms to the ground. "Ouch." Drought had consumed the area since no rain had fallen for over a month. The ground felt like concrete. Grass felt like tiny spears. The humid air smelled dry.

  "The insides, she's upset, so I walk the park when the sun come up. You I find like this." She bent over him, and her thick eyeglasses touched his face, a gesture that reminded him of an Italian movie he'd seen once. Both the significance of the hand movements and the movie title escaped him. "And I find also this." Rosswell groaned when she stuck the Scotch bottle in his face. "Empty."

  Rosswell could see that the bottle was empty. He felt it was totally unnecessary of Mrs. Bolzoni to point that out to him since he was staring down the neck of the bottle.

  A few drops splashed on Rosswell's face. The odor caused a flip-flop in his stomach. He sucked in a few mouthfuls of air, forestalling the vomit creeping up from his insides. A thousand stinking Russian soldiers in their stinking stocking feet marched across his tongue. If his tongue swelled much more, he could choke.

  Rosswell coughed. "I did not fall off the wagon."

  "You got no wagon. You walk over here."

  "Yes, you're right."

  Mrs. Bolzoni helped Rosswell stand. "You drink the espresso. Let's go." She tugged at him.

  Rosswell brushed ants from his shirt, then ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, hoping he didn't discover any foreign objects, such as bugs, dead or alive.

  "Mrs. Bolzoni, let me stand for a moment. I don't want to move quickly."

  "You stand. I wait, poverino."

  "Poverino. Does that mean dumb ass?"

  "Means you a poor thing what needs the help."

  "I do not need help." He swayed, toppling to the ground. All his muscles were in kinks and knots. "I am doing great." He stood.

  "Then you slide to the back, as you say in the English." Mrs. Bolzoni put her arm around Rosswell's waist, urging him to start walking.

  "Please take a look at the wet spot there on the grass."

  "You peed during the night?"

  "That is where I poured out the booze. I didn't touch one drop. I had nightmares. I have bad dreams. Sometimes. Especially when I'm overcome with exhaustion."

  "I take you to see that man who helped Alessandra. He help you, too."

  "Alessandra?"

  "Mia bella figlia."

  "I don't understand."

  "My beautiful daughter."

  "Mrs. Bolzoni, did you?uh?see anyone over here. Besides me?"

  "I saw you before the sun down and before the bottle up. No one but you. Why you say that?"

  "I thought I saw someone. But it was only a bad dream. It seemed so real."

  "My daughter she sees the things not there. But the man helped my daughter."

  "What man is that?"

  "The pale man with the rusty hair."