Black Rabbit and Other Stories (20 page)

“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 pills 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.

“Your uncle probably forgot his keys.”

The doorbell clattered again. “Coming,” she called, shuffling off to answer it.

Rocco stared at a framed map of Sicily on the wall. He had emigrated from Sicily when he was twenty, from the ragged town of Racalmuto. He had married his wife in Hamilton; his entire family now lived there or in Buffalo, except for a few distant cousins. He'd been back twice to his hometown but had found it stressful, too hot, too unfamiliar somehow. He didn't mind the seasons of Canada: even the long winters had their good points. Winona suited him just fine. He had endured the unspeakable poverty and corruption of the
miseria
in postwar Sicily, and the memory of it rankled. He had prospered in Canada, had raised five sons, had forged steel, and lacked for nothing. As far as he was concerned, Winona was God's country.

“Look who's here,” said his aunt.

“Hi, Pa,” said a familiar voice.

Rocco jerked his head around. His son Carlo, hand extended, stood there grinning like an idiot. He had on a burgundy costume that reminded Rocco of bellhops. All he needed to complete the
ensemble was a little cap with a strap. Rocco blinked, automatically shook his son's hand. What was he doing here?

Carlo was an ambulance attendant. He'd bought a little townhouse in Stoney Creek, but Rocco saw him more than ever these days, and he had mixed feelings about that. He needs a woman, he thought. Or a hobby. Too much time on his hands. “No work today?”

“I've taken a few days off, Pa. Are you going to the cemetery?”

“I've got my black suit on, don't I?” he snapped, glancing at Carlo's tasseled black shoes. He didn't know what to make of this Carlo, his fair-haired middle son: he was a stranger. On the other hand, Aunt Carmela looked delighted to see him.

He presented a string-tied white box. “Canoli from Valentino's.”

“How nice,” said the aunt. “Will you have one, Rocco? More coffee?”

“No, thank you, Zia. I have to run.”

“When are you and Ma going?” Carlo asked.

His tone annoyed Rocco, affected, perhaps insincere.

“One o'clock.”

“I can't come at one. I'm going to Nonna's house to mow her lawn.”

Rocco stared at Carlo. “Well, ciao, Zia, and . . .” he didn't complete the sentence, but nodded and departed.

At Holy Sepulcher Cemetery, Domenica fussed around Johnny's grave site, picking off grass and bits of debris. She had brought a bouquet of yellow tulips and retied the crimson ribbon before setting them down by the headstone. She had on a pale blue dress and a white beaded sweater. Her eyes were dry, her movements happy and light. She didn't cry any more. She had cried herself out that first year.

Rocco felt lucky; the woman's heart was infinite, her loyalty and warmth, her concern immeasurable. Domenica's sons worshipped her. Mother's Day at their house was like a festival. Flowers, ribbons,
cards, balloons, the boys spared no expense or novelty to make her feel special. On Father's Day they'd give Rocco lottery tickets or shaving supplies, as if he needed their gifts. But as he watched his wife kneel, eyes shut, hands folded to her breast, he knew she deserved nothing less. He gave the two of them some privacy; he lit a cigarette, and moved away between the headstones. He glanced over the names—he didn't want to know them. He popped a mint and screened his eyes. The sun blazed. He took off his jacket and loosened his tie. It's enough to know the names of your own, he thought. It's more than enough.

They left the cemetery and drove to their son Tony's house in Parkdale. Tony and his wife Barb had invited them over for a late lunch. Rocco was quiet throughout the meal, Domenica morose. They left Barb's cabbage rolls uneaten; usually they couldn't get enough of them. Tony, the second oldest, was a brooder, but there was something almost smug about him. He's content with who he is, Rocco thought. He's pleased with himself. Tony had the hooded eyes of Pepe, and Rocco's father and uncles. He had taken Johnny's death quite hard but hadn't dwelt on it and hadn't visited the cemetery in two years. But what was one supposed to do? Rocco already felt bad for chewing out Marco. Besides, he would never discuss these matters with Tony in Barb's presence.

Tony's bright blond son Julio injected some joy into the proceedings. Rocco thought the child all his mother, which could not have been a bad thing, Tony being so serious. He engaged Julio in a little game of peekaboo. When Rocco covered his face with his hands, Julio pointed and cried, “No, no, no!” When he uncovered his face, the child squealed with delight. If only everything were so easy.

They finished the meal with watery espresso and pastries.

Barb said, “Johnny used to love canoli.”

Domenica forced a small smile and Rocco nodded. Barb reddened, concerned she had said the wrong thing, but Domenica reassured her, touching her wrist and saying, “Johnny was crazy about canoli.”

When they got home, Domenica went straight to bed for a nap.
Rocco got out of his suit and put on a pair of loose-fitting pants and an old work shirt. He poured himself a brandy and took a seat on the front porch. The air had a pleasant bite to it. He sipped the brandy and swirled it around his mouth before swallowing. A bubble of warmth burst in his chest. He took a deep breath and shut his eyes. He could hear the breeze swishing through the silver maples on the other side of the road. An empty lot sat there, abandoned by a man who had bought it in the '70s but never built on it. Rocco didn't know why, though rumor had it that his wife had died, or divorced him.

Moments later Ugo appeared in his pearl-grey Buick, accompanied by a lanky adolescent whom Rocco recognized as the grandson, Luca. He forgot which of Ugo's four daughters was the mother. What a Lurch he was turning into.

Ugo got out of the car, but Luca stayed put. “Rocco,” he said, approaching, “we've come to take that Malibu off your hands.”

Rocco reacted with surprise. He hadn't expected him to collect it so soon.

“He got his licence this morning,” Ugo said, jerking his thumb at Luca who looked on with his mouth agape. “I'm going to drive the Malibu back to my place and he'll drive the Buick. I'll get it certified tomorrow. Okay?”

Rocco started to say something, but stopped.

“Well?” Ugo said.

“Okay,” Rocco said, suddenly bored by the whole thing. He had bought the Malibu for Johnny years ago. The kid needed a car, but what did that matter? Johnny had never liked it, not partial to the four doors and the dull brown exterior. He'd give Ugo the keys and be done with it.

Carlo pulled up in his dark red Saturn and tooted his horn twice. A startled Ugo swung his head around and cursed him in Sicilian. Carlo cried out apologies. Ugo turned to Rocco shaking his head. Rocco shrugged—what could he say? He wanted to weep and burst out laughing at the same time. Carlo waved to him. He sighed and nodded to his son, who had on sunglasses and was grinning. He was something that kid. They were all something.

“What do you plan to do with yourself?” I asked, staring at the youth's gap-toothed grin. “You turn eighteen tomorrow.”

“I plan to party tomorrow.”

“If you get busted you'll do adult time.”

“I can do it.”

He could do it all right. Ever since he was a toddler he'd been in and out of foster homes and group homes and hospitals and detention centres and high-risk youth facilities. I had no answers for him. I told him to sign a form.

“What is this?”

“A release of information statement.”

“Why?”

“Just sign it, Coop.”

He inscribed the spot with a childish scrawl.

“Happy now?”