The Wally Lamb Fiction Collection: The Hour I First Believed, I Know This Much is True, We Are Water, and Wishin' and Hopin' (154 page)

Dominick? I’m sorry I always acted so jealous about your brother. If I ever had a brother or sister, I’d want them to be as loyal as you are. In my personal opinion, you’re fighting a losing battle, but that’s your business, not mine. Don’t forget to take care of yourself instead of everyone else.

I love you, babe. Just don’t . . . please don’t hate me. Okay?

I
didn’t
hate her. I didn’t even hate
him.
I just lay there, looking at my ugly purple foot, which should have hurt but didn’t. I didn’t feel a thing.

“You know what kills me about this show?” Felice said from across the way. “Wherever she goes, someone’s always getting knocked off.”

I reached up and pulled off the Walkman’s earphones. I’d listened to that tape twice, hoping it would make some kind of sense,
but it didn’t. I wasn’t outraged, though. I wasn’t hurt. I wasn’t anything. “I’m sorry. What’d you say?”

Felice pointed up at the wall-mounted TV
.
“Jessica Fletcher there.
Murder, She Wrote.
She goes shopping; there’s a stiff. She goes to visit some friend of hers; there’s another one. She goes off on vacation. Boom! When’s the last time
you
went out someplace and ran into a corpse? She’s like the Grim Reaper or something.”

I’d wait until I got home, I decided. I’d have to. And I wouldn’t leave any mess—something someone would have to clean up afterward. Leo, or Ray, or some poor slob on the rescue squad. . . . Because I wasn’t angry like that bastard, Rood. I was just tired—just wanted to stop fighting and give in. Go with it. . . . I could hobble out to the garage, stuff rags in the cracks on the sides of the door.

Gentlemen, start your engines
. That’s when I remembered about the truck. I couldn’t carbon monoxide myself out of existence. I’d totaled the truck.

Pills, then. They’d send me home with painkillers, right? I could take them all at once with a bottle of . . . what did I have in the house, anyway? I still had that Christmas bottle—that Scotch one of the wholesalers had given me? Booze and pills. That would do it. Rid the world of Dominick Birdsey, the loser’s loser. The bad twin.

“She’s like a corpse magnet,” Felice said. “I tell you one thing. If you ever see Angela Lansbury coming toward you, start running the other way
quick
.”

Was the fact that the Duchess had hidden in her closet and watched us make love any more weird than the fact that my brother had hacked off his hand in the name of peace? Any more strange than the fact that the Wequonnocs were about to ascend—rise from the ashes? Any more fucked up than the fact that America was getting ready to fight another war with gung-ho kids too young to remember anything about Vietnam except
Rambo
? . . .

That was the big joke, wasn’t it? The answer to the riddle: there
was
no one up there in Heaven, making sure the accounts came out right. I’d solved it, hadn’t I? Cracked the code? It was all just a joke. The god inside my brother’s head was just his disease. My mother
had knelt every night and prayed to her own steepled hands. Your baby died because of . . . because of no particular reason at all. Your wife left you because you sucked all the oxygen out of the room, so you pretended she was the one in bed with you while you screwed your girlfriend and her boyfriend hid in the closet, watching. . . . Hell, why
couldn’t
she go out there and become Cinderella? . . . Let go of my ankle, Ray. I’m ready to float away. Ready to cut my brother down from that tree and carry him to the Falls and throw him over the side. Jump in headfirst, after him. Because it didn’t matter. It was all just a joke.
Riddle me this, Batman. What’s the point?
And the answer was:
there was none
. Pain pills and Scotch—that was how I’d do it, because there was just no point at all. . . .

“Hey,
here
she is,” Felice said.

Who? Angela Lansbury? Had she come for the corpse already? But when I looked over at him for clarification, he was staring at the doorway. Beaming.

She was wearing a turquoise suede jacket with fringe, a tan cowboy hat, tan boots. I didn’t recognize her for a second or two and then, Jesus Christ, I did.

“Get over here, Annie Oakley,” Felice said. “Give your old hound dog a kiss.”

Instead, she approached the foot of
my
bed. “Long time no see,” she said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Been years, hasn’t it? How’s my grandfather doing?”

She lifted up a bulky plastic bag—the head of John the Baptist, except it was rectangular. “He’s all yours,” she said.

“Is he? And now I suppose you’re going to tell me I owe you—”

“No charge beyond what you’ve paid me already,” she said. “And by the way, you have my condolences.”

She held Domenico’s bulky manuscript in front of her, at arm’s length, and let go. It thudded onto my bed, just missing my injured foot.

The History of Domenico Onofrio Tempesta, a Great Man from Humble Beginnings

8 July 1949

I, Domenico Onofrio Tempesta, was born sixty-nine years ago in the mountain village of Giuliana, Sicily,
lu giardino dello mondo!
I am the descendant of great men and many would say that when I look into the mirror, greatness looks back! Nonetheless, my life has been marred by sadness and tragedy. Now old age afflicts me with aching in my joints and rumbling bowels and weakness in my knees. But my mind remembers!

My beloved wife, Ignazia,
a buon’anima
, gave me one daughter but failed to honor me with sons. My daughter, Concettina Ipolita Tempesta, is too homely to marry (harelip) and so she stays home to be an old man’s nuisance. From that red-haired girl with the rabbit’s face, Tempesta blood spills wasted to the ground, like wine from a cracked jug. The proud name of Tempesta dies when I die.

If God has not blessed me with sons, He has at least given me the gift of keen memory. I tell my life story to keep alive the name Tempesta and to offer myself as a model for Italian youth
to imitate! May the Sons of Mother Italy who read these words learn from them the path to prosperity and may they never be cursed, as I have been, with frightened rabbits underfoot or with skinny, goddamned monkeys!

As a boy, I grew up in the fearful shadow of Mount Etna, the great and terrible
vulcano
that brought my grandparents to ruin. Alfio and Maricchia Ciccia, my maternal grandparents, were proud landowners. Their hazelnut and almond groves were destroyed in the year 1865 when lava spewed from the western rim, choking life from the trees that had provided their livelihood. Four days later, the earth itself cracked open, killing my grandfather and his three sons. As Etna’s cursed vomit cooled, it armored the Ciccia land with porous black rock. Worthless! My grandmother, crazy with grief, ended her life with poison soon after.

The only surviving member of the Ciccia family was the youngest child, Concettina. She had been playing alone in a field with her rag dolls when the lava began rushing down the hill after her. Scooping up the dollies in her arms, she ran to a nearby cedar tree to save herself from the
vulcano
. As she climbed up amidst the leaves and branches, she dropped one of her little dolls. With foolish bravery, the girl came down again, intent on saving her little friend made of rag and sawdust, but as she reached into that hateful hot stew from hell to rescue the
popa
, little Concettina burned the skin of her right hand severely, dropping once again the foolish doll, which sank back into the lava and was carried away. Somehow, Concettina held on and managed to elbow and claw and climb the tree again. From the highest branches, she screamed and screamed until it was safe to descend. For the rest of her life, Concettina wore on her right hand the reminder of her foolish attempt to rescue that worthless toy—a pink, shiny
scar like a glove. As a child, I would stare at that scarred hand as I heard, over and over, the story of how little Concettina had saved her life but lost her
popi di pezza
. That damaged hand, with its more normal
twin, held and fed and slapped me as I grew. Concettina,
a buon’anima
, was my beloved mother.

Orphaned at the age of eight after her own mother’s self-poisoning, Mama was given to an old widow, a seamstress and lacemaker whose duty it was to dress the altar and the statuary at the little village church, including the famous Statue of the Weeping
Vergine
, famous throughout all of Sicily. The old woman taught my mother her painstaking craft and Mama herself became a skilled lacemaker. Sadly, as she grew to womanhood, she was often seized with screaming fits and strange dreams. She claimed, as well, that she could hear the voices of moths—those fluttering creatures which, she believed, were the souls of the dead who had failed to attain heavenly light. Instead, they swarmed around the counterfeit light of earthly things. The moths spoke to her—
pleaded
with her—Mama insisted, so endlessly that she sometimes had to lock herself in her room with the window bolted and the candles extinguished to be rid of their begging.

In 1874, Concettina Ciccia became the wife of my father, Giacomo Tempesta, a sulphur miner. Papa’s work took him away each week from Giuliana to the mines, nine or ten kilometers into the foothills of Etna. With his fellow miners, he would travel back each Saturday to the village, where he would bathe and feast, then lie beside his wife on their finely embroidered sheets. It was on such a Saturday night in the year 1879 that my humble father became a hero.

According to the story first whispered by my mother to the village women and then repeated by those loose-tongued crones, Papa was lying awake after sharing a
passione
with his wife that was to result in my fortuitous conception! Etna had been asleep for several years, but that night Papa heard the faint first rumbling and hissing of the awakening
vulcano
. He rose from his bed and ran to the home of the buck-toothed
magistrato
, the richest man in Giuliana. There, Papa unfastened the bell from the magistrate’s cow and ran through the village, ringing and shouting, awakening
the citizens of Giuliana so that they could rescue themselves. Some say my mother, too, saved lives that night. She ran to the nearest tree and screamed like a siren!

For his heroism, my father received a
medaglia
from the King of Italy. It arrived by way of the
magistrato
’s official mail. Even before Papa could hold it in his hands, that goddamned buck-toothed
magistrato
bit the medal and determined it was solid gold, marking it forever with the impression of his horse-like teeth. Later, he presented the marred
medaglia
to my father at a formal
ceremonia
in the village square. At the time of this great honor, I was merely a seed in the melon of my mother’s belly, but the village women agreed that the alignment of my conception with Mount Etna’s eruption indicated that my destiny was to be a great and powerful man! I was now, in addition, the unborn son of a hero!

My mother presented her husband with three sons. Sons of Italy, marry wisely! Male heirs are the greatest gifts a woman can bestow! I, Domenico Onofrio Tempesta, came into this world on 11 May 1880 and my brother Pasquale was born two years later under more ordinary circumstances. My brother Vincenzo was born in 1883.

My father’s heroism made him, after the village
padre
and the
magistrato
, the most respected man in our little village. As a young boy, I remember Papa leading parades and processions at holiday times and presiding with dignity at village festivals. At these times, he would take his
medaglia
from its keeping place and wear it proudly against his breast. I remember, too, that medal, with its likeness of the King on horseback and the magistrate’s big teeth marks embedded in the horse’s golden flank.

When I was six, the Virgin Mary herself confirmed the suspicions of the village women that, amongst the children of Giuliana, I was
speciale
!

Sent by my mother to deliver a new goose-down pillow to the
padre
, I looked for him inside the small limestone church and then out in the grotto made famous years earlier by the Statue of the
Weeping
Vergine
. It was there that I—Domenico Onofrio Tempesta —witnessed a miracle! After a drought of seventy-seven years, tears were falling once again from the eyes of the statue! Of all the villagers—men, women, and children—it was I to whom the Weeping
Vergine
chose to reveal herself!