Taking The Heat (25 page)

He shook his head.

“Hair color?” he asked.

“Blonde, you know that,” I snapped.

“Nail polish?” he asked.

“Nail polish is purple. Well, at least today it is. So are her toes,” I responded.

“You cocksucker, I see where you’re going,” I whispered as I shook my head.

“You’ve come a long way Toad. She’s a fine woman. Hell,
I
didn’t even know when your birthday was, because you don’t celebrate ‘em. She gathered up all the fellas, fuck, she called me two weeks ago; that’s a damn good woman. Just thought I’d check with ya, and make sure you knew all the essentials before I gave you my final endorsement,” he said as he slapped his hand against my bicep.

“Well?” I shrugged.

“You’re good to go,” he nodded as he opened the door.

I stared into the room. Everyone stood and smiled as I held the pup. As I lowered him to the floor I noticed he had a camouflage quick-release collar identical to the one I picked out at the vet the day I took the pup in. I glanced up at Sydney.

“You pick out he collar, too?” I asked.

She nodded her head, “They didn’t have a U.S.M.C one.”

I inhaled a shallow breath and gazed down at the pup. For a short second, I closed my eyes and gave thanks for everyone in attendance, but especially for the woman I loved, Sydney. I glanced upward and clapped my hands.

“Where’s the cake?” I chuckled.

“Didn’t bring you no cake, bossman. But I gots us some apple pies,” Junior responded.

Axton and Junior stepped aside, revealing three apple pies with candles in them. I hadn’t had a birthday cake since I was a kid. In many respects, I felt like a kid again. I turned to Sydney and shook my head.

“I love you,” I breathed.

She grinned and nodded her head, “I passed that stage a long fucking time ago.”

“Quit flirting with the girl and blow out these fucking candles, Toad,” Axton huffed, “I’ve got shit to do.”

I turned toward the flaming candles and shook my head, “Like
what
?”

“I’ve got a dog to train,” he responded.

I closed my eyes, inhaled, made a wish, and blew for all I was worth. Fucked up lung or not, I blew out every candle on the three pies.

I guess that means I’m going to get my wish…

TOAD

With the passage of time, things change. Whether we like it or not, or care to admit it, time brings change. Time causes the deterioration of earth, aging of the mind and body, and maturity, amongst other things. In spite of our willingness to accept it, time passes even when we hide our heads from the reality of the ticking clock.

The ride to Philadelphia was pleasant. Warm and without rain the entire trip, it was as if we had planned it based solely on the weather. Truthfully, we merely packed our bags, dropped off Croak with Axton, and hit he open road.

As we rolled along Bainbridge, I gazed in the distance toward the same home I grew up in as a kid. Now feeling a little more apprehensive than I had during the trip, I began to wonder if they still lived in the same house. As we slowly rolled past, Sydney tapped her fingers into my thighs with the beat of the softly playing music. The color of the trim was different, the door appeared to be new, and the landscaping had been altered. Anything was possible. As I reached the end of the block, I turned around and began considering my apology-greeting combination.

Sydney leaned forward and rested her cheek against my jaw, “Close?”

I nodded my head and pointed at the brick home.

She nodded and leaned back into the seat. As I rolled into the driveway, I flipped off the ignition, coasted into the end of the drive, and exhaled. After lowering the kickstand and securing the bike, Sydney stepped off into the driveway. As we stretched our legs and I contemplated going up the walk, the door opened.

“Mio Figlio,” he said as he opened his arms.

I bit my lower lip, turned toward Sydney, and blinked my eyes a few times. After extending my arm in her direction, she walked to my side. As I wrapped my arm around her, I turned to face my father and released my lip.

“
Buongiorno, padre. Ci si sente
bello essere a casa
,” I slowly began to walk up the walkway toward the porch. My mother wedged herself between my father and the door frame, blinked, and immediately raised her hands to her face and began to cry.

“Mi dispiace per il mio tempo lontano, ma ho portato una donna. Una donna che amo. Semplicemente ho messo un po 'per trovare il suo,” I said as we reached the porch.

“English, baby,” Sydney whispered.

“I said I’d like you to meet Sydney,” I said.

My father wiped his hands against his pants and almost fell down the steps as he rushed to the sidewalk. After wiping his hands again on his thighs again, he opened his arms and smiled.

“He’s not going to shake your hand, hug the man,” I sighed.

He lifted Sydney from her feet and hugged her as if she were his own. My mother wiped her hands on her apron and quickly shuffled down the steps and grabbed me in her arms. After squeezing me much more than my throbbing shoulder preferred, she released me and grabbed Sydney.

My mother studied Sydney, turned to me, and placed her palms against my cheeks. Softly, and through teary eyes, she spoke, “
Lei è una bella donna , ma lei non è italiano.”

“Baby,” Sydney breathed.

“English momma. English,” I sighed.

“I said it was good to be home, and that I brought the woman I loved with me,” I said.

My father shook his head, “No, mio figlio, you said you were so sorry for being late, but you took so long to find the most beautiful woman in the world before you came home.”

I nodded my head, “He’s right. I said all of that.”

I turned to face my mother, and grinned as I spoke, “Momma says you’re beautiful…”

She shook her head from side to side and covered her mouth. I raised my hands and turned toward Sydney.

“But she said you’re not an Italian girl,” I chuckled.

Sydney shrugged, “Sorry, I’m not Italian. But no one can love him as much as I do.”

“Does she like the meatballs?” my mother asked.

“I don’t know, ask her,” I replied.

Sydney nodded her head, “I do, yes.”

My mother turned and walked in the house. As my father wrapped his arm around my waist, I placed mine over Sydney’s shoulder. Together, we walked into the house. As I entered the home, I immediately noticed nothing had changed; the same furniture, the same placement of photos and plants, and the same smell of food cooking. As nervous as I was to return, I was beginning to feel as if I was welcome all along.

I stood and stared into the living room and inhaled a slow, deep breath. A photo of me in my Marine dress blues was centered in the mantle over the fireplace. I grinned as I admired the young man in the photo. A lifetime seemed to have passed since the photo was taken.

“Show her to the kitchen,” my father said.

In my father’s eyes, Sydney belonged in the kitchen with my mother. It was not a disrespectful thing in his eyes, but more of a traditional family matter. Italian women gathered in the kitchen and cooked together. Men sat and ate, talked, and drank. For him to have said what he said meant to me he had already accepted Sydney as being who she was; the woman I loved.

Sydney followed me to the kitchen. As soon as we walked in, my mother turned toward us and smiled. The aroma of basil, tomatoes, pork, and flour filled the air.

“Let me show you,” my mother said as she waved her arm toward the oven.

“She’ll want to explain everything…” I began.

“I’ll be fine,” Sydney said under her breath. 

“Sure?” I asked.

Sydney turned toward me and wrinkled her brow, “Yes. Now go see your father.”

I kissed my mother on the cheek, and turned toward the door. As I walked away, I heard my mother begin to explain things to Sydney.

“Italian men won’t eat pasta from the market. We’ll make the pasta inna minute. Let me show you…”

I shook my head and laughed to myself. For the last ten years, I’d eaten pasta from a can. The smell from the kitchen and the thought of once again having my mother’s cooking caused my mouth to water. As I stepped into the living room, my father stood from his chair and struggled to speak.

“Sit…” I sighed as I pointed to the chair.

“I’m done sitting. I want to stand,” he said as he began pacing the floor.

“I missed you,” I said under my breath.

He turned to face me, gazed into my eyes, and eventually smiled. Although his face seemed the same, I knew he had aged since I’d seen him last. Standing before him now, I felt guilty for the time away, and wished I could change the fact I had been gone for so long. There was no way to make up for my failure to be the son to them they had raised and expected, but I felt I needed to try. If nothing else, I felt a desire to explain my version of why I acted in the manner I had.

“I uhhm. Over there,” I tossed my head toward the door.

“I uhhm. I did things…”

He raised his hand to his face and pressed his index finger to his mouth, “Shhh.”

After another lap across the floor, he looked up and nodded his head, “You know, it doesn’t matter. The war, what happened over there, none of it matters. We’re proud of you. We’ve seen the movies. Your momma and I watched the new one; the Clint Eastwood movie with the boy from Texas. That war….”

He shook his head and rolled his eyes, “It was different. I sat in Korea and froze half to death while we waited for an enemy who never came. Your grandfather froze to half to death in France in foxholes while he tried to keep from being shot…”

“You? You fought a man while you looked into his eyes. You fought in cities and in homes. Face to face. You fought women and children. Your war was different. I’m sorry, figlio,” he said as he stretched his arms wide.

As we embraced, I found it comforting that although I had not spoken to him regarding my concerns, reasons for not visiting, or my mental state of being, I didn’t have to. He was my father, and somehow, he knew. On his own, he had determined through my actions, or lack of actions, what was potentially wrong with me, and what I must be feeling as a result.

Over the course of my life with them, they carefully molded me into the man I had become. If anyone knew
me
, my inner workings, my strengths, and my weaknesses, it would stand to reason it would be my parents. 

As he released me, I leaned away from him and nodded my head. I opened my mouth with every intention of speaking, but could find no words to say. At a loss for more than the words I wasn’t able to find, I stepped to the couch and sat down.

“I like the color of the trim and the new door, they look nice,” I said as I sat down.

He shook his head, “Your mother and I fought for a month over the color.”

I inhaled a deep breath and looked around the room. The tattered map of Italy from my grandfather’s home was hanging on the wall beside my father’s chair. I remembered the map from their house on the wall beside where the Christmas tree had always been placed. I smiled at the memories as I studied it, took another shallow breath, and exhaled.

“Meatballs?” I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders, “Sometimes I think it’s all she knows…”

“
Amo la cucina di mia madre,” I sighed.

He nodded his head, “Sono d'accordo.”

As I glanced around the room, I realized although time passes and things change in the process,
some
things never changes.

Home is always home.

And I will always be my father’s son.

TOAD

More meatballs than I cared to eat, laughing, recalled memories, and countless stories later, and I was in the kitchen spending time with my mother as Sydney spoke to my father. Although I had no expectation of my parents
rejecting
Sydney, I had reservations about their
complete
acceptance of her. She was not Italian, nor was she Catholic. After spending the entire day with them, it was apparent they only wanted me to be happy. Pleased at their understanding, acceptance, and expressed love for Sydney, I felt it necessary to explain to my mother the depth of my love for Sydney.

“Momma, she’s the one,” I said over her shoulder as I stood behind her.

She nodded her head, “She’s a nice girl.”

“No momma. She’s
the one
,” I said as I kissed her cheek.

She wiped her hands against her apron and turned around. I nodded my head and smiled. She raised her hands to her mouth and gasped. Without speaking, she lowered her hand from her mouth, turned her index finger upward, and ran from the room. After I spent several minutes alone cleaning up the kitchen, she returned with her hand at her side.

“Cambio, you ask her proper. For your momma, capisce?” she said as she stood with her hands at her side.

“I will, momma,” I nodded.

“And,” she paused and raised her hand in front of her apron.

She opened her hand. A small burgundy box sat in the center of her wrinkled palm. With a shaking hand, she reached over and opened the box. A gorgeous ring with a large center stone and several stones along each side, all of what appeared to be diamonds, glistened from its perch on the pedestal in center of the box.

“This was your grandmother’s ring. Your grandfather Nonno,” she hesitated and raised her hand to her mouth as she inhaled a choppy breath.

“Mother, I can’t…”

“You hush, Cambio. You think you know everything. Since you were this tall,” she lowered her hand from her mouth and held it two feet over the floor.

“You don’t. Your Nonno told me. When he passed. He wanted this for you when the day came. So you hush and you listen to you momma, capisce?” she said.

I nodded my head.

She raised one eyebrow.

“Capisce?” she asked sternly.

“Capisco,” I sighed.

“Your Nonno said to give this to you. It’s old. He bought if for your grandmother after the war. He couldn’t afford a ring before the war, so she wore a metal band made of copper. After the war, he bought this. It’s the ring she wore the entire time you knew her as your grandmother,” she explained as she gazed down at the ring.

After a short pause, she closed the box, and clutched it in her hand. She extended her arm and softly began to cry. As I reached for her hand and opened my palm, I too began to cry at the thought of one day asking Sydney to marry me.

Through tearful eyes, she spoke, “You ask her proper, capisce?”

“Capisco,” I responded as I wiped the tear from my cheeks.

And she dropped the ring into my hand.

As I clutched the ring in my hand and hugged my mother, it was as if the memories and love associated with the ring began to fill me. Be it from my mother’s expressed love through her embrace and her soft crying, or from the thought of the ring and the history behind it, I began to feel as if I were filling with love.

As I released her and kissed her cheek, I realized I had truly reached a point that I could safely say, without reservation, that I was a changed man. As I shoved the ring deeply into my left pocket, there was no doubt in my mind that I had finally reached the point…

I was unbroken.