The Evening News (16 page)

“It's a nice church we're going to, not one of those new ones that look like a gymnasium?”

“Beautiful,” Peter said, eyes on the road. “Stained glass everywhere you can see. More statues than a cemetery, even more than Chicago's Holy Name. So gorgeous that when you walk inside it takes your breath away.” The Chevy hit another pothole.

“This ride is taking my breath away,” Gus said with disgust.

Peter and Lena ignored him. “But not so beautiful as our parish back home,” Lena said. A furrow of worry creased her brow.

“Of course not, Mamma. Nothing can ever beat what's back home.”

Lena adjusted her hat and beamed.

“A church is a church,” Gus said. The blanket beneath his legs had begun to bunch up, revealing the tips of two springs that poked through the upholstery. “What do you think, God cares about the furniture?”

“God cares about furniture,” Lena said.

“Yeah, maybe the collection basket.” Gus pounded the dash and laughed.

“He cares,” Lena said. “Why else did He make Jesus a carpenter?”

“Two points, Mamma.” Peter licked two fingers and slashed them in the air.

His father's thighs discovered the exposed springs. “Petie, you got to do something about this car. How can you take a girl out and expect her to sit on this? She'll rip her dress.”

“Father Luigi still asks about you,” Lena said. She shook her head at August, then pointed out his window at a tall magnolia tree. “He says, ‘And how is Petie, good old Petie, my favorite altar boy, how's Petie now that he left his good parents and moved down to the South all because he didn't look hard enough for a job in Chicago or maybe because he just wanted to get away from his poor mamma—'”

“Father Luigi says all that?”

“Every Sunday, Petie. He stops us outside church. And sometimes we see him on Thursday nights after he meets with the parish council.”

Peter tried a different street. “You're a deacon now, Papa? Mamma said something about Father Luigi asking you to become a deacon?”

Gus wrestled with the springs, his thumbs trying to push them back beneath the upholstery.

“Eucharistic minister,” Lena said. “He doesn't think he's worthy.” She smiled at her husband, then tried to stop his hands. “He gets up and reads the Gospel sometimes, but he doesn't want to give out Communion. Why should he, he's no priest.”

“Things change, Mamma. That's legal now.”

“It used to be a mortal sin and now they even let Nick Guiliani touch the Host.” Nick Guiliani owned the neighborhood Shell station. “Whenever I see him passing it out with his greasy hands I change lines. Don't we, August? Holy Communion should come from a priest, not Nick Guiliani.”

“Before you open your mouth, Mamma, you could whisper, ‘Hey Nick, fill her up!'”

Gus chuckled as Lena said, “You take it in your hand, Petie.
I'll do it the old way with Father Luigi, but when I get stuck in a line with an ordinary person I take it in my hand. You don't know if they wash.”

“It still goes in your mouth, Mamma.”

“Yeah, but I give the germs time to jump off on my hand.” Lena nodded and looked at her hand. “We talked all about it one night during parish council. Your papa thinks I'm crazy.”

“What did Father Luigi say?”

“He thought she was crazy too,” Gus said.

“No he didn't,” Lena said. “He changed the subject. Whenever I talk to him, he changes the subject. That was the night he first asked me about you.”

Peter turned back toward Hampton Boulevard. Azaleas of all colors bloomed in front of the houses lining the streets. Absently Peter said, “So what did you tell him about me? Good things?”

Lena stared at her hands, her lap, the car's roof, out the windshield, all the time shrugging and looking hurt and sad. Peter realized his mistake. He gave the Chevy gas.

“What could I say, Petie? What can a mother say? That her son doesn't think the upstairs flat is good enough for him, His Royal Highness, so he has to move out into a dangerous neighborhood full of hoodlums and ends up wasting half of his paycheck on rent?”

“Mamma, that was nearly two years ago.”

“Let me finish. You asked me a question, so the least you could do is hold your breath until I'm finished.” Peter reached across the dash for a cigarette. August's thumbs again fought the springs. Lena nodded her head and smoothed her dress. “That's only the tip of the iceberg, my son. Don't think anything you do ever escapes your mother's eyes.”

“Lena,” Gus said, “get to the point.”

“Don't be in such a hurry, Augusto.” Lena called her husband Augusto only during arguments. “You're on vacation now. You unloaded trucks fifty weeks for this. Relax. Remember,
the doctor told you you don't have a strong heart.” The Chevy bounced over another pothole. “Your son throws away his good money on an opium den on South Halsted and you don't think his mother sees? Then he met that girl— That stewardess— That hussy—”

“Lorraine wasn't a hussy, Mamma.”

“She moved in with you, didn't she? You didn't marry her, did you? What do you think, I was born yesterday? I don't want to open old wounds, but you had only one bed in that apartment, Petie.”

“You'd actually take a girl out in a car like this?” Gus had succeeded in getting the springs beneath the upholstery, but the last bump popped them out again. “I can't believe it. I wouldn't be caught dead. She'd have to wear a suit of armor.”

“Dominus vobiscum,”
Peter said. The Lord be with you.
“Et cum spiritu tuo.”
And with thy spirit. With his right hand Peter made a broad sign of the Cross over the steering wheel.

“But then she got wise,” Lena said, “and never came back from a flight to Albuquerque.”

“Tucson,” Peter said.

“What's the difference?” Lena said. “You gave her some thrills, and the hussy packed her bags. So you had your fun, some pleasure, a little enjoyment.”

“Lena,” Gus said, “it's a Sunday. Don't describe.”

“It's only natural, Augusto. We raised a healthy boy. His blood is red like everyone else's. Just as long as he doesn't get disease. Don't pretend to be such an innocent.”

“The church is around here somewhere,” Peter said, taking a drag off his cigarette and letting out the clutch.

Gus pointed to his heart. “Me? Pretend to be an innocent? Lena, I'm more faithful than Lassie. You believe too many of Monty's stories.”

“I know you served your country, Augusto, but you were stationed in France for two years. I go to movies. I'm a modern woman. I wasn't born with blinders on my eyes.”

“Maybe it's the next block.” Peter exhaled a line of smoke.

“I've never strayed,” Gus said. “Even before I met you I was faithful. I swear to God. Nowadays I don't even look.”

“Oh, I could see what Little Miss Airlines was doing to our Petie.” Lena turned to her son. “First you grew that ugly mustache. Then you started wearing those stupid clothes. How can you sit down when your pants are that tight? And you wouldn't button all the buttons on your shirts. Was it the thin air up in the clouds that made her think that was sexy? Then you lost so much weight I thought we'd have to put you in the hospital. Didn't she know how to cook? I know you had a stove, I cleaned it with my own hands. But I suppose the kitchen was too far away from the bedroom.”

“Lorraine was a vegetarian, Mamma.”

“I cook vegetables. August, tell Petie that I cook vegetables.”

“Petie, she cooks vegetables.”

“What you need is to come back to Chicago where you can meet a good clean Catholic girl. Somebody like Rosamaria D'Agostino.”

“Mamma, Rosamaria D'Agostino joined the Carmelites. She teaches kindergarten in South Bend.”

“Are you sure you know where this church is?” Gus said.

“She would have married you if you asked her,” Lena said. “God was her second choice.”

“There's a church,” Gus said, pointing beyond the windshield.

“That's a post office,” Peter said, “and Rosamaria D'Agostino wouldn't have married the Pope. Even back in second grade she wanted to grow up and become a saint. The rest of the kids talked about being cops or firemen or astronauts, but not Rosamaria D'Agostino. She even had picked out her own feast day.” He made a turn at 38th Street and tossed his cigarette out his window.

“Some children are blessed with ambition, Petie,” Lena said. “Others need a little time to grow, settle down, mature. You could take a page out of her book, you know.”

“But you always told me someday you wanted grandchildren.”

“You could make plans, Petie.”

“I know. Wake up, smell the coffee.”

“The early bird eats the worms.”

“Remember the Alamo. Tippecanoe and Tyler too.” Peter turned, heading back toward Colley Avenue.
“Benedicamus Domino.”
Let us bless the Lord.

“You had such promise, Petie.” Lena snapped open her purse. She shook her head sadly. “Three merit badges short of being an Eagle Scout. Second soprano in the fifth-grade choir. Sergeant of the Saint Felicitas patrol boys. Captain altar boy. Then in high school you were president of the Camera Club. We were so proud. And all of your science projects, Petie. Remember how you used to cut up those ugly worms? We still keep your jars and ribbons in your old room.” Lena held a round mirror before her face as she spread on a fresh layer of lipstick. “Remember how proud we were when they printed the news in the parish bulletin? We thought maybe you'd get a college scholarship. We thought you'd find the cure to cancer. Work with test tubes and one of those fancy electronic microscopes, go to your job every day wearing a white coat and a tie. Ah, a mother's hopes and dreams. I knew they were all down the drain the day you flunked out of junior college.”

“I dropped out, Mamma.”

“We're family, Petie. You flunked out. Don't be polite.”

“I wear a tie to work, Mamma.”

“You wear a tie. The crazy Albanian who runs the fruit stand up on Clark Street wears a tie.” Lena put her mirror and lipstick back inside her purse. “Whenever the ladies come in he smiles and pinches the cucumbers.” She blotted her lips
with a tissue. “That's all men think of nowadays. I tell you, son, that girl ruined your life. Just look at you. Why can't you at least shave off your mustache?”

Peter braked suddenly at a red light on Colley. “Papa, did you ever feel like giving someone we know and love a little punch?”

“Petie!” Lena said, one hand flying to her breastbone, the other brushing the top of her black hat.

Gus stared out the window, then turned to Peter and smiled. “That's a good question. Don't think I was never tempted. But what good would it do? I'm not a brute. I once knew a man who hit his wife—remember Sal, Lena? The time he raised a hand to Sophie? We visited him in the intensive care. He couldn't carry on a conversation because of all the tubes in his mouth and nose, so we'd stand by his bed and say, ‘Hello, Sal, we hope your bones set, we hope the doctors can stop the bleeding. The priest is on his way to give you the Last Rites.'” Gus laughed. “They were boring visits. All Sal could do was gurgle.” He caught Peter's eye, then nodded at Lena. “A man lives and learns. Are you taking us to church, Petie?”

“Of course, Papa.” Peter revved his engine. “Why?”

“Because unless I'm seeing things we already drove past this post office.” He pointed again beyond the windshield.

The Chevy roared across the intersection. Lena stared straight ahead, her arms folded atop her purse. She seemed made of stone or ice. The engine popped and whined as Peter put it through its gears. “There are an awful lot of post offices down here in the South, Papa. And every one looks alike. I figured I'd take the scenic route and show you some of the sights. We'll get to the church in no time.”

“Messenger boy,” Lena said finally.

“What?” Peter and Gus said, surprised.

“Messenger boy. Flunky. Lackey. That's what I raised. A stooge. Big deal, so he wears a tie, maybe even a nice pair of
dress pants, not that he puts them on when I come a thousand miles to see him. So he has clean hands. But he's still somebody's errand boy.”

“I'm a courier, Mamma.”

“You're one of the Three Stooges. The stupid fat one they hit all the time in the face. Oh, I never liked that show. And I never liked those Marx Brothers, honking their horns at innocent women and walking all over good furniture and throwing pies in your face.” Lena took a deep breath. “So your papa should hit me? I'll show you hit, Petie boy. Pull over. Augusto, hand me your belt. He's not too old to beat.”

“The boy didn't mean anything—” Gus began.

“Augusto, he showed disrespect.” Lena swallowed. “Take us to the airport. We're going home.”

Peter drove, his mother's words falling around him like slaps. In the sky a pair of seagulls squealed and soared. “Mamma,” he said, “Mamma, I've always tried to do my best. It wasn't my fault I couldn't find a job in Chicago. I looked. I tried. But when Lorraine didn't come back from Tucson I felt devastated.” He glanced at Lena to see if she was softening. “Mamma, I was hurt. I was abandoned. I was lonely and without love.”

Gus rolled his eyes. “There's a church. Or is it another post office?”

The Chevy bounced forward, free of stop signs, red lights. “I thought about becoming an alcoholic, Mamma, and then I considered trying marijuana, paint thinner, Coke and aspirin. At night I walked the rainy streets, hoping I'd get mugged. I was broken and shattered, Mamma. I even thought about committing the unforgivable sin of suicide. I figured I'd cross State and Madison in front of a taxicab, or I'd blow out the pilot and put the oven on broil.”