admitted. “But what I meant was this, Father. My income…”
“You see?” Papa interrupted. “Nearly four years, they been married. Plenty time for two, a little boy and a little girl. My grandchildren. But are they here, Father? Go upstairs. Look in all the rooms, under the beds, in the closets. You won’t find them. Little Nicky and little Philomena. Nicky, he’d be about three now, talking to his Grandpa. The little girl, she’d be just walking. You see them around, Father? Go out in the back yard; look in the garage. No, you won’t find them, because they ain’t here. And it’s his fault!” Papa’s right forefinger, the one with the broken nail, shot toward me.
“Stop it, Papa.”
“I won’t stop it. I want to know, because I’m their Grandpa: Where’s Nicky? Where’s Philomena?”
“How do I know where they are?”
Joyce went over to Papa and sat down beside him. She spoke quietly, holding his big red paw. “There haven’t been any others, Papa Fante. Really and truly.”
This was not the way to handle him, for he could wallow in sentimentality. Sure enough, he began to get grief-stricken, his chin jerking, his eyes suddenly wet. I tried toappeal to Joyce with my eyes. It was true that I had opposed pregnancy until we could afford it. It was also true that she had been willing to risk it without money. But I had never thought of those times as distinct human entities, or given them names, those unconceived babies, and now in Joyce’s face I saw the loss, the small despair, since Papa had stated it in that sentimental fashion.
“I am talking with my blood,” Papa continued. “There’s two I’ll never see, but they’re here, someplace, and their Grandpa’s not feeling so good, because he can’t buy them ice cream cones.”
He began to weep, poking his big knuckles into his eyes and pushing the tears away. He took another swig from the bottle and stood up, a mixture of many moods, wiping his mouth, puffing his cigar, crying, savoring the wine, pleased with his role of a despairing grandfather, yet brokenhearted because the babies were not present. Father John put an arm around him, hugging him with rough affection. They grumbled something of a farewell in Italian and Papa staggered upstairs to sleep off the wine, his chin out, his chest out, bravely up the stairs to his room, triumphantly up the stairs.
We were silent a moment. Joyce dabbed her eyes and nose with a handkerchief.
“It’s the wine,” I explained. ‘The wine makes him very sentimental.”
“And you?” the priest asked.
I shrugged. “I do the best I can.”
“I wonder…”
He had to leave us. Papa had saddened him. I helped him into his black serge coat and the three of us went outside and across the lawn to his car. We shook hands.
“Watch your language around your father,” he cautioned. “He’s very sensitive.”
“I know.”
“I want you back in the Church.”
“I’ll try, Father.”
We watched him drive away, the car entering Wilshire Boulevard, the roar of the late afternoon traffic like a great river in the spring. We did not speak as we walked back to the house. She came into the kitchen after me, and I got out some ice cubes for a drink. In silence she watched me mix some Martinis.
“Does he help you?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“He’ll never be a bishop. Or even a monsignor.”
“But he’s really a saint. Simple, honest, never doubting.”
“Simple, indeed.”
“He has the faith.”
“I wonder where he got his theology.”
She sighed. “I admit it. Theology does give him some trouble. He can’t explain the Mystical Body of Christ. And he doesn’t know it, but he’s really a Calvinist, and believes in predestination. All week long I’ve tried to straighten him out, but I can’t make him understand.”
Blessed be the womb that bears my son!
I kissed her and we had a Martini. She drank thoughtfully, something disturbing her. It was nearly dark now. She took her drink
“You see?” Papa interrupted. “Nearly four years, they been married. Plenty time for two, a little boy and a little girl. My grandchildren. But are they here, Father? Go upstairs. Look in all the rooms, under the beds, in the closets. You won’t find them. Little Nicky and little Philomena. Nicky, he’d be about three now, talking to his Grandpa. The little girl, she’d be just walking. You see them around, Father? Go out in the back yard; look in the garage. No, you won’t find them, because they ain’t here. And it’s his fault!” Papa’s right forefinger, the one with the broken nail, shot toward me.
“Stop it, Papa.”
“I won’t stop it. I want to know, because I’m their Grandpa: Where’s Nicky? Where’s Philomena?”
“How do I know where they are?”
Joyce went over to Papa and sat down beside him. She spoke quietly, holding his big red paw. “There haven’t been any others, Papa Fante. Really and truly.”
This was not the way to handle him, for he could wallow in sentimentality. Sure enough, he began to get grief-stricken, his chin jerking, his eyes suddenly wet. I tried toappeal to Joyce with my eyes. It was true that I had opposed pregnancy until we could afford it. It was also true that she had been willing to risk it without money. But I had never thought of those times as distinct human entities, or given them names, those unconceived babies, and now in Joyce’s face I saw the loss, the small despair, since Papa had stated it in that sentimental fashion.
“I am talking with my blood,” Papa continued. “There’s two I’ll never see, but they’re here, someplace, and their Grandpa’s not feeling so good, because he can’t buy them ice cream cones.”
He began to weep, poking his big knuckles into his eyes and pushing the tears away. He took another swig from the bottle and stood up, a mixture of many moods, wiping his mouth, puffing his cigar, crying, savoring the wine, pleased with his role of a despairing grandfather, yet brokenhearted because the babies were not present. Father John put an arm around him, hugging him with rough affection. They grumbled something of a farewell in Italian and Papa staggered upstairs to sleep off the wine, his chin out, his chest out, bravely up the stairs to his room, triumphantly up the stairs.
We were silent a moment. Joyce dabbed her eyes and nose with a handkerchief.
“It’s the wine,” I explained. ‘The wine makes him very sentimental.”
“And you?” the priest asked.
I shrugged. “I do the best I can.”
“I wonder…”
He had to leave us. Papa had saddened him. I helped him into his black serge coat and the three of us went outside and across the lawn to his car. We shook hands.
“Watch your language around your father,” he cautioned. “He’s very sensitive.”
“I know.”
“I want you back in the Church.”
“I’ll try, Father.”
We watched him drive away, the car entering Wilshire Boulevard, the roar of the late afternoon traffic like a great river in the spring. We did not speak as we walked back to the house. She came into the kitchen after me, and I got out some ice cubes for a drink. In silence she watched me mix some Martinis.
“Does he help you?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“He’ll never be a bishop. Or even a monsignor.”
“But he’s really a saint. Simple, honest, never doubting.”
“Simple, indeed.”
“He has the faith.”
“I wonder where he got his theology.”
She sighed. “I admit it. Theology does give him some trouble. He can’t explain the Mystical Body of Christ. And he doesn’t know it, but he’s really a Calvinist, and believes in predestination. All week long I’ve tried to straighten him out, but I can’t make him understand.”
Blessed be the womb that bears my son!
I kissed her and we had a Martini. She drank thoughtfully, something disturbing her. It was nearly dark now. She took her drink
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