across the five boroughs. He’s carried dead men, felt the weight of their forfeited hopes. He will do what needs to be done.
They sit there, wordless, until a fire engine thunders down the street. An ambulance follows shortly after. Neighbors step out of houses, wander over. Michael talks to the firefighters, leads them inside. When he walks back to the house, Maria comes limping across the front lawn. She had to park down the block because of the commotion. Michael walks up to her, explains what happened. Gail watches her make the sign of the cross as she stares at the house. They come inside.
Michael smiles at the boys and says simply, “He’s gone.” Diana starts sobbing. When Peter asks who’s gone, Michael kneels down and hugs him.
“Mr. Greeley’s gone. He went away, to a better place.”
Michael retrieves a bottle of whiskey from the basement, pours a small measure for himself, Gail, Maria, and Diana. When they finish it, he walks Diana home.
In bed that night, he tells Gail that he found Mr. Greeley in his ugly brown chair, mouth agape, an uneaten plate of ham steak and fried eggs in his lap. He was already gone by the time Michael got there.
“Heart attack.”
“It’s terrible. So sad.”
“Oh, I don’t know. To go suddenly, no suffering, at seventy-four? While staring at Diana Landini’s tits? I’d sign for that.”
She hits him and he laughs.
“Pig.”
She’s wanted to crawl into bed with him all day. The only meaningful protest to death. She climbs on top of him and lets go of her dark thoughts. When they finish, Michael spoons her from behind, whispers in her ear.
“Pig fucker.”
When Michael falls asleep, she gets up and checks in on Peter and Franky. She lingers over them, touching their hair and watching the tiny, restless spasms of their sleep.
* * *
She sweats through her third full pregnancy. A brutal summer starts early and leaks into October. She wakes sweating, falls asleep in a sheen. She spends her days leaning into the fridge or standing in front of the giant fan that cools the living room. Peggy is pregnant as well, a month further along; she comes to Gail’s house and they sweat together, with ice cubes on their tongues, the backs of their necks, under their arms.
While Gail sweats, Maria coughs. She starts coughing around Memorial Day and is still coughing on Labor Day. It’s a thick, phlegmy cough, sounds like her lungs have been filled with the wrong fuel. Every day, Gail asks her if she’s okay.
“A cold,” she says. “
Nulla
.” Nothing.
She rubs Gail’s stomach to change the subject. Maria thinks it’s a girl. Gail thinks Maria may be right, especially if it’s true that girls steal their mother’s beauty. Her face is gaunt one day, puffy the next. Her legs ache with varicose veins. Even her translucent eyes seem dim and drab. She perspires like an obese sultan and the older boys, conscious of impending change, hang all over her.
In the fall, Maria’s cough turns sharp and painful. The phlegm disappears; her mouth seems to pull sound from an empty chamber. One morning, Gail sees a red spot on the handkerchief that she coughs into and insists that she see a doctor. Not tomorrow or next week. Today.
“It’s nothing,
nulla
.”
Gail doesn’t accept this answer. She drives Maria to the appointment herself, her swollen stomach grazing the steering wheel. The doctor tells her it’s viral bronchitis, nothing too serious. He suggests using a humidifier, drinking tea with honey and lemon, and taking Tylenol for the pain. Gail drives Maria home, stopping at a pharmacy to buy a humidifier. She sets up the humidifier in the still, dust-flecked bedroom of Maria’s house. She tells Maria that she should stay home for a few weeks and rest. Maria says that Gail needs help, that she can’t manage the two boys alone in her condition. Gail tells her that she’ll need more help when the baby arrives, that she’ll need a fully rested Maria without any
They sit there, wordless, until a fire engine thunders down the street. An ambulance follows shortly after. Neighbors step out of houses, wander over. Michael talks to the firefighters, leads them inside. When he walks back to the house, Maria comes limping across the front lawn. She had to park down the block because of the commotion. Michael walks up to her, explains what happened. Gail watches her make the sign of the cross as she stares at the house. They come inside.
Michael smiles at the boys and says simply, “He’s gone.” Diana starts sobbing. When Peter asks who’s gone, Michael kneels down and hugs him.
“Mr. Greeley’s gone. He went away, to a better place.”
Michael retrieves a bottle of whiskey from the basement, pours a small measure for himself, Gail, Maria, and Diana. When they finish it, he walks Diana home.
In bed that night, he tells Gail that he found Mr. Greeley in his ugly brown chair, mouth agape, an uneaten plate of ham steak and fried eggs in his lap. He was already gone by the time Michael got there.
“Heart attack.”
“It’s terrible. So sad.”
“Oh, I don’t know. To go suddenly, no suffering, at seventy-four? While staring at Diana Landini’s tits? I’d sign for that.”
She hits him and he laughs.
“Pig.”
She’s wanted to crawl into bed with him all day. The only meaningful protest to death. She climbs on top of him and lets go of her dark thoughts. When they finish, Michael spoons her from behind, whispers in her ear.
“Pig fucker.”
When Michael falls asleep, she gets up and checks in on Peter and Franky. She lingers over them, touching their hair and watching the tiny, restless spasms of their sleep.
* * *
She sweats through her third full pregnancy. A brutal summer starts early and leaks into October. She wakes sweating, falls asleep in a sheen. She spends her days leaning into the fridge or standing in front of the giant fan that cools the living room. Peggy is pregnant as well, a month further along; she comes to Gail’s house and they sweat together, with ice cubes on their tongues, the backs of their necks, under their arms.
While Gail sweats, Maria coughs. She starts coughing around Memorial Day and is still coughing on Labor Day. It’s a thick, phlegmy cough, sounds like her lungs have been filled with the wrong fuel. Every day, Gail asks her if she’s okay.
“A cold,” she says. “
Nulla
.” Nothing.
She rubs Gail’s stomach to change the subject. Maria thinks it’s a girl. Gail thinks Maria may be right, especially if it’s true that girls steal their mother’s beauty. Her face is gaunt one day, puffy the next. Her legs ache with varicose veins. Even her translucent eyes seem dim and drab. She perspires like an obese sultan and the older boys, conscious of impending change, hang all over her.
In the fall, Maria’s cough turns sharp and painful. The phlegm disappears; her mouth seems to pull sound from an empty chamber. One morning, Gail sees a red spot on the handkerchief that she coughs into and insists that she see a doctor. Not tomorrow or next week. Today.
“It’s nothing,
nulla
.”
Gail doesn’t accept this answer. She drives Maria to the appointment herself, her swollen stomach grazing the steering wheel. The doctor tells her it’s viral bronchitis, nothing too serious. He suggests using a humidifier, drinking tea with honey and lemon, and taking Tylenol for the pain. Gail drives Maria home, stopping at a pharmacy to buy a humidifier. She sets up the humidifier in the still, dust-flecked bedroom of Maria’s house. She tells Maria that she should stay home for a few weeks and rest. Maria says that Gail needs help, that she can’t manage the two boys alone in her condition. Gail tells her that she’ll need more help when the baby arrives, that she’ll need a fully rested Maria without any
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