The Deep End of the Ocean (18 page)

Vincent snatched an orange Flintstones out of the bottle on the sink and jumped into the front seat of the car. “Belt,” said his dad, staring ahead, and Vincent snapped it on and sat back. They went down the belt line, past the turnoff on Park Street for Cappadora’s, past the road that led to Rob Maltese’s, his dad’s best friend’s, house. Past the car wash. To the Janesville exit, the sign that his father once said meant, “We’re going to see Grandma!”

“Are we going to Chicago?” Vincent asked.

“Don’t you want to go see Grandma Rosie?”

“It’s a school day, Daddy. It’s not Sunday or Friday even.”

“Sometimes, we could go see Grandma Rosie even in the middle of the week, like in summer.”

“But why?”

“Just to see her. Don’t you ever want to see your mama? I just want to see my mama,” his father said, in a little-bitty voice that scared Vincent much more than the
f
word or any of the yelling in the hall. Pat lit a cigarette and rolled down the window. “Don’t tell Mommy I smoked in the car,” he said, like he always said.

“I won’t.”

“Okay, pal.”

Vincent leaned against the arm rest; his father was singing with the Rolling Stones on the radio, using the heels of his palms like drums; Vincent thought he might fall asleep, if he wasn’t afraid of the running-away dream, the dream which wasn’t so scary in itself as the way his dream self kept wanting to look behind him. He knew that if he looked behind him, it would be the worst thing, worse than the flabby white monster with the big red mouth he saw by accident one time when he got up and his dad had
Shock Theater
on in the middle of the night.

It would be worse than that, Vincent thought; he wanted to tell his dad that, but his eyes were blurry.

“Wake up,” said a voice, a voice that always sounded like it had a cough in it, or stones under it. Grandpa Angelo. “Wake up,
dormi
-head.” That was the Italian word for “sleepy,” part of the song Grandpa Angelo sang when Ben was little. Vincent was sweaty and shivery, but he put his arms up and Grandpa Angelo lifted him out through the window of the car and held him against the rough wool of his blue suit. Grandpa Angelo wore blue suits all the time, even on Saturday morning in the house, even when he went to get a fireplace log or spray the tomatoes. Grandma Rosie said wearing the blue suit all day made Grandpa look like an immigrant, but he told her, “Rose, a businessman has a big car and a clean suit. Not just at business—all day long.” Except playing cards. When Grandpa Angelo used to play cards with his friends—Ross, Mario, and Stuey—he wore his stripey cotton T-shirt with straps over the shoulders. You could see the tufts of white hair stick up from Grandpa’s shoulders over the straps, like feathers. If he saw Vincent, he would pull him down on his lap and rub his cigar cheek against Vincent’s, and put red wine from his good glass on his finger and let Vincent lick it off. He would ask Vincent, “Now, Maestro, do I ask this most illustrious dealer for one card, or two?” And even back then Vincent was not so little he couldn’t tell when the red or black numbers had a gap in them—and he would shake his head no, because Grandpa told him the time to draw to an inside straight was never, ever, never; it was madness and doom. Sometimes, when the weather was hot and the locusts were caroling loud, Vincent would even fall asleep under Grandpa Angelo’s white iron patio chair, the chorus of locusts and the slap of the cards and the sound of Italian swears and the hot, almost too sweet smell of cigars all wound around and around him until they seemed like one thing. And he would wake up shivery and sweaty, the sky changed from sunny to sunsetty, or from fresh to shiny overhead, just like it was now.

“My little love,” said Grandpa Angelo. “My best boy.” He carried Vincent up onto the front stoop, under the cool shade of the big green awnings. Vincent was deeply fond of the awnings, the only ones on the block, and of the shiny green, absolutely square hedges that looked like plastic but smelled like vinegar.

“I love you, Grandpa,” Vincent told him, nuzzling. And he did, too. He also loved his grandpa Bill, but his grandpa Bill always seemed to be a little nervous around Vincent. Like he would ask him, “Hey, Vince, you married yet?” Like a nine-year-old kid would be married and not even tell his own grandfather. Grandpa Angelo just gave you penne and red sauce, or white sauce if your tummy was upset, and wine from a spoon and Hershey’s kisses from his pockets, and let you pick the grapes and tomatoes and only laughed if you dropped one—and not a phony, grownup, really-mad-behind-it laugh, either. He really didn’t care what a kid did as long as a kid said his pleases and thank-yous and didn’t be a
diavolo
—Vincent didn’t know exactly what that meant but knew it was a bad guy.

They were passing the kitchen, going outside to the backyard, when Vincent heard his dad say, “…what else to do, Ma. I can’t take anymore.”

“Patrick,
tesoro mio,
” said Grandma Rosie, who was getting his dad coffee. “She’s not herself. You must give her time.”

“I have no more time, Ma!” Vincent realized, to his terror, that his dad was crying. “I want to have a life, Ma, not this…prison on Post Road that Beth never goes out of—I mean, not willingly, just up and down to her darkroom…. Ma, I want out of this!”

Grandma Rosie swiveled her head around, fast, and then said in a big voice, meant for Vincent’s dad, too, “Vincenzo,
carissimo
! Grandma will come and see you in a minute.”

Grandpa Angelo carried Vincent outside, set him down in one of the white iron chairs, and brought him a glass of orange juice. “In a little while, we’ll have pasta, eh? But first, we give your daddy some time with Grandma.”

“Daddy’s crying,” said Vincent.

“He’s so sad, ’Cenzo,” said Grandpa Angelo, sitting himself down heavily in the chair opposite. He started flicking through the tapes on his bench, next to his big tape player. “We must have some music now, eh?”

“Why?”

“Good for the soul!” said Grandpa.

“No—Daddy. Why’s he sad?”

“He’s sad because of your brother, dear one. He’s missing Ben.”

“And he hates my mommy. She said.”

“No, Vincenzo, your daddy loves your mommy. He loves her since he was a little boy like you. She’s his best buddy.”

“I think Rob is his best buddy.”

“Well, she’s his best buddy and his true love. It’s just…here!” said Grandpa, finding a tape. “It’s just she’s so sad and he’s so sad, they forget their love.”

“Mom forgot my school conference three times. The principal had to call. And then Dad went.”

“Well, you see then. This is so hard a time for us. For me, too. I think of my Ben and it crushes my heart.” He patted his leg and Vincent came to sit on his lap. “Do you ever get sad, ’Cenzo?”

“Sometimes.”

“When?”

“Today was once. They were fighting and they…they scared Kerry. She yelled.”

“I used to get sad when I was a little boy,” said Grandpa. “I would get sad so many times because I missed my papa. I’ve showed you pictures of my papa, Vincent. He was such a big man…so big and loud…and he sang the Neapolitan love songs, with the voice of a Titian angel, my father. You know, that is why you are named Vincenzo, after him. And Paul, after your mama’s brother Paulie.”

“And what about my daddy?”

“What about him?”

“Is he named after somebody?”

“Yes,” said Grandpa Angelo. “And this is another story about sadness. When your papa was born, I was on the road, selling cooking things. This was before we had our business, long before. I was far away, and I couldn’t get home; and Grandma Rosie was just a young girl, having her first baby. The nurse who cared for her was from another country, like us—she was from Ireland. And when Grandma Rosie was frightened and sad, and crying out for me, this nurse—I think she was called Bridget, they’re all called Bridget—prayed for Saint Patrick to ease her and bring forth a good baby. And Saint Patrick did do this. So, though this is an Irish name, this is the name Grandma Rosie gave your daddy.”

“Where was he?”

“Who? Your daddy?”

“No,
your
daddy, when you were missing him?”

“He died, Vincent. He died in the first of the World War. He was a cook—all us Cappadoras, we cook, eh? But the bad guys attacked the camp, and your great-grandpa was shot, and he died right there, right where he was. He was buried there, too, not at home. I never saw his grave.” Grandpa Angelo looked hard out at the grape arbor near the backyard fence. “And my mama, she had to clean houses, we were so tired and so poor. We missed my papa, and we were forbidden to say his name, because it would break my mama’s heart. And that’s when I discovered the opera. There was a teacher at the school in our village, and he had the record player, and he would play the operas and tell us to close our eyes and imagine what the places they were singing about looked like. The words sounded funny to me then, Vincenzo, because they were all so
sad
! So sad I thought they were silly; I was only a young boy, not even as old as you yet. In
La Bohème,
he was singing, ‘Your tiny hand is frozen,’ and I thought, How silly. And yet—and yet, the music was so magnificent!…The only true opera is Italian, Vincenzo. You know this. Like the only true food. We have to be nice to all the other people, and say, ‘Oh yes, oh yes, this Mexican food is very good,’ but we know better, eh?”

“Yup,” said Vincent. “We know better.”

“And so, when I was a grown man, and I, too, was a soldier, I was very afraid that I would die. This is in the second of the World Wars. I am an American soldier now, an American citizen, fighting against the evil of my own nationals, and the Japs—mostly for me the Japs, on the islands in the Pacific Ocean.” Vincent leaned harder against his grandpa’s chest, trying to picture his round, brown, white-haired grandpa thin and young like his dad, and scared, like his dad. “I was so afraid, I’d get this record player, which I bought, and I’d play the music.
La Traviata.
Not the Germans, not their pig music. The real opera. And it would make me happier and not so scared.”

“How could it make you happier when it was so sad?”

“That’s what I’m going to show you,” said Grandpa Angelo, and he turned on the tape. There was a lady singing; she was singing pretty loud, but you could still tell she was about to start crying. The words were all jumbled up, like the singing on the tapes in Cappadora’s.

“What’s she saying, Grandpa? What’s she talking in? Italian?”

“Yes, Italiano, Vincent. Just listen.”

But Vincent proudly repeated the only words he knew in Italian besides
bambino
and some swears: “Non parlo Italiano.”

“I know, but listen. I will tell you what she says. The singer is Mirella Freni, a great star. She’s older now, but she was very young when this recording was made. She’s talking to her little boy and she’s saying, ‘Tu, tu piccolo iddio’—my little god. She loves her little boy and he’s going away, and she’s having a broken heart.”

“Why’s he running away?”

“He’s not running away, Vincenzo,” said Grandpa. Vincent could smell the gravy cooking in the house and he was meanly hungry, but he didn’t want to be rude to Grandpa. Even though Grandpa was right about the opera, it did sound a little silly, to call a kid “God.”

“Why’s she calling him ‘God’?”

“Because she loves him so much he’s like a…like a saint to her. That’s how parents love their children. That’s how we love your papa. And how your papa loves you and Kerry and Ben. And your mama, too.”

“So where’s he going?”

“Who?” said Grandpa, who looked as if he was going to get up and jump around in his joy over the singing lady.

“The little boy.”

“His papa is taking him to America. See, the mama, she’s Japanese. Her name is Madama Butterfly. That’s the name of the story. By Puccini. The papa, he’s a bad guy. He fooled the mama and made her think she was his wife, but he got another wife. Very
malo, malo.
Bad. And now she’s giving her baby to him.”

“Why, if he’s so bad?”

“I don’t know, Vincenzo. Because she’s poor, I guess. And because she’s so sad that the papa doesn’t love her that she wants to die. And if she loses her little boy, then she will want to die even more.”

“My mommy didn’t die,” said Vincent, a throwing-up feeling creeping up. He held Grandpa Angelo tighter.

“No, no, of course not. If your mommy died, where would she be when Ben comes home? In heaven with the angels?” He kissed Vincent, his chin rough, smelling of his cologne, the heavy, fruity scent of his drawers and closets. “We pray for Ben to come home. And this mama, she’s a Jap, you know, Vincent. The Japs are a crazy people.
Pazzi.
They think that if somebody does something bad to you, or if you screw up, you got to die over it. That’s a crazy thing, Vincent. Regular people, like Italians and even Irish, like Grandpa Bill, they get up and kick somebody in the gool if he does bad to them. They get up and they have tenoots….”

“What’s tenoots?”

“Nothing,” said Grandpa. “They have
coraggio,
they have bravery. They try to fix something.”