AFTER BREAKFAST I telephoned Virgil and told him that the old man was in the Auburn Hospital. Without giving me a chance to elaborate he asked, “Is he drunk?”
“He’s not drunk. He’s sick.”
“How much is it going to cost?”
“He’s very sick with diabetes. He was in a coma for five hours.”
“Diabetes?” He was relieved. “That’s not so bad. He’s on Medicare, you know.”
“He almost died.”
“So what? He’s alive, isn’t he?”
“Barely.”
After a silence: “Gee.”
I told him Mama was having dinner for the immediate family at six and she wanted him there with the others. Afterward we would drive up to the Auburn Hospital and pay the old man a visit.
“Can’t make it,” he said. “This is my bowling night.”
“Don’t be a jerk,” I said. “For once let’s do something as a family. We owe it to Papa. You’re his favorite, Virge. I guess you know that.”
It made him cackle.
“That’s very funny, Henry, specially since his dislike for us is evenly divided.”
“Will you come?”
“What’s Mama cooking?”
“What’s the difference. This isn’t a celebration, it’s a solemn moment.”
“Veal with peppers, and I’ll show up.”
“You got it.”
Trying to contact my brother Mario was beset with the usual complications. Kids hollered in the background, and the television was on full blast. My sister-in-law answered.
“Hello, Peggy. Is Mario mere?”
“He’s asleep. You still around?”
“Will you wake him, please. It’s important.”
“What keeps you in San Elmo, Henry? Don’t tell me you’re writing a sex novel about your father and mother.”
“Peggy, listen. Papa’s in the hospital.”
“So he got flattened again. Good.”
“He’s very sick with diabetes.”
“Really? My aunt had diabetes. He’ll be okay. Just give him plenty of orange juice.”
“Great idea, Peggy. I’ll tell Dr. Maselli. Will you please call Mario to the phone?”
That was it. End of conversation. She left the phone off the hook and completely forgot me. For twenty minutes I sat by the telephone waiting, listening to children squalling, doors opening, dogs barking. I heard Peggy spanking the little girl’s ass, and the child’s shrieks. Then the fall of furniture and the wails of the boy. I heard Mario cursing and demanding his breakfast. He must have kicked the dog, for it yelped in pain. A brawl ensued, man and wife in combat, the thud of bodies, the breaking of dishes, the screams of children, the wild barking of dogs, the sputter of a truck engine, the howl of burning rubber, the clatter of the truck bed as the car ground its gears and spun off.
An hour later I reached Mario at the railroad dispatch office.
“When are we going to get together?” he asked.
I told him about Papa.
“Jesus,” he said. “That’s awful. At his age, too. Diabetes…what’s diabetes? Isn’t it some kind of venereal disease?”
“Nothing like that, you dope. It’s an excess of sugar in the blood and urine.”
“That’s right. I knew it had something to do with urine. Where did he contact it?”
“You don’t contact it because it’s not contagious.”
“That’s funny. Papa hates sugar.”
“He’s better now. We’re going to the hospital tonight, all of us, and that includes you. Mama wants you at the house for dinner at six. Okay?”
“I’ll come to dinner, but not the hospital. Old Nick hates my guts. I’ll only upset him.”
“You’re wrong, man, dead wrong. Papa likes you. He told me so just the other day. You’re his favorite. Of all of us you’re the only one who tried to learn his trade. Me and Virgil gave up, but you were loyal, Mario, a good son. You did your best. You failed, but that’s not the point. You tried. He remembers that. He thinks you’ve still got the makings of a great bricklayer. He may not show it—you know how he is—but he’s crazy about you, Mario. He respects you. He barely tolerates me, and he doesn’t like Virgil at all. But you’re the apple of his eye.”
His voice softened.
“I like him too, damn it. Always have. Maybe we’ve had some battles, but I don’t hold it against him.”
“Good for you, Mario. Forget the past. Come to the hospital with us. He’s an old man now. He may die any day. So make peace with him. Have a clear conscience. Let him know you love him as much as he loves you.”
“I will, Henry. Maybe I could bring him something. How about a jug of Angelo Musso?”
“He can’t have any wine.”
“How about flowers. A plant.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe bedroom slippers.”
“Perfect.”
“And a robe.”
“Fine.”
“See you at Mama’s.”
Suddenly I realized he was putting me on—and himself—that he had no intention of coming to dinner, or of buying his father a gift, or of visiting him in the hospital, for Mario was a dreamer who never followed through on his good intentions.