LUCA

Coughing, and cursing, and coughing. How long could it go on? Luca sat on his bed with his hands over his ears and his eyes closed. His feet dangled above the hooked rug. He pretended a helicopter was coming to airlift him away, a helicopter like the ones he saw on the news, flying wounded soldiers out of Vietnam. When he opened his eyes he was surprised to find he was still on the bed, still in his room, rocking back and forth to the cadence of his father’s cough.

He tried to remember a time when the house was silent. He had memories of his father being away, working, driving a truck, coming home briefly, and leaving again, until one day he came home to stay. That was when the coughing began and his mother started sleeping on the living room sofa.

Neighbor ladies brought covered dishes with notes taped to them that gave instructions like: Heat for twenty-five minutes at 350°.

Their husbands offered to take him outside to toss a ball, or swing on the swings at the playground down the street. One wanted to drive him to San Diego to spend a day at the zoo. Margaret thanked them for their kindness, told them she wouldn’t feel right letting them go to so much trouble. In truth she didn’t want to let Luca out of her sight while her husband was slowly choking to death in the next room.

When the coughing stopped his mother told him, “God took your father.”

Luca hoped it wasn’t true. God, his mother had told him, had risen from the dead and was capable of bringing things back to life. Luca didn’t want his father brought back. He hoped a chopper had come in the middle of the night to airlift his father away, so he and his mother didn’t have to listen to his cough anymore.

Luca stood quietly by his mother’s side in his powder-blue suit and matching bow tie clipped to the collar of his white shirt. He wanted to wear his sneakers, but his mother insisted on his good shoes. She polished them until they shone. There were so many people at the church, then at the cemetery. Some of them he knew. Why was his teacher there? Did she know his father? And the man who delivered the milk, butter, and eggs? Did he? His mother smiled and thanked them, as one by one the mourners told her, “Aren’t you lucky to have such a beautiful boy.”

Afterwards they went home, back to the tiny house with the covered porch just like the covered porches in front of every other house on the street. His mother made him his favorite: Kraft Macaroni and Cheese with a spoonful of catsup stirred in. He asked for a soda. She poured him a glass of milk instead. After he ate, she put him in his pajamas, without giving him a bath, and tucked him into bed. She kissed him the same way she always did, and, before closing the door, chirped, “Nighty-night.” He didn’t know why it struck him as odd that she was smiling. The sicker his father got, the happier his mother had become: lighter, funnier, humming to herself when she rinsed the neighbors’ plates and casserole dishes; nodding and chatting with all those people at the church, singing along with the car radio on the way home.

The house was quiet. The air smelled different, fresher since the coughing had stopped. The phone rang. He listened to his mother’s muffled voice talking, then her walking around, straightening a chair, fluffing a pillow on the living room sofa, then her footsteps and the door to their—no, her—bedroom closing.

Luca lay in bed stroking the satin edge of his blanket. He’d stroked it so much it was frayed to almost nothing in spots. He stopped and looked around. His room seemed brighter than before, more blue than gray.

A lamp stood on the maple bureau. A mirror hung over it like a silver moon. The Venetian blinds cast slotted shadows on the wall. Luca climbed out of bed. It was still daylight. He turned the lamp on anyway. The lamp had been in his room since he was a baby. Pastel nursery rhyme figures were glued to the base. A green-eyed cat played a yellow fiddle for a pink and gray speckled cow. The dark blue shade was pierced with stars that shone when the light was on.

Luca moved a footstool in front of the bureau and stepped up. He stared into the mirror and made a face, then another. He inspected his profile, first one side, then the other. His blonde hair was thick and glossy; it gleamed in the lamplight. He was tan, which gave his skin a golden glow. He stuck his index fingers in the corners of his mouth and pulled. His teeth were white and even. He straightened up, squared his shoulders, and lifted his chin. Everyone was right. He was a beautiful boy.