Glory,
It’s a boy! Salvatore Whitman Vincenzo. Quite a mouthful, huh? Toby came up with the poetic middle name, but Roylene insisted on naming the baby after Sal. Funny, isn’t it? I don’t believe she’s ever set eyes on him. I do appreciate the gesture and I told her so. The baby looks like his grandpa—thick dark hair and azure eyes as deep and fathomless as the celestial heavens. Grandpa Sal is going to be over the moon.
The poor girl had a rough time. We were sipping tea on the front porch when her pains started. That baby was in such a hurry, tearing at Roylene in its haste, until he realized the chaotic world he was dropping into. Then smart Little Sal dug his feet in, refusing to come. Of course, all I saw were the nurses scurrying in and out of her room, features strained with worry. I paced the ward like a nervous father-to-be, alone, until Roy showed up looking for trouble. “You’re gonna wear a hole in that rug,” he said, and I reluctantly settled next to him on a hard-backed bench. We sat, fidgety and silent, until he said, “I guess I lost my best worker for a few weeks. War or not, your boy is responsible for that.”
I felt every muscle in my body tighten. “This is hardly the time.”
“Soon enough,” he muttered, extracting a pack of cigs from his cuffed sleeve. He didn’t offer me one, and left to smoke without another glance my way. Which was fine by me. I spent the next ten minutes devising methods to strangle him without getting caught.
It’s getting dark now, but Roy hasn’t come back. Roylene is spread across the bed like a wet dishrag, but there’s a lovesick smile on her face, even in sleep. My grandson dozes next to her, his tiny chest rising and falling, the bit of peace he brought with him casting the room in a silver glow, the color of hope.
It’s beautiful, Glory. It really is.
Rita