Killing
A Novel By Victor Fortezza -- Contributing Author

WARNING: Killing takes place in a very real world where people are flawed and may contain material of a harsh nature. While the Cynic Online Magazine does not feel that the novel promotes racism, the novel acknowledges that racism exists in the real world and therefore acknowlegedges the possibility in its characters. If you are offended by content of this nature, please navigate to another feature within the magazine.

8

"Bums," said the elder Gentile, scowling at the television screen. "Look at 'em - awl show." He raised his arms in pantomime.

Dante, seated at the opposite end of the sofa, smirked. "Whattaya tawkin' about? De'ah the best in the divihgin."

"What's dat mean now'days? Dese bums keahn't kimpeah to Jake LaMotta, Tony Zale, Rocky Marciano, Rocky Graziano."

"Heah we go."

"Dese clowns wouttn't'a lasted fi' seckins in the ol' days."

"Hah d'you know? Maybe the ol' timers wouttn't'a lasted fi' seckins wit' dem."

"Open yer eyes, will ya. I bet awl dese fights'a fixed, anyway. It's worse den wrestlin' now."

"The ol' tymahs neva t'rew fights? LaMotta neva did?"

His father scoffed and jerked his head. "An' you paid fuh dis. Ya not even smaht enough to get a hot box."

"If everybody stole, the company'd go atta business."

"De'ah stealin' from you, mawron. Yeahs ago even cheahmpyinship fights wa on regulah TV."

"Things'a diff'rent now. Ya wanna watch, ya gotta pay. An' why not? Dese kids're in deah puttin' deah colyoans on the line."

"Ya make spics an' coons rich."

"If ya hate 'em so much ya should be glad de'ah in deah tryin' to kill each otha."

"Dat why you watch it?"

"No! Geez, I hate the way ya twist things aroun'. I jus' wanna see a good fight, tough kids wit' a lotta haht. Mos' fightahs taday'a black an' latin. 'm'I sapposta not watch 'cause'a dat? No way. I love it."

"De'ah takin' ova everything. The camel jockeys got the candy staws, the chinks the groc'ries."

"Dey work like dawgs. Dey stay open awl day in awl kinds'a weatha. Ya don' find too many whites workin' dat hahd no maw."

"Dat's why we'ah losin' dis country."

Dante was about to say his father had never worked hard, either, but caught himself in time.

"Look at dese monkeys. Dey make me sick. Dey rooned every spawt. Dey'll roon golf too, mahk my words."

"Why d'ya come down if ya hate it so much? Nex' time I won' ask ya. Ya gettin' crankier every day. Ya don' even like boxin' no maw. I never thought I'd see dat."

"You'll see when ya get old."

Dante fell silent, ashamed yet also surprised he was still capable of feeling sympathy for his father. The tie of blood had him reaching out to someone who had refused him for 40 years. What could he do, however? This was his father. This wasn't a criminal, just a poor excuse for a man.

His attention was drawn to the screen, where the action had intensified, the fighters toe to toe. He sprang to his feet.

"Wow! Look at 'em. He's goin' down. Ah, crap, the bell."

He sat at the edge of the sofa as the camera zoomed into the corner of the fighter in trouble, who had a dazed look. The cornermen worked feverishly to stem the flow of blood from a cut just below the left eye. One waved a capsule of amonia under the swollen nose.

"Hah could ya not like dis?" said Dante. "Jus' 'cause de'ah black? When it's dis good it's betta den any movie aw bawlgame. Ya useta love it so much. It was the only thing dat eva got a rise atta ya. Ya shoulda seen ya face dat time Boom Boom took out dat Korean kid. I wish I had a camera."

"He was a good, tough kid, not like dese bums."

"Ya only say dat 'cause he's a gumbah. Give dese kids credit too."

His father gave a backhand wave to the comment. "He coulda beat eitha one'a dese stiffs, aw any tootsoon, easy. He let killin' dat chink take the haht atta him."

"Hah could ya blame 'im fuh dat?"

"'cause the ideah's to take the otha guy out so he keahn't hurt ya. Why d'ya think people watch? Don' tell me it's 'cause'a the art. Awl ya need's a little haht to beat a moolinyon. Dey ain't got none."

"Yeah, right. Joe Frazier had no haht, Jim Brown, LT, Willis Reed. C'mon, Pa."

"Dat dreaf'-dahgin' zam was the beginnin'a the end, him an' dat kike announsa. Dey made it awl hype."

"Cuhlah's got nothin' to do wit' haht. We oughtta know. Rememba the Golden Gloves?"

The scowl that characterized his father's face became even more pronounced.

"I hit that kid wit' everything I had." He rose and pantomimed the crosses and uppercuts. "An' he went right down! An' then he got right up! I couttn't believe it."

"I was neva so ashamed in my life."

"'cause I lawst a fight? I was just a kid." He resisted the temptation to ask where his shame in infidelity and drunkenness had been.

"I guess I shouldn't'a been saprised ya lawst the waw."

Dante's gut contracted as if the blow had been physical rather than verbal. "I lawst it single-handed?"

"You an' ya whole yellah-belly generayshin."

Dante asked himself why he was arguing, allowing himself to get upset. He was unable to stop himself, however.

"Ya know what losin' dat fight means to me now, twenny-five yeahs latah? Nothin'. I'm jus' proud I was in deah mixin' it up."

"Spoken like a true losah."

"I kin appreciate what dese kids go t'rough. The only thing wort' rememb'rin' is the respect I had fuh dat kid comin' back like he did. An' instead'a pattin' me on the back an' sayin' : 'Nice try,' like a reahl fatha would, ya turned ya back on me, like I let down awl the white people in the world."

"Pat ya on the back? Fuh what - losin' to a moolinyon? Dat kid didn' even make the semis."

"I hate to think what the otha kids wa like."

"Awl ya hadda do was wait 'im out. De'ah so stupit. Dey awways screw up."

Dante made a face. "He wasn't stupit. I could tell dat right away. He knew igzackly what he was doin'. Den again, hah would you know? You wa neva in deah. If tawkin' was fightin', you'da been the worl's champ."

He was appalled at the tone he'd taken. Lately, after years and years of successfully repressing his anger, deferring to his father, he was losing control of himself.

"The kid was cocky, but he wasn't stupit. Maybe I got the jump on 'im 'cause he didn' respec' me 'cause I was a slow white kid. I wonda if somebody has a tape'a dat some place."

"I hope not."

"I'd love to see it. What was dat kid's name?"

"He prob'bly don' know 'imself."

"I wonda what happened to 'im."

"He's in jeahl aw on Welfeah wit' the resta dem."

Dante wondered if the young man had been drafted, sent to Vietnam. He was made queasy by the thought that the young man may have been killed in action.

"De'ah stupit, I tell ya, awl'a dem. Look hah de'ah kinstruckshin uneyins'a killin' each otha awf right now. Look hah dey sell drugs an' mug an' shoot each otha. I love it. Now if dey could only get deah bootahns to get abawshins instead'a loadin' up fuh Welfeah, we'd be awright. Instead, awl the spoiled brat white bitches'a gettin' 'em. Pretty soon deah's gonna be maw'a dem den us."

"Dat's sick, Pa."

"Yi'll see. We'ah playin' right inta deah han's."

"Den dey keahn't be as stupit as you say."

"Dey follow dopey white lib'rils. Dey finely get a moolinyon mayah - an' dey still act like onnymahls. What's deah igscuse now? It's jus' the way dey ah. An' dey still got the nerve to blame us. De'ah animals. Ask any cop. Ask Nicky across the street, who's gotta deal wit' 'em every day. Dey shoulda put a bullet in the head'a the one who was speedin' in California soon as he stepped atta the car. He got awf too easy."

Dante fell silent. He pitied his father, who would go to his grave embittered. Recalling his Golden Gloves bout, he cringed with shame, not for having lost but for having allowed himself to believe he was on a crusade to preserve the superiority of the white race - Max Schmelling and Joe Louis revived. He'd used bigotry, hatred as motivation, not unlike he would years later in Vietnam. He felt no real shame for the latter, however. He doubted he would have survived without the arousal of that malice. As for his brief flirtation with boxing, he was certain his father had only hoped to latch onto a meal ticket. He was almost glad he'd been mediocre.

He got to his feet as the action on the screen again intensified. After minutes of tactics, evasion, the fighter in trouble was cornered. Dante stood fascinated as the stalker, smelling blood, attacked the vulnerable area, the cut having reopened. Had the cut been above the eye, the fight would have been stopped. Dante bobbed and weaved as if he were the one cornered.

Suddenly, he realized he was revelling in a form of brutality, combat. He sat, poised at the edge of the sofa, confused. Was boxing evil? Or was he indeed getting soft? He wondered if he were listening to Benny too much, becoming as indecisive as he. After all, a boxer understood the risks involved, the dangers of the sport.

"Dere he goes," he said, now subdued, wringing his hands. "Get up, baby. C'mon, you kin do it."

"He's stayin' down. It's fixed, I tell ya."

The young man rose at the count of eight and began circling as fast as his weary legs would allow.

"Deah!" said Dante triumphantly, taunting his father.

Rising, he boobed and weaved, coaching the young man through the final seconds of the round. He applauded at the bell.

"What a fight! Bes' one I seen in a lawng time. It's wort' the money."

"In the ol' days ya coulda sat ringside fuh less den ya paid fuh dis."

"Ga'head, live in the peahst, see what it gets ya. It's like ringside in heah wit' awl the smoke." He took a magazine from the coffee table and fanned the air. "Why d'ya insist on killin' yaself wit' dose things?"

"Mind ya business."

As Dante put the magazine down, he noted the cover. In the lower lefthand corner, printed in bold type, was: "Signs Your Mate's Been Cheating." He wondered if his wife had purchased it thinking he had been unfaithful, then realized he was grasping at straws. She'd been subscribing to the monthly for years. He doubted she'd even had time to look at the current issue.

Jo Jo entered the house. Dante sat back on the couch, masking his excitement.

"What're you watching?" She frowned as she glanced at the screen. "How can you watch people beat each other's brains out? You should be ashamed of yourselves."

"It's only two moolinyons."

"Gran'pa!" she scolded.

Dante glowed, proud of her. She turned to him.

"She's in the bedroom," he said, anticipating her.

Jo Jo closed the door behind her. Dante wondered what was so private, then decided he would rather not know what women discussed in secret. He was relieved she hadn't joined them and glad she didn't approve of boxing. He hated the women in minks and jewelry who sat ringside, thrilled. He was frustrated, however, as he felt compelled to curb his own enthusiasm for the sport in his daughter's presence, just as the bout was heating up again. Most men loved boxing, most women hated it - he liked the balance in that.

Soon the fight was finished. The young man in trouble had battled valiantly but deteriorated to a point where he was no longer able to defend himself. He'd lain helpless against the ropes, absorbing several blows before the referee interceded.

The elder Gentile grumbled. "I hate dat. Dey neva did dat in the ol' days."

"Ya want 'im to get killed?"

"I want it to go the distance or 'til one of 'em's counted out."

"The ropes wa the only thing holdin' 'im up."

"Ya go in dat ring, ya know what could happen, othawise ya got no business in deah. Ya gotta take ya beatin' like a man."

"Betta to stop it too soon den too late."

His father scoffed, jerking his head. "The whole country's becomin' a buncha quittahs, an' it awl stahted wit' yous in Vietnam. Ya shoulda re-upped 'til every las' commie bastid was dead aw on 'is knees. We fought ah waw to the end - why couttn't yous? Good thing dis thing in the dezitt only lasted a month or we'd'a quit dat too. Den again, dat thievin' camel jockey's still alive, laughin' at us, so what good did it do?"

Dante sat silent, staring at the screen, defeated. Vietnam was his father's ace in the hole, the point which could not be refuted. He was ashamed that his generation was the only one in American history to have lost a war. The accomplishments of his father's generation seemed staggering by comparison. How was it that a generation that had produced the likes of his father had been so successful? His own had left friends, relatives, fellow citizens, an ally, to die in vain.

Jo Jo sailed through the room, lifting the gloom.

"Wheah ya goin'?" said her father. "It's late."

"C'mon, Daddy. It's Friday night. School's all but over."

"I want ya home by midnight."

They argued briefly. He won out. He wondered if Deanna had said "eleven o'clock," if Jo Jo had outsmarted him.

"Do me a favah," he said, "take Gran'pa wit' ya. See if ya kin put a smile on dat sowah puss."

"Awwww." She sat on the armrest, put an arm around her grandfather, and stroked his short, gray hair.

"Ya fatha's a wise guy," Grandpa returned, rigid, scowling.

She kissed his forehead and hurried out. Dante looked at his father, pitying him. Even the doting of a beautiful granddaughter failed to bring a smile, even a fleeting one, to that face.

Soon he was alone, pacing the living room. He sat at the edge of the sofa, wringing his hands, debating if the moment of truth had arrived, if the time were right. Clearly it was. Should an arguement erupt, they would be free to take it anywhere, physically as well as verbally. His parents, upstairs, might hear but would not interfere. He hunched over, nauseated. He took several deep breaths to try and slow his heart rate.

"Dee?" he said softly, entering the bedroom, which was dark save for the light of the television. There was no smoke in the air. He appreciated her consideration, then berated himself for softening.

Absorbed in the action, eyes trained on the screen, she did not respond. She was seated in bed in a nightgown and robe, pillows propped at her back. He wondered why she'd come home early tonight. Had her lover business to transact or a family function to attend? He had to be married, Dante surmised, or by now Deanna would have spent at least one night in a hotel. All she would have had to say was that her company had put her up. Or maybe he was imagining it all.

"Whattaya watchin'?"

"Ssssh!"

He sat at the edge of the mattress. The film, ironically, appropriately, it seemed, concerned infidelity and murder. He viewed quietly, becoming engrossed himself.

"Pretty good," he said at its conclusion.

Deanna shrugged. "It was fun but short on logic."

So infidelity and murder were now fun? he thought. Then again, only months ago he would have found such fare entertaining himself. He wondered if Deanna were plotting to kill him, then scoffed audibly.

She looked at him. He lowered his head.

"What?" she said.

"Nothin'. I keanh't rememba the las' time we watched a movie togetha, dat's awl."

The comment seemed lame even to himself. He'd been in the room 15 minutes and his mind had yet to find the right icebreaker. Deanna seized the television listings and scanned it. She seemed bored, edgy.

"You been workin' late a lot lately," he said, outwardly calm. Inwardly, he was fighting panic, alarmed at the speed at which he was moving toward the crux of the matter. There seemed to be no turning back.

"It's the damn merger," she said, apparently without inkling of where he was heading. "They wanted me to go in tomorrow, but I refused. Enough is enough."

"Funny, I thought it was somethin' else."

Peeved, she rolled out of bed, pulled a cigarette from a pack lying on her night table, picked up her lighter, and left the room. Presently he heard the back door open.

Had she sensed his intentions? he wondered. Was the abruptness of her departure final proof, a last bid to delay the inevitable confrontation? He sat quiet, staring at the television screen, where an advertisement featuring a revving engine was airing. Suddenly he felt he was invading her privacy. Or was he simply losing resolve? Had he become a coward? Maybe a coward was exactly what he was, what he'd been all along. After all, he'd fled Vietnam, leaving Americans to die. Why was he reluctant to fight for what was rightfully his? Was he afraid that fighting would drive her away rather than win her? His track record was not good, he realized. He'd given everything he had and still lost that amateur fight; he'd lost the war - would he now lose the best thing that had ever happened to him as well? Was that what he was, then - a loser, as his father had said? Would he be more likely to keep her if he simply allowed the affair to play itself out? What type of man would choose such a course? How would he look at himself in the mirror? And maybe Deanna wanted him to fight, to prove he was still passionate about her.

He waited. His chest heaved as he heard the door open. She did not return to the room, however. He heard pots rattling in the kitchen. Was she dallying, hoping he would fall asleep? He rose, legs like jelly. She was at the coffee maker, apparently deep in thought. She glanced at him and then back at the device. Never in his life had he felt so weak.

"Tryin' to duck me?" He'd failed to make it sound humorous.

She took offense. "What're you talking about?"

He looked away, heart racing. "D'you have a boyfriend?"

"What? Are you crazy?"

He wondered if her reaction were to an unjust accusation or to the fact that she'd been caught. Was it something she'd rehearsed, just in case?

"I'd bet the house on it."

"I want you to see a doctor. The war's finally caught up with you."

He coiled in anger. It was the first time she'd ever used the war against him. And why had she? Not in retaliation for anything he'd done or said, not in a flash of vindictiveness, as his father was wont to do, but to cover the tracks of infidelity, to make him feel he were the one who had done wrong.

"Maybe it's my fault," he said softly, dejectedly, hands in his pockets. "I dunno. Maybe I ain't been good enough to ya lately. Whateva - I ain't standin' fer it. Tell me what I kin do to make things betta fer us an' I'll do it an' fuhget everything."

Her gaze fixed on him. Her jaw trembled. It was clear now that his suspicion had proved correct. His release from the fear of insanity provided only momentary relief, however. His life was no better than it had been an instant ago and might soon be far worse. He realized he'd been hoping he were wrong. Suddenly he wished she'd continued her denial until she'd convinced him.

"I think my motha even knows." He gripped the sides of the counter, upon which he was leaning. "Ya know what dat does to me? I'm ashamed to look at 'er - my own motha! So fah the kids don' know. Dat's the only good thing. Dey'd neva dream the motha dey love so much'd do somethin' like dis."

Stung, she coiled visibly.

"Fah as I kin see, ya got a choice - him or me. Ya keahn't have it bote ways. I been quiet lawng enough. Ya ain't livin' unda dis roof one maw night if it ain't ova by Monday. Eitha move in wit' him aw take money atta the bank an' get yer own place." He fought anger, face flaming. "I tell ya, though - I dunno if I'll eva be able to fuhgive ya. I don' know if things could eva be the same as dey was. You mus' keah about dis gotz or it wouttn't'a lasted so lawng. It ain't just 'is body ya want, an' dat hurts me maw den anything else. I ain't been no angel. I banged a few broads the firs' yeah we wa married, but none since. An' I neva loved nobody but you."

He reeled as he turned away, blood rushing to his head, mind as numb as if he'd been punched. He recalled the young man leaning helpless against the ropes. There would be no referee to stop this fight, however.

He strolled along the quiet streets in a fog, mind and emotions travelling at such a speed as to be unintelligible beyond their negativeness. The atmosphere, the pace, changed markedly as he reached 18th Avenue. He was pulled out of himself somewhat. The area was alive with activity, mostly of the young. Cars were double-parked everywhere. The blare of automobile horns sounded regularly. The loud music of stereos swept by at intervals. People cried out to each other only as Brooklynites could. The scene hadn't changed much in the years memory served him. Even the participants seemed the same, despite their youth, the chicness of current attire, the modernness of the vehicles.

He was in no mood to enter a bar. He would not be able to stomach the presence of any wise guys or wannabe wise guys that might be present in the establishments along this strip. He wanted to drink alone, in peace, and he knew the perfect place - the schoolyard in which he'd spent so much time as a youth. It was there that he'd met Deanna, there, huddled in a dark corner one cold winter night, that they first kissed. How he longed for a return of that passion, that tingling down to his toes. Instead he was entering a liquor store with the intention of killing all feeling within him before it killed him. He chose scotch, as he had the first time he'd ever drank. He'd accompanied veteran members of his unit to a Saigon brothel. It was his first leave, the first time he'd ever come off the line. He got so drunk he was unable to perform sexually, to the delight of the others. His virginity lasted another day. Upon leaving home, he'd pledged faithfulness. He'd somehow resisted the powerful longing to grope Deanna. Having observed his father, afraid of being like him, he was terrified by the prospect of sex. Experiencing what he had in the field, however, knowing he might never see Deanna again, he broke his vow. By the time his tour came to an end he was not troubled by guilt, at least not until he saw Deanna's face again. He felt unworthy of her. And although he was certain she suspected he'd strayed, she never raised the issue. They were married within a few months. Now, 20-odd years later, she'd been unfaithful - while her son had been in combat, no less. He couldn't believe it. He was certain the affair had begun before Junior had left for the Gulf. She was not one to do something so base. No doubt she'd been unable to find a way out of it.

Seated on a bench in the dugout of the softball diamond, he took a swig from a pint bottle.

"Who's dat?" a girl's voice echoed through the cavern.

She was seated on the opposite side of the concrete playing field, on a short flight of stairs set at a slight angle to his left. She was part of a group. Quart bottles of beer stood amongst them.

"The ghost'a schoolyahds peahst," he quipped, gazing through the cyclone fence that provided protection from fouls balls and errant throws.

"What's dat mean?" said another girl petulantly, addressing the group.

Dante wistfully recalled having read an abridged version of A Christmas Carol to his children long ago.

"Go home to yer ol' lady," said a male, inciting laughter.

He resisted the temptation to disparage the teen's mother. After all, he was violating their turf, their sanctuary. They came here to relieve the pain, boredom and frustration of the life of a teenager - and he represented a part of what they wished to escape. He knew the feeling. When he was their age, he'd come here to forget his father. How appalled and frightened he'd been whenever a drunken adult parked himself in the schoolyard. Ironically, he hadn't been bothered as much by the drinking and drug usage of his contemporaries. Now he understood what had scared him. He had become what he had feared.

The glow of cigarettes dotted the air repeatedly like so many fireflies. What an easy target for a sniper they would have been, Dante thought. He drank quickly and succeeded in getting plastered. He reeled upon rising, the cool night air shocking him. He held on to the dugout fence to keep his balance. The teenagers mocked him. He staggered home, maintaining balance along parked vehicles, trees and telephone poles. Pedestrians shrank from him. One woman clucked disapprovingly. A group of young men sniggered. He recognized no one. He was reeling as he reached the front gate, stepping forward and back, forward and back, barely making headway.

"Daddy?" Jo Jo called from behind him, exiting a car parked at a hydrant nearby. She rushed to his side. Her boyfriend approached tentatively. "What happened?" she choked. "Are you hurt? Did you get mugged?"

He laughed. "Yeah, dat's it."

"Help me, Billy."

Each took an arm and guided him into the house.

"Ma!" Jo Jo called out urgently.

Deanna hurried to the living room and froze.

"What happened?" said Jo Jo, tears in her eyes.

She stepped toward them. "He fell asleep on the couch and had another one of those nightmares."

"And you let him go out? How could you?"

"I wasn't dressed. By the time I got some clothes on he was nowhere in sight. Thank God he didn't take the car."

Dante tittered defeatedly, his wife's lies having penetrated his drunkenness. It was always the war, even when it wasn't. Deanna's resourcefulness, her matronly instinct to protect their daughter from the truth was also evident to him and amplified his abhorrence. He even realized that his insistence that Jo Jo return by midnight had allowed her to find him in this condition. It seemed life was mocking him.

"Help me get him to bed."

When they had done so, Deanna turned and said, firmly: "Thank you, Billy. Goodnight."

The young man, who seemed overwhelmed, left without a word. Jo Jo followed him.

"Lock up, hon'," said Deanna. "I'll see you in the morning."

She closed the door and began to undress her husband. Vision blurred, he was unable to make out her face. Was that wimpering he was hearing? Good, he thought.

Suddenly he chuckled. Deanna jumped back, repulsed. He'd urinated.

The next morning he was seated at the kitchen table, alone, nursing a cup of coffee, when his daughter entered. The sight of her sweet face set him weeping. Not even his father, who had been many things, had been so inept at holding his liquor in public.

He cowered in her embrace. He'd failed as a warrior, as a husband, and now, in the most important role of all, as a parent.

"I'll help you, Daddy," said Jo Jo, embracing him from behind, weeping herself. "I love you."

When he'd gained control of himself, he said: "I imbarrist ya in fronna ya boyfrien'."

"If he scares that easy, I don't want him."

He was in awe of her. When had she become so strong and mature? Just yesterday she'd been a little girl.

"I know you're not a drunk. I just want you to get better. You were always so strong for us, now we'll be strong for you."

He took her hands in his, kissed them, and looked her in the eye. "I promise it'll neva happen again."

She sprang erect. "Did you have breakfast? Let me make it for you. Where's Mommy?"

"Out awready. She's pretty mad at me."

"Are you gonna see a doctor?"

"Yeah." He despaired, as he was now lying to his daughter. How much lower would he fall?

Monday evening Deanna was home by six. Jo Jo, at the stove preparing dinner, greeted her.

"You're early tonight."

"The merger's finally complete," she said, taking a seat at the table.

"Great! Daddy'll be happy to hear that."

Deanna was staring into space.

Jo Jo, puzzled, said: "You don't seem too happy about it."

Deanna snapped out of her funk. "I'm just tired."

She went to the bedroom and closed the door. She started at the sight of her husband, as if surprised he was there.

"It's over," she said softly.

He looked at her. "I kin see ya reahl happy about it," he said ironically, pulling a T-shirt over his damp head and stepping past her and out of the room.

He hated her. He wished she'd chosen her lover. What kind of man was it? he wondered. - Was it not a married man but a young stud who serviced her physical needs? He berated himself. What difference did it make? She obviously cared for the guy, however unworthy he might be. What had she said to him about her husband? Had she ridiculed his lack of education? Dante seethed.

He told Jo Jo he wasn't hungry just yet, to keep his dinner warm while he went to the basement to attend to a chore. He wouldn't have been able to keep his anger to himself, although he suspected she may have detected it nonetheless. He was the only dumb one in the family.

The end of the affair had not brought him the slightest satisfaction. In fact, his sense of humiliation was greater than ever, as was his contempt for his wife. Face burning, he checked the boiler, then recalled that it was June.

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