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.

16

The house was eerily quiet on Christmas Eve. Although the exterior was as intricately decorated as ever, the interior was more funereal than festive, despite the tree and its trimmings, which seemed hypocrisy itself. There was no hubbub, no brisk movement in and out of the house, in and out of rooms, no aroma of seafood frying, no last minute wrapping of gifts. Despite the many plants that hung in the windows, nothing in the house seemed to be living. Even the tree seemed to lack the intoxicating fragrance of past years.

Dante lay on the sofa, listening to holiday music, awaiting his mother's call to dinner. His children were at the homes of their respective paramours. He'd given them his blessing, despite the pain he knew their absence would cause him. It was the first Christmas Eve the family would not be dining together, the second consecutive he would be spending without his son. He hadn't the heart to ask them to stay, to share his suffering. He now regretted having dismissed his daughter's concern and guilt. And tomorrow would be no better. Deanna would be dining with her parents. He'd heard her speak to her mother on the phone. She said he would be staying home because of the flu. The next day, upon failing to persuade her children to accompany her, she was forced to call again. His chest swelled with pride at his children's allegiance, although he realized that, overall, the situation may have been exacerbated. He hoped a grilling by her parents would shake Deanna to her senses, although he doubted she would reveal the true cause of their rift.

Tears welled in his eyes as Sinatra's version of "I'll Be Home for Christmas"* aired. He'd never understood the man's mystique, the reverence with which he was regarded, especially by his father's generation. The Rolling Stones and the Doors had been his favorites until he'd lost almost all interest in music. He still got goosebumps whenever he heard certain songs popular during the Vietnam era, especially "Unchained Melody," which had been a favorite of "Motown." Recently, it had been resurrected by a hit film. It was heard everywhere and, in public, Dante had to fight to block it from tapping into his emotions.

Suddenly Sinatra's voice seemed deep and beautiful rather than flat and passe. The longing expressed exactly what Dante was feeling. How in the world had his father perceived such artistry? he wondered. He surmised it'd been simply a blind following of a large consensus. That was so unlike his father, however, as he was more likely to go against the grain. Dante also suspected his own aversion stemmed from the singer's alleged ties to the mob, or from the fact that he'd walked out on his wife. The more he thought about it, his father and Sinatra seemed a lot alike.

An aching in his gut, Dante imagined Deanna was listening as well, weeping in bed. At least he hoped she was. He then realized she might be crying about Ryan and not her husband. He wondered when he would find the bottom of his despair.

The phone rang once and ceased, his mother's signal that dinner was ready. He washed his face before leaving. He didn't want his parents, especially his father, to see redness in his eyes. He was in no mood for ridicule. He was receiving enough from himself. He asked himself why he was even going up there. For his mother, he knew.

He paused in front of the house and scanned the work he'd done, hoping it would cheer him. To his dismay, the therapeutic value had subsided. Hundreds of tiny lights of various colors were strung neatly about the edges of the window frames. Scores of religious and secular figures stood illumined about the small garden, porch and overhang. One of the proudest moments of his life was the day a photograph of his home, decked in holiday splendor, appeared in the magazine section of the Sunday newspaper. As a child he'd envied the occupants of such homes. His mother's decorations had been limited to the hanging of tiny artificial wreaths in the windows and the purchase of a small, sparsely trimmed tree. Now people stopped to admire the beauty he'd created - and the looks on their faces made the time, effort and expense worth it. He began each year the day after Thanksgiving. And this was something he did without any input from his wife. The credit was all his. He'd heard that people in Staten Island were paying hundreds of dollars to have their homes decorated by others. He did not understand why anyone would do that. It seemed wrong.

A young couple approached, holding hands. The woman smiled.

"Hi, Dan."

He smiled uncomfortably, unable to recall her. Suddenly, as the light from the street lamp struck her face, he recognized the little girl behind the mature face. "Mary Laino?"

She chuckled excitedly and hugged him. "The house looks as beautiful as ever."

"Thanks. Geez, it's gotta be - what - ten yeahs since I seen you. Look at ya - yer a beautyful young lady now. I keahn't believe it."

She flushed. "Thank you. It's been that long since we moved. This is my husband Joe."

"Husbin'? Wow." He offered the young man a firm grip as a pensive look swept over his face. "Mary an' Joseff on Christmas Eve - hah 'bout dat?"

The couple looked at each other, eyes filled with love. Dante squelched envy.

"We're expecting in July."

"Great! Yer ol' man mus' be so happy. How is he?"

Mary lowered her gaze, obviously pained. Dante anticipated the worst, cancer.

"He was killed in a car accident last December. A drunk ran a red light. The animal spent one night in jail," she said bitterly. Her husband slung an arm around her. "He was connected. He got off with probation."

Mortified, Dante said: "Sorry, hon', I didn' know. I neva see ya gran'ma an' gran'pa no maw. I guess now I know why."

Had he heard and forgotten? he wondered. Had he been distracted by his son's plight? Before the Lainos moved to Long Island, their families had been inseparable. Mary had been his children's first sitter, his son's first crush. She'd fawned over them.

"How's Junior?" she said.

"Safe 'n sound, thank God. He was ova deah in the Gulf."

He showed her pictures and thrilled at her amazement. Soon a chime sounded the hour, and he excused himself.

"Give my regahds to everybody," he told her, backing down the driveway.

He was relieved she hadn't asked about Deanna. He would have lied, smiled broadly, said everything was fine, and later hated himself for it. He lamented his luck, his ignorance of Al Laino's death. He couldn't do anything right at present. Everything seemed to backfire. And although he knew he was fortunate compared to the Lainos, especially poor Al, he was not appeased.

"Was dat Mary Laino?" said his mother as he entered the apartment. She was putting the finishing touches on the table.

"Yeah. D'joo know Al was dead?"

"Dead?"

He was relieved. "A drunk drivah killed 'im."

"Oh, my God. Dat mus' be why Santa an' Cahmine don' come atta the house no maw."

Dante didn't know what to say.

"Al was deah only...." She paused, bowing her head. "I'm gonna visit dem dis week. I feel so bad."

"I'll come to."

The only sound at dinner was the rattle of dishes and utensils. Dante stared into space. Without his children's presence, the pall that had hovered about the apartment while he was growing up was as dense as ever. He had to force himself to pick at what he'd always referred to as the best meal of the year.

"Why don'cha bring some down to Dee?" said his mother. "I'll make up a plate."

"No!" said her husband. "She turns 'er back on us an' you wanna feed 'er? What's wrawng wit' you?"

She lowered her head.

"He's right, Ma, 'though he sez it like a gahvone."

"When'na yous gonna siddown an' tawk?"

He found the question curious. He wondered if she'd ever tried to talk to her husband about his straying. "Any time she wants. She don' wanna, though."

"T'row 'er out," said his father.

Dante chose to rise above the criticism and withheld response.

After dinner his mother and he watched television. He began to fidget, show signs of life.

"Know what?" he said, rising. "I'm gonna go to midnight meahss."

"Good ideah," said his mother. "It'll do ya good."

His father scoffed.

"Wanna come?"

"I neva miss my eight o'clock meahss, you know dat."

"She's got somethin' goin' wit' the priest," said his father sourly.

Dante almost wished it were true. To his chagrin, he realized he'd followed his father's example in lack of church attendance.

Although it was not yet 11:30, St. Dominic's, a modern, low-lying structure of dark brick and modest size, was almost filled. Dante paused on the landing, troubled, feeling foul, hoping there wouldn't be any room at the inn. He recalled prayers he'd offered in Vietnam and others he'd said in his son's behalf, and, although both his son and he had been spared, he was still not convinced it'd been God's will that had saved them. After all, he'd seen devout Christians blown to pieces. His survival seemed more the result of chance, dumb luck, than divine intercession. He could not bring himself to believe God would help such a sinner when there were so many men far more deserving than he. He'd come here only because he wanted something. He suspected, were his marriage, by some miracle, to experience a revival, that his faith would again lapse. He was dismayed by his hypocrisy. Was he no better than his father?

Nevertheless, he entered, dabbed his fingers in holy water, and blessed himself. What did he have to lose?

He kneeled in a rear pew and prayed fervently. Moments later, upon lifting his head, he spotted Deanna out of the corner of his eye. His heart felt as if it would stop. She paused in the aisle, directly to his left, and stared at him. He returned a look of longing, heart now sailing, as if his prayer had been answered.

Deanna broke the magnetic hold of their gaze, lowered her head, and sought a place elsewhere. And Dante felt a crashing within, a weight that had his shoulders hunching. Not even in church were they able to reconcile, not even for the duration of a mass. Everywhere in the world this blessed night families were rejoicing, many making at least a pretense of unity - but not his.

The church was now filled to capacity. The choir began singing. Suddenly Dante was having difficulty breathing. He hurried out, wading through those gathered at the rear, then finding his way through more people coming at him on the landing and on the short flight of stairs that led inside. Nearby, as a gap opened, he caught sight of his daughter, who was holding hands with her boyfriend, who had not spotted him. Jo Jo looked away quickly, as if pretending she hadn't seen him. He was devastated. Apparently, she was ashamed of him. And could he blame her? No doubt the young man's impression was that her father was a drunk. He was infuriated by the unfairness of it. It'd been the first time he'd been drunk since Vietnam. He'd always been mindful of the example he was setting for his children. And here he'd slipped but once, and been branded.

Approaching the house, he was puzzled at the absence of his car from the driveway. Deanna would not have driven it to the church, which was within walking distance. He gazed about, pivotting in place, wondering if he'd parked it on the block. Suddenly he realized his son had it. How could he have forgotten that? He feared he was losing his mind.

He felt trapped. He'd hoped a long drive would provide diversion for his thoughts, from the emptiness and lack of purpose that had hold of him. He was afraid to go inside. As he saw it, he had two choices: the bottle or the .44. The bottle would see him through the night but would not chase his despair. Come morning, it would be waiting in ambush like the VC, not with bullets but with listlessness, the slow death of the soul. He wondered if Deanna had heeded his advice and hidden the gun. He was tempted to root through her room, especially as he knew she wouldn't be home for some time.

He was so confused. How was it he was contemplating suicide now when he hadn't in Vietnam? Was this war with his wife more intense than that? The enemy had come with "extreme vengeance," as officers were wont to say. A million rounds must have whizzed past him, fallen around him - and he'd incurred little more than flesh wounds. Had anyone ever been luckier than he? Braver, better men had fallen. And now he wanted to end his life at his own hands, the barrage his wife was levelling at him having eroded his will, his passion for life. Why was he prone to succumbing to this enemy, who was not threatening life or limb, when he'd fought so fiercely against one whose purpose was his annihilation? It occurred to him that, in Vietnam, the hope that he would see Deanna again had been his prime motivation to stay alive. What reward did the end of this current conflict offer - separation? That seemed to be a living without hope.

Envisioning the mess he would make, the blood and brains that would splatter the walls he'd painstakingly rebuilt and panelled, he chose the bottle. Who would take care of his parents if he were dead? How could he do such a thing to his mother, who had sacrificed so much for him? How dare he insult the memory of those who'd given their lives for their country, who would have loved to be living even troubled lives today? And one day he would be a grandfather - what kind of example would he be setting for those children, quitting because life had become painful?

He locked himself in the room, lest Jo Jo enter and discover him drinking, breaking his promise to her. He lay in the dark in his underwear, swigging directly from a bottle of scotch. He tittered lifelessly to himself as, of all people, the so-called "Suicide Doctor" came to mind. Abortion had been legalized long ago. How long would it be before this new method of killing won a plurality consensus? There was significant sentiment for it. And it was certainly understandable that someone who was painfully, terminally ill would want to die. After all, he wasn't terminally ill and he was of a mind to end his suffering. However, he did not understand why the medical profession, whose oath demanded that all be done to preserve life, was entering into the practice. Was it a misguided sense of power? Or was it simply economics, as easy a way to earn money as the performing of an abortion? Why wasn't suicide left up to the individual and the family? Shouldn't a person have the courage to end his own life? Wouldn't the legalization of assisted suicide confuse children, suggest that it was sometimes right to kill? He then realized that he had killed himself and wondered if that disqualified his opinion. Of one thing he was sure, he wouldn't even pull the plug on his father, although he believed his father, were he to grow terminally ill, would be one to ask for assistance. Life seemed such a mess.

Through an alcoholic haze, he heard Deanna enter the house. What did she think about assisted suicide? he wondered. He tittered, certain she would pull the plug on him.

He heard the door to her room open and close. Soon, he was dead to the world.

At noon, freshly showered and shaved, having gargled with mouthwash several times to chase the odor of alcohol from his breath, he tapped at the door of his daughter's room. She was still in bed, which was unusual. She was not one to sleep late, even on a holiday.

"I need ya help, mommy," he said, standing outside her door. "You promised. I keahn't cook dis meal alone."

Truth was, he had everything, oven, burners, microwave, under control. He was simply lonely and wanted her company. He would not awaken his son, who had a guest.

Jo Jo, in a robe, was deathly pale as she entered the kitchen.

"You awright, mommy?" said Dante, feeling her forehead.

"It musta be somethin' I ate last night."

Dante smirked. "An' dey say Sicilyins keahn't cook."

She did not laugh. Was she hung over, feigning an upset stomach? he wondered, feared. Had he inadvertently taught her that drunkenness was acceptable? His legs quivered. He was determined not to show any signs of a hangover.

"Go back to bed. I'll be awright."

"No. I'll be okay once I take a shower."

"Take ya time. I'll call Gran'ma if I need help."

She looked much better, albeit unhappy, when she returned.

"Ya ain't been yaself lately, Jo," said Dante softly. "Somethin' botherin' ya?"

"Just the way things are around here."

He was jarred, although it should have been obvious. "Dumb question, huh?"

She shrugged. He suspected there was more, something she was keeping from him. What could it be? Was that why she'd shunned him last night? He failed to summon the resolve to probe. He did not want to discuss family problems this day.

Soon his parents entered, his mother bearing gifts.

"Wheah's Junya?" she said, having kissed her granddaughter. "Lemme go wake 'im up."

Dante cleared his throat. "No, Ma, he's got comp'ny. Help us in heah. Turn on the TV, Pa."

His mother smirked, yet, as usual, refrained from comment. "Dis's fuh Dee." She handed him a small package, which he assumed was perfume.

"I'll put it unda the tree. She left stuff fuh yous too. I awready opened mine. She's goin' to 'er motha's latah."

His father grumbled. Dante hurried to the kitchen, away from the lie. Deanna had purchased gifts only for the children. Dante had purchased the others and put his parent's names on each. He wasn't surprised by Deanna's action. He thought it appropriate. He'd bought her a token gift only as a precaution, should she surprise him with one. He kept it in his room. He would give it to Jo Jo tomorrow as soon as he was absolutely certain an exchange with his wife would be unnecessary.

It was a while before Junior joined them. He'd driven the girl home.

"She coulda ate wit' us," said Grandma.

"She's shy," said Junior self consciously.

"Ah!" said Grandpa bitterly. "She's jus' keahn't look us in the face afta bein' wit' you awl night."

"C'mon, Pa," said Dante, pained. "He's a grown man. Leave 'im alone."

"I don' like 'im bringin' bootahns in the house."

Junior jerked his head and pursed his lips. Jo Jo tensed. Grandma lowered her gaze to her plate. Dante stifled a response in deference to his mother. He did not want to open any old wounds. For years his father had been unfaithful to a wife who never said a word about it. What had been the man's saving grace - that he'd never taken any of his conquests under his own roof? He wondered if Junior would also succumb to the hypocrisy that afflicted his elders. He was certain that his father was no more appalled by his grandson's promiscuity than he'd been guilt ridden about his own. He was simply a miserable old man jealous of youth. Dante could not fathom how such a man, who was neither handsome nor particularly clever, had been so popular with the opposite sex. He surmised that his father must have preyed on the lonely and desperate, for whom a simple word, mere attention, sufficed.

Dinner was characterized by long stretches of silence. Even Grandma, who was always cheerful in the presence of the children, was affected. Deanna's absence from the table, her presence in the bedroom, was obvious and intrusive. While his mother and father had never been happy together, Dante's family had been very happy, and the sudden loss of that happines was stunning.

Soon they heard the bedroom door open. Everyone froze. Now the sliding glass door was pulled open and shut. At last Deanna's heels were striking briskly against the driveway, as if she couldn't get away fast enough. Dante choked back a sob. His father cast his fork at his plate.

"I wanna know who the hell she thinks she is."

Jo Jo fled, sobbing. Junior hung his head. Dante stared at his father, measuring his response, still trying to recover from the blow of his wife having ducked out the back door.

"Yer in my house now," he said as if it pained him to rebuke his elder. "Show us respect."

"Yaw house? I ain't dead yet."

"You know what I mean."

"She thinks she's so high class. She's a high class bootahn, dat's awl. I wanna know when ya gonna do somethin' about 'er. Den again, if ya knew what ya wa doin', if you wa a man, dis'd never'a happened in the firs' place."

Now Junior rose and went out the front door. Soon the car was started and driven away, its tires kicking gravel against the house. Dante looked at his father.

"You got some crust, ya reahly do. Yaw the las' guy in the world to be puttin' anybody down. Dee put up wit' it fuh twenny yeahs an' hahdly eva said a word. An' now she screws up once an' ya jump on 'er - you, of awl people!"

"I wish I had anotha son to leave the house to. Ya don' deserve it. Yer a losah. Ya awways wa. Yer even gonna lose ya bootahn of a wife."

Dante shrank in his seat, the truth like a cancer that had shrivelled him. He wished he'd chosen the .44.

"Fawty-five yeahs..." said his mother suddenly, quietly, staring at her plate.

The men's eyes darted toward her. Emboldened, she lifted her head.

"Fawty-five yeahs I ain't heard nothin' but complaints from you. Yaw the bad one. Ya even bring down the only good thing ya eva done in ya whole mis'rable life. I saw ya wa no good soon as we got married, so I did the best I could wit' it. I neva said a word. I knew it wouttn't do no good. I was so afraid Danny was gonna turn out like you." She reached out and caressed her son's hand, looked at him with love. "By some miracle he didn' an' I thank God every day. He's so good, even though ya neva had a decent word to say to him. He's a man, somethin' you neva wa or eva will be. I swaw I'd neva let ya touch me again 'til ya cheahnged - but ya neva did. Ya didn' even keah. Ya had ya bootahns. Ya stayed a bum ya whole life. An' now ya wanna break the only good thing ya eva done. Bad enough ya put 'im down awl the time - now ya gotta kick 'im too, when he needs us mos'. Yer a thousan' times worse den Dee. Ya not foolin' nobody."

In the ensuing, profound silence, Dante heard a hissing in his ears. He was in awe of his mother's dignity and courage. How long had she held those words inside her? Sadly, he realized they hadn't liberated her. She'd won nothing. She'd made a simple statement of fact. As a child, Dante had asked her why he didn't have any brothers or sisters, and she replied that she'd suffered such complications in delivering him that it prevented her from conceiving. Although he knew she hadn't said this to make him feel guilty, he had felt guilty, as if he'd been responsible for her condition. Suddenly he was relieved of that burden. The victory was fleeting, however, as sadness swallowed it as the ocean did a teardrop. Although he was proud of her for having denied a brute who was unworthy of her, he despaired at the thought of the loneliness and pain she'd suffered, and a new guilt was born. She hadn't even allowed herself the momentary release, pacification of the sex act. She'd never known the love of an equal, only that which a mother felt for a child. She often remarked that his father had been the only man to have courted her. He'd assumed she was joking. He now believed it was true. Why else would she have married such a man? And how had such a wonderful woman lacked suitors? To him, she'd always been beautiful and good. He wondered if she'd been the only type suited for such a lout. Apparently, his father had gotten what he'd wanted - a housekeeper, someone who'd let him get away with murder.

She rose and went to Jo Jo's room.

"Awl bitches," her husband muttered.

Dante's head snapped toward him. "Happy now ya rooned the holiday fuh everybody? Get what ya wanted?"

"I rooned it? Blame ya slut wife who awways thought she was too good fer us."

A thought flashed through Dante's mind, one so troubling, so disconcerting, that he felt almost faint. His eyes lost focus. He suspected his father had once tried to seduce Deanna and been rebuffed, hence his rancor toward her. When his eys cleared they alit on the carving knife. Temptation, evil beckoned. He sprang from the table and fled to the kitchen. He heard his father's slow gait, the opening of the front door, and hoped he would fall down the steps and die, be out of their lives.

Soon his mother emerged from Jo Jo's room. Dante went out to the garage. She followed and closed the door behind her. He burst into tears and sought her arms. She caressed his back until he stopped sobbing.

"Sahry, Ma," he said, letting go of her. "I'm turnin' inta a big baby. Jo Jo okay?"

She shrugged. He was puzzled by the response, which seemed curious, incomplete.

"I didn' want 'er to heah me, see me like dis again. Enough's enough awready. No maw."

She said nothing. He sensed she was holding something back. But what? He told himself he was imagining it.

"Was he like dis befaw the waw?" he said, wiping his cheeks with a shirt sleeve.

"Don' make igscuses fuh him. Wa you like dat when you came home? You wa neva like dat - neva."

He recalled his infidelity and was filled with shame. "I got a lotta bad in me too, Ma."

"You only think dat 'cause'a him. You ain't nothin' like 'im. I don' know why I let 'im tawk me inta namin' you afta him. Maybe I hoped it'd make 'im change. It was the worse thing I coulda done."

"Funny, I was thinkin' the same 'bout Junya the otha day. I guarantee ya none'a his kids aw Jo Jo's'a gonna be named afta us."

Ironically, Deanna loved the name and had talked him into giving it to their son. When they'd first met he believed she loved the name and not him. How he'd loved hearing her call it. He still got chills thinking about it. He could not recall the last time she'd called him by his given name and not Dan or Danny.

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