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.

17

Exiting the train station, awaiting the passage of traffic on 18th Avenue, or Cristoforo Columbus Boulevard, as it was designated in this area, he caught sight of his mother through a maze of pedestrians. She was trudging along, shopping bag in each hand. He hurried to her, calling out. She turned, smiling, and accepted his peck on the cheek.

"Gimme dose," he said, taking the bags. "Ya shouttn't be carryin' stuff like dis so fah from the house. What happened to the weahgin I got ya?"

She shrugged. "I didn' think I was gonna buy so much."

"Since when? Ya should awways bring it jus' in case, aw have 'em delivah."

He stopped short of saying she was too old to be working so hard. He supposed her aversion for the wagon stemmed precisely from this fact. It was a sign of age, of slowing down, of being unable to pull her weight.

The bags were laden with fruit, vegetables, nuts, loaves of Italian bread, and pastries. There was a cluster of fennel protruding from the top of one, its leaves brushing against his leg.

"Hey, Ma, hah d'ya say 'finauk' in English?"

"It ain't 'finauk'?"

"I dunno. Maybe it is. It's gotta be. We'd'a heard it someplace by now if it wasn't."

Activity along this stretch was even brisker than usual, as last minute shopping was being done. The strip was dominated by small businesses, many Italian-themed and owned. The language was also frequently employed. The English was often heavily accented or deeply Brooklynese. The aroma of sweets, vegetables, meats, pizza, baked goods, fish, espresso, inspired appetite. Dante knew many of the shopkeepers by name. Some had been in the neighborhood even longer than his family.

Moving slowly through the crowd, The Gentiles were passed, brushed against and side-stepped by others in either direction.

"Hah come ya home so early?" said Mrs. Gentile.

"Dey gave us the aftanoon awf. Why d'ya buy awl dis stuff? It's only gonna be me, you an' Pa tanight. I dunno what Dee's doin'."

"We kin have the leftovas tamarra."

"True. I promise I won' be a mope like I was on Christmas."

"Ya wanna mope, mope. It's awright."

"But I don' wanna. I wanna be happy."

"Ya still love 'er?"

He lowered his head. "Stupit, huh?"

"Give it a little maw time, den."

"Trouble is, I love 'er, but I wanna kill 'er. Hah lawng's enough? I don' wanna end up...."

He hoped he'd caught himself in time. How could he have been so thoughtless? he wondered, peeved. Beyond the silence that had fallen between them, the hubbub of the area was suddenly clear.

"Ya don' wanna end up like me an' ya fatha, ya mean."

He flushed with shame.

"Ya think if ya don' say it, I don' know it? Nobody knows it betta den me."

"Why d'ya stay wit' 'im? I don' undastan'."

"Fuh you! You wa the bes' thing dat eva happened to me, an' I didn' wanna do nothin' to hurt ya."

"Maybe ya done me maw hahm den good stayin' togetha."

She nodded grudgingly, as if conceding the point was at least debatable. "Maybe, but ya turned out good, so maybe it was the right thing. Who knows?"

He writhed slightly, angry with himself. "Ya right, Ma. I'm turnin' inta a finauk, puttin' the blame on everybody else but me, like everybody else does now'days."

"Things wa diff'rent back den. Nobody got divawced. It was an infamia. I was afraid'a what it might do to ya. Now'days it's no big deahl. Nobody keahs."

"So ya hadda suffa 'cause'a me?"

"I neva suffid 'cause'a you. Only when you wa in Vietnam. I tol' God I'd kill myself if He didn' bring ya back to me."

It was a moment before he grasped the full meaning of this. "Geez, Ma, whattaya tellin' me?" he said, pained, astounded, gazing about as if he feared someone had heard.

"I'd'a had nothin' to live faw. The only good thing I had woulda been gone. Yer awl I got to leave the world. Thank God He had mercy on me. I neva suffid 'cause'a you, dahl. I suffid 'cause'a ya fatha. But afta a whahl dat didn' even botha me no maw. He wasn't wort' gettin' sick ova. I was happy the nights he didn' come home. I was hopin' he'd stay away permanint."

"But what about you? What kinda life's dat? You had the right to be happy. I tell ya, Ma, I dunno hah much longa I kin go on wit' Dee like dis. It's killin' me."

"Stay wit' it 'til ya keahn't take no maw, den do what ya gotta do. People give up too easy now'days. I was happy 'cause I had you. You got two beautyful kids, an' ya love ya wife - dat's two maw reazinns to keep tryin' den I had."

"But...." He decided to drop it. He had never and would never be able to discuss sex with her. He did not understand how she was not embittered about having lived without it. She was a different, far tougher breed than he. No doubt his father had been coarse, but wouldn't she have heard of the glory of the act from her sisters? He wondered if a belief that sex was dirty and sinful had spared her even more grief. How else could she have remained free of bitterness unless her desires had been quashed by repulsion and fear? Even Deanna, whom he'd satisfied for years, had become embittered at the absence of sex in her life, although that absence, compared to his mother's, was relatively brief. Suddenly he found himself wishing she'd suffered the same repulsion as his mother, although he realized it would negate all they'd shared and all he hoped they would share in the future. He was aghast at how the mind worked, at the terrible thoughts it conjured seemingly independent of itself.

His mother's voice broke the spell his thoughts had on him.

"Ya tawk to Jo Jo yet?"

He gazed at her, puzzled. "'bout what?"

She paused. "Tanight."

He shrugged. "She's goin' to 'er boyfrien's."

She nodded several times in succession. "Dat's right. Ya tol' me befaw. My mind's goin'. I betta ask the docta if he knows any vitamins I kin take fuh my mem'ry. D'ya buy the champagne?"

He stopped in his tracks. "See if the docta's got some vitamins fuh me too."

"I'll get it, dahl. Bring the beags home."

In jeans and a sweater, Deanna left the house at seven. As she was dressed casually, Dante assumed she was going to her parents, who by now must have realized there was something terribly wrong with her marriage. He doubted she'd told them the truth. They'd been strict with her as she was growing up, and they'd become even more religious late in life. He was certain they blamed him. They'd disapproved of him in the beginning. Her brother was a college graduate and her sister married one. And when the Fuscos met Dante Sr. they were not impressed, to say the least. Eventually Dante won them over with the respect he showed them, his work ethic, and his dedication to his children. Now all that seemed lost.

He was relieved Deanna wouldn't be home. He hoped her absence would allow the gloom to lift from the house, at least temporarily. And he was free of the worry of what to do at midnight, whether to approach her, risk being rejected or treated coldly, even cruelly.

After dinner, his mother and he passed the evening downstairs, viewing a videotape of her favorite film: "My Fair Lady." She valiantly fought off sleep, averse to leaving her son alone. Whenever he found himself sinking toward despair and self pity, he reminded himself of the good in his life, mainly Jo Jo, who was doing well in school. How bizarre everything seemed. The hopes he'd had for his son were being realized by his daughter.

His father kept to himself upstairs, which was fine with Dante, as he was in no mood for the ridicule that would have been heaped upon the English in the film, whom his father called "pansies." At midnight he kissed his mother and poured the champagne. Hoisting his glass, he said: "Good riddince to the worse yeah'a my life. Dis one's gotta be betta. Salute."

"Things could awways be worse, dahl," his mother returned. "Ya gotta be ready fuh anything. Even if dis yeah's bad too, the nex' one might be good. Cent'anni."

Fear surged through him. Champagne splashed onto his fingers. He wondered if experience had signalled his mother that more pain was on the way. Apparently, she believed his marriage was doomed. Why was that such a shock to him? All signs pointed to it.

His mother excused herself. She'd worked hard all day and it was well past her bedtime. Dante stretched out on the couch and closed his eyes. Later, he opened them as a car sped into the driveway. Soon doors were slammed and a girl's laughter punctured the night. He chuckled, relieved his son was safe. He hoped this girl wouldn't be loud. The bed was right below him. He lacked the energy to rise and go to his room.

Sleeping lightly, he was awakened by a click. His daughter was standing beside the television, from which light was fading.

"Jo?' he said, unsure if he were dreaming.

"I'm sorry, Daddy. I thought you were asleep."

"I was." He sat up, rubbed his face, then rose, arms extended. "Happy New Yeah, mommy." He kissed her cheek and gave her a squeeze. "D'ya have a good time?"

She bit her lip. "We had a fight."

He chuckled. "It won' be the las'. Me an' ya motha had a hundred fights when we wa yaw age. It's nat'ral. Lotta people get crazy dis time'a yeah, anyway."

His innards quaked as he recalled having contemplated suicide only a week to the day - on Christmas Eve, no less. What had he been thinking?

"I wouttn't worry about it too much. If ya reahly right fuh each otha, yi'll patch it up. If ya ain't, yi'll find somebody else."

He was hoping they would split. He was afraid her boyfriend, who wasn't a student, would persuade her to quit college. Besides, he wasn't prepared to lose her to a serious relationship wherein she would be absent from the house frequently. He liked when she was in her room studying. He hoped she would wait until Deanna and he had reconciled. At present he needed her love more than ever.

"How 'bout drinkin' a glass'a champagne wit' yer ol' man?"

"I don't feel like it."

"Ya don' like champagne?"

"I love it. I just shouldn't be having any."

"Ya had too much awready?" He wasn't angry. It was New Year's Eve.

"I didn't have any at all."

Now he was puzzled. She had averted her gaze, which was concentrated on the floor. She'd yet to remove her parka. She raised her head and looked at him. Her eyes were glazed.

"Daddy, I'm pregnant."

He froze. She continued speaking but he did not hear her. It was as if he'd entered a vaccuum. Suddenly he understood what his mother had hinted at so peculiarly this afternoon and again this evening. He understood why Jo Jo had turned away from him on the steps of the church. He understood why she hadn't been herself lately. He felt as if he were imploding, as if the last of the good in his life were collapsing in on him. How could she have done this to him now when he was most vulnerable?

"Talk to me, Daddy," Jo Jo pleaded. "Say...."

He lashed out violently, delivering a slap that knocked her to the floor. Epithets flashed through his mind at such speed that speech failed him. All that passed his lips was a stammer.

Jo Jo screamed and ran from the house, bawling, bleeding from the nose. Dante remained in place, as if he feared he would come apart if he moved. Why was all this happening to him? Was God finally punishing him for what he'd done in Vietnam? Was it payback for his early infidelities to his wife? How could Jo Jo, the light of his life, have done this to him? Had she done it deliberately, spitefully, to hurt her parents for the pain their rift had caused her? If so, she'd succeeded. Dante had never been hit so hard in his life, not even in Vietnam, where one became hardened to grief and suffering, the sudden loss of a comrade in arms. Even Deanna's adultery hadn't been as jarring as this, as it had been a gradual relaization for which time had prepared him, had allowed him to absorb much of the blow. This, however, felt as if it were fatal. He was alarmed at the rapidity of his pulse and breathing.

He bent at the waist, taking deep breaths. Gradually, the effects of the blow began to recede. His head cleared - and he realized that he'd struck his daughter - not spanked but hit with all the rancor within him, as if it were she who were responsible for the sorry state of his life. And she was pregnant! He might have caused her to miscarry. How was it he hadn't struck his wife, whose sin was far greater? Was it he who was crazy, or was it life itself? In Vietnam he'd seen bodies of dead children, some incinerated - and here he'd reacted as if an unplanned pregnancy was uncommon, the worst thing in the world. What was wrong with him? Why didn't he see until it was too late?

He ran from the house, pulling on a jacket, taking keys from a pocket. He backed out of the driveway at high speed. He had no idea where Jo Jo was headed. He doubted she would go to her boyfriend, as they'd fought, about the pregnancy, no doubt. She wouldn't seek solace with a girlfriend, as it was a holiday and regular family life was disrupted, and she was not one to intrude.

He decided to try the avenue, which always attracted the young. He sped to the strip and got out of the car, leaving the engine running. He gazed in either direction, looking for her parka, its furry collar, and found the sidewalk nearly vacant.

Think, he urged himself, trying to determine her mind. Had she gone into a bar? He didn't think so, as it was past four AM. His sphincter contracted at the thought that she'd chosen the subway, where she would at least be warm, if not safe.

He sped to the station and approached the token booth, startling the clerk.

"Did a pretty girl 'bout nineteen come in heah, dark heah, pahka wit' a fuh collah?"

The man tensed. "I ain't seen none."

"Any trains pass by in the las' few minutes?"

"Nah. We'ah on holiday schedgil."

He had to be sure, and climbed over the turnstile.

"Get back heah an' pay ya feah, ya..." the clerk shouted.

Dante hurried down a flight of stairs and gazed along the length of each platform. No one was there. No one answered his call. Was she hiding behind a pillar? he wondered. He jogged all the way to the end and back. She wasn't there, he was sure. As he reached the landing, he noted that the clerk was on the phone and assumed the police were being contacted. He gave the man the finger.

He gazed into the windows of bars and cafes, thinking some might have remained open after hours, certain the police wouldn't be as vigilant this night. He entered one in which he'd detected movement. Silence fell. He felt all eyes upon him as he scanned the room. Apparently, they suspected he was a cop.

"Jo Jo?" he called.

He could have heard a pin drop.

"Deah's no Jo Jo heah, pal," said the bartender.

He was relieved, as he might have had to drag her from the place by the hair, perhaps fight off a few wise guys.

He tried St. Dominic's, and found its doors locked. He paused on the landing, thinking, and an idea, a longshot, occurred to him. Speeding, tires squealing, he was soon at the schoolyard. He entered and searched the nooks, which were engulfed in shadow. In the corner of the deep well of the u-shaped building, on a cold step, he spotted her, face buried in her lap. Where else would a troubled Brooklyn youth with nowhere to turn go for solace? How many times had he come here to escape his father's negativism, to vent his frustration through sports? How many times had he turned those feelings against friends? How many times had he made an ass of himself by fighting, even in Deanna's presence? What had she seen in him? He made the same mistakes over and over.

"Jo Jo?" he said softly, his voice nonetheless amplified within the confines, startling even himself.

Her head snapped upward. She gazed about with dread, as if seeking a route of escape - and found none. Dante, hands in his pockets, kept his distance in deference to her fear.

"I'm sahry, mommy. I lawst my head. I couttn't help it. It came right atta the blue. Come home. Please. Yi'll freeze out heah. I'm sahry ya got a mook fer a fatha. I promise I'll neva hit ya again." He died a little inside, realizing he'd broken the last promise he'd made to her. "C'mon. Ya keahn't stay heah awl night."

As she emerged from the shadow, light illumined her pretty face, which was marred by tears and an ugly bruise. Dante cried out in shame, and she lunged to his fervent embrace. He stifled tears, blubbering briefly. He knew he would now have to be strong for her. His time of moping was done. He was relieved, at least, that he hadn't broken her nose.

Later, seated in the car, fighting frustration, he said: "Didn' yous use prateckshin? I tol' ya motha to tawk to ya about it, like I done wit' ya brotha."

"She did!"

"Then what happened?"

"I don't know. What difference does it make? It won't change anything. It happened, that's all."

She was right, he knew. It was no mystery what had happened - a leak. She had caught the 20% at the time she was most vulnerable to conception. What were the odds of that? He cursed his luck.

"Billy blames me - like it was my fault. He refuses to talk about it. He's pretending nothing happened."

"He's a kid. He ain't ready, dat's all."

"But he was ready to do it," she said resentfully. "I don't understand. I love him so much. Why's he being so cold? Why won't he share the responsibility?"

"He ain't ready to grow up yet, dat's awl."

"But he says he loves me."

"An' he prob'bly believes he means it, only it ain't 'is haht dat's doin' the tawkin'. I bet ya brotha says the same thing to every girl he brings home. He has no idea what it means to reahly love somebody, an' neitha do the girls. Dey only think'a the good dat goes wit' it, not the bad an' the ugly. Ya neva reahly know if ya love somebody 'til things get ugly. Dat's when ya find out if it's true aw not."

He was aware of the irony of the comment. It seemed he'd made it for his own benefit as well as his daughter's.

"I guess Billy's love isn't true, then," she said quietly, sadly, with dignity.

"Dat don' mean ya ain't gonna find a guy's whose is."

She looked away. "I think I understand why you haven't thrown mommy out now."

They lapsed into silence. Dante's heart was pounding in anticipation of his next question. He'd always wondered what he would do in such a situation. He'd formulated what he believed would be a just response, but the prospect of its application was infinitely more intimidating than it had been in theory.

"So whattaya wanna do?" he said softly, with as much neutrality as he could muster.

"I wanna have the baby," said Jo Jo, looking away, placing a hand on her abdomen.

Dante breathed an audible sigh of relief. "Ya ain't sayin' dat jus' 'cause it's what ya think I wanna heah?"

She looked at him. "No. I was afraid you wouldn't want me to have it."

"Me?" He shook his head. "Geez, yi'd think we'd know each otha betta den dis."

"It's just that I know how hard this's gonna be for everybody, especially the way things are now."

"An' we could fix it nice an' quiet wit'out nobody knowin'?"

She looked away, tense. "How could I not have it? I wasn't raped. I love Billy. He's the first guy I ever made love to. And even if I didn't really love him, if I was only curious about sex - how could I be so selfish? I chose to make love. It's my responsibility."

He moved toward her and kissed the top of her head. "I'm proud'a ya, mommy."

She made a face. "How could you be proud?"

"'cause even when ya do somethin' wrawng ya come back an' make it right. I didn' think no maw dynahsaws wa bawn afta my genarayshin. Ya gimme hope dat the world's gonna be betta someday. We'ah so fah awf the track right now. Ya brohta's not a bad kid, but he's bein' stupit. He's only makin' things worse in a small way. He's turnin' out too much like Gran'pa."

Humbled, she shook her head. "This isn't what I expected from you at all. I expected the slap."

He winced. "Den hah come ya ran away?"

"I...." she paused. "I guess.... I don't know. Maybe because you hit me so hard."

His gut contracted. He caressed her shoulder. "It hit me hahd, mommy. I won' lie to ya. But what kin we do but make the best of it now?"

"What would you've done if I said I didn't want the baby?"

He'd been hoping she wouldn't ask. He stared blankly through the windshield. "I wouttn't'a stood in ya way. Yer old enough to make up yer own mind now. But I woulda stopped payin' fuh ya cahlidge an' I woulda gave ya three months to find yer own place. I figya if ya strawng enough to do somethin' like dat, ya strawng enough to be on ya own. If ya was fifteen or sixteen. I woulda gave ya three months from ya graduayshin."

"That seems fair."

Stunned, he shook his head. "Ya awways saprise me, Jo. Junya's like Gran'pa, an' it looks like yaw like Gran'ma."

He was encouraged. He believed she would pull through, no matter what happened from then on. He worried about her so much, when it was really her brother he needed to worry about.

"I know right from wrong, Daddy. I spent eight years in Catholic school, remember?"

"Cat'lic school girls don' get abawshins?" How he hated that word, hated especially to say it. "I bet ya know girls who had one. A lotta people smahta den me'll tell ya deah's nothin' to it, dat it's only a piece'a tissue. It's the easiest way out fuh people wit' deah conshinces unda kintrol. Nobody else might eva know ya had one. It'd be between you an' God. I thought ya might do it on yer own wit'out tellin' nobody. Ya so smaht, like ya motha. Matta'a fac', I ain't so shaw dat's what I was hopin' yi'd do, lawng as ya neva tol' me. Not dat dat makes it right. It's jus' dat dey made it so easy. It's the law. Dey don' keah hah many dey kill. In one yeah dey kill a hundred times maw den we lost in awl'a 'nam. It's like the waw neva stopped, even though dey put the guns away. Ya got haht, kiddo, ya reahly do."

She slid across the front seat and leaned against him heavily.

"Don' go thinkin' dis's gonna be easy now. Every gihdrool on the block's gonna be talkin' behin' ya back, all'a ya frien's too."

"Maybe Billy'll wake up."

He pulled back, took her by the shoulders, and looked her in the eye. "Don' count on dat, 'though ya neva know. Dis's gonna be the hardes' thing ya eva done, maybe the hardes' thing ya eva do. Ya gonna regret it a millyin' times 'til the baby's bawn an' prob'bly a lot maw afta dat, when the baby's screamin' in the middle'a the night, like ya brotha did. Ya gonna be wishin' you wa out wit' ya frien's 'stead'a takin' keah'a the baby. But ya keahn't let it make ya a sowahpuss. Ya gotta be like Gran'ma, awways lookin' fuh the good. Who knows what great thing dat kid might do someday? Aw maybe he'll be the fatha aw the gran'fatha'a somebody great. Speakin'a gran'fathas - stay atta Gran'pa's way. He's gonna be a giuche about dis, maybe the bigges' one'a awl."

Jo Jo grew pensive. "I wonder how mommy's gonna take it."

His eyebrows arched. "You didn' tell 'er?"

She was surprised that he was surprised. "No. We never talk any more."

He shook his head. "Dat ain't good, Jo. She loves ya. It's me she hates."

"This's the price she has to pay for that."

He frowned. "Ya tol' Gran'ma, though, right?"

"Yeah. She's so sweet. She took it all in stride and told me how her youngest sister 'had' to get married, and how everybody carried on about what a big disgrace it was, 'vergonia,' I think she called it, and then how everybody celebrated when the baby was born."

He was smiling. "She neva tol' me dat. No wonda Aunt 'mela's so strick wit' 'er kids. Anyway, we know we kin count on Gran'ma. What about ya brotha?"

She made a face. "Why would I tell him? He's too wrapped up in himself to care about anybody else."

"True." His brow wrinkled. "I wonda if my medical benefits'll covah dis."

Jo Jo grimaced. "What if they don't? I never thought about that. What's this gonna cost you?"

"Don' worry about it. Dat's what bank accounts'a faw - emergincies. Don' go gettin' cold feet on account'a money. Dat ain't right."

"This's getting more complicated than I thought it'd be."

"A'we gonna put a price on what a baby's wort' now? We ain't paw. We kin affawd it. Dat's my gran'kid inside ya. I love 'im awready. I wish ya coulda seen hah happy I was when ya motha tol' me she was pregnint wit' yous." His eyes glazed as he recalled Deanna's excitement.

"But we were planned, right?"

"Nah. We neva thought about birt' kintrol 'til afta you wa bawn."

He was miffed that he'd again lied to her. They had not planned to have a second child so soon after the first. They tried a condom once and hated it. Subsequently, the rythym method failed.

He started the car. Jo Jo was staring blankly into space. He hoped he'd convinced her. He was not confident, however. Having a child at any age was difficult. Jo Jo had just turned 19, and she was single. And it seemed the overwhelming consensus in such cases favor the abortion option.

He left a note on his wife's pillow:

"Jo Jo's pregnant. I thought you should know."

He was appalled at how sloppy his handwriting was.

He was seated on the couch, watching a bowl game, when Deanna returned in mid afternoon. A moment later she burst from her room, into Jo Jo's, and out again.

"Where is she?" she said, note in hand, fire in her eyes.

"Upsteahs helpin' my motha," he said quietly.

He was surprised at his calm. Then again, as far as he was concerned, the worst had passed.

"Let it go fuh taday, Dee. Let's injoy the holiday. Tawk to 'er tamarra. An' don' go hittin' 'er. I awready done dat."

She crumpled the note and threw it at him.

At four he knocked at the basement door.

"Who is it?" said Junior testily.

"The mawrill's squad. Who d'ya think? C'mon up to Gran'ma's an' eat. Give ya brajole a rest a whahl."

"I keahn't, Da. The girl lives awl the way out on the Islan'. By the time I take 'er home...."

"Invite 'er up."

"Yeah, right. You know hah Gran'pa is. She ain't gotta heah dat."

"Okay, kid, I heah ya. I'll sen' Jo Jo down wit' a coupla plates. If ya imbarriss 'er, I'll come down wit' the strap, I mean it. Betta yet, I'll sen' Gran'pa."

Junior laughed sarcastically. Chuckling, Dante ascended the stairs, then wondered why he was making jokes.

The table was set. His father was in his easy chair.

"What's the scaw, Pa?"

"Ah!" he scoffed. "Dese kids keahn't play. Yeahs ago...."

"Here it comes." How he hated the preface: "Years ago...." He knew what would follow - glorification of the past. "Doc Blanchard an' Glenn Davis, 'Mista Inside' and 'Mista Outside.' The great Army team - 'The Black Knights of the Hudson.' Fordham's 'Seven Blocks of Granite,' anchored by Vince Lombardi. Leo Nomellini...." He'd heard it all before and was glad he'd cut it short.

"Wise guy."

"Face it, Pa, kids taday got maw talent. A lot of 'em act like gihdrools, but de'ah bigga, strawnga an' fasta den the ol' tymas."

"Whatta you know?"

His mother called from the kitchen.

"Wheah's Junya?"

"He's busy."

She absorbed the response, then said: "It's about time we had some gran'kids, anyway."

Jo Jo, standing beside her, laughed and gave her a hug. Dante couldn't believe they were making light of it.

Later, at the table, Dante and Jo Jo bowed their heads as Mrs. Gentile said grace, which her husband tolerated with a smirk. Dante was amused rather than irked. He was not going to let his father spoil this day. He was surprised at his positiveness. The intitial shock having subsided, he was warming to the thought of a grandchild, which would be living under his own roof. His love had been stifled. Suddenly it was flowing freely again.

"Guess what, Gran'pa?" said Jo Jo cheerfully.

Everyone looked at her. Dante, noting the bruise on her chin, cringed.

"I'm gonna have a baby."

This time Dante was unable to restrain laughter. His mother joined them. His father, for once, was speechless. Although Dante thought it odd to treat the occurrence lightly, he was glad Jo Jo wasn't letting it bring her down. And why shouldn't she be happy? She'd made the choice. There was no sense wallowing, at least not all the time. Undoubtedly, she would have days ahead dominated by negativism. Why reject this moment of positivism, of happiness? Was happiness so common, so frequent as to be shunned?

Grandpa left the table muttering.

"Ya somethin' else, Jo," said Dante softly, wiping his chin with a napkin.

She shrugged and stuck a fork into a stuffed mushroom. "He would've found out sooner or later. I figured I'd get it out of the way. Maybe he'll like the idea in a few months."

"Yeah, an' money'll grow on trees." He regretted his choice of words, as he feared Jo Jo would infer that he was strapped financially. "He don' like nothin' dat remin's 'im how old he's gettin'."

"If he'd'a lived right, he wouldn't be so ol' befaw 'is time," said Grandma. "Don' worry about him, dahl. I keahn't wait 'til the baby comes. Now eat! Pass me the broccoli, Danny."

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