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.

6

The Gentiles rejoiced upon receiving a letter from Junior. He was safe, unharmed, and would soon be home on leave. The Christmas lights were illumined each evening. The interior was decorated in streamers and ribbons as well, although the exact date of his arrival was unknown. Now Dante's sole concern was the effect combat had had on his son. He prayed it was marginal. In light of the overwhelming success of the operation, this seemed entirely possible. The war had lasted but 43 days, the ground action a mere 100 hours. As of the moment, it was reported that only 115 Americans had been killed. He hoped there hadn't been time for the true horror of war to reveal itself.

Seated in his easy chair, engrossed in a baseball game, he frowned as the doorbell rang. The caller refused to respond verbally, choosing instead to ring repeatedly, to stand out of the line of the peephole. Sensing a practical joke by his next door neighbor's mischievous son, hoping to nab the kid in the act, Dante pulled the door open quickly. He stood stunned as a young man in uniform, duffel bag in hand, sprang before him, smiling.

"Merry Christmas," said the soldier.

Father and son leapt into an embrace and pounded each other's back. Junior noted the glaze in his father's eyes and backed off, making a face.

"Why ya cryin'?"

Embarassed, Dante turned away, wiping his eyes with his fingers.

"Wow," said Junior, noting the decorations. "Wheah is everybody? What kind'a party's dis?" He tapped at a balloon, sending it toward the ceiling.

"Ya shoulda called an' told us you wah comin'."

"I wanted to saprise ya. I wanted to see the dumb look on ya face." He imitated it. "It was worth it. Wheah's my stupit sista?"

"Out wit' 'er boyfrien'."

"In the middle'a the week? You are gettin' sawft."

Dante shrugged, flushing. "He's a good kid. I like 'im. Listen, cawl ya motha. The numba's in the book deah. I'll run up an' get gran'ma an' gran'pa."

Buoyed by elation, thanking God, he bounded into the driveway, entered a door at the side of the house, and ran up the stairs. When he returned he found Junior seated on the couch, shoes off, feet propped on the coffee table.

"Tawk to ya motha?"

"Deah was no ansah. Dey musta closed up. She's prob'bly on 'er way."

Dante noted the time. If she were returning directly, she would arrive in less than an hour.

"She hammah ya whahl the waw was goin' down?" said Junior, tone suddenly serious.

Dante pursed his lips and shook his head. "She let me awf pretty easy."

"I bet. At leas' now she'll go back to bein' 'erself."

Dante chased the dread that threatened to spoil the joyous occasion. "Gran'ma an' Gran'pa'll be right down. Dey wa awready in deah pijamas."

"I coulda saw 'em tamarra."

"You kiddin' me? Gran'ma woulda neva lemme heah the end'a it. She's been tellin' me every day: 'Lemme know the minute he gets home.'" He imitated his mother's voice. "'I don' keah what time it is.'"

Beaming, he gazed directly into his son's eyes, which seemed lively and happy, no different than the day he'd left. Apparently, nothing had been taken from them. Dante was ecstatic. He sat at the edge of the couch beside him.

"So, d'ya see any action?" he said softly, nervously, almost regretfully, as if he hadn't the right, as if it were an invasion of a precious privacy. He was irked at his inability to curb his morbid curiousity.

"Not much. Dey didn' put up much of a fight."

"Ya disappointed?"

Junior nodded. "Yeah. Our C.O. ragged us awl the way, tellin' us we didn' even get ah cherries broke. I hahdly used my weapon. Now I'll neva know what it's reahly like."

Dante wondered if he would have been disappointed himself had a truce been declared shortly after his arrival in Vietnam. Then again, in his first few days on the line he saw enough to fill a lifetime. He quietly cried himself to sleep, certain he would never see Brooklyn again. From the looks of it, his son hadn't experienced that, and suddenly he wondered if that were unfortunate. He was baffled. He'd always thought of himself as simple, yet lately he was finding himself more and more confused about the fundamentals of life.

The elder Gentiles entered, Grandma bearing gifts.

"Merry Christmas, dahl," she said, kissing Junior's cheek, her own wet with tears.

"Dat's right!" said Dante, springing to his feet. "I fuhgot. We saved awl ya presents. I kept the tree up as lawng as I could, but it got too dried out. I hadda take it down."

As Junior was unwrapping his gifts, Jo Jo entered and raced to his arms.

"Hi, bozo," said Junior. "Stop cryin', ya wuss."

"Wheah's the champagne?" said Grandma.

"Let's wait 'til Dee gets home," said Dante, glancing at the clock.

Nearly an hour had elapsed. Why was timing important? he wondered. He was already convinced Deanna was having an affair. Apparently, he was trying to prove himself wrong, hoping to avoid the inevitable confrontation. He fought despair.

"We kin have cawfee an' cake, though."

"I'll get it," said Jo Jo. "Help me, Gran'ma."

The men, alone now, fell silent. Grandpa lit a cigarette.

"I hope ya didn' take up smokin' ova deah," said Dante to his son.

"Nah."

"Thank God. I know hah it is. When ya ain't fightin' or mahchin', deah's nothin' to do. Ya feel so jumpy ya gotta do somethin'. An ya don' worry about it killin' ya 'cause ya know ya might get killed anyway."

Suddenly there was tension amongst them.

"So hah was it?" said Grandpa.

"C'mon, Pa," said Dante, pained. "It ain't right. I neva asked you."

"You weren't even bawn den. Hah could ya ask?"

"You know what I mean."

"I don' mind," said Junior, "not like you, Da."

"What's he got to tawk about?" said Grandpa peevishly. "Dey got deah asses kicked."

Dante flushed with anger and shame yet remained silent. There was no refuting the truth. Junior, pained for his father, lowered his gaze.

"So?" Grandpa demanded.

"Deah ain't much to tell. The flyboys an' ahtillery did mosta the work. Just about awl we did was take pris'niz. Dey wa pretty shook up. Dey wa kissin' ah feet an' beggin'. Dey wa a sahry igscuse fer an ahmy. Nothin' reahly went on up close wheah we wa. We didn' lose one guy."

"Great," said Dante.

"I wish dey woulda let us chase down the Republikin Godd."

"Dat was a stupit mistake," said Grandpa.

"Dey couttn't," said Dante. "It woulda been against the U.N. rule."

"De'ah just as gutless as you. Mahk my words, dis camel jockey'll be back causin' problims."

Although Dante also feared it'd been a mistake not to perform a thorough mop up, he was glad it hadn't been undertaken. Junior might still be in the desert, fighting, perhaps killed. He was ashamed of himself, realizing he wanted the sons of other fathers to take up the mantle.

"The hardes' thing fuh me was the noise'a the bahmiz," said Junior. "Dat was scarier den anything dey t'rew at us. I got use' to it, though. Dey got deah brains beat out. Deah wa bodies awl ova, han's stickin' up t'rough the sand. Dey lawst a lotta men. I bet deah's thousands of'em buried in cahlapsed bunkahs. Dey...."

He ceased speaking as the women returned. The cake was distributed. Dante gazed repeatedly at the clock, each tick a pinprick. Time dragged, despite the joyousness of the occasion. Conversation paused periodically as attention was focused on the game. Grandpa ridiculed the modern ballplayer, citing the names DiMaggio, Rizzuto, Furillo, Snyder."

"Whats'a matta, Danny?" said Mrs. Gentile to her son, noting his despondency.

He waved off her concern. "Nothin', Ma. I'm jus' tieyid. I been on edge fuh weeks. Now dat the pressha's awf I might sleep fer a week."

He coiled with dread at the thought that Jo Jo might mention the dream, of which his father and son knew nothing, which was as he preferred.

"Wheah's Ma?" said Junior suddenly. "She shoulda been home a lawng time ago."

"She's been workin' late every night," said Jo Jo.

"Relax," said Dante. "Sometimes the cab comp'ny's all tied up an' she hasta wait a lawng time to get one. I want 'er to use the vowchiz. I don' want 'er on the subway dis late."

It seemed he'd convinced everyone but his mother. Her glance suggested she sensed all. He was filled with shame and excused himself. No one but his mother had noted his distress.

Now that his son was safe, he no longer had an excuse to avoid confronting his wife. The prospect, however, had his knees buckling. He was afraid of what he might do to her, afraid of the effect it would have on his children. He would not, however, stand back and wait until the affair had run its course. He could never be like his mother in this regard. It'd been eating at him at lot more than he'd realized, than he'd been willing to admit to himself. In his mind, it would be unmanly, dishonorable to allow the affair to continue.

Deanna was in Junior's arms, weeping, as he reentered the living room. The sight brought a lump to his throat. He signalled his daughter to fetch the champagne.

"I cawled yer awfice," said Junior. "Deah was no ansah."

"We work out of the computer room at night," she said, wiping away tears. "It's on another floor. Then there was an accident in the tunnel. Traffic was all backed up. It was a nightmare."

Dante stole a peek at his mother, who had smirked at the comments. She knew lies when she heard them. His father had used every one in the book even long after she'd ceased to care.

Jo Jo backed through the kitchen door holding a tray upon which a bottle of champagne stood surrounded by elegant glasses.

"Dom Perignon?" said Junior, eyes alive with excitement.

"Only the best fuh dose who serve."

"An' win," Grandpa added.

"Salute!" said Grandma, endeavoring to chase the tension her husband had aroused.

"Cent'anni," the others, except Grandpa, responded in unison.

The glasses came together at the center, then were drawn back and lifted to lips.

"God bless America," said Grandma.

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