barmaid from Kentucky had mimicked to me the long, low mooing sound a steer makes when it is dying from a sledgehammer blow to the head. Fab’s horn in the parking building sounded to me like that imitation.
It shook up the old guy in the Caddy, but he got himself together and pulled into the garage.
“Almost,” my brother snarled as we pulled up and he extracted his own ticket from the machine. “Crap!”
“Let’s do him, Fab,” I whispered. “We’re both half-Italian. Go ahead. I saw your pocket knife in the glove compartment. I’ll watch your back. We’ll follow the old asshole and cut his neck open and let Rocco lick the blood off the leather seats. The old fuck is probably here wasting Medicare money anyway. We’ll be doing the government a service. Bet his fuckin’ stupid ninety-year-old wife is wasting our tax dollars too, taking up a perfectly good bed in the ICU.”
“Shut up, Bruno. It was just a game.”
“Yeah. Right.”
Fab would not enter the hospital accompanied by our father’s dog, so I had to agree to come back later and bring Rocco in by myself. I left him in the back of the dark station wagaon coveting the decomposing rat carcass.
8
M OM WAS THIRD GENERATION C ALIFORNIAN. G OLD R USH people. Her English ancestors arrived in America in 1635. They settled in Rumney, New Hampshire and were shipbuilders and sea captains. Mom graduated from Stanford with honors three months prior to her sixteenth birthday. Now sixty-six, she still reads five books a week and talks to her best friend on the phone every day in textbook German. She’d also learned Italian and French from books and had become a published poet in San Francisco before she reached legal drinking age. And somewhere along the line, she’d formed an addiction to needlepoint.
As a little kid, I was sure that she knew everything about every subject, but I realized later that what she knew best was how never to disagree with the volcanic Jonathan Dante.
When Fab and I walked back into the waiting room, Mom was on the same couch, in the same spot where we’d lefther ten hours before. Agnes and my sister Maggie were sitting on either side of her.
She’d been working on one of her English countryside cottage pattern needlepoints, which, for a long time, was the only pattern I thought needle point came in. Every room in the Point Dume house, except the kitchen, was filled with countryside English cottage pattern needlepoint pillows.
“I brought Rocco to see the old man,” I said to her, sitting down with Fab on a couch across from Maggie and Aggie. “Maybe it’ll help bring him back if he senses that his dog is in the room near him.”
“That wasn’t a good idea, Bruno.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Weaker. We’re just here waiting. Are you drunk?”
“No.”
“But you’ve been drinking, haven’t you?”
“I drink, Mom. You know that I drink.”
“The security people took that homo and his friend away. He was on drugs, you know.”
“I know.”
“Where are you keeping the dog?”
“In the car.”
“Just leave him there, Bruno. I don’t want you involved in any more trouble. You’re unstable. Agnes tells me that your problems are worse than ever. You’ve been back in that treatment center again—until just a few days ago.”
“Agnes has no right to puke up details about my fucking life without my fucking permission. Especially with my father dying in a fucking room down the fucking hall.”
“She says that they’ve diagnosed you now as a chronicmanic-depressive. Your alcoholism is acute. You’re suicidal. Is it true that you stabbed yourself in the stomach again?”
“I was in a blackout.” “Why don’t you stop, for Chrissake? Your father quit, didn’t he?”
“I’m tapering off. Can we change the subject?”
“Agnes wants to divorce you, and I can’t blame her. I don’t think you’re crazy, Bruno. For your father, for me, make an attempt to pull your life back on track before
It shook up the old guy in the Caddy, but he got himself together and pulled into the garage.
“Almost,” my brother snarled as we pulled up and he extracted his own ticket from the machine. “Crap!”
“Let’s do him, Fab,” I whispered. “We’re both half-Italian. Go ahead. I saw your pocket knife in the glove compartment. I’ll watch your back. We’ll follow the old asshole and cut his neck open and let Rocco lick the blood off the leather seats. The old fuck is probably here wasting Medicare money anyway. We’ll be doing the government a service. Bet his fuckin’ stupid ninety-year-old wife is wasting our tax dollars too, taking up a perfectly good bed in the ICU.”
“Shut up, Bruno. It was just a game.”
“Yeah. Right.”
Fab would not enter the hospital accompanied by our father’s dog, so I had to agree to come back later and bring Rocco in by myself. I left him in the back of the dark station wagaon coveting the decomposing rat carcass.
8
M OM WAS THIRD GENERATION C ALIFORNIAN. G OLD R USH people. Her English ancestors arrived in America in 1635. They settled in Rumney, New Hampshire and were shipbuilders and sea captains. Mom graduated from Stanford with honors three months prior to her sixteenth birthday. Now sixty-six, she still reads five books a week and talks to her best friend on the phone every day in textbook German. She’d also learned Italian and French from books and had become a published poet in San Francisco before she reached legal drinking age. And somewhere along the line, she’d formed an addiction to needlepoint.
As a little kid, I was sure that she knew everything about every subject, but I realized later that what she knew best was how never to disagree with the volcanic Jonathan Dante.
When Fab and I walked back into the waiting room, Mom was on the same couch, in the same spot where we’d lefther ten hours before. Agnes and my sister Maggie were sitting on either side of her.
She’d been working on one of her English countryside cottage pattern needlepoints, which, for a long time, was the only pattern I thought needle point came in. Every room in the Point Dume house, except the kitchen, was filled with countryside English cottage pattern needlepoint pillows.
“I brought Rocco to see the old man,” I said to her, sitting down with Fab on a couch across from Maggie and Aggie. “Maybe it’ll help bring him back if he senses that his dog is in the room near him.”
“That wasn’t a good idea, Bruno.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Weaker. We’re just here waiting. Are you drunk?”
“No.”
“But you’ve been drinking, haven’t you?”
“I drink, Mom. You know that I drink.”
“The security people took that homo and his friend away. He was on drugs, you know.”
“I know.”
“Where are you keeping the dog?”
“In the car.”
“Just leave him there, Bruno. I don’t want you involved in any more trouble. You’re unstable. Agnes tells me that your problems are worse than ever. You’ve been back in that treatment center again—until just a few days ago.”
“Agnes has no right to puke up details about my fucking life without my fucking permission. Especially with my father dying in a fucking room down the fucking hall.”
“She says that they’ve diagnosed you now as a chronicmanic-depressive. Your alcoholism is acute. You’re suicidal. Is it true that you stabbed yourself in the stomach again?”
“I was in a blackout.” “Why don’t you stop, for Chrissake? Your father quit, didn’t he?”
“I’m tapering off. Can we change the subject?”
“Agnes wants to divorce you, and I can’t blame her. I don’t think you’re crazy, Bruno. For your father, for me, make an attempt to pull your life back on track before
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