West of Rome Read online

  I could walk out into the night with my pipe and look from Stupid to the stars, and there was a connection. I liked that dog. When I was a boy in Colorado I used to sit with my dog and look up at the same stars. He was childhood again, bringing back the pages of my catechism. Who is God? God is the creator of heaven and earth and of all things. Is God everywhere? God is everywhere. Does God see us? God sees us and watches over us. Why did God make us? God made us to know him and to love him in this world and to be happy with him in the next.

  I could sit on the grass with Stupid and believe every word of it. Sometimes as I sat there he would rise up and put his paws on my shoulders and try to screw me. So he loved me. How else could he express it? Write a poem, gather roses? I whacked him with an elbow, and that brought him down. Rocco had loved me too, and expressed it by biting my shoes or tearing apart something I owned, a shirt, a pair of socks, my hat, or, unhappily, the grips on my golf clubs. But Rocco was an out-going fellow who loved bitches, while Stupid had this problem with females, and it endeared him to me.

  He was good for me. A month after he arrived I began a novel. Nothing unusual about that. I began novels all the time, filling the gaps between screen assignments. But they petered out for lack of confidence and discipline, and I abandoned them with a sense of relief.

  Screenwriting was easier and brought more bread, a one-dimensional kind of scribbling asking no more of the writer than that he keep his people in motion. The formula was always the same: fightin’ and fuckin’. When finished you gave it to other people who tore it to pieces trying to put it on film.

  But when you undertook a novel, the responsibility was awesome. Not only were you the writer but the star and all the characters, as well as director, producer and cameraman. If your screenplay didn’t come off you could blame a lot of people, from the director down. But if your novel bombed, you suffered alone.

  I was fifteen thousand words into my novel, with no symptoms of collapse, when the old urge to ditch my family returned. The pages hummed and I wanted to be alone. Naturally I thought of Rome, and even toyed with the idea of taking Harriet with me. To get there we would first sell the establishment on Point Dume, an impossibility until we got the kids off our backs. As for the dog, I didn’t think he’d like Rome, where all dogs on a leash are muzzled by law. But somehow I never pictured Stupid with me in Rome. He was only useful until I could make my move. With the kids gone and the house sold I would be loaded, and free.

  The more I planned and dreamed, the less Harriet figured in the project. I didn’t think she would care for Rome after all. Separated from friends, isolated by the language barrier and culturally alien she might find it a drag. Besides, she no longer had any particular affection for Italian things. I finally decided that the only solution was for her to rent an apartment in Santa Monica, and then I could take off for the Piazza Navonne and plunge into the new life.

  NINE

  Harriet didn’t do as well as she hoped with Bernard Shaw. She got a B. It was a cruel clout to her pride, even though it mustered Denny out of City College with a passing grade in theatre arts.

  The report came in the mail on a hot, dismal February afternoon, the sky suffocating from the blazing Santa Ana winds, the air electric with heat, the trees crackling as if to burst into flames, the sea flat and stupified. The heat and the report so depressed her that she took to the bottle. I sympathized and drank with her, for I had read her paper, twenty pages of very dignified and lucid prose. That of course was the trouble. It was too good to have been written by a clunker like Denny.

  We sat in the kitchen with all the windows open, sipping cold chablis until the sun went down, listening to the incoming tide as it roared like lions in a pit. In the yard Stupid moved restlessly from place to place, trapped in his thick pelt, panting and listless as the hot wind swished through the weary pines. We drank the chilled wine as if it was soda pop, and it was having its effect.

  “I’m going to the school board,” Harriet said recklessly. “This man Roper is a mean, vindictive pedant. He’s got it in for Denny.” She splashed wine into her mouth. “Get me the telephone book! Find the number of the school board!”

  “It’s too late. They’re closed now.”

  “I’m going in person,” she threatened. “I want to confront this Roper face to face. I’m entitled to an explanation.”

  “If you go, then go alone,” I suggested. “Don’t take Denny with you, because Mr. Roper might ask him a few questions about Bernard Shaw, and you’d be caught with your pants down.”

  The thought was sobering.

  “Oh, God,” she moaned. “I worked goddamn hard on that paper. I really tried.”

  She crossed to the stove and opened the oven where the lasagne bubbled in a piquant fragrance of herbs and tomato sauce. She turned the vegetables, and gave the salad a few tosses with a wooden spoon. It was to be one of those rare times when the entire family would be present at dinner, Rick Colp included.

  Otherwise it had become a do-it-yourself kitchen, everyone cooking to his own taste. It had to be that way because everyone wakened at a different hour and nobody could be depended upon to show up for dinner except Harriet and me.

  So Harriet finally stopped preparing regular meals. Instead, she filled the freezer with precooked meals and let them fend for themselves. It appeared to be a labor-saving arrangement but it wasn’t, because nobody washed his own dishes or cleaned up afterward, nor did it do any good to complain or lay down rules. It was always Harriet who did the dirty work, kept the house in order, the bedrooms, the laundry, the accounts. She managed everything, except for Thursdays, when the cleaning woman did the windows and the more tedious chores.

  I watched the clock and uncorked another bottle. It was almost seven o’clock and they were a half hour late, but it was futile to gripe about it, for it happened all the time. At any moment we expected the phone to ring, Dominic or Denny or Tina informing us of delay or stating flat out that they weren’t coming. That happened all the time too.

  We sipped in pessimistic silence, our patience strung out as we avoided a subject that lay heavily upon our hearts, the independence of our children. But it was really too corny to rap about anymore, we had worn the subject out, a fucking drag, self-pitying and spading up one’s own mistakes over the years.

  But when we dipped our tongues in alcohol, specially wine, Harriet and I could skim the fat from our brains in a cruel game we sometimes played.

  When she said, “Don’t you think Denny has a wonderful analytic mind?” I knew the game was on, and I was eager to play.

  ‘The kid’s a genius,” I answered. “An absolute genius.”

  “An actor in the family!” Harriet gloated. “Won’t that be nice?”

  “Beautiful. Another Frankie Avalon.”

  “Maybe even a Jackie Cooper.’”

  “Denny’s so sensitive, so grateful for the smallest favors. I think that’s what I love about him most.”

  “I know what you mean,” I said. “It’s his best quality. But hell, let’s face it—all our kids have it, this reverence for home, this respect for father and mother.”

  “I think Denny deserves some kind of reward for his grade in theatre arts.”

  “He wrote a great paper. What do you say we put a mortgage on the house and buy him a Bentley? An actor’s car. It’ll give him status.”

  “He’d never accept it. He’s like Tina, always thinking of others.”

  “Oh, that Tina!” I smiled. “What a wife she’ll make for Rick Colp! What a housekeeper, what a cook! And to think she got her training right here, helping her mother!”

  “She was a wonderful pupil. I never saw such dedication, washing dishes, scrubbing floors, cleaning walls and windows. She loves to work. Such a fastidious girl. Neat as a pin.”

  “Oh, I know. I’ve seen her bedroom in the morning. It’s a showcase of neatness. No towels on the floor, no clothing scattered about. God, is that Rick Colp lucky!”

 
‘They’re made for each other, kindred souls.”

  “Children of nature, moving from beach to beach while Rick surfs and she keeps house. Eating mussels and Ritz crackers, not a care in the world.”

  “And when the babies come they can hang them from hammocks in their home on wheels.”

  “What about us7” I protested. “Why can’t we take care of the babies?”

  She sighed. “Our own grandchildren, filling the house with laughter once more!”

  “You sure you won’t mind? Diapers and all that?”

  ‘Those dear little bottoms. I’d love it.”

  “Oh Jesus, Harriet! Is it possible? You think they’d really let us have them? It’s fulfillment of a lifetime dream, the perfect way to spend our old age, starting the whole cycle over, raising a bunch of kids again.”

  We paused without laughter or even a smile, we were silent and tired, and we were not finished. There was Dominic to think about.

  “Dominic.”

  “Who?”

  She wouldn’t play our game with him. There were black women in his future, and even cynicism could not cope with them. As surely as we sat there, each of us knew that some day Dominic would present us with a black daughter-in-law. I didn’t care. Somewhere among my Neapolitan forebears there had to be a boatload of North Africans. But Harriet? Her origins were from London on her father’s side and Dusseldorf on her mother’s.

  Around eight o’clock they began straggling home, Jamie first. He had come from work, so there was reason for his tardiness. His semester grades should have been in the mail along with Denny’s, and Harriet asked why they had not come.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  I asked, “How are your grades?”

  “Great,” he said evasively, pouring himself a glass of wine.

  “They better be, if you want to stay out of the draft.”

  “You don’t have to remind me.”

  He was troubled, but it was very difficult to get information out of that kid. He was quiet and mysterious and not like his brothers. When pressed, he had a way of melting into the walls.

  Then Denny arrived. He took an envelope from his Yellow Cab driver’s cap and handed it to Harriet.

  It was a letter from Mr. Roper. Harriet wouldn’t open it. “I don’t like Mr. Roper.” She handed it to me.

  I opened it and read:

  “Dear Mrs. Molise: I want to thank you for your superb paper on Bernard Shaw. It is far and away the finest term theme written by a parent that I have encountered in twenty-five years of teaching. Off the record, it is a pleasure to award you an A for it. My congratulations. Sincerely yours, Thomas Roper.”

  It frightened Harriet.

  “What does he mean? Are you in trouble, Denny?”

  “No trouble. Just embarrassed.”

  “You got a B,” I said. “What more do you want?”

  “I’ve been exposed. I’m a crook. The truth is out.”

  “Oh hell. You knew that all the time.”

  He bent down and kissed Harriet.

  “I know you meant well, Mother, but you over-played it. It was too good. How about another favor?”

  “Just what did you have in mind?” I asked.

  “I want you to write a letter to my commanding officer.”

  His gall was staggering. Now that he was finished at City College, he proposed that Harriet and I assist him in getting out of the reserves.

  “What kind of a letter?”

  “Tell him I’m a homosexual.”

  “Oh, my God!” Harriet said.

  He breezed on: “I’m unfit to wear the uniform, immoral, a bad influence. As heartbroken parents you’re doing your patriotic duty in exposing me.”

  “Disgusting!” Harriet said.

  “Sure it’s disgusting, but it’ll get me out of the army.”

  Harriet turned suddenly and slapped him in the face. Startled a moment, he rubbed his cheek.

  “Mother, you don’t understand. Ill deny the charge.”

  “Oh, God. My own son!”

  She rose and hurried out of the kitchen.

  “Nice going,” I said. “You sure know how to bring out the best in your mother.”

  “It was just a suggestion. She doesn’t have to do it.”

  “Just one question,” I said. “Are you a fag too?”

  He smiled. “Like father, like son.”

  There was a shriek from the yard. It was Tina. We rushed out the front door and spilled into the night. Rick Colp was pinned to the gate, Stupid upon him, whacking him with his sword, aimless thrusts that slid off his jeans as he cowered and Tina beat the dog with her purse.

  “Step on his toes!” I yelled.

  Denny charged through everybody and gave Stupid a tremendous kick. It hurt the dog and he grunted and dropped away gasping and choking on the lawn. I bent down and patted him.

  “Are you hurt, boy?”

  “What about Rick?” Tina shrieked. “Maybe he’s hurt!”

  “You hurt, Rick?”

  “Nah,” he said, disgusted.

  “He didn’t mean it,” I said. “It’s this heat. He’s a cold weather dog.”

  “He is, like hell,” Rick said. “Last time he jumped me it was cold and raining.”

  Tina said, “Don’t waste your breath. All he cares about is that awful dog.” She took Rick’s arm and marched him into the house.

  “You’ve got to get rid of that dog before he kills somebody,” Denny said.

  I walked to where he stood by the gate and grabbed the lapels of his coat. “Now you listen,” I said. “You may be my son, you may even be my father, or, for that matter, you could even be my mother, but whoever you are, I warn you—never, never kick my dog again! Do I make myself clear?”

  “Real clear, man.”

  “Okay then. Let’s eat.”

  We filed back into the house to a scene of young love in the kitchen, where Rick sat sipping scotch as Tina combed his sun-yellowed hair. Both were unhappy and conspiratorial and Tina flashed me a deadly glance. I noticed that the bottle came from the broom closet.

  The phone rang and I answered. It was Dominic calling from the paystation at the highway.

  “Is it okay to bring a guest?” he asked.

  “Blonde or brunette?”

  “Very brunette.”

  “I don’t know about your mother, but it’s okay by me.”

  I hung up and found Harriet at my side, listening.

  “Is she black?”

  “Very brunette,” I said, and her eyes dropped in resignation. The kids moved into the living room with glass tumblers and a jug of Red Mountain wine. Harriet set an extra place at the dining-room table and checked the cooking. She had gone to a great deal of trouble with the table candles, flowers, and her special silverware, and Florentine glasses for the wine.

  Dominic’s guest was Katy Dann. She was small, pretty and formidable in black leather pants and knee-high boots, sleek as a seal and dark as black coffee. She possessed a high spectacular ass and the breasts under her green sweater challenged you. I envied Dominic. I was an ass man too. He proudly introduced Katy to Harriet.

  “Hi, Mom.” Katy said, smacking her with an enthusiastic kiss.

  “How do you do,” Harriet said politely, reeling a little.

  Katy bussed me too, and said, “Hello, Pop.” She could have skipped that. Nobody had ever called me Pop before. Proud as an agent escorting his star, Dominic led her into the living room and introduced her to the others. He came back to the kitchen for a couple of glasses while someone turned up the hi-fi and The Supremes buried us all.

  I uncorked the wine and flipped the now sodden salad a few times while Harriet removed the lasagne from the oven and cut it into squares. She sprinkled it with handfuls of Romano cheese and I got a nostalgic whiff of the past in the faraway kitchen of my youth, my father gay with wine as he too tossed the salad in that distant time. It was a wrenching, uncomfortable memory, a flashback that almost made me cr
y, and my soul choked with it, for I had never wanted to be a father, and there I was, a father four times over, and the Piazza Navonne retreated far away like an unreachable planet.

  At last all was in readiness, and Harriet said, “Call them to dinner.”

  I walked into the living room, assaulted by the din of The Supremes. The room was deserted, half-empty glasses on the mantle and coffee table. They had vanished. From outside I heard voices. I opened the front door.

  The six of them were moving out the front gate.

  “Dinner!” I called.

  They stared back in silence.

  “We’re not hungry,” Jamie said.

  “It’s too hot to eat,” Denny added.

  “We’re going to the beach,” Dominic said. “We’ll eat later.”

  “You can’t do that,” I yelled. “Everything’s ready.”

  They drifted into the darkness and down the road to the beach gates. The last to leave was Jamie, as he coaxed Stupid to join them. With a leap of delight the dog went along too.

  TEN

  We lit the candles and sat down to the funeral, the casket of lasagne between us. There was no weeping over the bereavement, no show of emotion. We had need for one another in this hour and we remained courageously silent. There was something heroic about Harriet, a tragic gallantry as she drank deeply the chilled wine and was not ashamed to smile. She filled her glass and drank again, and I thought she drank too fast, too defiantly.

  She looked at me and said, “You’re drinking too fast.”

  The lasagne was overbaked, the sauce hardened at the edges. The salad was limp, the zucchini boiled to a paste. I dabbled at the food and studied my wife. Her face was rounder, moon-shaped, for she was ten pounds overweight and had been on a diet. But tonight she ate with abandon, taking quick forkfuls, her mastication audible. But this was no time to be critical and I let it pass.

  “Do you have to make so much noise when you eat?” she asked.

  Suddenly I felt insulted and injured and I looked at her coldly. Who was this woman? Besides being my wife, what did I really know about her after twenty-five years of marriage? How much of her, and how little of me, had been transferred to our unbeholden children? Except for Tina, they had inherited her eyes, her bone structure, her teeth. Why weren’t they short and stumpy like their father? Why did they resemble store clerks and not stone-masons? Where was the peasant ruggedness of my father and the innocence of my mother, the warm brown Italian eyes? Why didn’t they talk with their hands, instead of leaving them hanging dead at their sides during conversation? Where was the Italian’s devotion and obedience to the father, the clannish love of hearth and home?