The Shoemaker's Wife(143)

“Should we tell him?”

Enza led Ciro into the kitchen. She poured him a glass of wine, and then one for herself. As in every crisis she had ever faced, Enza, practical and centered, dried her tears, owned the truth, and made a decision to be strong in the face of the challenge. Inside, her feelings tumbled over one another. She was at once desperate, fearful, and angry. She sat forward in the chair and gripped her knees.

“I thought we were the lucky ones, Ciro.”

“We were. For a while.”

“There has to be a doctor somewhere who can help you. I’ll call Laura.”

“No, honey, the doctors at the Mayo Clinic are the best in the world. People come from New York to see doctors there. And I know that for sure, because I spoke with some of them as I was waiting for my tests.”

“You can’t just give up,” Enza cried as her mind reeled. All those backaches, for all these years—she should have known. She thought he was working too hard, and all he needed was rest. But she and Ciro never took the time to go on vacation; they were always worried about the mortgage, and then Antonio’s schooling, and sports. They were running so fast they hadn’t seen the signs. Or maybe they didn’t want to see them. Maybe Ciro had suspected he was doomed all along and just wanted the peace of being left alone until he absolutely could not be. The time had come to be X-rayed, poked, prodded, blood drawn, veins in collapse at the prick of a needle—all of it was coming at them in a dizzy tornado of concerns, options, and treatments. She could not help but punish herself, admonish herself for not moving more swiftly. Why hadn’t she sent him to Doc Graham sooner? Maybe he could have helped. She put her face in her hands.

“There’s nothing you could have done,” Ciro said, reading her. “Nothing.”

“What do we tell Antonio?” Enza asked. “I will do whatever you want.”

“We tell him everything. I have answered every question he has ever asked me honestly. He knows about my father and my mother, his uncle and the convent. He knows what I saw when I was banished from Vilminore, and he knows why. I am not about to start to spin fables to my boy now. If I am going to die, I want him to know that I thought enough of him to share everything.”

Enza wept. “Everything?”

“Everything,” Ciro reiterated.

They heard the snap of the key in the lock of the front door opening downstairs. Enza looked at Ciro with desperation.

“Are you sure?”

Ciro didn’t answer.

Antonio bounded into the living room, recounting the day’s events as he dropped his gear. “Ma, I scored twelve points, and had four assists in practice. Coach says I’m first team JV. Isn’t that great?” Antonio entered the kitchen. “Papa, you’re home!” he said when he saw his parents sitting side by side at the small table.

Ciro extended his arms out to his son. They embraced.

“How did it go in Rochester?” Antonio went to the counter, took a heel of bread, slathered it with butter, and bit into it. Ciro smiled, remembering doing the same in the convent kitchen of San Nicola. It occurred to him that this is what he would miss when he died. His son as he ate bread.

“Want some?” He extended the bread to his father.

“No, Tony, I don’t.”

“So, what’s the skinny?” Antonio looked at his mother, whose eyes filled with tears. The news had just taken root in her heart, and the pain overwhelmed her, more for her son than for her own broken heart.

“Mama. Papa. What is it?”

“Remember when I told you about the Great War?”

“You were in France, and you said the girls were pretty, but not as pretty as Mama.” Antonio poured himself a tall glass of cold milk from the icebox.

“Yes, but I also told you about the weapons.”

Enza took the glass of milk from Antonio and pulled out a chair. She indicated that he should sit.

“Listen to your father.”

“I am. He just asked me about the weapons in the Great War. There were tanks, machine guns, barbed wire, and mustard gas.”

“Well, I got hit with the mustard gas. So I have a little backache that comes and goes,” Ciro explained.

“You look fine, Papa. Doc Graham can help you. He helps everybody. And when he can’t, he sends you to Dr. McFarland.”

“It’s worse than that, son. I’m very sick. I know I look fine today, but as the days go by, I’m going to get worse. The mustard gas went through to my bones, and now I have the kind of cancer that it gives you. In a matter of time, I will die from it.”

Antonio took in the words, but shook his head as though what he was hearing could not possibly be true. It was when he looked at his mother that he knew. Slowly, Antonio stood up and put his arms around his father. Ciro was shaking, but so was Antonio, who couldn’t believe the terrible news. Enza got up from the table and put her arms around both of them. She wanted to say something to comfort Ciro, and something more to galvanize Antonio, but there were no words. They held one another and wept, and that night, there was no further conversation, or music on the phonograph, or even supper. The house was as quiet as it could be with a family living in it.

Later that night, Antonio buried his face in his pillow and wept. He had looked at a stack of his father’s papers in the living room and seen the diagnosis. He had seen a sketch of his father’s spine, and the strange circles with the words tumor and metastasize written next to them in ink.