Salvatore Scibona - The End

He felt he ought to clean the house, but he didn’t have the talent for it. Mildew thrived in his dishrags and left an odor on the water glasses. A pale film, strewn with hairs, accreted to the toilet rim. It was a house, for all the world, a clapboarded three-bedroom with dormers gaping out of either half of its face; the address painted on the porch post was 123. But to him it was less a house than a building. Furniture rambled from room to room. The boy shouldn’t have had to live like that, but slovenliness in a household was like contempt between married people, profoundly sinking its roots long before it sprouted.

He got up from the floor and sat at the kitchen table, playing cards awhile by himself and meditating with his nose on a glass of well water from the farm. Then he drank it down. Black ten on a red jack. The motor of the icebox burned natural gas to keep his water cold. All the unusable cards in his hand reappeared, one after another, and he was beaten. It was the lack of aces that did him in. His fingers were stained from the grapes.

Then he went out to look in the mailbox at the curb, having neglected to check it since the week before.

The surfaces of the neighborhood were plated with frost. The grass cracked underfoot, and the air smelled of nothing but cold and the absence of plant life. Everything was lusterless and tinny.

In the mailbox he found a bill from the fire-insurance company and a letter, corrugated as though it had been rained on.

The letter bore an Italian airmail stamp, and when he opened it under the streetlight he discovered to his astonishment that it was from his father — whose last letter had reached him six years ago, not long after the war, a letter, like many others, that Enzo had not answered. The present letter announced that his father would leave Naples for New York on the thirtieth of September, would spend a week with his niece in Yonkers, and would then make his way to the address on this envelope. It was hoped that the receiver of the letter might know where he might locate his only living son, Mazzone, Vincenzo, who had once sent him mail from this address. He would wire with the specifics of his arrival once he reached New York.

His father’s name was Francesco. The boy, being a firstborn, had had to be named for him, but they called him by the diminutive, Ciccio, and his name at school was Frank.

Three weeks passed and still Enzo received no further word. He feared his father’s ship had sunk while he also hoped for that very thing.

On the twenty-sixth of October, he returned from work to find, inside his storm door, a telegram including the Yonkers, New York, phone number of the niece, his cousin. Enzo had never heard of her; she must have been born after he left. His feet itched inside the threadbare socks he wore, which failed to soak up his sweat, and there was mortar clumped in his hair. Did he call the number? Yes, he did.

A woman answered briskly and put his father on the line.

The engine room of the ship on which his father had been traveling had caught fire in the mid-Atlantic. It was towed back eastward to the Azores, he said. While there, he had eaten exceptionally well and cheaply. The fruit was of the highest quality; however, the wine was rancid. He had then taken the only available United States- bound liner, headed for New Orleans, where on his arrival he found the stench of the city was so foul that he ate nothing for two days but stale salt crackers. Finally, he had taken a train to New York.

He whispered over the line that Enzo’s cousin was obese and unwelcoming. He was keen to get out of New York as quickly as possible.

The conversation was clipped, respectful, bureaucratic. Enzo had trouble understanding his father’s dialect and spoke it haltingly. He had not talked with a blood relation in twenty-four years.

His father said evenly, “I probably won’t recognize your face. I want you to wear the yellow scarf your mother made you.”

“I lost it,” Enzo said. He had thrown it away he couldn’t remember when.

“Very well. Borrow a yellow scarf. I’ll be in the backmost car.”

Enzo informed him that he was separated from his wife, who lived in Pittsburgh, in the adjoining state of Pennsylvania. Also, he reminded him about the boy and the boy’s name.

His father said he certainly did not need to be reminded, as Enzo’s very brief letter announcing the splendid news of the birth of the boy, albeit two years after the fact, was the last they had heard from him.

But about his brothers? Enzo inquired.

No, no. His brothers were quite well. They were employed by the state in the northern city of Bergamo — one was an officer of the national police, the other drove a mail truck. Unfortunately, they were so distant that Enzo’s father saw them just twice a year, at Christmas and the summer holidays.

“I only indicated they were dead to state my case with more force,” he explained. “I assumed it was you who had died. After all, I received no response to my letters of September 1939, November 1940, December 1945, and March 1946.”

There was a crack on the line, which began faintly to pick up a radio station playing Caribbean dance music. The effort of declaiming all of the syllables of all of the dates at once had taxed his father’s breath. Enzo heard the air filling the old man’s lungs again and took the opportunity to slam the receiver down on the carriage.

The telephone table stood just inside the front entrance of his house, underneath the banister of a staircase that led to the three bedrooms on the upper story. Above the telephone, a calendar dangled on an old curtain hook that was strung through one of the spindles of the banister. He had been given the calendar by a family of Jehovah’s Witnesses: a blond lady of thirty-five who visited him on his front porch, together with her husband, who wore a synthetic brown suit and held the hand of a boy toddler dressed in just the same fashion as he. The father and the boy stood behind the mother, grimly staring Enzo down while the woman explained to him that soon, very soon, his house and all the people therein and all the material wealth he had saved would be destroyed by the Lord his God.

The calendar page that was now showing depicted four brown-skinned people bent obliviously over a bean field while a volcano erupted in the background. However, it was the page for July.

Enzo looked at the stairs and climbed them, dodging Ciccio’s textbooks and the rank pads of his football uniform, which obstructed the steps.

He drew a bath and peeled off his clothes and got in, soaping and rinsing himself expeditiously, shaving his face and combing the mortar out of his hair underneath the water. Carmelina used to whet his razor for him, but now he did it himself.

He tied on his bathrobe and looked into the boy’s room, where Ciccio lay on the floor reading a color comic book, on which the ash of his cigarette had fallen. On the writing desk, the teeth of the secondhand typewriter that Enzo had bought for him, and that he had to be forced by threats and beating to use, were jammed together, so that all of them pointed toward the opening that exposed the paper but none of them reached it, like a mob trying to shove its way onto a bus.

“Get your goddamn books off my stairs,” Enzo said with fatigue.

“All right,” Ciccio said, turning a page, intent while he read the pictures.

Enzo said, “Do like I say: I want you to put some Brilliantone in the utility sink and fill in the water and wash off all that padding you put inside the football clothes.”

Before the boy could answer him, Enzo closed the door and descended the stairs, taking each step more slowly than the last. His tongue was swollen as though a bee had stung it.

Did he ring the number again, incautious, while he sweated through his robe and the calendar pages ruffled in the wind from the open window down the hall? Yes.