Thom Brucie
Maybe a Lesser Sin
I did not want to watch my grandfather die
but I did
as surely as I watched him
prune his grape vines
as truly as I watched him
eat sweet meat
rolled in oregano
bathed in olive oil
fried in re-used fat.
Papa Giovanni Drapo was the head of the family; the strongest. He ruled with unquestioned authority. He brought his family from Italy to the hills of northern Pennsylvania after World War I to be free and to work the railroads. He loved the beauty of the rolling hills, especially fall when maple leaves prospered like fireworks, and the evening winds carried the early nibble of winter. With the pruning of his grapevines in November of 1959, Papa Giovanni Drapo turned eighty-three. He also began to die.
What do the saintly old ones know
of death
with the hair growing out of their ears
and their eyes set deep
at the back of their noses
squinting even when the sun is behind dull clouds?
Why am I threatened by hair
when there are so many other dangers
like secrets which only appear
when I am not ready for them?
He was dying, but no one cared. The members of his family regarded Giovanni's rule with disdain. Only Alisio interpreted Giovanni's dictatorship as the strength which bound the family together. So no one cared that Giovanni was dying; no one except Alisio. Alisio loved his grandfather, but he never told him, because Papa Giovanni's men did not speak of love. Men were men. Men were strong.
Alisio was twenty-seven. Since his return from World War II, he went to Mass every morning, for he believed it was God who preserved him from death in the war. He had black hair and Papa's great brown eyes set deep at the back of his nose. Every day he tried to get old Giovanni back to church.
"Come to church with me, Pa," Alisio pleaded. "Have confession. Take communion."
"No, Alisio," Papa said. "No church. Since Father Anselmo condemned me and my sin, I don't go to church never again."
Papa didn't go to church. Alisio did, and he prayed for Papa.
Now Papa lay in bed, the crucifix above his head, and Alisio, knowing death, hung a rosary on the bedpost. This day Giovanni Drapo was not strong. He was weak. The huge brown eyes looked heavy as pewter and dull as a pruned vine cracked by the frost. Alisio knew from war that distant look in the eye. Dead eyes look away from this world.
Alisio had watched other men die, but he did not want to watch his grandfather die. He took one hand and held it, clasped it in his own. The hand was long, bony now, without power.
Tiny white whisker stubs roughened Giovanni's face. Large white hairs curled from the soft lobes of his ears. His cheeks were sunken and gaunt, but his teeth were beautiful. He still had all of his teeth. Papa never brushed his teeth; he wiped them clean with a towel after he ate.
"Pa," Alisio said, "you're eighty-three years old. You're weak. Let me call the priest."
Papa rolled his head quietly toward Alisio. He smiled.
"I was a strong man," Papa said.
"Yes, Pa."
"You know about the wheel, Alisio?"
"Yes, Pa." He knew.
Giovanni Drapo was the strongest man who ever worked for the railroad, strong as the coal of his beloved mountains. Many crews of Italian immigrants worked the rails during the depression. Giovanni, Giuseppe, Tommaso, and Roberto were a crew. Giovanni was crew leader. Their job was to replace the great wheels of the boxcars. Each steel wheel weighed six hundred and thirty-seven pounds. To set the wheel, the crew raised one corner of the car above level with a hand jack.
"Raise 'em up a little bit more," Giovanni would order Tommaso.
Standing back, his practiced eye would judge just the right height.
"That's good," Giovanni would yell and pronounce the height correct by crossing his hands and arms like an umpire shouting `safe.'
Roberto greased the axle. Giuseppe set the guide pin. All four men circled the iron wheel. Giovanni shouted, "Now!" and together they lifted. They shifted the weight abruptly. Giovanni always took the lower grasp, the heaviest downthrust. Then, in harmony, they slid the wheel onto the axle.
"Hey, Giovanni," Tommaso teased, "why do you always take the bottom? Why don't you switch around?"
"Whatta you, stupid?" Giovanni answered. "You wanna kill somebody? What if the wheel falls?"
"What, you never gonna drop the wheel? Maybe we better change before you drop one and it kills somebody."
"I don't drop the wheel. How many times I gotta tell you? I'm stronger than all three of you bums."
That day Tommaso was in a playful mood, and he changed the banter of their game.
"Hey, Giovanni," he smiled, "why don't you prove to us how strong you are? Why don't you set a wheel by yourself? What do you think, Giovanni, you really stronger than three men?"
Slowly, he gazed at his crew. They stopped drinking their wine. They each returned his stare.
"I don't do your work for free," he coaxed. "You put up some money, I set your wheel. What kind of bet you gonna make?"
The crew averaged three wheel settings per day. Each man received as pay, three dollars, American, per day. The challengers hesitated.
"Okay," Giovanni said, "I'll make it easy for you. Three dollars. That's what I bet. Three dollars."
Giuseppe, Tommaso, and Roberto eyed each other, a gleeful anticipation jumping at their cheeks.
"A dollar each will buy lots of bread," Tommaso said to the others. "One man cannot pick up a wheel and set it. Why don't we take this bet? I can use the money. Besides, maybe we'll humble Papa a little so he don't brag so much at lunch, and we can digest our food."
The others laughed.
"Okay, Giovanni," they agreed. "Three dollars."
"What are you gonna tell Mama when you miss a whole day's pay?" Tommaso teased.
The three sat back. Waited.
Giovanni continued to stare at them. Without moving, he said, "No."
"What do you mean, `No'?"
"No," he scowled.
"Hey, you made the bet, Giovanni. What's the matter? You chicken?"
"No," Giovanni repeated. He stood and pointed an iron finger at them. "Three dollars each one of you."
The men stopped laughing.
"Each one of us?" Tommaso asked unbelieving.
"Three dollars, each one," Giovanni repeated.
"Giovanni," Roberto said, "you make fun. Nobody can lift a wheel by himself. Nobody can bet a whole day's pay."
"Three dollars. Each one. I pick the wheel. I set it. All by myself. I'm stronger than you three put together, but you gonna pay to see."
Giovanni stood. His deep chest breathing easy. His sharp eyes bright.
The crew looked with raised eyebrows to one another.
"No one man can possibly set one of our wheels," Roberto repeated. "But a whole day's pay." He shook his head. "Papa Giovanni is strong, but . . ."
"No," shouted Tommaso. "No man is as strong as you claim. I will bet three dollars."
Encouraged by this, the others agreed.
Giovanni made careful preparation. He set the jack tight under the collar. He applied grease to the wheel hole and to the axle. He set the guide pin at precisely thirty degrees. He took his time. Only with correct preparation could a wheel be set.
The others grew bold and confident. They drank more wine.
Giovanni cleared the path he would take, adjusted the guide pin one slight fraction, and sucked a powerful, deep breath.
Cautiously, he straddled the wheel. His massive fingers spread around the edges, gently, deftly, testing the balance, lifting slightly, re-adjusting. His shoulders convexed, and his thighs riveted, and the veins at his neck inflated, and Giovanni raised the six hundred and thirty-seven pound wheel to ankle height. He shuffled his cargo toward the box car, and in one extraordinary lift raised the wheel above the axle, tilted it slightly with his left hand to catch the guide pin and, flicking his wrists simultaneously, slid the wheel into place.
Sweat ran from the pores on his face and arms. His chest raised and lowered like a piston. He shut his eyes, raised his arms above his head, clenched his hands into fists and exhaled, "Ahghhhh," like a bellow of locomotive steam. He won. He always won.
"Yes, Pa," Alisio repeated. "I know about the wheel. You were a strong man."
Everyone knows about the wheel, Pa, Alisio thought. You made sure everyone remembered. When Tommaso refused to pay, you broke his finger. The next day when he did hand you the money, you made him work an extra shift. The men said you were out of line, but I understood that Tommaso earned his money back on the extra shift. Why did they not see him as Alisio did? Papa was no saint. He shouted at everyone. He chased the children with his cane. He was unapproachable. But, Alisio also knew, he had kept the family together through the trauma of immigration, through the devastation of the depression, and he kept them together now. How many men are there whose family spans four generations?
Alisio looked at this grandfather who had ruled so strongly, so without question. He probed the weakened arms and traced the shallow, withered chest with his eyes. He's a good man, a caring man, Alisio thought. He just didn't know how to tell anyone.
Alisio spoke his thoughts. "You were a strong man, Pa. And a good man."
"No, Alisio," Giovanni clutched at him. "I'm not a good man. Father Anselmo said no man is forgiven for what I did."
"Papa," Alisio urged again. "Please let me call the priest."
But Papa did not listen. These past few years he would go out of contact more and more. He'd fade away mentally. His eyes would get fuzzy. Then he'd babble.
"Stop. Stop," he'd yell. "No. No," he'd scream. "Come back, my baby," he'd call. His arms reached to some unknown someone. His eyes talked to some unseen ghost. Papa's breathing rattled a little, but even in his delusion he clung to Alisio with silent, bony fingers, and Alisio knew he would not watch Papa die much longer.
"Alisio. Alisio. Quickly. You've got to do something."
"What is it, Aunt Rosa?"
"It's Papa. He's talking to himself. He won't let little Tony up from the table. I'm afraid. Oh, Alisio, do something."
Alisio walked to the kitchen. It smelled sweet, like warm sauce. Papa sat at the front of the wooden table. Three quarters of the wine bottle was empty. Papa cleaned his teeth with a white dishtowel.
"Tony, eat your food," Papa spoke to the boy.
Tony's plate was clean except for some bread crust. He wanted to go play, but he knew Papa's discipline could be painful. So he sat.
"Goddammit, Tony," Papa shouted, "eat your food."
Alisio walked around the table and stood behind Tony.
"Papa," he said, "Tony's done eating. He wants to go play now. Pour me some vino, and we'll talk."
Alisio touched Tony's shoulders. The boy rose and walked toward the back door.
Without warning, Papa grabbed a fork and flung it at the boy. The fork spun, end over end, just past Tony's ear, and the tines pierced the door casing.
"Goddammit, Tony, eat your food. You leave when I tell you."
No one moved. Then, just as suddenly, Papa Giovanni seized a glass, filled it with wine for Alisio, and motioned Tony out to play with the flick of his backhand.
Alisio was patient. He knew this insanity was temporary and would pass. Papa was getting old.
Oh, dementia,
flower of forgetfulness
thy fragrance puts to sleep
the inconsequential
the foolish the unnecessary,
and soft tulip of ripe lunacy
thy attraction is to sanity
as color is to the bee.
Oh, sparkling blue and yellow
and red dots of blinking dementia,
thy hypnosis is less understood
than thy behavior
for whosoever seeks thee
he shall find,
and whosoever finds thee
he is lost.
Oh, sweet dementia,
how stained is thy sparkling attraction
how dark thy brilliant trap.
The crisis passed with no one hurt, but the family was afraid.
"What if he tries to do something with his shotgun?" Aunt Rosa asked. "He's so strong, who would stop him if he went into a rage?"
Papa's shotgun was the only earthly possession in which he held pride. In Italy, he had fought the mafiosi. The trusted 12 gauge had saved his life, and he prized it above all things.
"You've got to get the gun from him, Alisio," pleaded Aunt Rosa. "Tell him you're going hunting or something."
"I've never lied to him, Aunt Rosa. I can't start now."
"Tell him anything, Alisio, but get the gun. You're the only one he'll listen to."
When they were alone, Alisio said, "Pa, let me have your gun."
Papa Giovanni gave him the gun without comment.
Four months later, Alisio walked past Papa's house on the way home from work.
"Alisio," Papa called.
"Hello, Pa."
"Alisio, come here."
Alisio walked to the porch. Papa rocked gently, pushed off the floor with his toes. His cane lay across the arms of the chair. Papa looked straight ahead while he rocked.
"You got my gun?" asked Papa.
"Yes."
"You bring it to me," he ordered.
"You want the gun, Pa?"
"Yes. You bring it now."
Alisio walked home and returned with Papa Giovanni's 12 gauge. He stepped to the porch and handed him the weapon.
Papa cocked the barrels open. He checked for rust; felt for oil. He snapped it shut. Papa Giovanni slapped his hands smartly around the shotgun and held it in front of him, elbows locked.
He looked at Alisio.
"Now," he said, "the gun is yours."
Oh, Papa, Alisio thought, you're going to die outside the Church, and there's nothing I can do, and I haven't shaved you today.
"You're a good boy, Alisio. Stay with your Papa."
"You need a shave."
"No. No time," he said.
Papa seemed exceedingly tiny. He was dwarfed by the greatness of the pillow at his head and by the thickness of the blanket.
Death must, like silver echoes,
roll gently against the back
of a fortress mountain
we call tomorrow,
a time far off
and distant, like vespers;
Dominus vobiscum.
Death,
a far off rumble
tumbling amid the boulders
and crevices of hope and expectation
mimicking heartbeats like a drum,
finding in its steady voice
a crescendo of confident volume,
and plunging upon the valley
with the steel awkwardness
of Sunday morning bells
unmistakable and confident
thunderous and bold
plundering eardrums and
calendars and heresy
and no barrier, no wall, no weapon,
no language, no lie, no treasure
can stop it haunting
hunting
monstrous clamoring
singing crying dancing
devilish death.
"Alisio," Papa said. "I been a bad man. I'm gonna go to hell."
"Papa, don't talk like that. I'll call the priest."
"No, Alisio, listen. I'll confess to you. You be my priest."
"No, Pa. Please."
"You no talk. Listen. All my life I know I'm going to hell. That makes me sad. But, nothing I can do."
"Papa, don't talk like this. You're a good man. You're good to me. Maybe you've been a bad Catholic, but you're a good man. God will understand."
"I don't know about God. But, now I'm telling you. I made a sin when I was young, Alisio. Bad sin."
Papa looked defeated, conquered.
"Oh, Papa," Alisio blurted, "stop this. I don't care what you did. I love you."
It was a sudden, emotional outburst. He didn't mean to be so honest. He hadn't meant to say I love you but he'd said it, and it was done. Papa stared.
Love
it's got to tumble
into the cold stone staircase
of black granite
and cold marble stairs
fissured
like a silent pyrite vein
so that only after years of effort
can a heart break
beyond black staircase doorway
covered in
ink indelible love.
"Alisio," Papa Giovanni said, "come close. You be my witness. God, He listens to you. Let me confess."
Papa paused. Breaths were hard work, each one earned, like the setting of a wheel. He looked at Alisio. His eyes begged. Please, Alisio, they begged, I gave you my gun, the thing I love the most, now take my sin, the thing I hate the most.
Papa shifted his eyes, then looked again to Alisio.
"I was a young man. Just a young man, Alisio" Papa began. "Italy, she had no work, everyone fighting for each small job. Mama and me, we're poor. Mama, she made a baby. It's a boy. Nice bambino. Black hair. But we got no food. I think to myself: maybe he'll starve; maybe he'll get shot. I don't know. Maybe I'll get shot, and he starves anyway. I figure and I think for two days. I think, hey, no good for this baby boy to be alive. I save him a lotta pain. I love him too much. Finally, I take that baby, and I snap his little neck. He died quick, and I tell Mama a street bullet come and killed him. Later, I made things right at confession with Father Anselmo. We made a small funeral and a strong wood box for his body. Father Anselmo prays to Our Father, and he sprinkles the holy water on the box. Then, before he says Amen, he says, `Giovanni, I condemn you and the Church condemns you; no man is forgiven for what you did.' He tells this in front of all my village, in front of Mama. Mama, she's already wearing sadness on her face. Now she must add shame. I cannot talk for the anger in my jaws, but I swear then that no man will ever bring pain to me or Mama or my family again. It was then that my heart crawled into the blackness and became as granite. But, Alisio, I love that baby all these years. I think, when I die God He's gonna show me that little boy, then send me to hell and never see him again. I'm afraid, Alisio. I want to kiss my son. You're like my son, Alisio. So you talk to God for me. Talk with a son's heart. He'll listen."
What confession this?
Tattered bundles of fragile words
formed of shabby cloth
and thread of despicable humanity
splattered with lies
like communicable stains.
Must truth hide behind such words?
Must truth cringe behind
such forbidding energy
full of ripe blood pumping
gallons of miserable failure?
Requiescat in pace
and
Ego te absolvo, Giovanni,
the almighty curtain of absolution
must engulf you
swallow you
embrace you
with arms of fire
heated to the two thousandth degree
hot enough to sear
the guilty memory
from your hardened skin.
But I
I am left as if the breath
and moisture of my
mouth and lungs
were putty;
left as if two iconoclastic balconies merged at the center of my youth
while on this side
all the world walks in
peaceful walking
peaceful play
peaceful touching
peaceful groups
like grasses grown in kind
flowers grown in spring
families grown in trust,
while I
I walk the other stair
alone.
Papa Giovanni sighed, and Alisio knew the end was upon him. Alisio cried, and he screamed to God's angels.
h
Thom Brucie is a single father with four children, two sons and two daughters, a distribution of equality which allows him to maintain a perfect balance between sanity and its evil twin, boredom. He earned a B.A. from Hobart College, an M.A. from the University of Louisiana at Lafayette, and is completing a Ph.D.at Binghamton University. He writes whenever the mood strikes him or whenever all his children and all his friends are simultaneously asleep.
h