It was a little after ten p.m., Monday evening, when I entered the foyer of my apartment. I flipped the light switch on the wall to my right, then dropped my black, leather attach� case that held my barbering tools onto the small wooden chair that was against the wall in front of me. To the right of that was a small occasional table that was topped with my phone system. When I looked at my reflection in the mirror above them, I moaned. I was fatigued and it showed.
Glancing down at the answering machine, the red light blinked next to the digital readout telling me three messages were awaiting my immediate attention. Well, they'll have to wait. I first wanted to take a hot shower, slip into my white, terrycloth robe and enjoy a glass of iced tea.
I had just moved into this apartment complex that was located on Rancho Valley Boulevard off West Sahara Avenue in the city of Las Vegas just two months previous in June.
I had struggled for a year and a half with a full and part time job while living in a small efficiency apartment in a low rent neighborhood. Now, thankfully, I was finally at the point financially that allowed me to improve my standard of living.
To my right was the kitchen. To the left of that was a living room, spacious and bright. On the other side of the foyer wall was a new and clean bathroom. And to the right of that was a large bedroom. I'm happy in this apartment, modern looking and decorated with all my eclectic tastes.
I made my way to the bedroom, stripped off my clothing, and moments later stood underneath hot, cleansing water.
After ten minutes I stepped out of the shower and dried myself off, then took my robe off the hook behind the door and slipped it on. Even though the central air chilled me, I still wanted a glass of iced tea.
I poured myself a tall glass worth and sat at the island in the middle of my kitchen, enjoying the first sip of cooling tartness as it slid down my throat. I closed my eyes and expelled a satisfied breath of air. As I sat there, I thought about the long, hard road that eventually brought me here.
My life in Niagara Falls, New York had been a disaster, so I finally made the decision to leave the city I had lived in for forty-five years and start life over. Now at forty-seven, life was finally beginning to feel less fractured and more meaningful.
One of the reasons for my relocation was a failed marriage of twenty years to a petulant, vindictive woman who had turned into a seventy-year-old shrew before thirty. During that union I held a job that assaulted me daily with petty, professional jealousies and stress, which in turn forced me to produce artistic rot. The final coup was the realization that most of my friends weren't friends at all, but who in reality turned out to be pretentious, self-serving and back stabbing predators, whose better qualities ranged from racism and sexism to morally vacuous degeneracy. That I had been so oblivious to their true colors underscored my loss of perception and focus that was so apparent then in my life.
Those individual dramas, though, paled when compared to the visceral contentions within my own family. For as long as I could remember there were two camps: my father and two older sisters...my mother and me.
My seventy-four year old father, Celestino, a first generation immigrant from Italy- now a stout, gray haired man with weathered features- is what one considers from the old school, having graduated from- I presume- the same school as his father and his father before him.
He is a cantankerous and emotionally distant man who was even more distant to my mother and me. He was absent most of the time as a husband and father, but when he did carry out his role as head of our household, he brought with it, shamefully, sadistic cruelty. How my mother tolerated him through nearly fifty years of marriage was a mystery. Why she tolerated him was another unanswered question my usually perceptive mind failed to comprehend.
My mother, Rosina Marie, a seventy-two year old diminutive woman with exotic, Italian features and lustrous, hazel eyes, was my only anchor in life. Sadly though, her life had become one of abject servitude, having quietly carried out her duties as wife and mother as would a lowly slave.
The ramifications of their union had produced incendiary results in my two older sisters, whereupon my father's aggressive nature seemed to override my mother's unsuccessful, maternal contributions.
Philomina, forty-nine, looks more like my mother, inheriting her small frame. She has short, curly, dyed brown hair and dark, inset eyes. Michalene, forty-eight, is a composite of both, a little more than five feet tall with a full figure and dyed black, wavy hair.
Both, unfortunately, developed into replications more of my father's adamantine, belligerent persona, neither inheriting my mother's quiet, yet firm resolve. It's no surprise to me they never married. What man could have tolerated their aggressive and caustic personalities?
I, on the other hand, resembled my father in physical attributes, having been described, much to my chagrin, as a 'little Guido'. But I was endowed with my mother's mild spirit, having escaped the effects of my father's scathing denunciations and hard-fisted disciplines during the time he lorded over our household like a savage despot. I had often thought about this contrasting anomaly and wondered why I had managed to emerge unscathed, grateful to have not suffered the detriments it had produced in my sisters, with whom, regrettably, I never got along with. But the answer was always the same...I simply did not know. Maybe there was something to be said for character inheritability, where my mother's quiet steadfastness somehow found its way into my genes and shielded me during my life from the bitter end product of turning into the monster that was my father, or the termagants that defined my sisters.
My only joy and success in life- one that refreshes my soul like an oasis in a parched desert- is my twenty-four year old daughter and only child, Adrianna. She is a stunning young woman now- tall, slender, with long, straight raven hair and eyes dark as a Stygian night. After the divorce, she chose, at nineteen, to live with me until she graduated from Buffalo State College, where she majored in and received a degree in Spanish. She also left her life in Niagara Falls behind and now lives in Chicago, an international interpreter at the famous Drake Hotel.
Even though we knew instinctively, five years previous, that our lives would temporarily take separate paths, we hugged tightly and shed tears freely when I was about to board my flight for permanent residence in Las Vegas.
"I love you, Dad, so much," she had finally said after we each gained our composure. "You have always been my best friend."
A month later, without any emotional display, physical contact, or parting words to or from her mother- who, to her own shame, obstinately refused to accompany Adrianna to the airport- she left for Chicago.
We still make it a point to call each other once a week and correspond as when our circumstances permit. My daughter, once a lowly caterpillar, has developed into a magnificent butterfly. I am very proud of her life and accomplishments. Because of her, I still believe in God.
As I took another sip of my iced tea, I realized that though my contemplation started out with dark reflections, it ended with simple gratitude. I was finally feeling good about things for a change, as life appeared to be improving in so many ways.
I like my job at Regis Hairstylists in the Meadows Mall, where my co-workers- with friendly concern- took me under their wings. I finally joined a local gym and enjoy the camaraderie of other local fitness fanatics. The climate here is just the way I like it and the economy allows me the opportunity to build financial security within the field of my expertise, allowing me to dispense my part time job. Even my neighbors are outgoing, happy and carefree.
By the time I finished my tea, I realized a smile had formed on my face. This is the happiest I've been...ever.
As I got up to place the empty glass into the dishwasher, the phone rang.
I made my way to the foyer and picked up the receiver.
"Hello?"
"It's about time you got home. Where the hell have you been all day? I've called and left three messages already."
My eyes instinctively closed and my hand gripped the receiver with such force, it felt as if it would shatter.
I could hear my sister Philomina's impatient breathing, clearly waiting for a response.
"I just got home from work less than an hour ago," I finally said with restraint, attempting to keep my anger in check. "Monday is one of the days I work late," I added, forcing myself to breathe slowly.
"Don't you at least check to see if you have messages when you do come home?" she countered with an equally, if not more, sarcastic anger. "Or has the sun and heat addled your brain already?"
My heart beat rapidly as I tried to gain control of my emotions. I looked down and saw the blinking light of the answering machine next to the red number three. Only then did I remember that I had delayed playing back my messages.
I knew that, with Philomina, any attempt at personal defense was futile.
"Absence hasn't made your heart grow fonder, has it, Ignatius?" she hissed.
"No, it hasn't, Philomina," I shot back indignantly. "The fondness disappeared a long time ago." It was another reminder that the decision I had made to leave Niagara Falls was not ill conceived or regrettable. I had no desire to continue our conversation. "What do you want? I take it there's a reason for this uninvited call. Or has my leaving Niagara Falls left you with no one else to spike with your words of endearment?"
"Save your bitching and self righteous whining for someone who gives a damn, Ignatius. While you're out in sunny Las Vegas, Michalene and I are trying to deal with a real problem in the real world."
"Get to the point, Philomina. What problems are you and Michalene having that you both didn't create for yourselves?"
"Mother had a stroke earlier this morning and is in Niagara Memorial!" she shouted in feral rage. "She's not expected to live out the week!"
Before the impact of her words sunk in, the phone line went dead.
I landed in Buffalo Tuesday evening at eight forty-five p.m., dropped my overnight bag into the rental car and drove straight to the hospital in Niagara Falls, arriving at nearly ten p.m. My mother was in the ICU on the seventh floor.
I approached the room then stopped at the doorway, not surprised that my father and sisters were already present, ensconced in three chairs and surrounding my mother's bed as if they were the guardians of a sacred relic. It was a pathetic sight because their feigned piety clothed them like a seldom-used suit. Eighteen months, I noted, apparently didn't change them physically or otherwise.
My father, seated at the foot of the bed while clutching his cane with both hands, turned and looked at me with placid disinterest. Before I could utter a forced greeting, he turned away to continue his perfunctory vigil, leaving my words stillborn on my tongue.
My sister Philomina, seated with her back to me, decided to forego this gesture of acknowledgement by only stating with an air of terse propriety, "We're not allowed to bring in any more chairs."
Michalene, though, stood and gave me a reluctant hug, as if by this formality, the pains of our lifelong, strained relationship would somehow not eclipse the sorrow now enveloping our incongruous family.
When she separated from me she said quietly in a dramatic, grave tone, "The stroke hit the left side of her brain. The doctor was surprised that with her weak heart, she didn't die instantly. Her right side is paralyzed and her speech is gone."
"She's already dead," my father interrupted, waving his hand into the air dismissively, as if by nature of his own self-importance he was now an expert in medical sciences.
Michalene's head turned slightly as if to respond, but then chose to ignore his remark. "Take my seat, if you'd like," she continued with an unexpected tone of filial respect. "Would you like me to go to the lounge to get you some coffee?"
"No, thank you," I responded with equal felicity.
"I'm leaving for home then." She left the room.
I crossed the room, past my father, to the left side of my mother's bed.
She was lying on her back, slightly elevated, with tubes in her nose and arms, while digital monitors beeped steadily. Her wig, an adornment she was never without, was missing, exposing her exiguous, gray hair. Her eyes were closed, her breathing was shallow, and the right side of her face looked slanted.
Realizing that my mother had been reduced to a shell of her former existence, a sharp pang of sadness overcame me. Though it had been only eighteen months since I'd last seen her, she appeared to have aged by twenty years.
I laid my left hand onto her left arm and stroked her forehead with my right. "Mom," I said softly. "It's Ignatius."
Her left eyelid seemed to flutter, her breathing accelerated, and she emitted a low moan.
"She can't hear you, Ignatius," Philomina spat.
I looked up at my sister with annoyance and responded sternly, "Says who? Your guilty conscience?"
The daggers that formed in my sister's eyes were already crossing the room from their sockets. She shot up from her chair and retorted, "Where was yours when you decided to leave her behind?" She turned on her heels and departed.
My father rose slowly from his chair. Without looking at me he said, "I'm tired and need to get home for my medications. Your sisters and I have been here all day, so now it's your turn." He ambled out of the room without so much as a goodbye or an invitation to stay the night.
I considered the irony in this, where within minutes of my arrival and the confluence of our gathering, I was left alone with my mother. With unfailing constancy my family members always seemed to leave my mother and I to our own company, somehow aware that their presence was neither wanted nor needed. But this time, reason told me that the divisions in our family induced them.
Contrary to Philomina's stinging reproof, when I had first told my mother of my decision to leave two years ago, her reply had been, "You're still young and have many good years ahead of you. I, on the other hand, will soon die," she began, her tone one of consignment.
We had been sitting at her dining room table late one afternoon, each nursing a cup of espresso coffee. Father had already left for his daily socializing at one the coffee houses, leaving mother alone- as he'd often done- with no regard or thought to inform her of his eventual return. She had come to accept this routine- as with others- without question, leaving his dinner ready to be reheated when he finally, and arrogantly chose to cross the threshold of his home.
"If you stay, Ignatius," she continued, "I may choose to die sooner. Leave now while you may, before you find out, to your regret, you can't."
After a length of time, we both stood and hugged. While my eyes teared from anger and sadness, my mother's remained resolute. Her eyes expressed only silent approval, telling me without words that her tears had dried up a long time before. "You have my blessing," she concluded.
I left Niagara Falls six months later.
As I remained standing at my mother's bedside, I recalled how painful the decision was to leave her behind. But I knew in my heart then that her words were true, a fact borne out by the invisible shackles that enslaved her to a life of sheltered captivity, one that allowed no growth for emotional enrichment, but only spiritual solitude. She had wished for me what was impossible for her.
I pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat, dropping my forehead onto my tented hands. It had never occurred to me that perhaps my mother willed herself to live on only as a source of strength to my fraying and crumbling life. It had begun to spiral downward and come apart more so during the previous ten years piece by piece, shredding until what remained was a man who had neither the desire nor fortitude to continue.
The decision to leave was a last resort so as to salvage the remaining portion of my broken spirit. But it was only after my mother's continual, silent entreaties that in so doing, I knew I would also save a piece of her...a small piece of life that she had clung to only because we shared a bond that is not present with the other members of my family. It also occurred to me, that due to my regular correspondence with her over the past year and a half, my new life- one that finally held promise of happiness and success- permitted her to finally release her tenacious will to live and allow nature to take its course. It was then, I fully realized, why my mother had endured nearly fifty years of disrespect from my father.
I raised my head and said, "Adrianna asked about you in her last letter. She says she misses your hugs and kisses and warm conversations." A fond memory of my mother discreetly sneaking Adrianna a small glass of liqueur after dinner came back to me. I let out a low, strained laugh and added, "And she says every time she has Kaluha and milk, it's like you're with her in spirit."
I gazed steadily at my mother, hoping against hope, that perhaps she would stir and open her eyes. But only the slow, rhythmic rising and falling of her chest was evident. The monitors continued to beep.
I'm a realist by nature, but also a man who has experienced first hand that miracles only happen when the Almighty deems it necessary. In this life, good people, as well as those of evil machinations, experience bad things. And conversely, each is visited by good.
Though what little good may have visited my mother during her seven decades of living, seems to be of no consolation to me now, realizing that at the end of her life, very little joy had found its way into her heart. Without the close bond to my daughter and myself, I'm sure she would have willed herself to die long ago so God could null the disparity in her life through so many years of abject misery. I accepted that no miracle would occur this evening.
I sat silently for another hour or so, occasionally assuaging the nurses' sincere concern for my well being. During that span I was flooded by the many memories of my past, those events and situations that often visit us when we are forced to review them due to an unexpected drama such as this.
A particular memory from my childhood, when I was fourteen, seemed to peek through the hazy cloud mass of my past. It was to be the first of many instances when I would experience my mother's maternal devotion.
Ron, my childhood best friend, and I had gone into Kresge's Department store in downtown Niagara Falls to buy school clothes with our paper route money. We had gone down separate aisles in search of our particulars and finally met up at the exit doors. I didn't find anything that suited my tastes or limited funds, and apparently, neither did Ron. Moments after exiting, a security guard came out and took hold of Ron's arm. He redirected him and I into the store, whereupon he removed a package of tee shirts from Ron's button down shirt.
I was mortified at this revelation, and became even more panic stricken when both our parents were called and informed of our deeds.
When my father had finally returned me home, he shoved me into the basement, and without allowing me to profess my innocence, beat me till I thought every bone had been broken.
My mother- who had been standing nearby- began crying hysterically and grabbed his arm. "You'll kill him!" she had screamed. "Stop it, now!"
But my father turned and struck her with a clenched fist across the side of her face. "He's a piece of shit," he roared at her as she fell to the floor. He abruptly stormed upstairs.
My mother rose and came to me as I lay there with my nose bleeding, disoriented and in such pain, I didn't think I'd be able to walk ever again. She cradled me into her arms and rocked back and forth. "I know you didn't steal anything, Ignatius," she cried, in agony herself. "You're an honest son. Forget what Papa said."
But I didn't. I never did. What could be worse, to a child of fourteen, than to be likened to excrement?
Life only seemed to get progressively worse from that day forward. Thirty-one years worth because he chose, apparently, never to forgive me or my mother.
I sat another hour in quietude, keeping guard as my mother lay in silent repose, during which time I realized the man I had become was only because of her.
Her maternal devotion, unfortunately, did not produce the same results in her two daughters. It saddened me that my sister's lives had been influenced far more by my father than her. I found that my own silent execrations of them over these many years had departed from me, and like chaff, dispersed by the silent wind of contrition. Bitterness and hate hurt only the one who is bitter and hateful, a lesson taught by my mother's life's example.
I stood and took her left hand into mine. Looking down onto her frail form so close to death, I wondered if her mind and heart were receptive to outside stimulation.
My eyes welled with tears as I clasped my mother's hand harder. "I love you, Mom," I choked out, realizing that as many times as I had uttered those words, I did not say them often enough. "A piece of your life will always remain with me. I hope you can take a piece of mine with you."
Her left eyelid fluttered, her hand clenched weakly onto mine and then her head tilted toward me.
Before I could interpret these movements, two nurses came rushing into her room. Only then did I realize the digital readings had changed and the incessant beeping had stopped.
I quickly moved out of the way as one nurse checked her eyes and the other her pulse. But even before they turned to me with sad expressions, I knew what had happened.
I moved closer to the bed and saw that my mother was lying still, her breathless form inert, and her facial expression strangely peaceful and serene. I said a silent prayer, grateful to be at her side at this moment.
My mother, Rosina Marie Ottorio Perussi, gave herself up into the hands of God.
Return to Northside Writers Home Page
Go back to Over Coffee