Authors: Rebecca Brandewyne
What
though youth gave love and roses,
Age
still leaves us friends and wine.
Irish
Melodies: Spring and Autumn
—
Thomas
Moore
As
Renzo watched the huge, spike-topped, wrought-iron gates swing open
slowly before him, he was transported back to his childhood, back to
the first moment he had ever seen the coal-black barriers, nearly
thirty years ago now. He wondered idly what had ever become of Sofie
and Uncle Vinnie, who had brought him here that day he had first come
to town. He had been just seven years old then. It was hard now to
believe so much time had passed. Where had it all gone? It seemed
only yesterday that he had sat out front of these same gates, in
Uncle Vinnie’s flashy, two-toned convertible. Now it was his
own roadster Renzo guided slowly up the long, serpentine
drive,
through
the stands of trees to the big, imposing, red-brick house on the top
of the rise.
He
remembered how badly it had frightened him to spy it perched there
like some predatory animal, as though it had been lying in wait for
him, and his mouth twisted in an ironic half smile at the memory. How
the years had cut the house down in size, so it no longer seemed
nearly as large and intimidating to the man he now was as it had
appeared to the boy he had once been.
He
parked the Jaguar out front, got out, then strode to the front porch
and rang the bell. To his surprise, his grandmother herself answered
the door. Mama Rosa’s face was wan and drawn; clearly, she had
been weeping. Still, her eyes lit up with pleasure when she saw him
standing there, and she managed a tremulous smile.
“
Renzo,
come in. Papa said we should expect you. He’s out on the
veranda, waiting for you. Are you hungry? Would you like something to
eat?”
“
No,
thank you. Grandmama, how you doing?” He kissed her cheek and
hugged her, dismayed by how small and frail she seemed. “You
don’t look so good. What’s the matter? Are you ill?”
“
No,
not in the way you mean. There’s nothing wrong with me, except
that I’m old and tired, and my heart is breaking. Oh, Renzo!”
Her voice caught on a ragged little sob, alarming him. “It’s
Papa! He—he pretends to me that he’s all right... that
it’s nothing more than the summer heat that ails him. But I
know. In here—” she laid her hand on her breast “—in
here, I know the truth. He’s dying, Renzo. Papa’s dying.”
“
Grandmama!
Are you...are you sure?” Renzo was surprised to find himself
deeply stricken by this wholly unexpected news, as though he had
received a stunning blow to his head or midsection. Until now, he had
been certain he felt nothing toward Papa Nick but suspicion, wariness
and contempt. Now he was shocked to discover that, impossibly, he
also deep down inside harbored a hitherto unrecognized affection and
gratitude toward the old man. Whatever else Papa Nick was, he was
Renzo’s grandfather and had in his own way watched over him,
Sarah and Alex all these years. Did that not count for something?
“Have you spoken to him, to his doctor, Grandmama?”
“
No.”
Mama Rosa shook her head, smiling gently at Renzo’s confusion.
“Papa doesn’t want me to know he’s dying, Renzo. So
for his sake, I’ve tried to be strong, to pretend as though
there’s nothing wrong. But we’ve been married for more
than fifty years. Our love is such that there is a bond between us
even death will not break, I think. And so I know he will soon be
taken from me and that somehow I’ll have to go on alone until
my own time comes. But, please. Don’t say anything to Papa
about my knowing, Renzo. Let him go on believing he’s
protecting me, as I’ve always let him believe all these years.
He is a man—and very proud.”
“
All
right, Grandmama. If that’s what you want.”
“
It
is. Now, go on out to the veranda.”
As
he stepped outside, Renzo had another momentary sensation that time
had somehow turned back on itself to come full circle and that he was
seven years old again. For Papa Nick looked just as he had the first
time Renzo had
ever
seen him. He sat deep in the shadows of the veranda, rocking, a
glowing-tipped cigar in his mouth, his gnarled, age-spotted hands
curled like talons over the silver-knobbed head of the malacca cane
propped between his legs. Still, when Renzo spied his grandfather,
his heart involuntarily sank and he knew his grandmother had spoken
truly, that Papa Nick was dying. Some immensely powerful, vital spark
had gone out of him. He was just a tired old man now, half asleep in
his rocking chair, cigar ash spilling down the front of his white
shirt. Suddenly torn and half ashamed of himself, not wanting to
disturb his grandfather, Renzo turned to go back inside, only to be
halted by the sound of Papa Nick’s gruff voice.
“
Where’re
you going, boy? Sitta down. I ain’t dead yet, and I know you
didn’t come alla way uppa here in this heat just for a glass of
Mama Rosa’s lemonade.” He indicated the small table
beside him, on which sat a sweating pitcher filled with pale yellow
liquid in which ice and lemon slices floated.
“
No.
But I didn’t know you were ill, or I wouldn’t have
bothered you.” Renzo sat down in the second rocker, the one
that was his grandmother’s. “Why didn’t you let me
know?”
“
Whadda
for? Ain’t not’ing wrong with me but this heat and
weariness and old age. I’m like an old grandfather clock whose
mainspring is finally winding down for the last time. You t’ink
you climbed so high in life that you can stoppa that, can winda me
uppa again? Well, you ain’t, and you can’t. Nobody
escapes from death, boy. Not you, not me. He comes for alla us in the
end, that old Grim Reaper. But I’ve seen too mucha in my day to
fear him.
Death
and I... we’re old companions. And that’sa why you’re
here, ain’t it?”
“
Yes.
You’ve seen the morning paper, then, I take it?” At Papa
Nick’s nod, Renzo continued—a trifle defensively, much to
his anger and disgust. “I transmitted that same article over
the AP wire last night. It’s breaking news now all over the
country. And that’s as it should be. You couldn’t have
expected me not to report a story like this, to cover it up—not
even for your sake.”
“
I
didn’t. What’sa that old saying? A man’s gotta do
what a man’s gotta do. You’re an investigative reporter,
Renzo, one of the best. I expect that before it’sa alla over,
you mighta even win another Pulitzer Prize for whadda you and Sarah
unearthed at Field-Yield, Inc.”
“
Maybe.
But that’s not why I wrote the initial article— or why
I’ll write the rest, either, as events unfold. I did it because
it’s my job and my duty, because innocent people have a right
to know what’s being done to them by those who’re
powerful and corrupt. It’s only a matter of days—
hours—now before the media and the appropriate government
officials descend in full force upon this town. Before that happens,
I want to know—for my own curiosity’s sake, if nothing
else—what, if anything, they’re going to find in all
those old, abandoned quarries besides Field-Yield, Inc.’s toxic
waste?”
“
Whadda
you t’ink they’re gonna find? Jimmy Hoffa’s
remains?” Papa Nick laughed shortly, the sound turning into a
hacking cough and ending in a wheeze.
“
That
thought has crossed my mind,” Renzo confessed soberly.
“
I
knew that... knew that’sa why you’dda come to see me. But
I’m afraid whaddaever became of old Jimmy is gonna remain one
of life’s little unsolved mysteries, like who murdered them two
little princes in the Tower of London. ’Cause I wouldn’t
wanna nobody to fink I was a whistle-blower, now, woulda I?”
Papa Nick asked softly, intently.
Renzo’s
head jerked up sharply at that; his swiftly indrawn breath was harsh.
He stared at his grandfather, dumbfounded, disbelieving. “It
was
you!
”
he
accused. “Wasn’t it? All that time,
you
were
the Whistle-blower— and I never knew!”
Papa
Nick smiled mockingly, his eyes like dark flames. “Was I? Now,
whadda woulda make you t’ink a crazy t’ing like that? You
got too mucha sun today, boy? Suffered some kinda heatstroke or
somet’ing? Why woulda I wanna do anyt’ing like your
Whistle-blower did?” “Dying men often want to atone for
their past sins,” Renzo stated quietly. “And you still
haven’t answered my questions, not any of them.”
“
No—and
I ain’t gonna answer them, neither. Your Whistle-blower chose
to give uppa his secrets. Fine. If those old quarries choose to give
uppa their secrets, fine. But I’m taking alla mine to the
grave, boy. You see, business in my day wasn’t like it’sa
now. Alla these people today, these upstarts, these Columbians and
Jamaicans, these Chinese and Russians, whoever... they ain’t
got no sense of loyalty or honor. And as strange as it may seem to
you, Renzo, in my day, we hadda code of ethics. People got mixed uppa
with us, they knew whadda they were getting into. They knew they’dda
be rewarded for following
the
rules—and whadda woulda happen to them if they broke ’em,
too. In my day, we didn’t gun down innocent women and children
in the streets, didn’t engage in these gang wars and drive-by
shootings and such that, nowadays, are just for sport and ain’t
got not’ing whaddaso-ever to do with business. That ain’t
professional. It ain’t smart.”
“
And
that was your justification? That made everything all right?”
From
beneath his bushy brows, Papa Nick shot Renzo a sharp, penetrating
glance. Then, his black eyes gleaming slyly, he drawled quietly, “You
tell me, boy. Which is worse? An old Italian like me, who was whadda
he was and never made no bones about it? Or somebody like J. D.
Holbrooke, who passed himself off as a fine, upstanding citizen,
while, alla the time, he was dumping toxic waste into those quarries,
poisoning hundreds of innocent, unsuspecting people, leaving ’em
crippled and deformed, mentally retarded, suffering from cancer and
God only knows whadda other diseases, killing ’em, slow and
terrible, young and old? You see, Renzo,” Papa Nick continued
gently in the face of his grandson’s silence, “life donna
come in black and white—only shades of grey. And every one of
’em’s a hard choice, without any easy answer. Only once
in a blue moon does a man come along who travels the high road, who
achieves fame and fortune and power honestly, and who isn’t
corrupted by them in some way once he has them. You’re one of
those men, I t’ink. Sonny Holbrooke, if he’dda lived,
woulda been another. But most of us, well, we just ain’t that
strong, ain’t that courageous, donna havva the kinda unshakable
faith in ourselves
and
our Maker that it takes to be one of the golden boys in this here
life. It probably donna mean mucha to you, but for whaddaever it’sa
worth, I’m proud of you, Renzo. You give me hope that wherever
I’m going when I die, I’ll havva at least one mark in my
credit column.”
Papa
Nick fell silent then, closing his eyes, his breathing slowing to the
point that Renzo, in sudden alarm, thought his grandfather had
abruptly died in the rocking chair. But before he could rise to check
on the old man, Papa Nick spoke again.
“
Pour
us a glass of Mama Rosa’s lemonade, boy,” he directed.
Then, with a hand that trembled a little—as it never had
before—with weakness, he reached into his trouser pocket and
drew forth two pieces of gold-foil-wrapped chocolate, handing one to
Renzo. It was warm and half melted from the summer heat, so that
after he had opened it, Renzo was forced to lick the chocolate from
the inside of the wrapper. Still, it was no less sweet for that, in
sharp contrast to the cold, tart lemonade with which he swallowed the
chocolate down. “Once, a long time ago, I told you that you
wasn’t never gonna owe me no favor, boy,” Papa Nick
declared as he sipped his lemonade, sighing with simple pleasure as
the liquid trickled down his throat. “But I lied. Now, there’re
two t’ings I wanna you to do for me after I’m dead and
buried. One is that I wanna you to looka after Mama Rosa for me. We
both got other family, but you’re our only grandson, Renzo, the
only flesh of our flesh and bone of our bones.”