by Chuck Teixeira

THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION.

“I don’t remember that.” Anita rejected her younger brother Andy’s reshaping her perception of the past.  Andy had arrived a few days earlier from Sicily to rally Anita’s spirits and help her husband while she was recovering from an automobile accident.  The three were in Anita’s room at the skilled nursing facility in Houston where she had been undergoing physical therapy. With great effort, she wheeled her chair over a rubber mat at the foot of the bed.  “Steve,” she said, turning to her husband, “I asked you to get rid of this rug.” 

“Yes, Anita.” Steve was watching the small television set suspended from the ceiling. On a news program, the manager of the Astros was fielding questions about signal-stealing allegations that threatened to tarnish the team’s only World Series victory. “I’ll ask the nurse’s aide when she brings your lunch.” 

“I can’t wait that long,” Anita said. “She just took away the breakfast tray, and only after I buzzed her twice. Andy, please shove the rug under the bed.”  

“Okay,” he said. “Until tomorrow, I’m here to help in any way I can.”  

“And to flaunt your agility, you shit,” Anita said then returned to the topic of their baptism and the persons whom their parents had rejected or had chosen as godparents.  Andy adhered to a theory that godparents had something to teach their godchildren even while the real parents were alive. 

“I didn’t learn anything from Marcella and Tony,” Anita said. “They spoke Italian in the house, and I couldn’t understand a word.” 

“Not only from their words,” Andy said, “but also from their lives.”   

“Steve, as soon as you get back to the house, go into the sewing room and let Andy read the newspaper article in the blue satin envelope in the top drawer of the desk.” 

“Yes, Anita,” Steve said. 

“Andy, you remember because Steve will forget, so please remind him before he plops on the sofa and turns on the television.” 

“I left the television on,” Steve said, “so any burglars would think we were home.” 

“Did he really, Andy?” 

“I don’t know. But, as kids, we used to do that. I went to the car first to put your clean clothes in the trunk,” Andy pointed to the bed and the orange laundry bag as big as a stuffed pillowcase. “What is the newspaper article going to show?”   

“It’s going to prove how wrong you are to think Mom considered Nelly Abruzzo as my baptismal sponsor because that would have forced her to accept Nelly’s husband Aldo as your sponsor; and Mom blamed Aldo for getting Patsy killed in a liquor store heist.” 

“That was before we were born,” Andy said.  “How old is the newspaper article?”  

“Maybe you two should take this conversation into the hallway,” Steve said, “so Anita can strengthen her arms by pushing herself in the wheelchair. I’m already more discouraged than I can handle with the Astro’s only baseball championship being asterisked with a scandal nobody has really explained.” 

“Steve’s right,” Andy said. “You worked your legs with the walker before we got here.  Let’s strengthen your arms a little.” 

 “I would rather crawl into bed and sleep,” Anita said. ‘There’s so much noise in this place at night.” 

“After you collapse in the wheelchair,” Andy said, “We’ll leave, so you can nap.” 

In the hallway, there was a lot of traffic, mostly nurses and aides pushing carts with medicine or clean linen or bathroom supplies and other patients on walkers or in wheelchairs. Everyone’s nose and mouth were covered with a cloth mask because of alarm over a novel virus. 

“I knew Mom disliked Aldo Abruzzo,” Andy said, “but I thought it was because he abused his wife Nelly and blamed her for their not having children.” 

“The thing I remember most about Nelly is going to their house for Aldo’s funeral,” Anita said, “and a smiling Nelly serving delicious deep-fried dough strips with honey drizzled over them.” 

“Dad said Aldo drank himself to death, but I didn’t realize it was from remorse over Patsy.” 

“People kill themselves with liquor for no reason at all,” Anita said.  “My arms are already sore. Let’s stop now.”  

“No,” Andy said, “show some spine!”  

After Anita had retired from practicing law, she began teaching a civics course at a local Catholic high school.  When the automobile accident reduced her mobility, she foresaw the end of her teaching.  Then the pandemic forced most classes online, and she started to believe she might resume work if she could just get back to her computer and internet connection – neither of which was available in the rehab facility.  

After two months in bed, her arms and legs had dwindled to dry dark sticks, and Andy struggled to believe his sister would walk on her own again.  Her situation was not yet hopeless, but her physician had warned that, with Medicare coverage running out for private custodial care and with Anita’s perceived lack of progress in therapy, she might be transferred to a home for the elderly indigent.  “You have to build your muscles up,” Andy said, “no matter how hard and hopeless that may seem now. But the most important thing in a place like this is don’t fall and break any bones. And don’t get sick, or you’ll never get back home.” 

“I know,” Anita said then reminded herself aloud, “I have lots to live for, two children, three grandchildren and a husband who would be hard-pressed to manage on his own.” 

“And,” Andy mused, “we never know what other unfinished business we might have to address.”  

Anita resumed her talk about rejected baptismal sponsors. “Aldo Abruzzo would have been a terrible godfather. When we were infants, godparents at baptism would adopt you if your parents died while you were very young. They’d become your guardians.”  

“Guardians? Raising you in their home? Short of that, picking you up for church every Sunday?” Andy questioned. 

“Back then it meant raising you as a child in their home,” Anita said. “I’m sure of it.” 

“I don’t think being a godparent at baptism ever meant adopting an orphaned godchild,” Andy said, “or even escorting one to church every week.  I think it just meant reminding you periodically to keep both feet in the Church.” 

“Thank heavens we never had to find out,” Anita said, “because Dad didn’t die until I was a teenager, and Mom lived another twenty years.” 

“Do you know any godparents who didn’t adopt their orphaned godchild?” Andy asked. 

“One of the couples in Saint Joseph, our parish here,” Anita said. 

“What happened to the godchild?” 

“He was always up to no good, even in primary school, even while his parents were alive.” 

“What happened to the godparents?” 

“Turned out the godfather was also the boy’s real father.  He boasted that the penance his confessor gave for adultery was one Our Father, one Hail Mary and one Glory Be.  Quite a scandal, even by Texas standards.” 

“And the godmother?” Andy asked. 

“She was the one who refused to allow the boy in her home. She stopped coming to church.” 

“You mean she was excommunicated?” 

“Under ordinary circumstances, she might have been,” Anita said. “Refusing to care for an orphaned godchild is a big sin, like getting a divorce if your spouse becomes disabled.” 

“When Steve’s stroke left him paralyzed, did you ever think of leaving him?” 

“No,” Anita said. “We weren’t raised to flee hardships.  At least, I wasn’t.  But I was relieved when he recovered most of the functions he had lost.”  

“Were there any real consequences?” Andy asked.  

“You’ve seen Steve.  He still limps and loses his balance.  Ergo, the cane.” 

“No, I mean for refusing to adopt the orphaned godchild?” 

“There were no contracts or other legal agreements.” 

“Didn’t the godparents sign a paper with the church?”  Andy said. 

“Yes, I’m sure they signed something about the child’s welfare after they attended an hour of instruction.” 

“I think the church could have enforced the agreement.” 

“You’ve been in Italy too long, “Anita said. “This is the United States. Courts here avoid enmeshment in religion.” 

Andy hated being dismissed by his sister. “Couldn’t somebody sue on behalf of the boy to enforce the agreement.”  

“We don’t have involuntary servitude either.”   

“Then as a matter of public policy,” Andy refused to yield, “To prevent the child’s becoming a ward of the state.” 

“Of course, he became a ward,” Anita said. “He murdered his parents.” 

They had made a wide circle around the reception area and were heading toward the enormous dining room that was also used for bingo games and other community activities.  A few of the patients were at tables talking with visitors.  Most patients, however, were dozing in wheelchairs that faced an enormous blue television screen, their face masks drooping around their chins. 

“Steve said he won’t go in that room because it depresses him,” Andy whispered.     

“Since his stroke, most everything depresses Steve,” Anita said. “If some of the patients are never getting home again, they’ve all the greater need for encouragement.” 

“Encouragement to do what?” Andy asked. “To hang on hopelessly?”  

“I don’t know what hope they have or haven’t.  And I don’t know whether anyone can give them hope.  But without getting dangerously close, we can exchange a few words or at least acknowledge they’re alive.” 

“I don’t want to go in,” Andy said.   

“Don’t be a poofster,” Anita said. “If I can push myself with my sore spindly arms, you can at least stand behind the chair.  Just for a few minutes.  Then, I’m going back to bed, and you’re taking home more clothes that need washing.” 

Spurred by his sister’s suggestion that he shrank from adversity, Andy raised a sore subject, “You still think I was wrong to divorce Joan when she relapsed.” 

“I never said that.  I just reminded you that she’s the mother of your children and that, despite being gay, you chose to marry a woman.” 

“I stuck it out until Joan started picking fights and calling the police on me.  I was arrested once and had to pay a lawyer a lot of money to get the charges dismissed – a lot for a public-school teacher. Had I been arrested again and gone to jail, I would have been unable to work and pay child or spousal support.” 

“I never said you were weak,” Anita said. “But did you ever imagine that marriage with Joan would be anything but an endurance test?” 

“Yes,” Andy said. “At the outset, when I could no longer endure my inability to form a happy relationship with another man.” 

“Do you still think that failure is a good reason for gay men to marry women?” Anita said. 

“I didn’t think of it as fleeing failure,” Andy said. “I thought of it as seeking happiness and being open to try something new.” 

“And did Joan know what she was in for?” 

“She knew I was gay if that’s what you mean,” Andy said. “And I knew she was in recovery. But neither of us really knew what we were in for.” 

“Probably not,” Anita said then changed the subject. “Are you still teaching English?”  

“Yes, part time,” Andy said. “I have to. I took early retirement at reduced pension.  But I love living in Italy.  And Gianni is the best partner I’ve ever had.  I can’t have been all bad.”  

“No, I guess not,” Anita said.  

One of the patients, an odd but lively fellow, was in an armchair near the large window at the far end of the lunchroom.  There was a skull-and-crossbones mask over his nose and mouth, likely the same one he had worn whenever Anita and he had spoken before. At those times, his blue eyes had greeted her with a gentle smile. Now they showed alarm, a harsh light seemed to pulse from them, and he waved his arms frantically as if to prevent an imminent collision. 

“Who is that guy?” Andy asked.   

“The staff call him Jolly Roger because of his mask.  He’s the resident seer. He predicts the desserts on the next day’s menu.” 

“Is he usually right?” 

“He says that he’s always right but that the head chef sometimes changes things at the last minute to discredit him.” 

“Sounds pretty silly,” Andy said. 

“The dessert part is harmless,” Anita said. “And no one cares much if it’s low-fat apple crisp, sugar-free fruit cocktail or unfrosted chocolate cake.  What is not harmless is that he also says he can predict which of the patients will die next or experience a death in their families.” 

“Is he accurate?” Andy asked. 

“I don’t know,” Anita said. “It’s too morbid. Maybe, you should wait here. I can go the rest of the way on my own.”   

“Suits me fine,” Andy said.   

When Jolly Roger saw that only Anita continued toward him, his eyes relaxed and their light grew soft.  “I had just wanted you to meet my baby brother,” Anita said when she reached the armchair.   

“I know, I know,” he said impatiently.  “But your brother’s carrying the virus. Perhaps you can overcome it.  I’m pretty sure I can’t.  I wager he won’t.”  

“Is thinking like that enjoyable?” Anita asked. “Does it cheer you up?” 

“Of course not,” Jolly Roger said. “But I protect my own life this way.  And even a cheerless life is worth protecting.  The gods of vision demand human sacrifice.  I’m not ready to volunteer.” 

Steve was snoring when Andy and Anita got back to her room.  On the small television, the manager of the Astros was scolding viewers generally for the bad example cheating gave to children.   

“The people our parents rejected are one subject,” Andy said, “but I still believe the ones they chose had something important to teach us. You must have learned something.” 

“I told you, I didn’t learn anything. You were there. They spoke Italian all the time, and we didn’t understand a word.”  

“When you get back on your feet again,” Andy began and, after hesitating, added, “Those feet, at the end of those ugly, skinny legs, you ought to spend time in Sicily with me.  And see if our godparents’ words don’t all come back to you and suddenly make sense.” 

“I might be busy,” Anita shrugged. She was reluctant to believe what Jolly Roger had said about the virus. But a chill swept through her when she remembered the panic in his blue eyes. She reached over to the chair where Steve was sleeping. With her spindly arms, she shook him awake.  “Don’t forget the newspaper article—the sewing room, the desk, the top drawer, the blue satin envelope.” 

“You heard her, Andy, don’t forget. I’m so distressed by the Astros’ disgrace that I’ve even lost track of my cane. It was here just before I fell asleep.” 

“It probably rolled under the bed and is next to the rubber mat,” Anita said.  “Make yourself useful while you still can, Andy, and retrieve the cane for Steve.”  

Andy obeyed and gathered the clothes that needed washing.  “I’ll finish these tonight and put them in the car, so Steve won’t forget to bring them after he’s dropped me at the airport.” 

“Safe trip back, and thanks for your help,” Anita said, then lowered her mask and braced herself for Andy’s good-bye kiss. “On the lips,” she said,” like little kids.” 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Chuck Teixeira grew up among the anthracite mines of northeastern Pennsylvania.  He holds degrees from the Writing Seminars at Johns Hopkins University, Harvard Law School and the Graduate School of Law at New York University. After working as a tax attorney in San Francisco, California, he obtained the CELTA credential from Cambridge and now teaches English at Wall Street Institute in Bogota, Colombia.  Chuck’s stories have appeared in Esquire, Permafrost, Portland Review, Jonathan, and Two Thirds North.  Some of his collections are available at Amazon.com.