Deeper

We sit in the living room, my grandparents and I. I'm on the couch. Grandma's in the rocking chair, not rocking. Grandpa sits in his recliner. They're watching a rerun of the Lawrence Welk show. I'm watching them. This is the first time I've been able to come to Buffalo by myself. Three days have already passed, I've got about a week left. I want to catch up on all that I've missed since the last time I came with my family. I plan on enjoying my time here.

Grandpa's fingers sometimes tap the arm of the chair lightly to the soft roll of the music. His eyes blink rapidly, in patterns, from his cataracts. Once in a while he'll take a deep breath and bring his hands up to his face, brushing his small gray mustache, pushing back what's left of his thin white hair. His hands come to rest on his barrel torso. The chair swings back a little and he props up his feet, toes twitching. He sees me studying him and he squints his eyes at me, as if he suspects me of something vile, then he begins humming the melody to himself. Grandma is finally relaxing from her typical busy day of taking care of everything. She has kicked her slippers off, maybe so she can breathe easier.

Mom has told me of the many times when Lawrence Welk brought Grandma and Grandpa under his spell. They would get up suddenly, I can see them now, with a dreamy quality in their eyes. Mom and Uncle Al groan and hide their faces. Grandpa takes Grandma in his arms ever so gently, so as not to disrupt the band's lovely tune, and they begin dancing right there in front of the TV on the living room carpet, Grandpa in his slippers, Grandma in her stockings. Mom pleads with them to stop. I can see them waltzing to Welk alone in front of the TV, so light on their feet you can only hear the music, and the occasional popping of the joints in their legs. Mom and Uncle Al watch through their fingers at the top of the stairs, rolling their eyes and laughing.

Now they just watch the show, not getting up to dance, but perhaps remembering when they could. They each get that twinkle of joy in their eyes and the same slight grin across their faces. I try to think if I've ever been so content watching something on TV. I know that I could never be content watching this crap. Lawrence, and his band, and all the dancing people, it's almost sickening how happy they all are. They dance and smile to the same floaty music, in front of a cotton candy, bright purple, puffy cloud set. Welk's eyes twinkle. I used to complain when they settled on this show while flipping through the channels, back when I was a kid. Now I understand though. This show is from another time, their time. And tonight is their time. On this night, they don't have their little grandchildren running around, making noise, asking for food. They can watch TV without worrying about one of them bursting in and jumping in front of them to switch on the Nintendo.

They can sit here, and they can watch. Not what one of my uncles wants to watch. Grandma doesn't have to pick up her knitting tools because there's something on that doesn't interest her, like football. They can flip through the channels, their channels, as fast or as slow as they want. I know now that we're in their house. I know that they are retired. I know what they go through on a daily basis, what they've been through, and all the senseless bullshit that filters down into their lives. They want to watch Welk, so I'll watch him, and enjoy it. I'll enjoy it because my grandparents enjoy it.

Grandma asks me if I want an espresso.

"Vuoi caffe`?" I can see she takes some delight in speaking to me in Italian. I only wish I learned it sooner.

Of course I say yes. What kind of Italian refuses coffee? Even though I'm still not used to the bittersweet bite that tiny shot of espresso carries, I've committed myself to acquiring that taste. Grandma asks Grandpa if he would like some only after getting my answer. She uses her trademark sarcastic tone to get his attention.

"Messer Guglielmi? Posso prenderti caffe`?"

Grandpa hears her but his eyes don't waver from the TV.

"Beh" is his reply, the one Grandma expected.

"Beh! Beh!" she imitates. "Che significa 'Beh'? Vuoi caffe` o no?"

Finally, he looks at her and says, "Yes!" with extra emphasis on his pronunciation. He always responds in English when she is annoying him. They've been together for 50 years, and they know exactly how to handle each other.

"Okay!" Grandma gives a heavy nod to confirm that she has received his answer, and pushes herself out of the chair. Grandpa watches her and smiles, grunting his approval as if he is impressed by her slowly rising, heavy frame. Grandma has a retort ready. She tells him in Italian to shut his mouth, and that it's his fault she has put on so much weight during their long life together. Grandpa laughs a hearty "Ha Ha," as if to say, "yeah sure," and mumbles "Oh God, spare me," in Italian.

I laugh the whole time. I've seen them go back and forth at each other my whole life. They've always acted as if they can only barely tolerate each other and that they're doing each other a favor by staying together. Only they know that they've needed each other all along. Like way back when Grandpa left Grandma in Italy with Mom and Uncle Al to come work in America with his brother, with the intention of returning with the money necessary to improve their lives. Just like everyone else, they saw America as the land of opportunity, only to be shocked when things didn't go as planned. Buffalo became a popular settling ground for immigrants, because of its once heavy industry. Only Bethlehem Steel began laying off in the years after the war, forcing Grandpa to find work elsewhere. He wasn't making enough money, and could only come back to Italy for short visits. After three years of this, Grandma couldn't take it and brought her two young children with her on the boat to the States. They would never again live in Italy.

The light in the kitchen is on. We can hear the clatter as Grandma gets the cups and saucers from the cupboard. The tips of Grandpa's fingers drum the recliner ever so lightly, like he doesn't want me to hear. The windows show the gray sky outside dimming to black, and the glass turns opaque. Soon Bobby will be home with the kids, and things won't be so quiet. Lawrence Welk is over now, so we watch the hockey game as we all sip out of our tiny cups. I still slurp too much, but Grandma and Grandpa don't say anything. I think they're happy just having me here. They're happy to share this moment of theirs with me. I'm thinking it would be nice if we had a fire going.

Lately I've been angry at everybody. No one seems to care what my grandparents have been through, or what they're going through. All of their sons, Al, Bobby, and Johnny, still live in Buffalo. They can still come over on Sunday nights for dinner. Hell, Bobby lives with them. And yet each of them has done their part to make their parents' lives just a little bit tougher. Things were hard enough on them when we had to move away to Kentucky. Dad, my brother and I, taking Mom, their only daughter, with us. I can still hear Grandma's cries the day we left. She clutched Mom as if her life depended on it. Her cries turned into howls. It was like we were dying to her.

I don't think it's a coincidence that our lives have improved after the move. I always thought I'd never get over leaving New York. But in Kentucky, we don't have to deal with all the pointless bickering that goes on in a "close" family. We don't have to be near Al and his wife Mary, who make a habit of boycotting family gatherings, and then complain when Grandma and Grandpa come to stay with us for Christmas. Then there's the matter of Al and Mary's kids running away from home, getting pregnant, falling into welfare, coming to Grandma and Grandpa for help, who can't do anything because Bobby's busy running up their credit card bill. Then there's the situation with Johnny, which has everyone confused. Happy as I am for not having to live in that mess, I wish that my grandparents were free of it as well. Now my parents do everything they can to offset the damage my uncles are doing here in Buffalo. They paid for Grandma and Grandpa's recent trip to Italy, they send money just so the bills can be paid, and every year Grandma and Grandpa come to stay with us for a month at Christmas time, just to get some relief; just to get away from all the noise and bullshit that pollutes their home.

It's the next day. This is the first time I've ever driven in my former hometown. When we moved, I was only 13, still riding my bike around the city neighborhoods. I'm taking Grandma and Grandpa to their weekly senior citizens luncheon. It's something they look forward to, and why not? They get to sit, eat and talk with all their fellow transplants from Italy, most of whom come from the same small town in which my mother was born. I try and go as slow as I can, because Grandpa is one of the all-time slowest drivers in the history of the world, and he gets a little excited when I give the car some gas. "No go too fast!" he reminds me. This is the first time I've had the pleasure of driving his big blue Pontiac. It's one of the many he's owned. After a while, I get used to the car and the streets here in Buffalo. Grandpa says excitedly, "You like-a drive-a my car eh?" Grandma snickers from the backseat. Although I take great pride in the fact I'm the only grandchild that can speak and understand Italian, I still get a kick out of their broken English. I run a stop sign without realizing it. It's a three-way stop intersection, lucky for me all the other cars waited for me to go through. I guess I still have a lot to learn about how the streets work here.

Grandpa smiles and says softly, alerting me to my mistake, "You sappos'd to stop there." He said it almost as I was doing it, like he knew I wasn't going to see it.

"Well why didn't you tell me?" I yell back.

"You sappos'd to know! Whassamatta you?"

I'm extra careful the rest of the way. As they get out Grandma reminds what time I need to pick them up, and Grandpa tells me not to go too fast in his car. I tell them to have a good time, then I leave the Lackawanna Senior Citizens center.

It was upon arriving in Buffalo that I learned Johnny is gay. I had known that something was wrong through Mom. Mom had practically raised Johnny (he's the youngest) back when Grandma and Grandpa were both working. They were even born on the same day, June 22, 14 years apart. They've always had that unique bond, so I guess it was only natural that Johnny only told Mom that he was gay, and that he and Bea would probably be getting a divorce. This coming 4 years after the birth of their only child, Jacob. Mom would never tell me what was going on, or why Johnny wanted a divorce. It wasn't until I heard it from Bobby the first night I was here that I understood all the pressure Mom had been under.

How could Johnny unload this on her, and expect her to keep it all inside? She couldn't tell Grandma and Grandpa. Who knows how they would react? That kind of shock might send them both to their grave early. Either that or they'd disown him, and who knows how Johnny would react to that? Mom began going to church everyday before work, praying that somehow Johnny would change his mind and go back to his wife and kid. Things only got worse. Grandma would call asking why Johnny was leaving Bea. Bobby would call demanding to know what was going on. Even I would press her, unaware of what she was going through. Mom finally broke down and told Bobby, who in turn would tell me when I arrived. Mom still didn't know what to do though, and Dad got worried. He made an appointment with a shrink in Evansville, with the hopes he might give Mom some guidance. He told her that it would be better that Grandma and Grandpa don't know about Johnny.

I decide to take a spin through my old neighborhood, where everything has shrunk. As I coast down my old street, I don't go on that trip down memory lane. Instead I think about how we have to deceive my grandparents. I think about how lonely Aunt Bea must feel. And I wonder how all of this will affect Jacob. I pass my old house. I can't believe I used to live here. I don't remember what it was like in that house. Those memories were once so clear to me. Now they feel more like the 8mm home movies you project on the wall, fuzzy and silent. The house is painted white now, and they've put a chain-link fence around it. I think about pulling over and taking a walk around, only it's not important anymore. Everyone has forgotten about us here and gone on with their lives. The last time I came Mr. Bless didn't even recognize me. He thought I was selling something. I just keep going.

It's later on now. Bobby's kids, Adam and Lauren, are with Liz tonight. Bobby's at work. Aunt Bea is here, with Jacob. Johnny has gone out again for the night. Who knows where he is. He just leaves, not even telling Bea where he's going or when he'll be back. Uncle Al and Aunt Mary are here too. I'm thinking the only reason they're here is because I'm here. They want to make a good impression, as if things are always this way. We just got through eating one of Grandma's great meals, and we begin to settle down in the living room. The TV's on, but everyone ignores it unless something interesting flashes by. I can tell Aunt Bea feels awkward. It's like she knows everyone wants to ask her about Johnny. Thankfully the topic of discussion has focused on other things, but slowly it's turning toward Aunt Bea. Jacob sits on the carpet playing with some blocks. Mary wants to know why he isn't potty trained yet. Bea can't seem to make her understand.

"I just can't believe it's taking him so long," Mary says. "My kids had no trouble at all. They were all potty trained at two."

I'm thinking to myself, looking at her, that's about the only thing you can be proud of as far as your kids are concerned. Stephen, Amy and Stacey all ran away from home, and as soon as Danny gets old enough, he will too. Sure, Stephen has moved back in, but he's what, 26 now? Amy had to join the Army because she had no where else to go. Now she has a kid. Stacey too, only she's living with Cruz, and they're on welfare. But at least they all learned how to shit at the proper age.

Bea defends Jacob. "I've tried and tried Mary, he just doesn't want to sit on the toilet yet. It's like he's afraid. I'm just going to wait it out. I know it'll just take some time, and when he's ready, he'll learn."

Then Mary turns to me.

"Well Ben, I remember that it took you awhile. Weren't you constipated for awhile? I thought I remembered your Mom giving you suppositories."

I shrink into my seat a little. At this point I want to murder Mary, but I pretend I don't remember and keep quiet. Grandma answers instead.

"Yeah, Yeah, he was-a the same, like-a Jacob. Beniamino was a little pain-nin-nin-nass." Grandma looks at me and chuckles, as if she has fond memories of it.

Then I chime in. "It just takes a little longer for some kids, that's all. Jacob will learn. Just give him some time."

Grandpa supports me in Italian, saying "It's all right, when he wants to do it, he'll do it."

Mary shakes her head. "Well, I think it's about time he's learned." The way she says it implies Bea isn't doing her job as a mother. Bea is losing her patience.

"Mary, I'm just going to give Jacob some time. I figure when he wants to learn, he'll learn." Jacob sits in the middle of the room, not paying attention to what any of us are saying. Everyone stares at him as we talk about this "problem." I wish Mary would shut up about it already. If there's anyone who knows how kids work, it's Bea. She teaches elementary school, what does Mary do? Nothing. Mary has no clue as to what Bea's going through anyway.

"It's just really hard for me right now," Bea continues, her voice breaking up a little. "Do you know that Johnny doesn't even wear his wedding ring anymore? I noticed it the other night at dinner. That's not right for a husband...to take off his wedding ring..." She raises her voice on that last point, but she can't finish. Bea puts her face in her hands and cries. Jacob stops what he's doing and goes over to her, but he's afraid to touch her. "Why are you crying Mommy?"

Grandpa begins to tell Bea it'll be all right, that maybe Johnny will come back. But he's on the verge of crying too. "Some-a time, some-a time, I kill," he utters, referring to Johnny.

I can see the anger in Grandma building and she begins to yell. "I don't understand why! Whassamatta that he wanna leave-a he's beautiful wife anna son?"

"He's stupid Ma, that's all," Uncle Al says. Mary begins to press Bea for more information. "Well what's he doing Bea? When did he start doing this?" I wish Mary would shut the hell up.

"Ya know, it doesn't even matter," Bea begins, fighting the tears. "All that matters is Jacob. He's what's important to me."

Grandma continues to yell, to no one in particular, wanting to know why this is happening. Mary is trying to take the calm approach, but Bea won't say anything. Jacob comes up to me and asks me why everyone is yelling. I smile and put him on my lap. Together we watch the room in front of us. Grandma and Mary yapping incoherently, Bea trying to explain without giving anything away. Uncle Al shaking his head, Grandpa looking at Bea with his mouth hung open slightly, his small eyes watery. I look at Bea, and pull Jacob closer, realizing that I'm that only one in the room besides Bea that knows the truth about Johnny. I could shout it out, answering everyone's question in two syllables, and they would all freeze. But I remember what Mom said. "It's better that you don't know." So I keep quiet and watch.

Bea gets up when things have calmed down, and goes to the kitchen, Mary soon follows, leaving Grandma and Grandpa to sort it out with Uncle Al. I put Jacob down, and go into the kitchen. I walk in on Bea and Mary's conversation. They both have their arms folded. Bea stops when she sees me.

"Aunt Bea, don't worry. I know already," I tell her.

Shocked, she says, "Know what? What do you know?"

"I know that Johnny's..." for some reason I hesitate. I look into Bea's defeated eyes and feel so sorry for her. She was probably the one woman who would have put up with Johnny. She would have stayed with him to the end. Now I see her and she's alone, totally within herself. I can't even say it the right way.

"I know that Johnny...has a boyfriend."

"What?" Mary exclaims. I can tell she's pissed knowing she's been left out of something.

"Who told you Ben?" Bea asks me. She doesn't know that Bobby knows.

"I can just tell," I say. "I could tell when he picked me up from the bus station. It makes sense. Why else would he be doing this?"

Bea looks crushed. Mary is in disbelief. "No! I can't believe it. He's gay?"

"Mary don't tell anyone," Bea says urgently. "I don't want everyone to know about this. If Bobby found out he'd kill Johnny." Bea uses a Kleenex to wipe away the tears from her puffy eyes.

I can see the reality of this setting in on Mary, and her eyes sparkle, like this is juicy stuff. I know that soon everyone will know except Grandma and Grandpa. Just when Mary begins to ask more questions, Grandma walks in and puts her hands on her hips, eager to hear what we are talking about. I walk out, leaving Bea to deal with her. Had I stayed, I just might have let it out. I hate knowing that I have to be a part of keeping my grandparents in the dark. They're Johnny's parents. They have a right to know what's going on. But if they did know would they be any better off than they are now? I think they suspect anyway. So I'll keep my mouth shut.

The next afternoon I take a walk with Grandpa around his neighborhood. We don't talk much. There's no need to talk a lot when you're with Grandpa. There's a certain knowledge present when Grandpa's around, a peace that infects everyone around him. He knows things are better left unsaid. Whenever we eat, and I start talking too much, he yells, "Mangia! You not sappos'd talk when you eat!"

The gray sky hangs overhead as we walk. The air bites our faces. I start watching Grandpa again. His waddling, barrel-like form keeping a great pace for someone in his seventies. No one can believe he's that old. The image of him almost weeping last night haunts me. It reminds me of his older sister's funeral in Niagara Falls. That was the first time I ever saw him cry. I'll never forget kneeling over the casket with him, looking at Za'Maria, and seeing his face contort into sadness. He didn't make a sound, but his face said everything. In that moment he was an empty shell, a state I never wanted to see him in again. His older brother Giusseppe was alive then. He died after we moved to Kentucky. A part of me wishes I could have been there, if only to pay my respects to Zi'Bepe.

I wouldn't have wanted to see Grandpa then. Now he's the only one left in America. He younger sister, Z'Altea still lives in Italy. I don't know what will happen when she goes, but something tells me that Grandpa will out live everybody. This is a man who grew up on a small farm in Giuliano. He never saw his father, who was crushed by a crane at Bethlehem Steel the day before he was to return to Italy. They buried him in Buffalo. Grandpa fought along side the Axis in World War II. My brother once asked him what exactly he did in the war. Grandpa couldn't put it any other way than: "I kill people...shoot people." He doesn't talk much about it, but I remember him telling me about how warm and loving the Russians were, as opposed to the cold-hearted Germans.

We walk past the old candy store on the corner, two blocks down from Grandpa's house. It's closed up now, but Grandpa used to take my brother and I there when we were little, everyday after lunch. My brother David was always his favorite grandson, and he used to hold his hand while I walked in front of them. Sometimes Grandpa would start running, as old as he was, with David in tow, trying to race me. I always won, but David always got a kick out of it. Grandpa still likes to do things like that, and we always have to tell him to calm down. Whenever he comes to visit us in Kentucky, he's bored out of his mind, so he works around the house, tending to the garden and the flowerbeds. He does more harm than good. He's always pulling flowers out he thinks are weeds, or he trims the rose bushes too short and they never grow back.

He was here when Dad was putting in the patio out back. He was happy to help Dad lay down the brick, but one fell on his foot, crushing one of his toes. In that same week he burned his arm on the grill, and fell off of Mom's NordicTrack. Of course he gets hell from Grandma. She always says he's going to kill himself one of these days, to which he says he'll be able to enjoy himself in heaven for a while before she gets there.

On our way back to the house, the thought of going back to Kentucky on the Greyhound in a few days enters my mind. I put my arm around Grandpa's shoulder. I tell him that I have to leave on Sunday.

"Nonno, devo partire domenica."

He looks straight ahead and nods. "Si si, lo so," he says. He asks me when the bus leaves that morning. I tell him eight o'clock.

"Ah, al otto. Saluta tua padre, eh? E un bacio per Davide e tua madre."

I tell him certainly, and that I will think of him often. I tell him I hope he and Grandma can make it again this Christmas.

He just nods his head and grunts his agreement.

"Ti voglio bene nonno."

"Ti voglio bene bello di nonno."

Grandpa doesn't go inside right away. He goes around back, probably to get something out of the garage, maybe some wine. I go in and immediately smell the wonderful meal Grandma's cooking. I take off my sneakers. As I go down the stairs to the living room, I see myself in the mirror on the far wall. I stop midway and stare. I shut out the noise coming from the kitchen. The fan above the stove and the clanging pots and pans fall silent in the space around me. I look deeper. My eyes hold the dim light of the room. They squint, unable to contain the burn, seeping out from behind.