Black Rabbit and Other Stories Read Free Page A

at?”
    â€œNothing, Pa.” Che Che blinked. Then he put his hands in his pockets and pretended to admire the ceiling.
    Mike endured an entire hour seated next to the fat slob Lillo. He reeked of sweat and garlic. He bored Mike to death yapping about his sciatic nerve, irritated due to a bulging in his spine, how excruciating the pain was, how the codeine pills he took constipated him and he hadn’t shit in two weeks,
two weeks
. Mike bolted to his feet.
    â€œWhat is it?” Mufalda asked.
    â€œI have to go to the bathroom.”
    â€œWell then go, for crying out loud.”
    â€œDad, you shaved your moustache!” Grace cried from the folds of her fat face.
    Mike ignored her and his wife’s dry cackling, and made his way to the bathroom. He ran into Domenic Carbone in the foyer. The insufferable old codger was bawling like a child.
    â€œPoor Joe,” he blubbered. “Poor, poor Joe . . . ”
    Poor you, thought Mike. His number was almost up, and he knew it. The man had already survived three heart attacks. It was only a matter of time. Yet he wasn’t ready for death. How sad. Mike wondered if
he
was ready, if he would be ready. He wasn’t afraid of it, like Domenic. But what could one think? If Mike were to die now wouldhis life have seemed worthwhile? His children were doing well— except, of course, Grace, though her two children were beautiful. Che Che was spanking, three kids, nice house, and so on. Francesca had married a barber on the dwarfish side, but he was a solid little fellow, respectful, honest; they had a gorgeous daughter, and a son. Carmela had married an opera baritone and lived in Milan, at the moment pregnant with her first. What more could a man want? He and his wife were fine, as fine as two people could be after thirty-five years of marriage. Thinking about all this gave him a headache.
    In the washroom he tried to pee, but had no desire or need. He washed his hands and wet his hair a bit. His roots showed. His upper lip looked fleshy. So what could you do? he thought. You get old, you get ugly. What could you do? At least he wasn’t fat. Mike had worn size thirty-six pants for thirty years. Not bad considering how much he ate. Walking did the trick, kept him fit. For thirty years he walked to and from the Otis Elevator plant on Burlington Street where he toiled as a janitor. He never got his driver’s license, never felt the need. He still walked, though not as much. Yes his pants were a little snug, but so what? If he had to buy a bigger size, so be it.
    So many people, he thought, when he sat down again. Joe was popular, well-liked. Mike knew his own funeral wouldn’t draw this kind of turnout, no sir. And he didn’t care one way or another. He sat away from Lillo this time, under the pretense of exchanging a few pleasantries with Mimmo Sinicropi, Joe Garzo’s brother-in-law. Mimmo didn’t care much for Mike, and Mike knew it. But he liked to talk to him, just to get under his skin a little.
    â€œMimmo,” he whispered.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThat suit?”
    â€œWhat about it?”
    â€œIs it brown?”
    â€œBrown?” Mimmo wore a look of annoyed puzzlement. Obviously his suit was black. He crossed his arms on his chest and raised his chin.
    â€œSorry,” Mike said. “It looked dark brown. Like a chocolate. Nice.”
    â€œMike, your voice carries.” Mimmo nodded at the assembly of mourners.
    â€œOf course, sorry.”
    He turned around and faced the casket again. Then he felt his thigh being pinched. He had to swallow a yelp. Mufalda. Was she crazy? Her face was a black-eyed mask of evil.
    â€œWhat?” he said, bewildered.
    â€œQuit making a fool of yourself.”
    â€œBut what did I do?”
    â€œSsst,” she said, crossing her lips with a finger.
    Mike shook his head and felt his ears reddening. Sometimes he hated that woman, hated her sharp senses, hated her