Black Rabbit and Other Stories Read Free Page B

righteousness. He retched inwardly, containing his bile. That’s what life was—at least for a man—containment. If you were not a rich man, you were measured by containment. A rich man could shave off his moustache and suffer no one to bother him about it, and perhaps silence anyone who did bother him about it.
    Mike’s eyes grew heavy and in short order he dozed off. He dreamed he was eating fruit with Joe Garzo and Domenic Carbone, both of them toothless, muttering things to him that he didn’t understand. What? he kept asking. What?
    He felt a pinch again, and this time he almost fell out of his chair. Jesus Christ!
    â€œYou disgust me,” hissed Mufalda. “Come on, get up. Get your carcass up. It’s time to go. Unless you want to sleep with Joe.”
    â€œOkay, already.”
    â€œNever mind okay. Never mind.”
    And on the way out of the funeral parlour, and on the whole way home Mufalda didn’t let him forget his indiscretions. He didn’t bother defending himself. If he was guilty, so be it, let her rail. He simply thought of other things, like the mule he used to have back in Sicily. The mule was stubborn; the mule was rude. But Mike liked the mule because it refused to be anything but itself. That mule spoke volumes with its eyes, with its brays. Thinking about little scenes like this made the nagging nothing.
    At home Mike found a slab of leftover lasagna in the refrigerator. Glutinous and so cold it made his teeth ache, he still ate it with gusto. Mufalda entered the kitchen grimacing.
    â€œYou didn’t even heat it up?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, no?”
    Mike didn’t answer. Mufalda snorted and exited the kitchen. He finished eating and retreated to the bathroom where he applied dye to his hair, restoring the dark lustre he so fancied. One of the reasons he had shaved his moustache: it had become difficult to coordinate the hues. I’m a simple man, he thought. I’m not a complicated man. I don’t need complications in my life, not now.
    The next morning he went downstairs to the kitchen, loaded up the espresso pot, and put some milk on the stove to make cafe latte.
    He stared out the window: it was a sunny day, the birds out in force, the trees greening. It was nice, a happy scene. But not more than a minute passed before his chin trembled and his eyes moistened and, despite his efforts to stop himself, he found himself weeping. Mufalda entered the kitchen and seeing the milk sputtering from the pot started shouting at Mike. He regained his composure and tuned her out.
    Mike took Francesca’s son Norbert to the park one morning. He was a four-year-old with blubbery arms and legs and a rather sullen disposition. He lacked the spark of Mike’s other grandchildren, dragging his thick legs around and kicking up sods.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Mike barked.
    â€œNonna . . .”
    â€œNever mind Nonna. Behave.”
    The boy looked at him with large brown eyes positioned close. The cheeks dew-lapped over the jaws, the upper lip was elongated, almost unnatural.
    Mike started.
    He decided right then to grow back the moustache. He should never have shaved it off. What a can of worms its absence had opened. It wasn’t fair.
    Mike visited Grace that afternoon, hoping to avoid Lillo, who was supposed to be at the physical therapist. But after only an hour at Grace’s, Mike’s espresso half-finished, the big slug showed up limping and whining. Mike gnashed his teeth. It wasn’t fair.
    â€œMy back, my leg.”
    â€œWhat happened?” Grace asked.
    â€œAt the therapy—”
    â€œYou injured yourself?”
    â€œI did, I really did this time. I’m fucked, Gracie, I’m fucked.”
    â€œYou want to go to the hospital?”
    â€œThey can’t do anything for me!” he shouted.
    â€œHoney, I was just saying.”
    â€œWell don’t! Hey, Mike, what brings you