Everyone wore dark clothing. Some of the men had black suits. A few women had black dresses with black veils. Mom wore a dark blue dress and a small, box-shaped hat trimmed with fur. Uncle Tony wore his dark brown suit, the only one Mickey had ever seen him put on. Mickey had his dark gray pants and dark sports coat. Like the adults, he was quiet and somber. He stood in the back of the funeral home, ignoring the eyes that traveled towards him, the pointing, the gestures, the way these strangers tried to indicate him with surreptitious nods and hand movements.

Uncle Tony stood with mom at the casket at the far end of the room. Flowers adorned either end of the burnished wood-and-brass box. More flowers stood behind it on a stand. Other flowers were set on the floor. There were chairs placed in long rows and a few were occupied. More people stood to one side, near the wall, some alone, some as couples, some in groups. A few weeped.

Mickey saw his mom gesture with a gloved hand and he obeyed, walking the length of the long aisle formed by the rows of chairs on either side of the room. He stopped when he reached Mom and Uncle Tony, stood between them and looked down at the old woman in the casket. She had flowing gray hair, a smooth face, thin lips. Her hands clasped a rosary and were folded atop her stomach. She was dressed in a light blue gown with a laced collar and long sleeves ending with laced cuffs. Mickey didn’t see her feet and wondered if dead people wore shoes in their caskets.

“She’s sleeping,” Mom said. She bent close to the old woman and kissed the dead lips. Uncle Tony did the same. Tears dripped from his eyes and he padded the old woman’s hands.

“Mom, you sleep now,” Uncle Tony said. “With Pop.”

Mickey didn’t want to touch the old woman. He hoped Mom didn’t force him. He was relieved when she indicated with a nod that they were moving away from the casket. As they stepped to one side, other mourners approached to say a few words to the old woman, or to cry over her, and even to kiss her.

Uncle Tony said something to an elderly man standing by a flower pot against the wall. The two shook hands. Mom joined her brother, and Mickey trailed her. “This is your Uncle Joe,” Mom said.

Uncle Joe had a dark, round face, small eyes, and curly hair that was thick around the sides of his head and completely missing from the top. “That’s the kid, huh?” Uncle Joe said. He squatted down to Mickey’s height. “What’s your name?”

“Mickey.”

They shook hands. Uncle Joe shook his head, straightening up again. He spoke to Uncle Tony. “Ma was askin’ about you.”

“No one called,” Uncle Tony said. “No one called me, Joe.”

“You two…” Uncle Joe shook his head. “You never called the house. Never called anybody. Who’s going to call you? Heh? I did. Me. Joe. I called.”

“No one called to say she was sick.”

“The old lady’s been sick for years.” Uncle Joe waved a hand in her direction. “She ain’t wanted to live since Pop died.”

Two other men, both older than Joe, sauntered over and Uncle Tony and Mom shrank from them. Mickey slipped behind his mom, as though he could hide. The men whispered amongst themselves and Mom and Uncle Tony started to walk to the back of the funeral parlor. Mickey followed.

“She’s your ma,” one of the older men said. “So you got every right to be here. No one’s disputing that. You got the right, Joanne, Tony. You come to the church tomorrow for the service. Fine. But don’t come back to the house. You aren’t welcome there, either of you. Understand? Tony? Joanne? You understand?”

Mom nodded. She flicked her tears away with her finger. The moisture stained her glove.

“It’s been more than 10 years,” Uncle Tony said.

“It’s a lifetime,” one of the old man replied. His voice was scratchy. He had milky eyes that made him look sad. Mickey felt his eyes bore into him. “I have to respect my brother’s own wishes.”

“Do you?” Uncle Tony asked. “He was a mean old man. You were never like that, Uncle Sam. You were never mean.”

The other old man spoke up. “She disgraced us, the whole family.”

“I didn’t disgrace anyone,” Mom whispered.

“Be quiet! Out of respect for your mother, you shut that mouth of yours.”

Mom bowed her head. Uncle Sam wagged a finger at Uncle Tony. “Go sit down, pay your respects, be quiet, and you can stay. Start up again, with a big scene, and we’ll have you thrown out.”

Mickey followed Mom and Uncle Tony to the furthest row of chairs. They sat. A few people approached them and nodded and said, “We’re sorry for your lost” or expressed some similar sentiment. The elderly uncles glanced at them now and then. Uncle Joe spoke to Uncle Tony for a few minutes.

“I’m going out to the car,” Mom finally said. “I can’t take it no more.”

“Should I come with you?” Mickey asked.

“I don’t care what you do,” she murmured. Mickey swallowed and looked straight ahead, into the gloom, towards where the casket sat on its table.

“What did we do wrong?” Mickey asked Uncle Tony. His uncle patted his hand, but he didn’t speak, didn’t answer the question. They sat in silence, and Mickey tried to ignore the prying eyes, tried not to notice the whispering and the quick glances in his direction. Now and then, under his breath, he’d say, “I didn’t do anything. Stop looking at me.”

The class of 1957 graduated from Albert Hammer Elementary in late June. The ceremony was held in the mid-afternoon and mostly moms attended. The principal gave a speech about passages in life, the rites of education, the plateaus of learning, and wished the students well in their next school. At the party afterwards, everyone got a yearbook, a thin volume with pictures of the class in a group, individual pictures, and assorted snapshots of the school and the teachers. Taking his book around to all his classmates, Mickey solicited autographs, freely gave his own, and helped celebrate this milestone in his life. He was excited to tell Uncle Tony and Mom all about it and he waited until supper, so he could share it with everyone at the same time.

Mom looked tired when she got home from work. Mickey was at the living room window, looking out at Front Street’s traffic, watching the buses. When his mom’s finally arrived, he saw that she stood on the corner and waited even when the light turned green before she crossed. She was too far away for Mickey to see any details, but he recognized her by the way she stood, by her clothing and how she carried her purse by its strap. It dangled from her hand.

“I’m really tired,” she said as soon as Mickey greeted her. She trudged slowly up the stairs and went into her room. “Make something for yourself,” she said before closing her bedroom door.

Mickey liked being in charge of the kitchen and responsible for supper. He quickly whipped together a meal of fried bologna with onions and added a can of small potatoes that he heated in a sauce pan on the stove. He stood watching the pan the entire time. He didn’t want to give it a chance to burn.

Uncle Tony joined him for supper. Mom was asleep. The next day she didn’t want to go to work. She called in sick. This being the first full day of summer vacation, Mickey hurried to the used book store to buy comics and magazines. He had saved the five dollars his uncle had given him as his share from the sale of the film projector and he intended to spend every cent of it on things to read.

Mom was in the bathroom when he got home. She went to and from the bathroom the entire afternoon. Mickey tried to brighten her day with a glass of juice and some toast. He served her in bed, but she couldn’t drink, didn’t want to eat, and vomited into a porcelain chamber pot that she kept under her bed. Mickey had to dump the contents in the toilet, wash the pot and return it to her.

The next day, Uncle Tony insisted she see the family doctor. She didn’t want to get out of bed, so he called the doctor’s office and requested a house call. Later, Mickey saw him counting money, which he put into an envelope that he stuffed into his back pocket. That evening, just after six, Doctor Davis came to their door.

He was a robust looking man with a full head of black hair, a small moustache, and a square face. He walked with a slight limp which Mickey had been told came from a war wound when he was a medical officer with the army in the Pacific. He carried a large leather bag. As a child, Mickey had always been afraid of that bag, afraid of the instruments the doctor pulled from it. He remembered being prodded and poked so much that it hurt, the needles were like fire and the cold clamps like vises. When he complained, the doctor made the pain worse and Mom shouted at him to be still. Mickey didn’t know when this had happened, or why, if he had been sick or injured in some way, and the memory lingered like the remnant of a bad dream.

Upstairs, Dr. Davis entered Mom’s bedroom, shut the door, and remained inside for nearly half-an-hour. Uncle Tony sat in the kitchen and smoked one cigarette after another. He drank a glass of beer, but slowly, sip by sip. Mickey stayed in the living room and read from one of his adventure magazines. He wanted to watch television, but the sound disturbed his mom. Even with the volume low she had yelled at him to turn the TV off.

Finally, Dr. Davis emerged from the bedroom. He had his suit coat folded over his arm. His sleeves were rolled up. Uncle Tony offered him a glass of beer, which he accepted. The two then sat at the kitchen table and the doctor lit a cigarette as he explained the situation to Uncle Tony. Mickey remained in his chair. He tried to overhear what was said, but he didn’t want to be caught eavesdropping. Mom and Uncle Tony never liked it when he listened to their conversations, especially when they whispered.

“Is Mom okay?” Mickey asked when the doctor was gone. Uncle Tony had given him the money in the envelope. The doctor hadn’t counted it. He merely nodded and folded the dollar bills and slipped them into his pants pocket.

“She’ll be okay,” Uncle Tony said. “Dr. Davis wants her to go into the hospital.”

Mickey didn’t know if that was good news or bad. The hospital was for really sick people, but hospitals were also places where you were made whole again. The TV doctors worked miracles in their hospitals.

“You’ll have to help me get her there. I don’t think she wants to go.” Uncle Tony went to her bedroom door. He rapped gently, opened it a crack.

“Get the hell out of here,” Mom screamed. “I’m trying to get some clothes on.”

Uncle Tony quickly shut the door. He returned to the kitchen table, poured himself a glass of beer, and waited. Mickey stood in the doorway to the living room, not sure if he should be there or not. Maybe Mom didn’t want their help.

She came out of her bedroom. She was dressed in a faded gray housecoat. She had torn cloth shoes on her feet. Her stockings were rolled to her ankles. She had combed her hair, but it was still fluffed up and looked unkempt. There was a lot of gray, some strands of her natural brown, and a few streaks with hair coloring.

“You got a cigarette?” she asked.

Uncle Tony gave her one. She picked at its ends, frowning. At the stove, she bent down and lit it on the burner. She took a few puffs, then threw the cigarette at the sink and rushed into the bathroom. She slammed the door shut behind her, but the sound of her retching filled the quiet of the room. The toilet soon was flushed and Mom reappeared, her face sporting a mix of red and white blotches.

“The doctor says it ain’t food poisoning,” Uncle Tony said. “He thinks it’s gallstones or something.”

Mom nodded. She took another cigarette from her brother. “That’s what he told me.”

“He’s going to call if he can get you into Saint Regina’s tonight.” Uncle Tony quietly sipped his beer, then said, “Mickey and I will take you.”

“He doesn’t have to go.”

“I think I need the help, Joanne.”

“He ain’t going.”

Mickey wanted to speak up. He thought of what to say. That he wanted to be of help? That he was old enough to help? That she should be grateful that anyone wanted to help her?

“Then I’ll take you myself,” Uncle Tony said. “You going to wear that?”

Mom nodded. “I put some things in a little bag.” She sat at the table. She reached for Uncle Tony’s glass of beer, but he wouldn’t let her take it. “A sip,” she said.

“I don’t think you should drink beer if you’ve got something wrong with your gallbladder.”

“What the hell does that have to do with it?” Mom snapped. She took the glass of beer from him and sipped it quickly, draining the glass, then slamming it on the tabletop as a way of demanding more.

Visiting hours were from 6PM until 8PM in the evening, and from 2PM to 4PM in the afternoon. Children could stay for 15 minutes at a time and only if they came with an adult. The nun at the front desk was very strict about that. Mickey saw a few children waiting patiently and in silence in the outer lobby every time he and his uncle came to visit. He guessed the children were waiting for a parent or other adult to park the car. Uncle Tony had offered to drop him off and then go find a parking space on the street, but Mickey didn’t mind walking. Besides, he didn’t want to be forced to wait like a child.

The nurses padded around on soft-soled shoes. Doctors in white coats, like on TV, paraded down the halls. Nuns in black, with white-lined bonnets, scurried from one place to another. Crosses, statues and other religious icons adorned the walls and stood in the corridors. On the fifth floor, near the elevator, a statue of the Virgin Mary stood guard over the hallway leading to the ward where Mom lay.

It was very quiet, everything hushed, including conversation and weeping, in this ward. Bed after bed was occupied, all women of varying ages, including a sallow looking teenaged girl with long red hair. She lay flat on her back, staring at the high ceiling. A row of lamps were suspended on chains from the ceiling. The light they provided was dim, seeming to match the tone of the light green color of the walls. Mom was at the far end of the ward. Some of the beds were sectioned off with curtains. Mom’s wasn’t. She was sitting up and talking to the woman in the bed next to hers when Mickey and Tony arrived for that first visit.

After one night and one full day in the hospital, Mom seemed to have changed for the better. Her face seemed more natural. There was color in her cheeks. Her hair was combed and fell down to her shoulders in neatly arranged waves. She wore a blue hospital gown and the necklace and bracelets and rings she had had on when she left the house with Uncle Tony were in a large manila envelope, which she handed to Uncle Tony and told him to take home for her.

“Things get stolen in the hospital,” she whispered, leaning close to her brother. She looked at Mickey and said, “You behavin’ yourself without me?”

He nodded.

“They’re gonna operate tomorrow morning,” Uncle Tony said.

Mom nodded. She smiled. “If it stops me from throwin’ up all the time, that’s fine.”

     “I called the VA,” Uncle Tony said. “About your insurance, to see how much they’d cover.”

     “It better cover it.”

     “Most of it. There’s some rule about percents or something?”

     “I didn’t think you’d understand, Tony. Don’t worry about it now. I’ll take care of it when I get home.”

     Uncle Tony pursed his lips and nodded his head a few times. “It’s just that the woman started talkin’ about percentages and then asking me a lot of questions and I didn’t really know what to say.”

     Mom patted his hand. “Just watch Mickey for me. That’s all you gotta do. You can do that, can’t you?” Uncle Tony nodded and Mom lay back with her head on her pillow. “Don’t stay long. I want to get some sleep.”

     “Mom?”

     “Be quiet,” she said. “I’m tired.”

     “I hope you’re okay,” Mickey whispered, thinking that that was the right thing to say. He had been wondering what it would be like if she didn’t come home, if he had to spend the rest of his childhood living with Uncle Tony. Would he have to quit school and help run the store? Would he have to get a job to help with the family finances? Or would he and his uncle struggle along without Mom, somehow paying all the bills and somehow providing him with the means to finish his education. He still had junior high and high school to get through.

     “Be quiet,” Mom whispered, and even in that quiet voice, in the hush of the hospital ward, her words sounded grating and angry and resentful.

     Mickey was tempted. With mom in the hospital, probably for at least another five days, her operation imminent, Mickey knew he could get away with rooting through that box of pictures. She’d never notice that the box had been moved. She’d probably be too sore to get up on a step-ladder and look in the box herself, or check how the boxes were arranged on the top shelf of her closet. She’d never notice that anything had been moved. Besides, Mickey knew how to be careful.

     Slowly, without disturbing the box next to it or the box under it, he pulled the shoebox down from the shelf. On the floor of her bedroom, he sat with his back against the wall and looked through the photographs. There was one of Uncle Joe when he was young. He looked like a teenager in the picture, next to an old-time car. With him was a little boy and a girl about ten. Mom? Uncle Tony? Mickey couldn’t be sure. Other photographs were labeled with names and places and dates on the back. Soon, he was able to assemble a chronology and identify many of the faces. That was Mom. That was Uncle Tony. There was Uncle Bob, who had died in the war. He saw what Uncle Sam and Uncle Vito looked like. Aunt Louise was that old woman who kept staring at him at the funeral. She looked old even in this picture. Grandmom, the woman in the casket, smiled and waved from the top step of her house.

     There was no picture of anyone Mickey thought might be his father. Disappointed, he put the photographs back into the box, then returned the box to its place in the closet. Standing on the step-ladder, he considered how to pull down the other box he had sometimes seen his mother looking through. Once, she had taken a couple of small snapshots out of that box and put them into the photo album she kept on a shelf in the living room. Uncle Tony had made a remark that the pictures were from Italy.

     Mickey carefully maneuvered the cardboard box down to the floor. Then, again sitting with his back to the wall, he rooted through the contents. There were a few photographs of a military compound, with barracks and a distant flag pole. There was also a cache of letters tied together with brown string. Mickey untied the string and opened one of the envelopes. The letter was covered in bright blue ink and written in Italian. Many of the other letters were written in that language, too. He did find a short letter he could read. It was from his mom and was addressed to a woman he assumed was a friend.

     Dear Margie,

          I’ve been in Italy for more than a month now. All those exercises and all that running and I’m just a clerk-typist at a warehouse. Lots of soldiers coming and going and there’s a hospital where I volunteer to read and write letters. My Italian is excellent, I’ve found, even if I do talk like my mother, so Major Williams has me as his personal interpreter. He’s in charge of this camp. He’s young for a major, but I think his uncle’s some kind of politician so he’s got pull. Lots of the boys here are getting ready for the big push north. We can hear those big guns firing at night. Italians fighting on our side have a camp nearby and I sometimes have to go there with Major Williams to help figure out what supplies they need. Those men are always very respectful towards me when the major’s around, but I’ve had my ass pinched a number of times when he’s not. Ha. Ha. Just like back home, I think. Hope your brothers are okay, and your mom, too. Write, even if it’s only a few words.

              Your friend, Jo

     Mickey studied the other letters. The envelopes were addressed in English, to an address on South Ninth Street in Philadelphia. To his grandmother? Then he saw an envelope addressed to someone in a village in Italy. Caliado? It was difficult to read because the ink was blurred, as though it had gotten wet. The name in the address began with a V. First name, Mickey thought. The last name was Terrezza. There were five envelopes like this. Mickey could read none of them. But he knew someone who could.

     He selected two letters written to his grandmother and the five that had been sent to Caliado, Italy. He put those on the bed. Then he tied up the others as before, making a bow-tie knot with the brown string. He put the cache back into the box, along with the photographs, and returned the box to the top shelf in the closet. He was certain everything was in its exact same place as before. Then, taking the selected letters, he left the room.

     Uncle Tony was in the kitchen. He was at the sink and was making a sandwich. He was cutting a pickle in half. A jar of mustard with a knife sticking out of it was to one side, along with a loaf of white bread and a package of sliced lunchmeat. “What’re you doing?” he asked, glancing at Mickey just as he emerged from his mom’s bedroom.

     “Nothin’,” Mickey replied. He held the letters behind his back and tried to seem nonchalant. “Thinking about mom,” he added.

     “She doesn’t like you rooting through her things.”

     “I wasn’t.”

     Uncle Tony grimaced. “Looking at pictures again?”

     Mickey nodded, deciding a half-lie might work. He’d admit to one thing and that might throw his uncle off the trail.

     “What’re you looking for?” Uncle Tony asked.

     “Pictures of my father,” Mickey said.

     Uncle Tony shook his head. He finished making his sandwich. With his face turned the other way, Mickey slipped the envelopes under his shirt, putting them in the waistband of his boxer shorts. They rubbed against the small of his back.

     “Are there any?” Mickey asked.

     “I don’t know. I doubt it.”

     “Did you know my father?”

     Uncle Tony shook his head. He sat at the kitchen table. “You were already born when I got back to the states,” he said. Mickey took note that this was a new piece of information. Uncle Tony continued. “I didn’t have enough points to get sent home, so I was shipped out to Burma for the invasion of Japan. When that never came off, they finally let us out. When I got home, you were already two or three months old. Maybe a little more.” He started to eat, but stopped and said, “You shouldn’t ask so many questions.”

     “How else am I going to find out anything?”

     “Your mom doesn’t like to talk about this stuff. You just get her mad when you ask. She hates that.”

     “I still have to know.”

     Uncle Tony shook his head and didn’t say anything more. Mickey hurried downstairs and out of the house. He hoped Miss Gallio would be at the library. She was always reading those books about opera and some of them, Mickey had seen, were written in Italian.

     She was at the information desk when Mickey got there. His face was red and he was breathing hard from walking so fast. Calming himself, he approached Miss Gallio and said, “Can you do something for me?”

     She smiled. She didn’t look soft and kind right now. She looked harried. But she did smile. She put down her book. She inclined her narrow face to one side and said, “What is it, Mickey?”

     “I’m trying to translate an old letter. I need help with my Italian.”

     “Doesn’t your mother speak Italian?”

     Mickey nodded. “She’s in the hospital.”

     Miss Gallio’s eyes went wide. She blinked several times, her long lashes fluttering. “Is she all right? Is it anything serious?”

     “Very serious,” Mickey said, though he didn’t know if that was true or not. While Mom had seemed worried before she went to St. Regina’s, she had certainly looked content and even happy last night.

     “What do you need help with?”

     Mickey brought out his letters, which had gotten slightly damp from his sweat. The lettering on one envelope was smeared. But the letter inside was untouched. He showed it to Miss Gallio. “This one. Can you help me?”

     Miss Gallio put the letter flat on her desk. She peered down at it, one long finger touching the ink. “Handwriting is hard sometimes,” she said. Her lips moved as she read.

     “Can you translate it?” Mickey asked.

     “Who wrote this?”

     Mickey didn’t know how to answer the question. He wasn’t sure he should admit the truth. What other explanation could there be. “My uncle has a junk store and we found these letters in an old painting. Sort of stuffed between the back of the painting and the paper backing for the frame.”

     “From what I can see,” Miss Gallio said, “this is to a young man. It says, ‘Dearest Vincenzo. I am glad you recovered from your wounds. I miss you, but I am glad you were able to return home to your family. Yet, there is something I need to talk to you about. You must come back to the American base and see me or I will be in bad trouble with my commanding officer.’”

     “That’s it?”

     Miss Gallio nodded. She showed Mickey the letter. It was only a few lines long. But, if it had been written by his mom to someone named Vincenzo, why did she have the letter? Why didn’t Vincenzo?

     “This one,” Mickey said. He gave Miss Gallio the next letter. She read it to herself. She looked up and her eyes seemed moist, as though something she’d read had made her sad. “Who wrote these, Mickey?” she asked, and glanced again at the letter. “They’re both signed with a J.”

     “What does it say?”

     “Basically the same thing as the other.”

     Mickey gave her the remaining three letters. They all said the same thing. His mother – signed with a J – pleaded with someone named Vincenzo to come back to the American base and see her. Did she ever mail the letters? Mickey wondered.

     “So there’s no hidden money or anything?” Mickey asked, realizing he had to throw Miss Gallio off track.

     She laughed. “Afraid not,” she whispered. “Just some poor girl writing to her boyfriend. He must’ve abandoned her.”

     “Thanks, Miss Gallio. Thanks.”

     At home that evening, when Uncle Tony went to the corner bar for a while, Mickey put the letters back into the box. A thought came to him as he started to tie the brown string once more. Quickly, he sorted through the envelopes, checking each address. He soon found what he suspected would be there and the next day he went back to see Miss Gallio.

     “This one was in the box, too,” Mickey said.

     “I thought they were hidden inside a painting.”

     “That’s what I meant.” He gave her the letter.

     Miss Gallio read it quickly. She wrinkled her brow in consternation. She sighed a few times. Then, she said, “’Dear Miss Ardenni, I am Vincenzo’s brother and I am sorry to write this but as I am head of the family I find it to be my duty. I am returning all your letters to Vincenzo. I did not read them. I opened them only to see if they were all from you. Vincenzo went north to fight, even with his leg not yet healed. I am sorry, Miss Ardenni, but Vincenzo was killed last week. I only got word of it today from a priest who has come south with this sad news for many of the families.’” Miss Gallio made a soft sucking sound with her mouth. Her small chest rose and fell. She looked at Mickey and said, “These are your mother’s?”

     Mickey didn’t reply. He took back the letter.

     “You should have told me the truth,” Miss Gallio said. “I wouldn’t have read these if I’d known they belonged to your mother. That isn’t right, Mickey. You shouldn’t pry like that.”

     “Why not? No one ever tells me anything.” He spun away from her and hurried away from her desk and out of the library. At home, he put the letter back where it belonged and put the box of secrets back on the shelf. Mom had told him the truth when she said that his father was dead. It was the one thing she’d said that wasn’t a lie, the only truth she had revealed.

     “We can’t stay long,” Uncle Tony said in a soft voice as they walked from the elevator to the ward where Mom lay. The operation had gone well, but in the afternoon Dr. Davis had called to say that some complications had set it.

     Mom was asleep, her curtain open and her covers drawn up to her neck. A breeze came in through an open window. An electric fan stood high on a tall pole in one corner of the room and blew only some of the hot air away. Many of the patients who were sitting up and talking to their visitors waved paper fans in front of their faces.

     “Joanne?” Uncle Tony whispered. He bent close to her. She opened her eyes. “How do you feel?”

     Mickey couldn’t hear anything she said. Her lips moved. Her eyelids fluttered. He stepped close to his uncle. There was something unpleasant in the air, a sickly smell, the scent of waste, the odor of decay. “Hi, Mom.”

     “Who left those flowers?” Mom asked.

     Mickey looked around. He saw a bouquet of flowers on a table beside her bed. Uncle Tony had brought them in the afternoon, when they had thought the operation had gone well and there were no problems. That quickly changed as the day wore on.

     “Can’t trust doctors,” Mom said in a weak voice. “They say one thing and do another.”

     “Dr. Davis says you’ll be okay. You just need –“

     “I can’t stand the smell of those flowers!”

     “I’m sorry,” Uncle Tony said.

     “I need to sleep. Go home.”

     Uncle Tony stepped away from her bedside, his mouth slightly open, his cheeks pale. He pointed at the glass vase with the yellow and blue flowers. Mickey took the vase, glanced at his mom – her eyes were shut and she breathed rhythmically – and followed Uncle Tony out of the ward. They walked towards the elevators. At the statue to the Virgin Mary, Uncle Tony stopped. He turned to Mickey.

     “Give me,” he said. Mickey gave him the vase. Uncle Tony placed it on a stand next to the statue. There were cards and burnt candles on the stand.

     “Is she going to be okay?” Mickey said.

     “I don’t know.”

     If she dies, he thought, it’ll be just you and me. If she dies, Mickey realized, he’d never have a chance to ask her about Italy or Vincenzo.

     “What happened in Italy?” Mickey asked as they traveled alone on the elevator. Uncle Tony looked down at him. “To my mom, I mean?”

     “I thought you meant, what happened to me.”

     “Did something happen?”

     Uncle Tony led the way out of the hospital. He had parked his station wagon around the corner. There was a park across the street. A few elderly couples strolled the walkways. On the street, not too far from the hospital, kids jumped rope or played wall-ball. The July heat hung in the air, like a blanket. Mickey felt sticky and uncomfortable, his shirt clinging to his back.

     “Lots of stuff happens in a war,” Uncle Tony said. “You come home and people don’t understand. They want to hear war stories. They don’t want to understand anything.”

     “What happened?” Mickey asked.

     “Nothing. War. That’s what happened.” The finality in Uncle Tony’s voice silenced Mickey for the rest of the night.

     When the 2PM visiting hour approached, Mickey and Uncle Tony went up to the fifth floor together on a crowded elevator. There were several wards and the elevator passengers dispersed in several directions. The flowers, Mickey noticed, were where Uncle Tony had left them on the table next to the statue. Overnight they had withered. They were brown and crisp-looking, drooping sideways like exhausted runners.

     Mom was sitting up and sipping water through a straw. She smiled when Uncle Tony approached. He took hold of her hands. They stared at one another, then embraced. “I feel wonderful,” Mom said. She looked at Mickey. “You behavin’ yourself?”

     He nodded. He stayed at the foot of the bed, waiting for Mom to beckon him closer. She didn’t. She turned to Uncle Tony and they talked about how much sick leave and vacation time she had from the VA, whether or not she’d be staying more than another couple of days at St. Regina’s, and other matters that Mickey didn’t find interesting. After a while, he wandered away. He passed a room where people sat quietly and smoked cigarettes and watched television. He went in there and pretended he was with that family when a nun stepped into the room and looked around. Stray children were usually hustled down to the office where parents or other adults could claim them.

     Soon, Mickey got tired of the heat and the odor of cigarettes and the noise of the television. He left the room and stopped to look at the statue near the elevator. The woman’s face was a bright white, with eyes painted blue and lips a light red. She held a hand aloft, a finger pointing. A blue cape surrounded her shoulders and rested in several folds alongside her body. Her feet were indistinct. Was she wearing sandals? Mickey wondered. He looked again at the dead flowers.

     When he returned to the ward, Mom said, “You shouldn’t be sneaking off like that. You’re not supposed to be wandering around the hospital.”

     “I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Mickey said.

     “That ain’t the point. You’re not supposed to wander around. You hear me? If you can’t behave, don’t bother coming here.”

     “I just went out for a few minutes.”

     “Don’t talk back.”

     Uncle Tony intervened. “We’re going, Jo. Maybe you can come home tomorrow.”

     “I hope so,” she said. “We can’t afford this as it is, even with most of it taken care of by the insurance.”

     When they left the ward and were waiting for the elevator, Mickey pointed out the dead flowers to his uncle.

     “They don’t last long,” Uncle Tony said.

     “Maybe the Virgin Mary had something to do with mom getting better.”

     “Why? Because I put the flowers there last night?” Uncle Tony laughed. “It’s just a statue, Mickey. It don’t mean nothing.”

     A passing nun gave him an angry look. Others who had gathered with them to wait for the elevator glanced at Mickey and his uncle. Downstairs, on leaving St. Regina’s, Uncle Tony said, “I’m not superstitious. Never was. Your mom ain’t either.”

     “But maybe it had something to do with it.”

     “If you wanna believe in something, fine, Mickey. You can. I don’t care. Just don’t tell your mom about it.”

     “Why not?” Mickey asked as they headed for the car.

     “That’s the problem with you,” Uncle Tony said. “You’re always askin’ questions. You need to figure stuff out for yourself, stop acting like such a kid. You’re going to be 12 years old next month. There’s a lot of stuff you oughta just know without being told.”

     Mickey wondered what that should be, but he was afraid to ask. He knew he asked a lot of questions. He knew he didn’t know enough about life – his own or anyone else’ or life in general. It was why Mom, and even Uncle Tony sometimes, made him think he was stupid.

     In the car, as they drove down Lehigh Avenue towards Front Street, Mickey broke the silence with, “If no one tells me anything, how am I going to learn?”

     “What?”

     “No one tells me – “

     “I heard you, Mickey. I don’t know why you’re asking me things.”

     “Why do you and mom live together?”

     “She’s my sister.”

     “What happened, though? Why’d –“

     “Don’t ask, Mickey. When you get older, maybe you’ll understand. Right now, just be quiet and don’t bother me with these questions.”

     They got back to the store. Mickey waited for Uncle Tony to unlock the door so they could go inside.

     “Your grandfather, my father,” Uncle Tony began, “threw your mom out of the house when she came home from Italy. I tried to defend her when I got home. Your mom was living with her girlfriend, trying to find work to support herself, taking care of you. Pop threw me out because I gave her money.”

     Mickey nodded. He didn’t want to ask why. This was something he’d try to figure out on his own now that he had more clues.

     “Want me to make lunch?” Mickey asked.

     “Yeah. I’ll mind the store.”