Inspiration

Today in the Inspiration room we are sharing a story that Connie wrote a few years ago about forgiveness. We are dividing the piece into two parts with the conclusion next week. Hope you enjoy this fictional essay about forgiveness. Here is part 1 of 2 of

The Inheritance

By Connie Arnold

The letter in his hand triggered mixed feelings. The forceful penmanship with large, back-slanting characters began to give his faceless brother identity; Nick would be real, some adult he could relate to in some manner. It was important not to hate.

“Nick, leave Angelo alone!”

The memory of the harshness in his father’s voice was so vivid that he wondered if these very words had hung suspended in the sound waves for the past two decades, too heavy and too ugly to dissipate.

He had been six years old, just starting school, when his father had split up their family by leaving and taking Nick with him. Momma didn’t cry when they left. He’d wondered why she hadn’t cried.

He had feared, then hated, his older brother. He feared him because of his cruelty to him and hated him because he was the one his father had chosen to take with him. His feelings for his father would not solidify.

Angelo chose to walk through the park from St. Joseph’s Cathedral to Luigi’s Grill where they were to meet. The thick, low-hanging tree branches canopied the brick-paved path awakening a memory of protectiveness from a forgotten source: A tall presence at your side, a wide hand you reached up to hold.

Nick hadn’t been with them that time. Angelo walked proudly with his father to the corner to get a newspaper. They had stopped for a double-scooped, vanilla ice cream cone on the way home; the following morning his father had taken Nick and was gone. The next time he ate ice cream he got a pain in his stomach.

Angelo chose a green, slatted park bench and sat down. It was 3:45 p.m., early yet. A pigeon bravely came close to Angelo’s outstretched foot to peck at some food crumbs. A squirrel spied a nut, dashed near for it, then ran in a spiral pattern back up into the tree. A couple of pairs of pigeons hovered close, then landed.

“It’s supper time. They know I feed them.” The old man shuffled up and sat down on the bench beside Angelo. “Everything has to eat!”

He hoped his troubled thought did not express itself in his smile to the old man, but “Everything has to eat” was the reason his mother had given him when she made her announcement: “I’m going to give you a stepfather, Angelo. I’m going to marry again.”

He felt horror. “Oh, don’t do it for me, momma. The priest said it wasn’t right to marry again.”

“Hush, child.”

That was when he had first realized that his father was gone for good.

“Do you come here often?” Angelo deliberately focused his attention on the elderly man who sat slightly stooped, causing his white hair to feather around the neck of his dark, tweed coat.

“Every day. I’m here every day at 4:30. My family is all gone, and I like to think something is depending on me.” The man made soft, cooing sounds to the pigeons. From his pocket he pulled a large, white sack of popcorn.

Angelo watched as the old man judiciously fed the birds. “Don’t be greedy,” he chuckled. “Those big ones sometimes try to nose the little ones out.” Carefully, he held one fat, brown pigeon back while a small gray one grabbed a kernel of corn and hopped back.

That other sack had been white, too, with the same greasy spots.

His father had bought fifty cents worth of chocolate-covered peanuts. Nick held the sack tauntingly above Angelo’s head, and he could see little, round shadows that the candy made with the sun shining behind the sack.

“Nick, hold that sack down.” It had been his father’s voice, harsh again. Nick had pinched Angelo’s hand hard through the bag as he reached in for the candy. The tiny balls had been damp and sticky.

St. Joseph’s bells chimed, telling the city it was 5 o’clock. Someone else would be starting evening mass at St. Joseph’s about now. Angelo had thirty minutes before he was to be at Luigi’s Grill. He stood up to leave. The old man took no notice but continued to feed his birds.

Wonder if Nick will be late? he thought. The three of them were always at the table first, Nick would come in later.

“Took the long way home, ma,” Nick’s words were always the same.

“You shouldn’t be late. It’s a bad example for Angelo.” Her remonstrations were automatic, she no longer cared. Angelo remembered the sharp toe of Nick’s shoe against his shin as Nick faced him innocently across the table.

The neon sign was distasteful, not just aesthetically, but because it attempted to decorate the dirty plate-glass window of the disreputable establishment. The stained-glass in St. Joseph’s cathedral would be coming alive about now as the sun shone through the rich colors of the leaded-window panels.

Angelo hadn’t been by Luigi’s in years, but the place looked the same as it had when they had been boys living in this neighborhood. The door was heavy under his reluctant hand, but the lingering, pungent smell of garlic was not offensive, and the poor lighting protected the shabbiness of the interior. There was no one out front in the restaurant except a server and the bartender. The bartender was sorting bottles and checking the list fastened to the clipboard that rested against his obliging belly.

The waitress sat on a barstool deftly wrapping paper napkins around tableware in neat little packages while she swung her legs in rhythm. She scooted forward on the stool, dropped down toes first, and followed Angelo to a booth.

Angelo’s pants caught on a tear in the red vinyl of the seat as he slid into the booth. He had chosen to sit facing the door to watch for Nick. He wanted to see him first, so his reaction could be private.

“Want a menu?” The waitress’s round face dimpled like a cherub.

“No, thanks. I’m waiting for someone.”

“Thought not. We don’t get many priests in here.” She was older than he’d first thought. The smooth, round face was deceptive.

“Food not good?” He teased.

“Sure, it is,” she dimpled again. “But you know what I mean.”

“We’ll order later, I’m sure.”

“The spaghetti’s good,” she offered. “Who are you waiting for? One of our regular customers? We get about the same crowd every night.” She looked around at the empty tables. “They’ll be in here soon.”

He knew this type. She would ask anything, and withhold absolutely none of her personal history, but there was no harm in her.

“The man I’m meeting isn’t a regular customer. I’m meeting my brother whom I haven’t seen for twenty years.”

It was the first time he had said these words aloud. He had shown up at the restaurant, but he hadn’t been sure if Nick would come. He was sure now. The idea took on new reality.

“Gee! Ain’t that somethin’. You haven’t seen him since you were a kid, huh?” She got serious.

“No, I haven’t seen him for twenty years.”

“I have a brother I hope I won’t have to see again for at least twenty years,” her voice was ugly. “I hate him.”

Angelo started to speak, but she interrupted. “I know you’re going to say it ain’t right to hate.” Her eyes grew hard.

“It isn’t easy to eliminate hatred for someone if they’ve wronged you,” he sympathized. His own soul was clear of hatred but that hadn’t happened overnight. As he grew up, his new maturity caused his hatred to become unimportant and, finally, disappear.

“He wronged me, that’s for sure.” She lowered her voice to a strained whisper. “He raped me when I was twelve years old. I hate him. I wish I could kill him.”

He felt like he was in the confessional. They were alone in the restaurant sitting across from one another in a booth. The bartender had gone into the kitchen.

“Did your parents know?” Angelo’s dark brows drew into a vee in his expression of concern.

“My mom died when I was born, and our Dad was drunk most of the time, but I told him.”

“That was very wise of you.”

“Wise?” her voice was slightly surprised. “You know what my Dad did? That very day he took me to the social worker at the Welfare Agency and told her to find me a home. Ain’t that somethin’! My brother did that to me, but I was the one who was blamed and had to leave home. Talk of a bummer. And I loved my Dad!”

“I’m sorry that you suffered such an ordeal,” his voice deepened with compassion. “But can you now see it was best for you to leave if your father couldn’t watch out for you?”

She looked into his face. “Yeah,” she agreed, slowly. “Maybe I was lucky.” Her face brightened a little, the dimple reappearing. “My foster parents are good eggs. They’ve been O.K. even when I gave them a lot of static. Gee, I feel better just talking to you.”

“Anytime,” Angelo answered her smile.

“But I’ve rattled about myself, and you’ve got an excitin’ meeting coming up with your own brother. Is he older than you?”

“Yes. Nick should be forty-six now.”

“I bet you two had great times when you were kids, huh?” She had open, genuine warmth for others. Angelo wouldn’t burden her.

“He’s eight years older than I, and he had older friends. But I remember Nick taking me to a street fair once.”

“Gee, that was a good thing to do for a little brother.”

“It was thoughtful of him to take me,” Angelo agreed.

There was something more that he wouldn’t tell her: Nick had bought tickets for the haunted house at the fair. He had gone in with Nick and two of Nick’s friends, and that was the last he’d seen of them that afternoon. The operators of the haunted house had found him hours later huddled in terror when they were cleaning up for the night show. The police officer on that beat knew him and took him home.

The ting-a-ling of the bell above the door brought an end to their conversation. The little waitress bounced off in the direction of the half-dozen men who had just come in still covered with the dust of a day’s work.

When Nick came in the noise of the crowd muffled the sound of the bell, but Angelo had been watching the door.

Nick still walked with that slight swagger. The gait had looked cocky and pretentious on a half-grown boy, now it looked a little threatening. A premature silver streak marked his black hair, the black eyebrows arched like Angelo’s but were thicker. His jaw, although clean shaven, had the blue-black tinge of a swarthy complexion. He was of medium height, but he could have shouldered his way through any crowd. He made his way to the booth where Angelo sat.

Angelo wasn’t ready for the emotion that welled up inside him, nor could he define it. Was his hatred renewing itself, or was he experiencing pangs of guilt for the sin of his past hatred?

“Angelo.” It was not a question.

.   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .

End of part 1 of 2 of The Inheritance.

The rest of the story will be here in the Inspiration room next week.