the spiritual damage of war; the beauty of his life with Enza had erased the terrible images of loss. But his body had sustained the harm that Ciro believed he had spared his psyche. Ciro sighed. There was no winning. The pain of losing Enza and Antonio overwhelmed him.
As he took the stairs up to his home at 5 West Lake Street, Ciro loosened his tie and inhaled the scent of sage and butter. He saw a pool of light pouring from the kitchen, and heard his wife humming inside. He stopped on the landing and leaned against the wall, knowing that he was about to bring incalculable sadness to his wife and son. Let them be happy a few moments longer, he thought. He leaned against the wall, summoning his strength, before he went in to face them.
Ciro dropped his duffel at the top of the stairs.
“Ciro!” Enza called out. She came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a moppeen. She was wearing a new dress she had made, a simple navy-and-white polka-dot shirtwaist. She had done her hair, and her cheeks were pink with a sheen of rouge. She was more beautiful in this moment than she had been the moment that Ciro married her.
“What did the doctor say?” She smiled hopefully.
“I have cancer. They tell me I got it from the mustard gas in the Great War.” As Ciro made the announcement, it was as if his very breath had been taken from him. He crumpled, gripping the back of the chair in the hallway.
Enza was stunned. The drastic news took her totally by surprise, as she had said her rosary throughout the day with a feeling of complete vindication that Dr. Graham’s concerns were nothing to worry about. She put her arms around Ciro. He was sweating, and his skin was cold and clammy, as though he were facing the worst and there was no help on the way. “No,” was all she could say, and then she cried. He held her a long time. He inhaled the scent of her hair, fresh and clean like hay, while she buried her face in his neck.
“Where’s Antonio?” Ciro asked.
“He’s at basketball practice.”
“Should we tell him?”
Enza led Ciro into the kitchen. She poured him a glass of wine, and then one for herself. As in every crisis she had ever faced, Enza, practical and centered, dried her tears, owned the truth, and made a decision to be strong in the face of the challenge. Inside, her feelings tumbled over one another. She was at once desperate, fearful, and angry. She sat forward in the chair and gripped her knees.
“I thought we were the lucky ones, Ciro.”
“We were. For a while.”
“There has to be a doctor somewhere who can help you. I’ll call Laura.”
“No, honey, the doctors at the Mayo Clinic are the best in the world. People come from New York to see doctors there. And I know that for sure, because I spoke with some of them as I was waiting for my tests.”
“You can’t just give up,” Enza cried as her mind reeled. All those backaches, for all these years—she should have known. She thought he was working too hard, and all he needed was rest. But she and Ciro never took the time to go on vacation; they were always worried about the mortgage, and then Antonio’s schooling, and sports. They were running so fast they hadn’t seen the signs. Or maybe they didn’t want to see them. Maybe Ciro had suspected he was doomed all along and just wanted the peace of being left alone until he absolutely could not be. The time had come to be X-rayed, poked, prodded, blood drawn, veins in collapse at the prick of a needle—all of it was coming at them in a dizzy tornado of concerns, options, and treatments. She could not help but punish herself, admonish herself for not moving more swiftly. Why hadn’t she sent him to Doc Graham sooner? Maybe he could have helped. She put her face in her hands.
“There’s nothing you could have done,” Ciro said, reading her. “Nothing.”
“What do we tell Antonio?” Enza asked. “I will do whatever you want.”
“We tell him everything. I have answered every question he has ever asked me honestly. He knows about my father and my mother, his uncle and the convent. He knows what I saw when I was banished from Vilminore, and he knows why. I am not about to start to