Not surprisingly, Maria was respectful and polite. She nodded and smiled, said please and thank you, and laughed politely at your jokes, and even helped with the dishes. The afternoon sped by. It went surprisingly well. Maria liked everyone, and everyone liked Maria. And Mom, when you settled the obligatory Easter Sunday banquet bottle of white wine on the ornamented dinner table, you steadily poured each of her guests a full glass. You then poured yourself a glass of sparkling water for yourself. I was still so lost in thought back then that I couldn’t even feel proud of you.
We toasted. Raising my glass above my lamb chops and mashed potatoes, superficially honoring a God I didn’t believe in, I uttered a brief but eloquent remark: I said: “To the resurrection of our souls in times of hardship.” I thought: What the fuck am I doing with my life?
Soon after dessert, I drove Maria back to Ridgewood. On the way we had a spirited discussion about the movie Rocky. Maria insisted that Rocky Balboa won the first Rocky. But he didn’t. He lost to Apollo Creed. I told her, “He didn’t win until the end of Rocky II.” But she didn’t believe me. “I’m gonna prove it to you someday,” I said, smiling.
Parked in front of her house, holding hands, Maria and I shared a peaceful love. Perhaps encouraged by the moment, Maria suggested that we visit her grandfather, a man she’d mentioned but I’d never met. “He’s home alone today, you know,” she said. “I’d love to go and see him, just for a little while. I haven’t seen him in almost two weeks.” For the first time in months, I was compelled to do what Maria requested.
Grandpa Della Verita. That’s what she called him. What a mouthful, huh? It took her almost a half hour to say it, but it was worth it. I thought it was cute that she called her grandparents by their last names just like I did. We still had so much in common, Maria and I.
I placed my arm around her and smiled proudly as the door creaked open. “Grandpa Della Verita!” Maria beamed, arms open wide, eagerly hugging him. He was hunched over at first, but the elation of the moment seemed to raise his spirits and his posture. After hearing his name, his ears perked. Maria reintroduced me—proudly—and Grandpa Della Verita reach over and firmly shook my hand. And then, he began to talk, and talk, and talk. It was just as Maria had described the previous spring. As Grandpa Della Verita spoke, he was rejuvenated. Seventy-seven years old, he had one lung, one kidney, and was deaf in one ear. He had just quit smoking cigarettes about a month before I met him. But you’d never have known all this by the way he acted and spoke.
I listened to him as a loyal caporegime would his Godfather. I was awe-struck by his presence. Grandpa Della Verita had a soft face dressed with only two wrinkles, each extending from his ear to his nose, straight across his cheek bone, and two crystal blue eyes. He had about nine strings of hair, each slicked backward, and two giant ears, each with an earlobe that looked like a steak. Donning an oversized black suit and floppy bow tie, you’d think he was a Mob wiseguy—come to think of it, he probably was—who had just joined the Mafia circus. His hands and neck were elongated and veiny. You could see his bones through his thin waxy skin.
The more he spoke, the more comfortable I felt. He walked us into his living room and invited us to sit down. The plastic-covered couch sang a wheezy tune as I sank into it. Maria sat beside me, and politely introduced me to her Grandpa, who sat before us on a black, velvety stuffed chair.
“Maria’s told me a lot about you,” he said, with an Italian accent as thick as my mother’s tomato sauce. I was startled. Prior to that evening, Maria hadn’t mentioned that she spoke to him about me. That’s okay, I thought, Maria doesn’t have to tell me everything. That thought is painful for me to recollect now. But back then, at the precise moment I had it, I felt a sense of relief that had eluded me for almost a year. I truly loved Maria at that moment. I know for a fact that had things not wound up happening soon after, I would have never cheated on Maria, or yelled at her, or questioned her again.
Imbued by this new-found spiritual flow, I smiled at Grandpa Della Verita as he continued: “I’m not a well-liked man, A.J. That surprises you, huh? You think everybody’s gotta love a sweet old man? Not so.” His chin sank and he waved his finger before my face, shamefully, as if I’d just peed on his carpet. Where the fuck was he going with this? “Well, not everyone likes me, A.J. I’m a bitter old man, and people see it in my eyes. I’m so bitter that it’s often difficult speak to others without recalling distasteful memories. I have reason to be this way. I’ve made plenty of mistakes in my life, just like Sinatra says—Maria, what’s that song by Sinatra, the one where he mentions his mistakes and so forth?”
“My Way,” Maria answered, anticipating his next sentence.
“Yes,” he exclaimed, excitedly, as excitedly as an old Italian man with one lung could. “My Way. Like Sinatra says in that song—Regrets, I’ve had a few. But then again, too few to mention.” He took a deep breath, and whistled as he exhaled. “Well, I’ve had too few regrets to mention. Like you’re grandfather, I’m sure, I’ve lived through the Great Depression, World War II, the Kennedy Assassination, a thousand historical events that you kids couldn’t possibly comprehend.” He paused to catch his breath. “I’ve also lived through some personal tragedies, most of which I regret deeply. A failed marriage, a lifetime of cigarette smoking, a few extra-marital affairs that my son has no knowledge of.” Another deep, wheezing breath. I felt a damp plume of sweet sambuca engulf me as he exhaled. Maria was still smiling, frozen, and beet-red. “None of these things is worth mentioning or even thinking about. And yet I think about them all the time. Hell, I’m an old fart, so why bother, you may ask. But I do think about them, A.J. I ponder them day-in, day-out. I live each day carrying a cross called regret.
“You don’t know what regret is, you’re too damn young. From what Maria tells me you’re the kind of young man that’s never tasted remorse, grief, or sorrow. As a man sixty years your senior, I must warn you, A.J.—and please don’t take this as a sign of disrespect: Regret is just around the corner.
“From what my son tells me, you’re a shoe-in for the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs. He’s recommended you highly, I know that. He has faith in you. Maria has faith in you. And, frankly, so do I. But when she comes to me every week, and chats with me and reminds me to take my medicine”—he winked at Maria and reconnected with my eyes without missing a beat—she always says, in so many words, ‘I love A.J., Grandpa. But why does he have to act this way sometimes?’ And I wonder what to say to her. And I wondered this for a long time. But now that I’ve met you—and I like you, A.J., don’t get me wrong—I’ve decided that I don’t have to say anything to her. It’s you I need to speak to.
“Maria is a special girl, A.J. Not special in the workaday sense of the word, but truly special. She’s done the laundry and studied for tests as she listened to her drunken pop bellow incomprehensible commands at her mother. He has his demons, as do I. And he’ll regret allowing those demons to thrive most of his life once he’s my age, if he lives to be that long. But at least he’s trying now to slay his demons while he still has the strength…” Grandpa Della Verita trailed off and lifted a cigar from the crystal ashtray beside him. He placed the cigar between his thin lips and lighted it with a wooden match.