Chapter 28

The baby had not been named by the time Jo Jo left the hospital. She'd been so certain it was male she hadn't considered female names.

"Hah 'bout 'Honah'?" said Dante during the drive home.

Her face brightened. "Honor Gentile," she said, testing it aloud. "I like it, Daddy. We could call her 'Honey' for short. How'd you come up with that?"

"Dis movie stah I seen once a lawng time ago. I keahn't even rememba the movie. The name jus' stuck wit' me."

He would not tell her that it was Honor Blackman, a British actress in the role of "Pussy Galore" in "Goldfinger," a film early in the James Bond series. Maybe he would tell her someday and they would laugh about it. The important thing was that it was a beautiful, meaningful name that should not be dismissed because of an association with a teenage male's active hormones.

He devoted what little spare time he had to the Bush campaign, even though it appeared a lost cause. He'd had a button made up for himself and pinned it to his shirt whenever he left the house. It read: "Vietnam Vet: No Draft-Dodger For President." He refused to take it off at work, despite warning from union officials and the ridicule of his peers.

Sandy chided: "Ya only hate 'im 'cause he was smahta den you. He let chumps like you do 'is derdy work."

"He'll awways be smahta den me, but he could neva be betta den even the lowes' grunt."

"Keep dreamin'."

"He ain't even betta den you, though dat ain't sayin' much."

His disappointment on election night was tempered by the presence of his granddaughter. He did not regret not having carried out the mission. How could he? He might be dead, rotting in his grave, his family destroyed, or he might be rotting in prison rather than sitting here on the couch with Honor in his arms. He shuddered at the thought. How could he have even considered such a course? Had Vietnam taken a portion of his sanity as well? Fortunately he'd had enough sense left to right himself. Still, he hoped there was a veteran out there somewhere, single, with nothing to lose, who would do his duty.

He looked into Honor's eyes. "Maybe you'll be president someday an' show dese losahs hah to do it," he whispered, kissing her forehead, goosebumps rising on his flesh. "Ya so quiet, jus' like ya mommy was. None'a dis skeahs ya, huh?"

His wife still remained largely to herself. The rancor she'd carried had diminished almost entirely, however, which was a relief to everyone. It was replaced by an inscrutable blankness, which, though troubling to Dante, was a marked improvement. He prayed she would one day again accept him into her life. He was ready to forget, if only she'd show some remorse for having hurt the family. He doubted he would ever forgive her entirely. Ryan would always be with them, in the background of his life, like the VC waiting in ambush. He would not surrender his heart until she'd asked forgiveness. And he was too proud to initiate conversation, to make it a little easier for her, even though he sensed she was aching to talk. At present he was content simply in minding his grandchild. He knew, however, that the time was fast approaching when he would need greater intimacy. Someday Jo Jo would marry and move away - then where would he be? He now feared Deanna and he would kill each other not with hostility but with pride. He dreamed of taking her on a second honeymoon the day after Christmas. She'd lost weight recently. And he no longer smelled smoke in the house. He wondered if these were signs, messages. His self esteem had taken such a beating that he feared he was merely deluding himself.

"Go in deah an' tawk to 'er,"said his mother one night. "Maybe she jus' needs a little push. Whattaya got to lose?"

"Only my mind," he said somberly.

She was minding the baby while he was decorating for the holidays. Deanna never minded the baby. She'd attended the baptism and the party, but remained virtually silent, huddled with her parents. She'd also spent Thanksgiving with them. By day she worked, by night she kept to her room. Dante was certain she wasn't indifferent to the child. Her behavior at the hospital had proved that. He wondered if she were keeping her distance because she believed everyone else wanted it that way. After all, she'd been so adamantly opposed to allowing the child to be carried to term. Maybe she thought that fact had cost her a place in its nurturing. Or maybe she felt too guilty to look Honor in the eye.

As Dante was on the porch unravelling a string of lights, he spotted a familiar figure, hands deep in pockets, shoulders hunched, eyes seemingly gazing sidelong, passing on the opposite side of the street. He looked away, tending to his chore.

Later that evening, fresh from a shower, he answered the ring of the doorbell and found the same figure before him. He looked into Billy's eyes, which seemed about to burst into tears, and was unable to summon the will to slam the door in his face. He reached out, pulled him into an embrace, and patted him on the back, encouraging him to cry.

"Awright, awright," he said, breaking away, looking at him again. "Ya reahly show me somethin' comin' heah, kid, 'speshly afta what I done at ya house. I seen ya passin' up an' down the block, but I wouttn't say nothin' 'cause it was up to you to do the right thing. Now dat ya did, I'm glad. It shows ya ready to be a man."

"I'm so ashamed," he wailed. "My fatha...."

"It's okay, kid. I got a giamoak fer a fatha too. Come an' meet ya daughta. Her name's Honah, Honey fuh shawt."

Billy gazed at the sleeping child with uncertainty, almost fear. Sensing the young man was overwhelmed, Dante pulled him gently from the room.

"Let 'er sleep," he whispered, closing the door. "Ya kin come any time ya want. Cawl me at night, when Jo Jo's in school. Lemme tawk to 'er befaw you try to. She's been t'rough a lot, an' I ain't gotta tell ya she's mad at ya. Ya hurt 'er bad."

Billy lowered his head, pained himself.

"I don' wanna saprise 'er wit' somethin' like dis right now. An' I don' want yiz to think ya gotta get married. I want 'er to finish cahlidge. I wanna keep 'er aroun' anotha t'ree yeahs."

He couldn't believe his own words - he wanted to keep his daughter an unwed mother. In truth, he didn't think Billy was good enough for her.

"Go now. I don' want 'er to find ya heah. Shi'll be home soon. If she don' wanna see ya, ya kin come see the baby at night while she's in school."

Billy paused at the front door and said: "Thanks, Mista Gentile."

"It's okay, kid. I ain't carryin' no grudgiz to the grave. I don' want ya fatha heah, though. Ya kin bring ya motha if ya want."

Billy's dark eyebrows arched. "I'd neva tell 'er. My fatha'd kill me if he found out I came heah."

"I know hah ya feel. My ol' man's the same way. But ya know what? I love 'im, anyway. Somebody's gotta."

He heard a motorcycle in the distance, and he pulled Billy away from the door. "Wait."

Since the baby had come home from the hospital, Junior had taken to giving the Harley a final burst of gas at the corner, then cutting the engine and quietly cruising all the way to the garage.

Billy looked scared.

"Don' worry," said Dante. "I'll tawk to 'im."

He was glad to see that it was still Linda at his son's back. He hoped she would force Junior into thinking about a better job.

He resisted the temptation to tell Jo Jo about Billy's visit, as it might cost her a night's sleep. He decided not to mention it unless Billy called, proved he was serious about taking responsibility about the baby.

Children safely in their lairs, he plopped onto the sofa for some well-earned relaxation. Soon he was fidgetting, troubled. He rose and approached the door of Deanna's room and listened for a sound of her. The television was playing faintly.

Was he really ready to forgive? he wondered. Could they possibly make a go of it after all that had passed between them?

He took a deep breath, knocked politely, and opened the door slightly. "Dee?" he said softly, blood coursing through his veins. "I'm comin' in."

He paused, then entered. She was sitting up in bed, pillows propped at her back, torso under the covers. She curled her legs toward her chest as he looked at her. Her face was tense. His chest was a single knot.

Head down, hands in his pockets, he said: "Wanna tawk?"

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