On a cool, sunny September day while waiting for a friend to join me at the golf course, the attendant and I chatted outside the clubhouse. His smile revealed youthful mischievousness. An Italian, he reminded me of my youth—that familiar inner core of strength amidst the smell of breaded veal cutlets frying in olive oil.
Casual topics led to a deeper level when he mentioned working to stay active since his wife passed. How long ago? I inquired. Three years, he said, and the story began.
She was a strong girl. She had a gall bladder thing and when the doctor went in with the scope, he saw something he didn’t like. When they got in there, there was all kinds of cancer. We went for a second opinion, but nothing could be done. They said to take her home, get things in order. They suggested Hospice and we went there—wonderful people. She hung on for six weeks. He paused. She got so thin. That night she had her arm propped up on a pillow and she was holding onto my arm, breathing like this. He demonstrated a labored in and out with wide eyes. I asked her, “Do you want more morphine, Babe?” She nodded, and I got the nurse to give her more. The nurse told me to go home, but by the time I got there, the phone was ringing for me to come back.
How did you meet her? I heard myself ask, and his face shifted to brightly lit.
I saw her coming off the train. We were both from the Bronx—my family on 233rd, hers on 232nd. Our families knew each other, but mine didn’t have the best reputation. We were five boys, you see, and we got into all kinds of trouble. So, we had to sneak around at first. She worked on Wall Street. I used to ride the train downtown with her to spend time together. She was a knock out. And she was talking to me! I realized this was it, so I decided to go talk to her mother. I came home from work, showered, put on a nice shirt and tie, a suit jacket, and went over to her house. He mimed knocking at the door. When she answered, I introduced myself and said, “I’d like to date your daughter. I’ll bring her home whatever time you want, no questions asked. Whatever you want. Take your time and think about it.” That night I got a phone call, “My mom said yes!” That’s how it began. Best thing I ever did. She straightened me out. She was a strong girl.
My friend appeared, walking towards us from the parking lot. As we headed to the first hole, the man wishing us an enjoyable game turned into the young Italian boy dressed up to brave his future mother-in-law. From the first phone call to the last, the stoop in the Bronx to the Hospice bedside—it’s what love does.