The Dark Arena - Mario Puzo [3]
The large square sticker on the door had read Welcome Home, Walter, and Mosca noticed that similar stickers with different names were pasted on two of the other apartment doors. The first thing he saw when he entered the apartment was the picture of himself taken just before he went overseas. Then his. mother and Gloria swarmed over him, and Alf was shaking his hand.
They all stood away from each other, and there was just one moment of awkward silence.
“You've gotten older,” his mother said, and they all laughed. “No, I mean more than three years older.”
“He hasn't changed,” Gloria said, “He hasn't changed a bit.”
“The conquering hero returns,” Alf said. “Look at all those ribbons. Did you do something brave, Walter?”
“Standard,” Mosca said; “most of the WACs got the same set” He pulled off his combat jacket and his mother took it from him. Alf went into the kitchen and came out with a tray of drinks.
“Ouist,” Mosca said, startled, “I thought you lost a leg.” He had completely forgotten his mother writing about Alf. But his brother had obviously been waiting for this moment. He drew up his trouser leg.
“Very pretty,” Mosca said. “Tougji luck, Alf.”
“Hell,” Alf said, “I wish I had two of ‘em. No athlete's foot, no ingrown toenails—you know.”
“Sure,” Mosca said. He touched his brother's shoulder and smiled.
“He put it on especially for you, Walter,” his mother said. “He doesn't usually wear it around the house even though he knows I hate to see him without it.”
Alf raised his drink. “To the conquering hero,” he said, and then with a smile, turning to Gloria, “To the girl who waited for him.”
“To our family,” Gloria said.
“To all my children,” his mother said affectionately. Her glance included Gloria. They all looked at Mosca expectantly.
“Let me drink this one, and then I can think of something.”
They all laughed and drank.
“And now for supper,” his mother said. “Help me set the table, Alf.” The two of them went into the kitchen.
Mosca sat down in one of the armchairs. “A long, long trip,” he said.
Gloria went over to the mantel and picked up the framed photo of Mosca. With her back to him she said, “Every week I'd come here and look at the picture. I'd help your mother get supper, we'd eat together, and then sit here in this room, looking at this picture and talking about you. Every week, for three years, like people visiting a cemetery, and now that you're back it doesn't look a bit like you.”
Mosca got up and went over to Gloria. Putting his arm on her shoulder he looked at the picture, wondering why it irritated him.
The head was thrown back in. a laugh, and he had obviously stood so that the black and white diagonal stripes of his division would show clearly. The face was youthful and full of an innocent good nature. The uniform was nattily fitted. Standing there in the heat of the southern sun he had been a typical GI getting himself photoed for an adoring family.
“What a jerky grin,” Mosca said.
“Don't make fun of it. That was all we had for a long time.” She was silent for a moment. “Ah, Walter,” she said, “how we cried over it sometimes, when you didn't write, whenever we heard rumors about a troop ship being sunk or a big battle being fought. On D day we didn't go to church. Your mother sat on the couch, and I sat here by the radio. We just sat here all day. I didn't go to work. I kept turning the radio to different stations; as soon as one news bulletin was finished I'd try to get another station, even though it would say the same thing. Your mother just sat there with a handkerchief in her hand, but she didn't cry. I slept here that night, in your room, in your bed, and I took the picture with me. I put it