The Dark Arena - Mario Puzo [8]
“Hell get a job,” his mother said, “and they can live here until they find an apartment”
Mosca sipped his coffee. He had been angry for a moment but now he was impatient to be out of this room, away from them. All this crap had gone far enough.
“But hell have to quit-running around with these little chippies,” Emmy said.
Mosca broke in gently. “There's only one goddamn thing wrong. I'm not ready to set a date.”
They all looked at him with surprise. “I'm not sure I want to get married,” he added with a grin.
“What,” Emmy was screaming incoherently, “what?” She was so angry she couldn't speak any farther.
“And don't give me the three-year crap. What the hell difference does it make to me that she didn't get screwed for three years? Do you think that kept me awake nights worrying? What the hell, did it grow gold because she didn't use it? I had other things to worry about”
“Mease, Walter,” his mother said.
“Ah, shit,” Mosca said. His mother left the table and went to the stove, and he knew she was crying.
They were all suddenly standing and Alf, supporting himself against the table, shouted with anger, “All right, Walter, this readjustment crap can be overdone.”
“And I think you've been babied too damn much since you've been home,” Emmy said with contempt.
There was nothing to say to all this except to tell than exactly how he felt “You can kiss my ass,” he said, and although he spoke to Emmy, his glance included them all.
He rose to leave, but Alf, holding cm to the table, moved in front of him and shouted with rage. “Goddamn you, that's going too far. Apologize, do you hear, apologize.”
Mosca pushed him out of the way and saw too late that Alf's false leg was not there. Alf toppled over and his head struck against the floor. Both women screamed. Mosca bent over quickly to lift Alt “Are you okay?” he asked. Alf nodded but kept his face covered with his hands and remained sitting on the floor. Mosca left the apartment He always remembered his mother standing by the stove, crying, wringing her hands.
The last time he entered the apartment Mosca found his mother waiting for him—she had not gone out at all that day.
“Gloria called you up,” she said.
Mosca nodded in acknowledgment
“Are you going to pack now?” his mother asked timidly.
“Yeah,” Mosca said.
“Do you want me to help?”
“No,” he said.
He went into his bedroom and took out the two new suitcases he had bought. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth and looked through Ms pockets for a match and then went into the kitchen for one.
His mother was still sitting in the chair. She had a handkerchief covering her face and was weeping silently.
He took the matches and started to lea the kitchen.
“Why do you treat me like this?” his mother said, “What have I done?”
He had no pity and the tears stirred no emotion, but he didn't want hysterics. He tried to talk quietly, to keep the irritation out of his voice.
“You haven't done anything, Fm just leaving; it's nothing to do with you.”
“Why do you always talk to me like that as if I were a stranger?”
The words touched him, but he could make no gesture of affection. Tm just nervous,” he said. “H you're not going out, help me pack.”
She went into the bedroom with him and carefully folded his clothes before he put them into the suitcases.
“Do you need any cigarettes?” his mother asked.
“No, I'll get them on the ship.”
“I'll just run down and get some, you never can teU.”
“They're only a nickel a pack on the ship,” he said. He didn't want her to give him anything.
“You can always use extra cigarettes,” his mother said and left the apartment.
Mosca sat on his bed and stared at the picture of Gloria that hung on the wall. He felt no emotion, ft hasn't worked out, he thought. Its too bad. And he wondered at their patience, realizing how hard they had tried and what little effort he had made. He searched in his mind for something he could say to his mother, to show her there was nothing she could do to help, that his actions had sprang from