The Fortunate Pilgrim - Mario Puzo [72]
But that was for the moment. The mother immediately gained control, took her daughter by the hand, and led her down the row of bedrooms. She shouted back to Gino, “Run. Quick, to Dr. Barbato.” Gino, delighted with the excitement and his own importance, sped down the four flights of stairs again.
With Octavia safely in bed, Lucia Santa got a bottle of rubbing alcohol and went to watch over her daughter until the doctor came. She poured the alcohol liberally into her cupped hand, bathed Octavia’s hot forehead and face. They were both composed now, but Octavia noticed that familiar look of stern anxiety on her mother’s face, that look that seemed to close out the world. She tried to joke. “Don’t worry, Ma,” she said. “I’ll be all right. At least I’m not having a baby without a husband. I’m still a good Italian girl.#8221;
But in times like these Lucia Santa had no sense of humor. Life had taught her a certain respect for the frowns of fate.
She sat beside her daughter’s bed like a small black-clad Buddha. As she waited for the doctor, her mind raced ahead to what this illness would mean, what new woe it would bring. She felt overcome by disaster—her husband being sent away, her son marrying at an early age, the Depression with its lack of work, and now her daughter’s illness. She sat there gathering up her strength, for there was no question now of individual misfortune. The entire family was in danger, its whole fabric, its life. It was no longer a matter of single defeats; now there was danger of annihilation, of sinking to the lowest depth of existence.
Dr. Barbato followed Gino up the stairs into the apartment and through the rooms to where Octavia rested. As always he was beautifully dressed, and his mustache was trim. He had tickets for the opera at the Brooklyn Academy of Music and he was in a hurry. He had nearly not come, nearly told the boy to call Bellevue.
When he saw the girl and heard the story he knew his coming had been a waste of time. She would have to go to the hospital. But he sat down beside the bed, noticing she was embarrassed at being examined by so young a man, and that she was conscious of the mother who was keeping a watchful eye upon him. He thought with disgust, These Italians think men would screw a woman on her deathbed. He forced himself to say quietly, “Now, Signora, I will have to examine your daughter. Have the young boy leave us.” He prepared to pull down the sheet.
The mother turned and saw Gino wide-eyed. She gave him a backhanded slap and said, “Disappear. For once with my permission.” And Gino, who had expected praise for all his swift running in this emergency, went back to the kitchen muttering curses.
Dr. Barbato put his stethoscope on Octavia’s chest and stared off into space professionally, but really taking a good look at the girl’s body. He saw with surprise that she was very thin. The full bosom and wide, rounded hips were deceiving. She had lost a lot of weight. Her heavy, planed face did not show this loss, for, though finely drawn, it could never be haggard. The eyes, a great liquid brown, watched him with fearful intensity. The doctor’s mind registered, too, without desire, how ripe the body was for love. She looked like the great nude paintings he had seen in Italy on his graduation trip. She was a classical type, made for children and heavy duty on the connubial couch. She had better get married soon, sick or not.
He rose, covering the girl again with the bed sheet. He said with quiet reassurance, “You’ll be all right,” and motioned the mother to the other bedroom.
He was surprised when Octavia said, “Doctor, please talk in front of me. My mother will have to tell me, anyway. She won’t know what to do.”
The doctor had learned that the little niceties of the profession were lost on these people, and with reason. He said quietly to both of them, “You have pleurisy, not much, but you must go to the hospital