With his best friend’s death, Michael began to wonder about his comforting theory of nondying worms. It had seemed so simple a solution; but now with Gregory gone, forever and ever loomed as a frightening possibility and he wasn’t so sure anymore if he or his mother was right. So many were gone, referred to as dead, that for the first time, Michael’s world tottered on the brink of uncertainty and he didn’t like it at all. Michael being what he was, believed life was supposed to be fun, full of wonders, exciting, adventure and all the sticky candy one could eat. Crying and worry, hushed whisperings, grown-ups being scared and sad was really very unsettling. Being all of nearly five and therefore grown-up in his opinion, Michael felt it his duty to set a good example—decided for now to be extra kind to all those who had someone gone forever but to pretend that Gregory was only on a journey and would return whenever he was able.
Jane always wondered how her firstborn managed to be so brave. He allowed her so little input into the formation of his character that she often felt as compliant outsider to one in no actual need of a parent. If she had been a clinging woman, this might have upset her, at least annoy her for the absence of control this afforded—but cloying motherhood did not suit Jane’s character. Despite restrictions, she was her own compass and as such admired those who thought for themselves, resolved their own confusion or at least attempted to gain a freedom from convention.
But then she was not to know Michael’s course had been charted and as such his time was limited, his impact on the lives affected by him therefore at a premium.
Morgana never did have to fully experience Serafina’s demonic prophecy, for while still a blushing bridegroom, her Emillian succumbed to influenza. A widow before a real wife, Morgana returned to Detroit and her father’s house to find a hysterical Serafina convinced nothing and no one could save her son from certain death. Without sleep or rest, Morgana nursed her sister’s child until he was out of danger. Having told no one she was with child—when she miscarried everyone assumed her ensuing weakness to be due to the grueling hours spent by Angelo’s bedside to achieve his resurrection.
Little Gloria, her eyes no longer pristine blue, already dimmed as though they knew what their host had yet to learn, died in her mother’s arms, before her father could reach home.
The death of Gloria affected Michael in ways not immediately apparent to those whose duty it was to be aware of them. At a time of great anxiety even good people lose their intuitive ability to fathom others’ needs. Later, when prodded by an insistent Michael, Johann explained his child’s departure as one resulting in permanent residence among angels. Hannah hugging him, murmured that his little friend was now happy sleeping among the stars, Fritz explained that the great sickness had taken Gloria as it had Gregory to a nonsuffering place. Home on leave, resplendent in aviator’s regalia, his uncle Rudy counseled him to remember his worm.
Michael’s first encounters with mortal death hurt so much it confused his once comforting theory of resurrection. For Gloria was not a worm and when taken to where she was buried, she remained beneath the marble angle placed there by weeping parents who seemed convinced she would stay where she had been put. Wherever everyone said Gloria was—Michael hoped she was okay—but wished she had been a worm, for then he would know exactly where to look and find her again. What worried him most was her enclosure. He didn’t like her being locked inside such a sturdy-looking thing. One night when John was home putting him to bed, Michael decided it was a good time to ask.
“Papa, why did Uncle Johann put Gloria in a box?”
“What? What are you talking about, Michael?”
“The box, Papa.”
“What about the box?”
“It’s so big, Papa! Maybe Gloria can’t get out! She’s very, very little, you know—littler than Gregory even.”
John put his arm around his son, pulling him to his side. “Michele,” John often spoke Italian when in intimate discussion with his firstborn. “You mustn’t be afraid. Do you know what a soul is? Has Mama explained this to you?”
“No. I don’t think Mama likes souls, but Uncle Rudy—he told me they are extra special and once Gregory said God made them, maybe.” Michael snuggled into the crook of his father’s arm. “You know, Papa? You know everything!”
“No, not everything. Your Uncle Rudy and Gregory—they are both right—a soul is so special only God knows how to make one, and when someone dies it is their soul that goes free …”
“Why?”
“Because only your body is dead—not the real person you are.” Eyes riveted on his father’s face, Michael swallowed a sigh. “Michelino, you mustn’t worry so! Death isn’t really bad. Some even think it must be beautiful—like a long sleep with no need to wake.”
“Oh, I know that, Papa … but …”
“No more buts—go to sleep. Don’t wake your brother.”
Left in the dark, snuggled down in his warm bed, Michael wondered if Gloria was cold, hoped she had already gotten out of her box and was gone to wherever souls lived.
This year the casual search for enjoyable fear was abandoned. With life and death playing their own ghoulish game of trick or treat, Halloween was unnecessary.
Jane woke more tired than when she had gone to bed exhausted. During the night it must have snowed for the intensified brightness of the morning light hurt her eyes. Dressing, seeing to the children, everything seemed such an effort, she gave in to their clamor to go out and play, returning to the kitchen that seemed overly hot, she shivered. Silly to feel so tired with the day just begun and so much to do, sinking onto a chair, Jane rested her head against the cooling surface of the kitchen table and without being aware of it slipped into oblivion. A half hour later Hannah found her semiconscious, drenched in sweat.
“Ninnie! Ninnie! Oh, Mein Gott!” Cradling the limp figure, Hannah began to cry. Death loomed large in that small kitchen—then Hannah collected her courage, took charge and the ominous specter receded into the shadows to wait for who would win the battle for Jane’s life. Half-dragging, half-lifting Jane up the stairs, Hannah covering her fear crooned, “Come, child, come. We do it, you and me togedder. Okay? I hold—you step—you can do it, Ninnie! We do it slow—see? You can do it!” Propelled more by her love of Hannah than her willingness to move, Jane tried to focus on lifting one foot after the other. “Good, child! Good! See—up we go to a nice bed and a nice cold compress on de so-hot head. Don’t worry about de children. I take care of everyting—get de doctor, get …”
“Hannah!” The cry was low, its fear raw. “I think I am with child.”
“Oh my God—how long?” Hannah stood white-faced before this new calamity.
“Two months, maybe.” Jane’s cough rumbled up from a phlegm-filled chest. Hannah, trying for an encouraging smile, failed.
“Well, okay, so we got to nurse one outside, one inside. John know?”
“No, I wasn’t sure enough.”
“So, we won’t tell. Better he worry just for his Ninnie now—later if dis baby not leave—stay mit you—den time enough for him to know good news all together at once. Now you sleep. I take children away from dis sickness to my house. First tell John where and what—den get doctor, come back here and we will see what we gotta do. Don’t be frightened, Vifey—I’ll be back.”
By nightfall Jane was delirious. Having scoured the neighborhoods, Fritz finally found a doctor, Hannah hurried him up the stairs.
“Doctor, she is in de family way.”
“How far on?”
“She tinks two months, maybe.”
“How old? First baby?”
“Twenty-two and no, dis is number tree.”