Demise

The Panuzio Home, East Lake Monday, 19 September, 5:47 a.m.-1

The Panuzio Home,

East Lake

Monday, 19 September, 5:47 a.m.

Johnny’s jaw was clamped. His molars ground. The muscles of his face were in such spasm his ears hurt. On the trail before him, there was an immense stone block. He could not see over it, around it. He pushed. He strained with all his might. He could not budge it. He cursed. He rolled, caught himself, opened his mouth, stretched his jaw. Again he cursed. He brought his arms in tight to his chest, curled, tucked his head. Then he startled, straightened, gasped.

Quietly Johnny Panuzio rolled to the edge of the bed, squinted at the clock. In three minutes the alarm would sound. He glared. He wanted to doze for the last three, wanted to reconstruct, resolve the stone image; but wanted more to catch the alarm before it broke, before it woke Julia. He settled back, took a deep breath. The room was dark; the windows opaque, silver-black, streaked and dotted with rain. He could hear the rhythmic hush of waves from the lake, the drone of cars on Route 86, the creaking of stairs—Jason descending from his attic bed/computer room. Johnny listened as the boy quietly opened the attic door, stepped into the hall, shut and relatched the door, then descended toward the kitchen.

Again Johnny rolled. His right shoulder popped, his spine crackled. He closed the alarm button, pushed back the sheet. Behind him Julia moaned. He twisted, looked at her, at her face, her lightened shoulder-length hair on her peach satin pillow. At 45 there were creases at her eyes, at the corners of her mouth, but instead of detracting from her beauty they added character and power. Panuzio studied her face. He wanted to kiss her but knew she’d grouch; wanted to touch her but dared not. He looked at her form beneath the sheet. To him she was beautiful, still better-looking than any woman he’d ever dated. As if she could feel his eyes she rolled away, grasped the down pillow, clutched it over her head. Quietly Panuzio sighed, dropped his feet to the hardwood floor, stood, wobbled, shuffled to the tiled bath, closed the door.

Johnny Panuzio was approaching 50 yet, like his wife, he looked ten years younger. Or so he told himself. He was of average height, five ten; perhaps a bit stocky, 180 pounds, not fat but strong from having lifted weights and having played football in his youth, and from having retrained for fitness in his 30s and throughout his 40s. His arms and legs were muscular; his abs hard, defined, though not as supple as they’d once been. He was balding at the temples. If he didn’t spread his thick, deep brown curls from center to sides, his hair looked like a Mohawk. He kept his face clean-shaven, sometimes using an electric razor at midday to remove the continuously emerging dark stubble. His most distinguishing characteristic was his golden-brown eyes. To others, if he made eye-contact, they appeared darker, perhaps more intense because of their set beneath a heavy brow, astride a healthy nose. Despite all, he retained a certain cherub countenance—a look that, as a toddler, had garnered him the nickname Gianni-pane or Johnny-panni, a moniker he’d never fully been able to shake. Little Johnny-panni. He had been baptized Giovanni Baptiste Michelangelo Panuzio—for his father’s father, and for his father’s oldest brother (though, in the family, the latter was always referred to as Uncle John).

Panuzio twisted the porcelain and gold shower handles. The old pipes clanked. He flinched, glanced to the door. The water coursing became steady, the spray against the curtain roared, steam billowed. If she’d come to bed at a decent hour, he thought, but he knew, as usual, she’d had clients on the West Coast. She did much of her business between noon and eight or nine. Often she read in her office past midnight. How could he expect her to make her schedule coincide with his? Especially with the new uncertainties.

Under the hot water Johnny stretched his back, flexed one knee, the other, felt the grind of arthritic bone, winced. Night thoughts, images, concerns faded. At 40, Johnny had reached his dream. He had a lovely wife, three beautiful children, an interesting and well-paying job, an elegant home on The Point on Lake Shore Drive in the perfect town of East Lake. At almost 50, he was finding it difficult to maintain his lifestyle, his achievements. His dream seemed to be unraveling. He put his face to the shower spray, let the water beat on his forehead. Perhaps it was not his dream, he thought. Perhaps it was Julia’s. He stepped back, shook his head to clear it. He had to plan the day, get everyone going, talk to Mitch, figure out how to handle that pip-squeak Brad Tripps.

Johnny tapped on Jenny’s door, descended the narrow stairs of the Queen Anne. In the kitchen he nodded to Jason, quietly said, “Good morning.”

“What time is it?” Jason stuffed a packet of papers into his physics book, closed it, chomped on a toaster waffle.

“Six thirty.”

“Damn. I gotta go. Who’s coming to Mrs. DeLauro’s with me?”

“We haven’t talked about it yet.”

“I think Mom’s got a meeting. Can you make it?”

“Probably. Life skills…?”

“Life Directions Workshop. I gotta go or I’ll miss the bus.”

“You wouldn’t have to rush so much if you hadn’t crashed—”

“It wasn’t my fault.”

“Yeah. That’s why the insurance company bumped your premium to twenty-two hundred.”

“It still wasn’t…” Jason turned from his father, flicked his fist in front of his chest, angrily, quietly grunted, turned back. “The workshop?” His tone was demanding, cold. “All juniors and their parents are required—”

“I know. I went with Todd.”

“Yeah. Same thing.”

“Hey.” Johnny wanted to lighten the mood. “Who’s this Sanchez girl?”

“Ah…” Jason glanced up, away. “They pronounce it San-shay. Like in French. House of Saints.”

“So.”

“Ah…her name’s Kim.”

Johnny smiled. “Mitch says she likes you.”

“Dad, I gotta go.” Jason did not smile. “I’ll miss the bus.”

“Did you feed Dog Corleone?”

“Yep.”

“Really?”

“Yes! He’s in Grandpa’s room. I gotta go.”

Johnny spewed questions as if that would keep his son from departing. “Did you look in on your grandfather? Check his dressing?”

“Yeah.”

“How’s his leg look?”

“Like a pizza.”

“I mean better or worse?”

“It always looks better in the morning.”

“Did he take his meds?”

“He took ’em before I went in.”

“I hope he took the right ones.”

“I don’t know. He knows.”

“Umm.” Johnny paused, rubbed his chin. “Game this afternoon?”

“No.” Jason’s words were quick, dismissive. “Tomorrow. At Jefferson. The workshop’s tonight.”

Johnny watched his son rush out, jacket half on, books in one arm, waffle between lips. When the door crashed shut he flinched, gritted his teeth.

Johnny worried about Jason—not the way he’d worried about Todd, Jason’s older brother, still worried about Todd, Julia’s child, her looks, her mannerisms, floundering as much now, out on his own, as if $19,800 per year tuition were out on his own, as he always had—but different worries. To Johnny, watching Jason was like watching a younger image of himself. He was doing well, had made honors the last two marking periods of his freshman year and throughout his sophomore. And he was a good athlete. In Johnny’s mind Jason was one of the better juniors on the high school’s soccer team—not flashy, not intense, not much of a scoring threat, not like Aaron, Mitch’s son, who was a senior anyway—but a fairly solid defensive player, as quick on the field as he was slow about the house. Like he himself had been, Johnny thought. Except Johnny’s game had been football, and he had been flashy. To Johnny, Jason and his friends seemed pretty typical of the better element of East Lake’s teens, exactly as he and Mitch had been in Lakeport, except…Johnny bit his lower lip. Except…His head shook imperceptibly. Something’s missing. Something we haven’t instilled.

His mind skipped. He checked the microwave clock: 6:44. He moved to the hallway, hummed a show tune that he could not identify, checked himself in Julia’s full-length mirror, leaned in, searched his face for new wrinkles. Johnny leaned back, adjusted his silk tie, straightened his shoulders. He filled his chest with air, flexed, winked at himself. “Eh, good-lookin’.” He chuckled. “Not so bad, eh? Not so bad for an old fart. You look good in suits.”

Johnny paced to the bottom of the stairs, quietly called up to Jennifer. She didn’t need to be up yet, the middle-school bus didn’t come until 8:15, but he liked to have her up before he left.

In the hall Johnny paused. He glanced at the family picture wall. In the center, in a heavy gold filigree frame, was a large photograph of his father’s father, Giovanni Baptiste Michelangelo Panuzio—Nonno or Grandpa to Johnny’s generation, Il Padrone to his own and to Rocco’s. Johnny studied the face, brushed a tiny web from the filigree frame, wiped a finger smudge from the glass. The old photograph of his grandfather had been touched up with pastel chalks. The facial details were clear but the paper, nearly a century old, was fragile, and the edges, even in the heavy frame and under glass, were flaking. For years Johnny had thought he should have it hermetically sealed to stop the deterioration but he’d never gotten around to it. He checked the edge for further deterioration, gritted his teeth, lightly touched both sides of the frame, leaned in. “Nonno,” he whispered, “how would you handle Tripps? With all you faced, where did you find the strength?”

Johnny squeezed his eyes shut, then slowly relaxed, stood perfectly still. His eyelids lay lightly closed, his mind floated back to Nonno, to the house, to his cousins, young, mischievous, to Aunt Tina, glaring, stern…Images jumble—dark, precise, random, lucid. They flash, roll forward like a film with all frames shown simultaneously on thousands of screens within the sphere of his mind. He is tiny, minute, at the center of his own screening—seeing, hearing, sensing it all simultaneously, as if it…as if he is almost seven and it is the summer of 1954.

They are at Nonno’s. Sylvia has been taunting him in her shrill singsong.

Nah nah nah-nah nah.

Little Johnny-panni.

Little Johnny-panni.

Nah nah, n’gazz.

Johnny-panni rots.

He’s so weak, he’s a freak…

It is as if…as if…He sees him. He is him. It is more than 40 years earlier. It is now. Jumbled. Jumping back and forth. To Johnny, a new sensation—jumping to him, to I, to me, without cognition, to Little Johnny-panni, to then, to now, without rhyme or reason. N’gazz. A thousand simultaneous screens upon which to impose order. N’gazz. He is, was, already, a little n’gazz.

Darkness. He crouches, places a hand on the butler pantry door. The white enamel paint feels cool. He glances back toward the kitchen expecting Santo or Henry to sneak in with him. Neither appear. He hears Sylvia call out, “Ready or not, here I come.”

Sylvia is eight. Normally she would not play with her little brother, or with the cousins his age—seven—but only half the family is at Nonno’s. Lena, Connie and Regina, cousins her age, girls, they aren’t coming.

Johnny-panni pushes the swinging door, opening it just a crack, just enough to peer into the dining room. The room is dark except for a yellowish glow from one dim sidelight softly swaddling the heavy wood furniture. He listens. There is noise in the kitchen, in the front rooms, in the yard—adult noises, not Santo or Henry or Sylvia. No sound comes from the dining room. He pushes the door another inch, then two, three. Still nothing. The door swings back. He reopens it, four inches, five, six—enough to stick his head through to look. He jerks back. Not from something seen. But…but…if someone slams it! Shoves it! He shudders, feels his neck, feels the guillotine, feels the snap, the pain. He hears Tessa’s scream, sees Rocco’s anger.

Again he pushes the door but now he jams his shoulders in, crawls through, carefully lets it close. He scoots beneath the draping tablecloth and into the dark cavern under the dining room table. He is smiling, laughing, a mischievous gleam comes from his face but…without an accomplice…the smile fades. He creeps to the far end of the cavern where the legs of Nonno’s and Nonna’s chairs intrude. The wood looks black. Is black. Is gnarled. He runs a hand over one leg. The wood feels warm, smooth, until he reaches the feet. He feels the carving, lowers his face to the carpet, lays his head beside the foot of Nonno’s chair and sees…sees the eyes, the snarling mouth, the horrible nose. I…He starts, bangs the back of his head on Nonna’s chair, flinches, bangs the side of his head on the table frame, Johnny- panni freezes. His eyes adjust to the dimness. He sees the table legs and the legs of the great chairs and he sees they are all shod with gargoyles and monsters and he slithers from beneath the table and escapes to the edge of the door which leads to the front hall and foyer, and to the main staircase to the second floor.