Demise

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

“Um. That’s what Tessa used to say. Now I got Rocco over my shoulder. ‘How much did you spend on this? How much was that?’ You know, always with a little smile. A little smirk. Like he’s apologizing. ‘What’s this cost? Is it necessary?’ Thing is, it costs to have him in the house, too. I mean, I know he’s right. But I resent it. Hell, I’m nearly fifty-years-old—”

“Boy! You getting old!”

“Well—” Johnny chuckled “—thank God I’m not as old as you. What’s it like actually being fifty?”

“I don’t know. Won’t know for months.”

“That’s…ah, you mean weeks.”

“Six weeks.”

“Ha! So you are counting.”

“You’re not far behind.”

“I’m just a baby.”

“What do you have, ten weeks?”

“Better than thirteen.”

“You better enjoy it. Dagos don’t age gracefully.”

“Oh, like you boys from southern Italy age better.”

They both laughed. Traffic edged forward. The NSC tower, now ContGenChem, came into view. On the radio McNichols was now screaming. “Why don’t you all go home? Go home, people! I’m giving everybody the day off. You don’t get anything done on Mondays. Tell your boss, ‘Doctor Dave says it’s okay.’ Then we won’t have this five-mile-long parking lot. Or why don’t you come in when I come in? Road’s empty at oh-four-thirty. Even the shooters have gone home. Hey, people! Do business by e-mail. You don’t need to be here. Go back to the damn burbs.” McNichols tittered. “Watch TV, pay your bills, rake your leaves, go to bed. Say hi to your wife.” Again the small, lewd laugh. “Do things to her. I’m tired of being her entertainment. AND GET THE HELL OUT OF MY CITY!”

“A whole bunch of us are going to get the hell out,” Johnny answered the radio. “Just as soon as ContGenChem cans us.”

“They won’t,” Mitch said.

“I don’t know,” Johnny shook his head. “Seems like for most of my life, maybe ever since Ricky’s funeral, like I’ve been self-destructing. Right at critical times. Like Friday with Tripps.”

“Well, you haven’t,” Mitch said. “Look at us. We’re both reasonably successful; both married smart women, got good jobs, nice homes, great kids. We moved away from all that crap McNichols is always babbling about.”

“Yeah, but there’s always something trying to undermine it. I felt it with Tripps. It’s a family trait, and I’m passing it on. You shoulda seen Jason this morn—”

Mitch shook his head, interrupted. “I don’t know, Johnny. I mean, I know what it’s like taking two steps forward and being knocked back one. But you…you gotta stop living day to day, paycheck to paycheck. Your old man taught me that. That’s your real family trait.”

“Rocco?”

“s**t, yeah. And Tessa, too. I’ll always owe you that.”

“Me. You don’t owe me any—”

“Sure as hell do!”

“How do you figure?”

“It was that Panuzio attitude that rubbed off.”

“What attitude?”

“That you could do anything. Studies. School. That came from me being with you. Not from my family. My folks were great, but I never would have gone on if you hadn’t. And I think Tessa would have killed me if I’d failed.” Johnny laughed. “Yeah, Ma always liked you better.”

“I’ll always owe you that,” Mitch repeated. “You and your family. Those traits. That’s where Aaron—”

“Yeah,” Johnny spurted. “I guess you will, huh? Hey, can I borrow twenty bucks til payday?”

‘But, O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man’s eyes!’” Miss Radkowski paused her reading of Shakespeare’s As You Like It. Katie Fitzpatrick, Kim Sanchez, half a dozen other students, sat rapt. Another half-dozen listened politely. Peter Badoglio and Miro Sarrazin stared, captivated, smitten. A few fidgeted. Jason Panuzio’s eyes were cast to the windows. The rain had passed, the sky had cleared to white cotton puffs tumbling on azure silk, but the view of the practice field showed muddy patches before both goals and at the center circle.

“‘But so much the more shall I tomorrow be at the height of heart-heaviness, by how much shall I think my brother happy in having what he wishes for.’” Marcia Radkowski smiled. She stood in the classroom, her long arms wrapped about her, low, one hand on her waist, the other to the opposite elbow. Her shoulders were forward, her head back. She spoke quietly, almost in a whisper. Jason brought his eyes back to her. She was barely five years older than most of her students, only three years older than the one senior taking the course to make up needed credits. “Does it speak to you…Jason?”

He had not understood the words, had barely heard her at all. He had been concentrating on her shoulders and neck, thinking she had a great neck, wonderful shoulders and collarbones and…

“Jason?”

“Huh?”

“Jason.”

“Yeah.”

“There’s so much remorse.” As Miss Radkowski spoke, she drew first one hand across in a graceful arc, then the other—the gesture of an actress, a dancer, or an English teacher. “He’s so pitiful.” Her face fell to frown. “He’s so in love with Rosalind.” Her arms crossed. She brought them gently to her chest; her delicate fingers touched her collarbones, accentuated her neck. Peter sighed a bit too loudly. Miro stifled a laugh. Marcia spun; her broomstick skirt twirled, hugged her slender frame, then unwound, swished.

“Ah, that’s Rosalind’s speech, isn’t it?”

“No-ooh, Jason. It’s Orlando’s. Or perhaps it’s Jason’s. Read the rest of Orlando’s part.”

“Out loud?!”

“Yes. Aloud. And, umm, Kim, you read Rosalind’s. Jason, start with Orlando’s last sentence.”

Jason blushed, looked down, stared at the page. From next to him Martina Watts sneered, murmured, “Next page. Line forty-eight.”

“Thanks,” he whispered. Then, stilted: “Ah…‘By so much the more…shall I tomorrow be, ah…at the height of heart-heaviness…” Marcia moved toward him, her hands circling before her, scooping, attempting to draw him out; then cupping up, motioning for him to stand. As he finished the line, her hands rose in a flourish, lifting Kim Sanchez from her seat.

“‘Why, then, tomorrow I cannot serve your turn for Rosalind?’”

Marcia Radkowski returned to Jason. Her hazel eyes dazzled; her deeply tanned skin fairly glowed; her light brown hair, short and flyaway, accentuated her vivaciousness. This was her second year teaching freshman, and now junior, English. In this class alone, Peter Badoglio, Miro Sarrazin, and Jeff Kurjiaka had crushes on her; Miro and Jeff often faking swoons at soccer practice, calling her The Dream Goddess, Miss Starry Eyes, or Sweet Lips Radko. Even Jason held his breath when she spun or bowed or came to class in one of her sleeveless cotton knit sweaters. Had it not been for Kim Sanchez—in Jason’s mind equally beautiful: darker eyes, longer, straighter, darker hair; shorter; bustier—he too would have sat all period in rictal agog infatuation. But he could not do that in front of Kim. Nor could he stare at Kim before Miss Radkowski.

“Ah…‘I can live no longer by thinking,’” Jason read flatly.

Without coaxing Kim answered, “‘I will weary you then no longer with idle talking—’”

Amanda Esposito broke in. “Miss Radkowski, isn’t it kind of ridiculous that Orlando doesn’t recognize her? I mean, really! Like at Halloween, just because somebody’s in costume doesn’t mean you don’t know who they are.”

Marcia settled back. Jason and Kim remained standing, their books before them, their eyes furtively finding the other’s. “Do you think disguises are possible?” The teacher raised the question to the entire class.

“That’s not the point,” Martina Watts injected. She was irritated by the disruption. “Shakespeare say that the way it was. Accept it, girl, and let’s get on.”

“Martina,” Miss Radkowski said gently, “it is a valid question. I’m surprised no one raised it earlier. We’re almost at the end of the play.”

“This is the part—” Kim paused, c****d her head slightly “—where Rosalind talks with…here, ‘conversed with a magician, most profound in his art and yet not damnable.’ I think she learned the art of disguise.”

“I think she a b***h,” Martina blurted. She did not look up but spoke as if addressing her desktop. “One connivin b***h. Why can’t she be up front wit im? I don’t understand why people can’t be straight wit each other.”

“Hmm.” Marcia nodded. “Can anyone defend Rosalind’s actions?”

“Like back in Ack Three,” Martina spoke out. “Where she talkin to the farm slut. ‘He’s fallen in love with your foulness…’ She think she so-ooh good.”

“It all turns out,” Katie Fitzpatrick said. “I think she was just protecting herself.”

“Um-hmm.” Marcia nodded again.

No one else offered an opinion. Switching to a businesslike walk, Marcia retreated to her desk. “We have only a few minutes left. Thad, Jeff, sit back. Kim, Jason, you may sit. On the way out I want each of you to pick up a copy of Call of the Wild. Read it this week or this weekend.”

“We read that in sixth grade,” Jeff called out.

“I promise you, then, it will be more meaningful this time,” Marcia countered. “There’s a sheet with it. ‘Endemic to human nature is the carnivorous, lecherous self—’” her words were now quick, louder than during the heart of class discussion, an attempt to hold her students through the period’s last minute “‘—which must be balanced against our need for meaning.’ You’ll find this on the bottom of the page. ‘Recognizing both the flesh and the soul, the need of the one, the quest of the other…’ We’re going to be talking about this all year in relationship to all the works we read.”

The bell rang. Thad Carter and Jeff Kurjiaka sprang from their seats, bolted toward the door. Most of the 20 students reacted more slowly. Danielle Nguyen remained seated, finishing her notes. Kim approached Jason by his desk. She was wearing a white shirt with wide, black pinstripes, a short black, pleated skirt held up by wide black suspenders, black knee socks, black loafers. Jason hefted his books, smiled down to her. At five eleven he towered over her by nearly eight inches. He turned slightly, sighed. It made him giddy to be this close to her in school, and dressed as she was, looking the way she looked, he felt awkward.

“I only have a few seconds,” Kim said. Her voice was soft. “My fourth period’s over in D-wing.”

“I’ll walk you.”

“No. I want you to do something.”

“Sure. Are you okay?”

“I feel a little sick.”

Jason reached out, placed the back of his fingers on her cheek. “Maybe you should see the nurse.”

“I went after first period.” They left the classroom, entered the chaos of the corridor. Several girls near them were pushing each other violently but not maliciously.

“And…”

“I told her I felt sick to my stomach.” Kim pulled him down so she could talk into his ear. “The first thing she said was, ‘Are you pregnant?’” Jason stumbled. Students behind them piled up. “Just because I’m a teenage girl she automatically thinks…you know.” Kim pulled him along. “It made me so mad.”

“You’re…ah…”

“Jason! I told you I’m going to wait. If you’re going out with me for—”

“No. No. I mean…”

Coyly Kim smiled, c****d her head. “First base is far enough,” she whispered.

“I’ll…” Jason was tongue-tied.

“Listen, you have to do something.” Kim was now firm, serious. With her left hand she pushed her dark hair back, curled it around her ear.

“Sure,” Jason answered.

“Martina wants to talk to Aaron.”

“They broke up again, huh?”

Kim raised her eyes. “Have they?”

“I didn’t mean…I mean, I don’t know.”

“Tell him to meet her at the end of next period, outside the library. I’ll be there, too.”

At the end of fourth period F.X. McMillian stood by his classroom door, watched his students, his Contemporary Issues: Senior Honors Seminar, retreat, mesh with the mayhem. It had been a good class, an outstanding, lively class, one of the most relevant and most thought-provoking of his 23 years teaching.