Free What’s Happening? by John Nicholas Iannuzzi Page B

couldn’t bear the scene that would inevitably ensue. Why had she come? Why had she come? Why? … Why? … Why? She had had to—that was why—she just had to. They had her mailing address, and if she hadn’t come, one day she would answer a knock on the door and there he would be, Father, resplendent in his most austere, his most self-righteous, dominating, searching, disapproving look. It was far less an ordeal to return home first. And yet, beside this imposed need to return, Rita often truly felt she wanted to come home, she wanted to be part of her family. Time has a way of indulging memory. The mind turns from the unpleasant, the difficult, until one day, the qualm is no longer extant, and seeming pleasantness alone remains. This morning, Rita had awakened and felt the warmth and want of family love. The same warm blood that ran through the veins of Father and Mother and Randy surged through her, warming her thoughts until she had decided to return. She allowed their disagreement might be her fault, and perhaps they could try once again. Time’s indulgence of memory may be barbed, however. Rita had been allowed to forget, but her parents had not forgotten to be. Rita contemplated how she might tactfully leave early and return to the peaceful, unenforced happiness of her own apartment.
    â€œIs that what you’re doing?” asked Father, thoughts of Randy’s words having gnawed at him sufficiently, “… out fooling around all night, wasting your time?” He paused. “I don’t want to be hard on you.” He groped gracelessly for warmth and sincerity.
    Rita had experienced his attempts at warmth before. She knew they were always emitted to sway her to his will.
    â€œI just want you to settle down, … to get set in life, … get a husband.” He shook his head, completely crushed by his daughter’s imprudence. He was disgusted, sorrowful, and he didn’t know how to convince her she was all wrong.
    â€œThere’s that nice Marty Rosenstein,” Mother added. “His mother was telling me he has a nice job in television. They’re nice people. His father just bought a new store. You should come home and meet nice boys.”
    â€œSonny Cashman still asks for you,” added Randy.
    â€œAnother nice boy. Come home, meet these boys. You’ll change your mind about those terrible people in the Village. Ughh, … they give me the creeps.” Mother shivered with distaste.
    â€œLook,” Rita pleaded, “… I didn’t come home to get fixed up. Please let’s forget about it, … be happy and enjoy.”
    â€œThat’s all, Rosie, … forget it,” Father ordered, his anger and annoyance mounting. “Bbbbbrrrucccck.” He belched blatantly, raucously.
    Rita absorbed the sound and cringed. Her stomach turned.
    â€œI’m gettin’ a nervous stomach on account of you,” Father threatened, leaning toward Rita. “You know that?”
    â€œYou’re probably getting a nervous stomach on account of yourself. Maybe your girl friend is giving you a hard time.” She had to lash out for protection. She was immediately sorry she said it. She didn’t want to hurt Mother.
    â€œMaybe that’s so,” replied Father, his headlong attack grinding to a halt. He did not flinch, however. Often he purposely spoke of a girl friend as a topic of family conversation. He had found that the most daring, obvious way was the easiest way to confound a weak person like his wife. He purposely provoked the ultimate question he knew she would not ask. Of course, supposedly, he was joking when he spoke this way. Yet he did have a girl friend. He kidded about her and kept her, and whenever a thought of her real existence was brought to the fore, he substituted the old joke for the real and his wife couldn’t tell one from the other without creating an embarrassing scene. It frightened Mother