First night back. I dream of my cousin Vic Vitale. It figures. He was mentioned earlier in the family rundown as outcast and ingrate in contrast to his brother, Tony, who gives Aunt Emma some satisfaction, at least, by being settled down and married and practicing law and going to church. So Vic equals me; both of us are outside approbation. “Why do you care?” Dr. V. would ask. Oh, Christ, if only I had him in my pocket like a transistor, to turn on when I need to hear him.

Easter Day. Resurrection. I break the news of Alberto and me. Mother’s first reaction is gratification at the superb working mechanism of her ESP: “I knew you were different the minute you got off that plane! I kept telling your father. I knew something was in the wind. You even look different.” How? I ask. “Better—more cheerful, younger. Even dressed smarter.”

Good. She’s said it now. No turning back. Old mother oracle, old sphinx and sorceress—of course you knew! You who hold all life and breath, you who can thwart and punish. And I knew that you knew. And I know that you will always know. But non importa; I’m not asking you now, I’m telling you. You’re different, too, old folks at home. Now that you’re off my back and out there where I can see you, you’re not bad at all. Now I can love you as I always wanted to.

“If that’s the way it was between you,” Ma says, “why didn’t you separate immediately, years ago?” So practical, so jumping with solutions. She’s thinking, Years ago when you were younger and could remarry, before you had children. As if my children were mistakes, the results of procrastination and indecision. But I wanted my children! And Alberto, too.

“Well,” she says, “you’ve always been the different one in the family. Now it’s divorce.”

“I’ll fly over to Italy with you to put things right. . . . I’ll take the girls and give them a home here,” says Dad, trying, as in time past, to dominate the situation and command. But not this time. They see I’m different.

On rebirth day I go to church with them because I want to see old St. John’s again, the old neighborhood. Sad. The beautiful elms gone, the old Victorian houses razed for parking lots or turned into boardinghouses, social welfare agencies, and doctors’ offices. Where the old Fry mansion stood on velvet lawn there’s now a motel with glassed-in coffee shop so you can watch the transients at breakfast. Gloom. It’s progress, says Dad.