Sons and Princes by James Lepore Page A

sat cross-legged to eat their dinner, drinking the wine out of paper cups.
    Tess had tied her long hair back to work and scrubbed down in the kitchen sink while Chris went out for the food. She rarely wore makeup, and now, her face glowing from the hard work, she looked lovely as she sat facing Chris in the slanting late afternoon sunlight. Watching her eat and sip her wine, Chris saw both the child and the woman in her, and felt the mix of loss and pride that is familiar to all parents who watch their children become young adults before their eyes. He knew that he was the star of his daughter’s life, and had thanked God many times that he had remained so despite all of his troubles.
    “Speaking of boys,” he said, “what’s going on with you and Phil Martell?”
    “We broke up.”
    “Oh? What happened?”
    “The summer’s coming. He’s going to California to see his dad.”
    “That didn’t last long.”
    “No, a few months.”
    “But you liked him.”
    “I thought he was really cool at first.”
    “Any residuals?”
    “You mean am I heartbroken?”
    “Yes.”
    “No. He was pretty happy when I ended it, which was annoying, but I’m fine.” Tess smiled as she said this and now there was more woman in her face than girl.
    “Speaking of relationships,” she said, “what’s going on with you and mom?”
    “Why?” Chris asked. “Did she say something?”
    “No, but she’s acting weird. Is it Matt?”
    “It must be. I’ve told her I want him to live with me in New York.”
    “Oh. Well...”
    “I know. She’ll never agree to it.”
    “Never in a million years. Matt’s replaced you in a way.”
    This statement took Chris by surprise. There was too much insight in it, too poignant a reminder that his own mother had replaced her husband with her youngest son, and the havoc that had wrought. He had seen the parallel between Joseph and Matt, but not until now the one between him and Tess. He did not respond.
    “Tell me about Grampa Joe,” Tess said. “You never talk about him.”
    “Joseph talks about him enough for both of us.”
    “He makes him sound like a cartoon character. I want to hear it from you.”
    “Why?”
    “Did you love him?”
    “Yes.”
    “Matt says he was a hit man.”
    Chris stared hard at his sixteen-year-old daughter, but she did not flinch or look away. At the same time, he was thinking about the rapid yes he had given in response to her last question.
    “I hated him, too,” he said.
    “Why?”
    “I’ll tell you what. We’re finished here. Let’s go down to that Applegate Farm place and get some ice cream. I have lots of memories of your grandfather, good and bad. I’ll tell you a story or two, but I can’t promise more than that.”
    “Are you worried I won’t be able to handle it?” Tess said. She had, Chris realized, seen the introspection in his eyes. “Because I can.”
    “No,” he replied. “I believe you can. I wouldn’t be telling you otherwise.” It’s not you I’m worried about , he thought, and then, rising, he held out his hand and helped her to her feet and they headed to the car.

8.
    Chris tracked the winter of 1977 daily through the window in his room at St. Vincent’s Hospital. Cold and gray, and occasionally stormy, it reflected perfectly the state of his heart. For four weeks, with his right leg hanging from a counterweighted pulley, there was nothing to do but look out at Seventh Avenue and contend with the numbing reality that he would never run competitively again. Occasionally, a storm of anger would rise and howl in his head and then abate, matching the winter storms outside that blew snow and grit sometimes horizontally across his window, temporary distractions from the bleakness. Toward the end, his cast was shortened and he was allowed to hobble around his room using a walker. His left leg had been set and casted as well, but it could bear some weight. He had been told that the cast on the left leg would come off in a few