Page 16 - WTP Vol. X #2

Where’s Sol? (continued from preceding page)
“I’m sorry, Mama.” Because he was. That’s all he re-
membered. That’s all he could remember.
“I couldn’t go, Mama.” Oh, how he tried. How he had wanted to.
“Where’s Mama?” Don’t be angry.
“Mama? Mama?” Mama, why are you so angry? Al- ways angry. Always so angry. Mama, I’m sorry.
“Please tell Mama I couldn’t go.” “Mama, I don’t know.”
“I’m sorry, Mama.”
“Mama.” Where’s Sol?
But Mama never came and Mama never answered or if she did, she just wouldn’t tell him that she had because she was always so angry. Angry because of Sol. Angry because he was sorry. Angry because. And he was sorry. So sorry, he was, because his pants were torn at the knee. Mama, I can’t go. Mama, there’s someone at the door. Where’s Sol? Where did he have to go? What about Sol?
“Where’s Sol?”
“I’m sorry Mama.” “Mama.”
“It was just 25 cents.”
~
And then he became afraid. Just like that. Suddenly and with no reason. Afraid because he didn’t know where he was. Afraid because Mama was angry. Afraid because Sol kept getting lost and he had to keep looking for him, and then he came, all balled up in the corner of the room, just looking and staring for no reason, as if that was the reason he was born. Sol, stop looking. Sol, I’m sorry. Sol.
Afraid because.
Oh, how he had wanted to find Sol. Oh how he had wanted to play with him, like he played with all the other boys. Sol? Mama? Who’s Sol?
~
Sol was Lucy. Lucy was her name but she called her- self Sally. Her name was, and she was always there, Lucy and Sally. And Sol. Just sitting there. Always in the same chair. Staring out the window. Mumbling to herself. As if she were any better than he was. Bet- ter than Sol. He’d wake up and she’d be there. He’d
go to sleep and she’d be there. Were they married or something? He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t remember.
“Mary,” he would say, just to be polite. “Are you my wife?”
“Yes, I’d like that,” she’d respond.
“And then we can go to a movie. Who are you?” she’d say. “Lucy,” he’d say. “What’s your name?”
“Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“The dog’s in the yard, Mary.”
“In the yard? With the tulips?”
“What’s so special about turnips?
“I like turnips. Here. Smell. Smell the turnips.”
And on and on. And on and on.
Until he could no longer take it. All this talk. All these questions and never any answers. All these answers and he wished he’d understood the questions.
“What’s your name, Sal?’ “How much is...?”
As if he didn’t know. As if he were a child with his finger stuck in the faucet.
So, one day, he decided to leave. To where, he wasn’t sure. But he packed his things anyhow, the little that he had, put them all in a suitcase and placed the bundle by the door, all the while mumbling to himself in his chair.
“I’m going, Mary.”
“What time is bingo?” she responded. “I’m leaving. Byebyegone.” “Byebyegone? Byebyegone?”
And Lucy laughed, she did. Laughed so hard that she disappeared. Laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed.
“Byebyegone? Byebyegone?”
That’s all she could say. That’s all she would say. “Byebyegone? Byebyegone?”
And Salvatore Vecchio, if that was his name, began to cry. He cried because he was going. He cried be-