a teacher pulled him off the battered kid before he could half blind him。
Afterward； he felt no remorse。 He still didn't。 He was not proud of this。 It was just the way he felt。
Dorma knew that her husband's heart would break a little if he learned his boy had gotten into trouble over him。 She devised and enforced Joe's punishment herself； and together they concealed the incident from Frank。
That was the beginning of Joe's secret life of quiet rage and periodic violence。 He grew up looking for a fight and usually finding one； but he chose the moment and the venue to ensure that his dad was unlikely to learn of it。
Frank was a roofer； but there was no scrambling up ladders and hustling from eaves to ridgeline with one leg。 He was loath to take disability from the government； but he accepted it for a while； until he found a way to turn a talent for woodworking into an occupation。
He made jewellery boxes； lamp bases； and other items inlaid with exotic woods in intricate patterns； and he found shops that would carry his creations。 For a while； he cleared a few dollars more than the disability payments； which he relinquished。
A seamstress in a bination tailor's shop and dry…cleaners； Donna came home from work every day with hair curled from the steam…press humidity and smelling of benzene and other liquid solvents。 To this day； when Joe entered a dry…cleaning establishment； his first breath brought vividly to mind his mother's hair and her honey…brown eyes； which as a child he'd thought were faded from a darker brown by steam and chemicals。
Three years after losing the leg； Frank began suffering pain in his knuckles and then his wrists。 The diagnosis was rheumatoid arthritis。
A vicious thing； this disease。 And in Frank； it progressed with unmon speed； a fire spreading through him： the spinal joints in his neck； his shoulders； hips； his one remaining knee。
He shut down his woodworking business。 There were government programs providing assistance； though never enough and always with the measure of humiliation that bureaucrats dished out with a hateful…and often unconscious…generosity。
The Church helped too； and charity from the local parish was more passionately provided and less humbling to receive。 Frank and Donna were Catholics。 Joe went to Mass with them faithfully but without faith。
In two years； already hampered by the loss of one leg； Frank was in a wheelchair。
Medical knowledge has advanced dramatically in thirty years； but in those days； treatments were less effective than they are now…especially in cases as severe as Frank's。 Nonsteroidal anti…inflammatory drugs； injections of gold salts； and then much later penicillamine。 Still the osteoporosis progressed。 More cartilage and tendon tissue were lost from the chronic inflammation。 Muscles continued to atrophy。 Joints ached and swelled。 The quality of immunosuppressant Corticosteroids available at the time somewhat slowed but did not halt the deformation of joints； the frightening loss of function。
By the time Joe was thirteen； his daily routine included helping his dad dress and bathe when his mother was at work。 From the first； he never resented any tasks that fell to him； to his surprise； he found within himself a tenderness that was a counterweight to the omnipresent anger that he directed at God but that he inadequately relieved on those unlucky boys with whom he periodically picked fights。 For a long time Frank was mortified to have to rely on his son for such private matters； but eventually the shared challenge of bathing； grooming； and toilet brought them closer； deepened their feelings for each other。
By the time Joe was sixteen； Frank was suffering with fibrous ankylosis。 Huge rheumatoid nodules had formed at several joints； including one the size of a golf ball on his right wrist。 His left elbow was deformed by a nodule almost as large as the softball that he had thrown so many hundreds of times in backyard practices when Joe had been six years old and getting into Little League。
His dad lived now for Joe's achievements； so Joe was an honour student in spite of a part…time job at McDonald's。 He was a star quarterback on the high…school football team。 Frank never put any pressure on him to excel。 Love motivated Joe。
In the summer of that year； he joined the YMCA Youth Athletics Program： the boxing league。 He was quick to learn； and the coach liked him； said he had talent。 But in his first two practice matches； he continued hammering punches into opponents after they were sagging on the ropes； beaten and defenceless。 He'd had to be pulled off。 To them； boxing was recreation and self…defence； but to Joe it was savage therapy。 He didn't want to hurt anyone； not any specific individual； but he did hurt them； consequently； he was not permitted to pete in the league。
Frank's chronic pericarditis； arising from the rheumatoid arthritis； led to a virulent infection of the pericardium； which ultimately led to heart failure。 Frank died two days before Joe's eighteenth birthday。
The week following the funeral Mass； Joe visited the same church after midnight； when it was deserted。 He'd had too many beers。 He sprayed black paint on all the stations of the cross。 He overturned a cast…stone statue of Our Lady and smashed a score of the ruby…red glasses from the votive…candle rack。
He might have done considerably more damage if he had not quickly been overe by a sense of futility。 He could not teach remorse to God。 He could not express his pain with sufficient power to penetrate the steel veil between this world and the next…if there was a next。
Slumping in the front pew； he wept。
He sat there less than a minute； however； because suddenly he felt that weeping in the church might seem to be an admission of his powerlessness。 Ludicrously； he thought it important that his tears not be misconstrued as an acceptance of the cruelty with which the universe was ruled。
He left the church and was never apprehended for the vandalism。 He felt no guilt about what he'd done…and again； no pride。
For a while he was crazy； and then he went to college； where he fit in because half of the student body was crazy too； with youth； and the faculty with tenure。
His mother died just three years later； at the age of forty…seven。 Lung cancer； spreading to the lymphatic system。 She had never been a smoker。 Neither had his father。 Maybe it was the fumes of the benzene and other solvents in the dry…cleaner's shop。 Maybe it was weariness； loneliness； and a way out。
The night she died； Joe sat at her bedside in the hospital； holding her hand； putting cold presses on her brow； and slipping slivers of ice into her parched mouth when she asked for them； while she spoke sporadically； half coherently； about a Knights of Columbus dinner dance to which Frank had taken her when Joe was only two； the year before the accident and amputation。 There was a big hand with eighteen fine musicians； playing genuine dance music； not just shake…in…place rock…'n'…roll。 She and Frank were self…taught in the fox trot； swing； and the cha…cha； but they weren't bad。 They knew each other's moves。 How they laughed。 There were balloons； oh； hundreds of balloons； suspended in a net from the ceiling。 The centrepiece on each table was a white plastic swan holding a fat candle surrounded by red chrysanthemums。 Dessert was ice cream in a sugar swan。 It was a night of swans。 The balloons were red and white； hundreds of them。 Holding her close in a slow dance； he whispered in her ear that she was the most beautiful woman in the room； and oh how he loved her。 A revolving ballroom chandelier cast off splinters of coloured light； the balloons came down red and white； and the sugar swan tasted of almonds when it crunched between the teeth。 She was twenty…nine years old the night of the dance； and she relished this memory and no other through the final hour of her life； as though it had been the last good time she could recall。
Joe buried her from the same church that he had vandalized two years earlier。 The stations of the cross had been restored。 A new statue of the Holy Mother watched over a full plement of votive glasses on the ti