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Hungers

by Tony Romano

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Giacomo Comingo

Food was religion in our house. Mama always said, “If you eat, you never die,” which to me simply meant that dead people no longer eat, but it seemed to make perfect sense to her. Why did I imagine that I could hide from her the weight I needed to cut to make the wrestling team?

The first seven or eight pounds were easy. The weight came off mostly from my stomach and the lower part of my chest where the ribs pushed through, and I was able to hide it with bulky sweaters and baggy sweatshirts. After ten or fifteen pounds, my face became more angular and bony, my eyes two hollow sockets, my lips dry and cracked. Then she knew. Then the fights started.

I sat there at the dining room table on a Friday night, 106 pounds, twenty-one pounds under my normal weight. Mama clomped from the kitchen to the dining room carrying dishes full of food, her flat, heavy footsteps shaking the whole house. Every time she set something down, she eyed my plate with anger. Papa sat across from me sipping wine. My brother Michael ripped off a piece of bread from the long loaf and stuffed it into his mouth, crumbs dropping onto his lap. He ate as much as he wanted but was bone-thin and pale.

I still had another pound to lose. Between dinner and ten I would lose about a half-pound pacing my room, another pound while I slept. That left me at 104-and-a-half, which meant I could eat a half pound and still be at weight for my first match tomorrow.

Coach and I had planned out the new season. We compared my height, five-feet-seven, with my body fat, eleven per cent, and decided I could safely get down to ninety-eight where I would do well. Last year at 119 I had lost too many matches by three and four points. Coach always said that I wasn’t hungry enough, that the losses would stick with me. And they did, in a way. All summer I daydreamed about third periods where I would be down two or three points and lie there like a dog, content to let the clock run out, feeling almost pride for wrestling six minutes without getting pinned, Coach always hollering at me as I lumbered off the mat. One time I thought he was going to bust a blood vessel in his neck. I stared at it, engorged and pulsating, while he screamed, “When are you going to stop letting those guys push you around? How long you gonna be a Mama’s boy?” It was one of his favorite expressions, and it soon became everyone else’s on the team.

Mama finally sat down, her table filled with mounds of linguini, steaming red sauce lumped with meatballs, sirloin steaks, homemade bread, marinated red peppers, and a giant bowl of leafy salad. My mouth, as dry and cottony as it was, watered. I could eat a piece of meat and drink a glass of water, I figured; that was it.

I reached for a small piece of steak, quietly, but leaning over the whole table, making sure Mama saw me. She reached over, plopped another piece onto my dish, and moved the bowl of linguini close to me. My family all chewed quietly and waited for my reaction. I didn’t say anything, not tonight. I looked across at Papa. I thought he vaguely understood why I couldn’t eat, but I knew he wouldn’t support me. He knew that siding with me would pit him against Mama. During arguments with her, Papa’s eyes would glaze over and focus a little beyond her. For years I had thought that this was noble, that my father was above the pettiness of the argument. But now I saw in his eyes only tiredness. He reminded me of myself during third periods. I worried about him, worried mostly that he thought I didn’t love him. Lately, Coach and I had been spending time together, not only after school but on weekends, and I sensed that Papa felt awkward and jealous, that he feared Coach was taking his place. I wanted to console him, tell him that no one could take his place, but I wasn’t sure I believed it. We didn’t seem to know how to talk to each other.

With Coach it was different—not that we talked to each other more—but he always knew what to say. He owned a liquor store and on weekends I’d help him unload the delivery trucks. One time we had to drive to the south side in a hurry to pick up a few cases of whiskey. We were barrelling forty-five down a narrow one-way street, cars parked on both sides, inches away. We scraped hard against one of them and I pictured a deep gash in Coach’s Cadillac door. I looked at him. He kept driving, as if nothing had happened. Finally, he turned to me and said slowly, “That asshole almost tore off my door.”

Once a week, it seemed, he took me into his office and lectured to me on how good I could become. He’d point to one of his olympic posters and ask, “What’s the difference between you and this guy?” I’d shrug politely, always a little intimidated by his gruffness. I knew no matter how excited I got in the office, a few days later my excitement would level off. I didn’t want to make any promises I couldn’t keep. I wasn’t hungry enough, I guessed, and I didn’t know how to change that.

I looked at my plate, knowing Michael wouldn’t help either. He was twenty, three years older than I, and always made me feel three years younger. He wasn’t in college; he worked part-time selling shoes at the mall, but he had all the answers. Wrestling, to him, meant sweating and losing weight. Why would anyone go through all that he asked when he had learned I joined the team. He didn’t really want to know; it was his way of talking me out of it. Still, he showed up at most of my matches and even learned the names of some of the moves.

I ate my steak slowly, peeking at Mama to gauge her dissatisfaction. She chewed slowly, looking down, but not at her food; her wary eyes focused a little beyond her plate. I finished my first big piece, but only picked at the second.

“Giacomo!” she snapped.

“I’m eating, Mama. Look.” I stuck a small piece in my mouth and chomped on it. I had already eaten my half-pound allowance.

“Just leave him be,” Papa said softly, his head lowered.

She went on eating.

I moved my salad around, worked to get the oregano off the lettuce with my fork.

“Giacomo—”

I didn’t answer.

“Giacomo, I no tell again. Eat.”

I took a deep breath. “I don’t feel good.”

Her neck was crimson. “You no feel good because you no eat.”

“I ate a whole piece, Mama,” I cried.

“He did eat a whole piece,” said Michael.

I looked up at him in shock. He kept eating, vinegar and oil dripping down his chin. When he glanced up at me, he broke out in an awkward half-grin, the same grin he’d worn when he showed up at my first match last year after weeks of nagging me to quit.

Surprised at him, she banged her fork down, grabbed my dish, and slapped a huge meatball onto it. “If you no finish—you no leave house tomorrow.”

“But he’s got a match tomorrow,” said Michael.

“This no you business—”

Michael looked up and laughed. “What are you going to do? Tie him up? Chain him to the table?”

I didn’t laugh; she could do worse. She could come to school and find Coach in the gym, swear at him in her frenzied manner, ignoring the crowd that would gather around. Sometimes I imagined her showing up at a match, pulling Coach onto the mat where they would scratch and scrape at each other like two noisy cats.

“No finish, he no go,” she announced.

“I have to,” I pleaded.

“You no eat, you no go,” she said firmly.

“But you don’t understand. This is . . . importante.”

“Ah, importante,” she said, nodding, and then in Italian: “What’s important is that you eat.”

“When you were . . . young . . . a girl—didn’t you ever want to do something different? Differente?”

“Girl?”

“You. When you were a girl. Didn’t you ever—did you have dreams—wishes?”

Michael, who spoke Italian only a little better, translated.

She shook her head in frustration, as if to say, What does that have to do with not eating?

“Eat. Talk after.”

I looked at my plate. If I ate—and the food smelled so good my stomach ached—I’d be overweight tomorrow. If I didn’t eat, I couldn’t go. I looked up at Papa. Our eyes met, and I saw pity there, but I wasn’t sure if it was for me or for himself. He looked down. “Giacomo, maybe you’re going too far. Why don’t you listen to your mother?”

The meat was tasteless as I stuffed it mechanically into my mouth, one forkful after another, my stomach growing fuller and fuller, like the meat was patching holes. “So she made you eat?” Coach would ask. “She tied your hand to a fork and tied you to the chair? Tell me, did you enjoy it? All three pounds of it?” And I would listen and shrug, not even bother to try to explain. What would I say? I enjoyed it but didn’t enjoy it?

I shoveled the food into my mouth faster, hoping it would cause me to enjoy it less, hoping it would make me sick so Mama would regret the force-feeding.

She looked at me, her set mouth melting into a frown, then turned to Michael. “When Giacomo baby,” she said to him, choking back sobs, “he most die cause he no eat. I give my milk three month, but I no have nough. So I give bottle. Giacomo no take. He cry eh cry.”

We’d all heard the story before. But it was just a story; it wouldn’t change anything. Once I finished, I marched to my room without a word. I emptied out an old coffee can filled with pennies and spat in it. I could spit out a half-pound before going to sleep. It was a start. If I had to, I’d throw up in the morning.

I sat hunkered over the coffee can, resting my head in my hands. I could probably fall asleep in this position, I thought, drool dripping down my chin the whole time.

When Michael came into my room, there was a thin layer of wet film at the bottom of the coffee can, not even an ounce. He pulled out a blue laxative box from his pocket and handed it to me.

“Thanks,” I said. “For everything.” He sat next to me on the edge of the bed and stared into the can. Neither of us said anything for a while.

“Why do you do this?” he said.

“I have to be at 105 by tomorrow.”

“I mean why do you do it? The whole thing?”

No one had asked. It had been a long while since I had asked myself.

“It makes me feel good,” I said.

I realized, and so did Michael, I thought, how ridiculous this sounded with the coffee can at my feet and the blue box on my bed.

“I mean it feels good to win.” I waited, grateful that he didn’t remind me of how many matches I had actually won. “When you walk out on the mat,” I said, sounding like Coach, “you can’t hide behind anyone. You win or lose on your own.” The words sounded flat, I knew. I could have said that I didn’t want to be a Mama’s boy, but I remembered calling Michael that one time in anger, and now he’d misunderstand.

“Is it fun?” he asked.

“What?”

He turned toward me. “Is it fun? The practices? The cutting weight? Everything?”

Is it fun? I thought. No. Of course it wasn’t fun. Michael had never joined any teams in high school. When he came to watch my matches, I could see that he envied me a little, that he felt he had missed out—not on joining wrestling, but on being a part of a team.

I looked at him. “It’s okay,” I said. I turned to the window. “It’s okay.”

Lucia Comingo

The Coach, he sit in my kitch. He have big stomach, soft like dough. But he have face like flour. He no eat good. Maybe french fry every day. Americano, they eat like dirty animale.

My son Giacomo, he no sit. He stand by frigidatt’. Hands in pock. He wear tee shirt. Is too small. I see bones. He look at shoes by door. I always tell no leave shoes by door. Every day three, four pair.

The Coach, he say, “Mrs. Comingo, I came over to talk about Jim’s weight.” He point by Giacomo. “You have to understand—”

I check creampuff in oven. If I keep long, they get hard.

“Mrs. Comingo, we had a wrestling match today—”

The tray make hot eh I drop. “Disgraziato!” I yell. “Stupido.” I put cold water. “Disgraziato.”

Coach, he stand. He say, “Are you all right?”

Giacomo, he no move. Hands in pock.

“Are you all right?” Coach say.

“Yeh, yeh,” I tell.

Coach, he sit.

Giacomo say, “She does that all the time.”

I run to washaroom eh put cream. When I come back, creampuff hard. Throw in garbage. Make again.

“Mrs. Comingo, could you sit please? For five minutes? Please.”

I sit.

He fold hand on table, like man when he come last year eh sell insurance. “We had a match today,” he say.

“Match?”

“A game,” Giacomo say. He look by shoes.

“We had a game today,” Coach say. “Another team came to our school . . . on a bus.” He put up hands. Like he drive automobile.

He think I stupid. I no stupid. Is crazy language.

He talk talk talk.

I understand most everything. I no stupid. When I come to this country, I say, “Lucia learn English. Nobody cheat Lucia.” So I go to market eh watch. I listen. I understand—no take long. But I no speak perfetto. Giacomo eh my other son Michael, some a time they come to market. When I talk, they run away togeth eh laugh. They ashame. So I talk loud.

They no understand. I come to this country to make better for my two son. Eh they laugh. I never tell—ten year before, I go to school for three, four week. But no time. I work every day by factory. Sixteen year now.

Coach, he no stop. “The other team gets to our school. When we start to weigh in—you know, to see how heavy everyone is, Jim is one pound overweight. He’s too heavy. So he can’t compete—he can’t play. No game today for Jim. He busted his—he worked hard for three weeks, and all for nothing.”

“I know,” I tell. “Giacomo work eh you no pay nothing.

“What,” Coach say.

Giacomo, he laugh.

“Why you laugh?” I tell.

He look by Coach. “She thinks you mean my work at your liquor store.”

“No, no, no. I mean the work Jim does at practice every day.” He move chair close to table. He talk soft. Like secret. “But it’s the same thing,” he say. He bring face close. Is red. He make chin touch almost table. He say, “It’s the same thing. When Jim works at my store, he doesn’t get paid, but he’s learning. One day he’ll use what he learns. Maybe start his own business. Wouldn’t you like that?”

I no say nothing. I listen.

“When Jim works at practice, he’s got to have at least a chance later to use what he learns. He gets that chance during matches, during games. Can you see how it’s the same thing?”

“No same thing,” I tell. “When Giacomo finish school, he no play game. He work. Make money.”

“I understand that. But you see—” He shake head. Look by Giacomo. They smile, like Giacomo eh Michael smile by market.

“You have to give Jim a chance to succeed.”

“I give chance to eat.”

Giacomo he say, “This is not about eating, Mama.”

Coach he move in chair, look at table like he lose some a thing. He say, “Right now, Jim looks a little pale. His cheeks are sucked in, I know. Once he gets used to the weight though, he’ll feel stronger. It’s gonna take some patience.”

“I no have patience,” I tell.

Big fatso, he come by my kitch eh tell that Giacomo no eat. When Giacomo baby he most die cause he no eat. I give my milk three month, but I no have nough. My chest, they get hard. So I give bottle. Giacomo no take. He cry eh cry.

“Look,” he say. “I know you’re worried about Jim’s health. But he’s fine. Just ask him.” He point by Giacomo. “Ask him how he feels.”

I look. Pants they no fit no more, they touch floor. I say, “He no look good.”

Coach laugh. He laugh like butcher by market when I tell “Too much money.”

He say, “Go ahead and ask him how he feels. Ask him why it’s important for him to lose weight.”

Giacomo, he no move.

“Ask him.”

“Giacomo, you want I make soup?”

Coach he scream. “For Chrissake, ask him why he wants to lose weight.”

He come by my kitch eh scream. He crazy. I no sit. I go make creampuff. I clean tray. I shake eh shake, eh tray make noise like rain. My two hand shake. I tell, “Giacomo no eat cause you tell No Eat. He no want lose weight. You want. Before when he no play game, he eat all day. You no tell no more my son no eat.”

“There’s no need to get ex—”

“No tell no more. If Giacomo no eat, he no play game.”

Giacomo hit table. He scream. “You’re not even listening.”

Coach tell Giacomo be quiet. He look by me. “Mrs. Comingo . . . ”

He talk eh talk. He say team need Giacomo. I no listen. I cook.

When he leave—grazia Dio—I find rosary. I pray he no come back by my kitch. Ask, he say. Ask. What I gotta ask? Is too late. I wish I no come to this country. I wish I stay by paese, by farm. Everybody work togeth. Everybody eat. I no understand America. Is crazy.

Five clock we eat. Little salad. Artichoke. Mostaccioli. Steak. Giacomo he look by food. I pray. He see steak. Six, seven big piece. He take fork—grazia Dio—eh push eh push eh find small piece, for bird maybe.

I jump. I put fork in. “Is my piece,” I tell.

Giacomo he look by Michael. He look by me. He stand eh bring face close. “Sit down, Ma,” he tell.

“What?”

“Sit. Down.” Giacomo eyes, they no move. He make mouth hard, small. Is no Giacomo. He pull meat with fork.

I pull back. “Giacomo!”

He pull eh pull meat, eh blood come out.

“Giacomo.”

He pull. He break eh make two piece. I have half. Giacomo have half. He no say nothing. He eat.

Michael he smile.

I look by Giacomo. I look by my fork. Small piece. Half. For sparrow. For baby. When Giacomo baby, he most die— “Eat,” I whisp. Nobody hear. Eat.