A Matter of Conviction

He adjusted the pillows behind him and waited for Di Pace’s appearance. He felt rather odd. He was about to meet the man who had taken Mary from him so long ago, when Mary had meant so much, and he felt no rancor now, only an absorbing curiosity. Nor did the curiosity have anything to do with Mary. He realized with a start that he was not interested in meeting the husband of Mary Di Pace; he was only interested in meeting the father of Danny Di Pace.

A knock sounded on the door.

“Come in,” he said. “It’s open.”

The door swung wide, and John Di Pace entered the room. He was a tall man who seemed embarrassed by his own height as he walked hesitantly toward the bed. His hair was dark and his eyes were brown, and Hank wondered what quirk of nature had provided Danny with his mother’s recessive coloration. The man provided an instant impression of gentleness. Not knowing Di Pace, never having heard him speak, Hank instantly knew that he was one of the gentle people, and he was suddenly glad he was here.

“Sit down, Mr. Di Pace,” he said, and he extended his hand. Di Pace took it. Fumblingly, he sat.

“I didn’t know whether I should come or not,” Di Pace said. His voice was low, almost a whisper, and Hank instinctively knew again that this was a man who rarely raised his voice in anger. “But I read about what happened, and I... I thought I should come. I hope you don’t mind.”

“It’s a pleasure to see you,” Hank said.

“How do you feel?”

“Okay now. I’m getting out of here tomorrow.”

“Oh. Then I just caught you in time.”

“Yes.”

Di Pace hesitated. “Was it as bad as the newspapers said?”

“I guess so. Yes.”

“Eight of them,” Di Pace said, and he shook his head. “I can’t understand it.” He paused. “Can you?”

“No. Not exactly.”

“Was it the... the Puerto Ricans? Or Danny’s friends?”

“I don’t know. It was dark.”

“Not that it matters,” Di Pace said, and he laughed nervously and then stopped, and in his eyes there was the greatest sadness Hank had ever seen on the face of a man. “I just don’t understand it,” he said. “Maybe people behave this way, I don’t know. Maybe in war or something? But — Were you in the service?”

“Yes,” Hank said.

“Oh sure. That’s stupid of me. Of course you were...” The voice trailed off. “I missed it,” he said. “I had a punctured eardrum. I was four-F.” He paused. “A friend of mine used to send me Yank magazine.”

“That was a good magazine,” Hank said.

“Yes. Then, of course, I met Mary. She’s a wonderful girl.”

“Yes.”

“And now my son is a murderer.” He shook his head. “If you understand it, Mr. Bell, please tell me. Because I don’t. I’ve wracked my brain trying to understand it, and I can’t. Jesus, I can’t! I can’t understand the damn thing!”

His face was in anguish now, and Hank felt he would begin crying at any moment. “Mr. Di Pace,” he said, “there are lots of things we...”

“Do you know what I’ve been doing ever since this happened?” Di Pace said. “I’ve been going over everything, everything we ever did, every word I ever spoke to my son, every slap I ever gave him, every present, every place I took him. I’ve been reliving his life. I’ve been going over it step by step, inch by inch, and trying to find out why he did this. Because if he did this thing, he’s not to blame. What did I do wrong, I keep asking myself. What? What? Where did I fail my son?”

“You can’t blame yourself for a slum environment, Mr. Di Pace. Danny might have been all right if...”

“Then who do I blame? Who do I blame for getting fired when I worked out on Long Island? Who do I blame for the decision to come back to Harlem? Mr. Bell, who do I blame for the fact that I’m a failure and my son is a murderer?”

“You’ve got a shoe store. You’ve got—”

“I’ve got a life that’s a failure, Mr. Bell. John Di Pace, failure. Even Danny knew it. Mary? Mary loves me. Whatever I want to do is all right with her. But you can’t expect the same love from a child. You’ve got to prove yourself to a child. And what did I ever prove to Danny? I can remember when he first found out I hadn’t been in the service. He came in one day and said his friend’s father had been a sailor, and he wanted to know what I had been. I told him I hadn’t been drafted. I told him I had a punctured ear drum. He asked me what that was, a punctured eardrum. I told him it was a hole in my ear through which poison gas could enter, that gas masks hadn’t been designed to stop this possibility. He said, ‘But weren’t you in the Army?’ I told him I wasn’t. ‘The Navy?’ he said. No, not the Navy either. ‘Then what? The Marines?’ No, not the Marines. ‘Nothing?’ he said. ‘You were nothing?’

“I was nothing, Mr. Bell. You were flying bombers over Germany, and I was nothing.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Nobody wanted to go fight a war.”