Final Stroke Read Online Free

actually say any of these things, or was it all simply part of the mix-up, the bowl of mashed potatoes that was her brain since the stroke? Maybe even the word fuck came from the mix-up, because fuck did seem to be an awfully popular word here at Hell in the Woods. According to Mr. Babe there was a man on the third floor who only said the two words Jesus fuck . Nothing else ex cept Jesus fuck .
    Despite things he’d said about the Pope and Jimmy Carter when he was alive, her Antonio was still a good man. And despite every thing the brain bullet had taken from her, no one could take that away from her. She had the definite impression that, behind Antonio’s anger with his so-called “business partners,” there was a plan. She had the feeling that what Antonio planned, during those last years they had together, would be something wonderful. Perhaps that was the family secret, that Antonio had planned a legacy for which the name Gianetti would be remembered.
    Wait. Something was happening. The young man had left her standing in her walker outside the double doors to the activity room. The young man had let go of her arm and stepped away from her. She heard a door open somewhere behind her. Then there was a hissing sound, and a singing. No, that would be silly because who would sing like that? But it was a singing, a singing like in the pipes at home when Antonio was in the shower. Antonio also singing, trying to outdo the singing of the plumbing with his valiant attempt at Verdi.
    When the singing stopped and the door behind her closed, the young man was back at her side. No, behind her. She thought he would begin speaking again the way he had when he came to her room to fetch her. She thought he would again begin asking questions that made no sense. Even if she had understood the questions, how could he expect her to answer?
    But he did not speak, he did not pump her with questions. In stead, he held her gently by her arms, easing her backward and lifting her arms so that she released her grip on the walker. Then he turned her about. He did not stop the turning so she could face him, so she could look at him, but instead kept turning her. Around and around. In a way it was like dancing, but too fast, so fast she became dizzy. Then she felt him grip her ankles and felt herself flying through the air, the whole world spinning. A rather pleasant sensation until her head hit the floor.
    After that was a brief dream. A dream about her husband Antonio and her son Antonio. Both were younger. They were in the garden behind the house, the garden she had always assumed had given her son his love of nature. She watched from within the arbor where it was dark because of the thick vines overhead. In the distance she could hear the sprinkler oscillating back and forth spraying the ferns and tinkling on some of the smaller clay pots along the walkway. It was springtime and Antonio Junior was being thrown into the sunshine by his father. Antonio Junior screaming with delight, Antonio Junior blinded by childish pleasure, Antonio Junior not knowing what would some day be done to his mother, how much pain would be inflicted upon his mother in the name of …
    In the name of what? Why would he do this to her? Why would anyone do this to her? Was it the keys? My God! Who would take care of the keys!
    As the screams of Antonio Junior being thrown into the air by his father died away, Marjorie Gianetti realized that her husband Anto nio must have known this would happen. Yes, he must have known it would one day lead to this.
    Then the image in the garden faded, and so did Marjorie Gianetti.
    CHAPTE R

THRE E
    Steve Babe was doing stroke time. It was enough to make a guy laugh his head off. But still, he couldn’t help wondering what had caused it. Maybe it was the Hungarian paprikas —onion sau teed in bacon drippings, red paprika, sliced beef or cut up chicken with gizzards, dumplings—or the baked goose liver—a milk-soaked two-pounder,