Dave Tells His Story (The Miracle Man, Part 3)

Photo courtesy of George Bosela

Maggie here, looking with lust at the large mug of coffee next to my computer. Della’s the brew-meister in our office, even though she doesn’t drink the stuff. No, Diet Coke is her beverage of choice. That particular drink makes my stomach curdle, but she swears by it. Good for what ails you, she declares.

Anyway, at this point in our story the above-mentioned Diet Coke drinker appeared at the bottom of the stairs. She was shouting out words: “Oh!” she cried, then: “The!”

The rest was song. “Shark, babe, has such teeth, dear! And it shows them, pearly white.” Della was standing at the bottom of the stairs, arms outstretched, belting the sound to whoever was in listening range. “Just a jack knife, has old MacHeath babe…”

I looked over at David, who was staring downstairs with some trepidation. “I guess Della is back from lunch,” I said. I looked back down. “Hey, Della!” I interrupted. Della stopped, lowered her arms and cocked her head. “You’ve got a visitor upstairs.”

Della’s mouth dropped open. Then she clamped a hand over it and started quickly upstairs, one hand on the banister, the other clutching a white cane. “Oh, lordy!” she exclaimed once she reached the top. “Who’d I piss off now?”

“Oh, that’s okay,” David said to her. “Johnny told me about you. He’s right. You’re a pistol.”

Della’s eyes popped open. “Oh, really?” she replied, then felt to her left for the doorway to her office. She made her way inside, then walked straight ahead to an antique oak desk. She found it with an outstretched hand, then felt along its edges until she reached her chair. She took a seat behind it, then folded up her cane. “So,” she asked, “how can this pistol help you?”

I looked over and smiled at David, giving him the floor. He cleared his throat and began. “M’am, my name is David Carlini and I heard about you from Johnny Trocadero,” he declared in a tumble.  “He said you was good with computers for…” David stopped suddenly and blanched. “For blind people.”

Della raised her head and exhaled in surprise. Johnny T. Trocco’s was our absolute favorite restaurant for Italian food, run by Joe and Antonette Trocadero, a charming couple from the old country. Della and I were regular customers and they had taken us under wing long ago. Despite her last name, Della was Italian and they loved her like their own child. I got thrown in for good measure, despite my long-standing Polish ancestry. The Trocaderos rarely asked for anything, but when they did there was no room for refusal. Della had a new client, whether or not she wanted one. “How can I help you, Mr. Carlini?” she said, coming to the same conclusion. “Maggie?” she asked. “Would you mind staying? You’re the computer maven. I just test them.”

“Sure,” I said, then directed David to a chair. I took the one to his left. We were both facing Della.

David Carlini found his voice again, despite obvious discomfort. I tried to put myself in his shoes: a weathered, dirt-caked man in an office with oriental rugs and antique furniture. Was he under orders from the Trocaderos, too? “I need some help for my wife,” he said. “She was a car accident last month and…” His voice cracked. He cleared it. “And she went through the windshield. They said a piece of glass cut into something in the optic nerve. They did what they could, but they said it wouldn’t do much good.”

Della shut her eyes and her voice became uncharacteristically soft. “I’m sorry, David,” she said slowly. “I am truly sorry.”

David nodded. “Thank you,” he said tightly. “But she’s going to need a computer to help her read and stuff. That’s what they told me. And, so I’m wondering if you could help me find something. I can pay. We got some money saved up.”

Della nodded. “I can help you with that.” She opened a desk drawer and pulled out a notepad and a case for glasses. She clicked on a high-intensity lamp that stood nearby. “But first, can you answer some questions?” She drew out a pair of glasses and adjusted them on her nose, pen at the ready.

“I’ll try,” David replied.

“Do you know if she’s totally blind, or if she has any vision at all?”

David adjusted himself in the seat. “They’re not sure. She just got home yesterday.”

“Can we talk to her directly?”

“Yeah, sure,” David said. “In fact, she said she wanted to do that…if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Good,” Della continued. “And I’d also like to talk to her doctor. Can you arrange that?”

David nodded. “He just said yes,” I told Della. Then I turned to David. “She can’t see you if you just nod, Mr. Carlini. It would probably be a good idea to get used to that anyway.”

David stood up suddenly, pain washing over his weathered face. “Yeah, yeah,” he stuttered. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry, miss. I’ll do that. I’ll do that. But now, I gotta go.” He cleared his throat again. “I’ll call you’se later. Thank you.”

I stood up and extended my hand. He took it, tentatively, and shook it. “Thank you, miss.”

“Call me Maggie,” I said. “And don’t worry about it. We’ll be talking to you soon, okay?”

“Yes, m’am. And goodbye Mrs. Peterson,” David Carlini said, before leaving us.

Della and I listened to his footsteps as he clomped his way down the stairs. A moment later we heard the door open and shut behind him. The silence after that made my ears ring. “Jesus,” I finally said.

Della scratched her head, running fingers through her thick, short-cut white hair. “That poor devil. I don’t know who to feel worse for, the wife or him.”

“Well, I have a suggestion,” I said. “After work today, I think I’d like to go out for dinner.”

“Good idea. I’m in a mood for Italian.” Della replied, smiling.

“I’ll make the reservations,” I said rising from the chair. “I think both Joe and Antonette are on duty tonight.”

“I’ll bet they are,” Della agreed. “And I’ll bet they’ll have a few minutes to talk to us.”