~ A Father's Hope ~

by

Judy Leigh Peters

One

New Orleans, Louisiana

August 14, 1945

The war was over. From the backseat of the taxi, Gabe Stefonelli gazed at the crowds lining both sides of the street. Confetti fell from the office buildings along the way. Fellows in uniform with their girlfriends formed a conga line that snaked up and down the street. A wistful feeling overtook him. He’d give almost anything to be in the middle of that group. But his dancing days were over now. He glanced down at his prosthetic leg. Little had changed here in America, but much had changed in his life.

He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the well-worn envelope, glancing at the return address. She’d moved. He rubbed his eyes and yawned. The cab pulled up in front of a brick building surrounded by a tall cast-iron fence. Inside the fence yellow mums and white carnations surrounded a small fountain. He looked the building over as he handed the lady cab driver a bill.

"Thanks for the ride." He opened the car door. As he stood up, dizziness engulfed him. He held on to the door. "Whoa! Mixing that hurricane with beer wasn’t a great idea."

"You’re going to have one heck of a headache, soldier. Sure you don’t need some help getting up those steps?" the cab driver asked.

"No, shish a piece of cake. Don’t need anyone to help me. You think I’m an invalid?"

"Of course not." She glanced up at him. "You’re not steady on your feet. That’s all I meant."

"Sorry I jumped on you."

"It’s okay. I’ll wait a couple minutes before I take off." She smiled. "Want to be sure you get inside."

"Thanks."

Gabe managed to get up the two steps to the building entrance. He searched the names on the mailbox. Just his luck--Lynne’s apartment was on the third floor. He shifted his weight to his good leg as he tried to swing open the heavy door. A man on his way out held it for him.

"Thanks. I’m still getting used to this new leg of mine." He leaned on the cane. "It doesn’t always move the way I want it to."

"I bet. Thank God this war is over with. We owe you guys a lot." He tipped his snap-brim- felt fedora, then closed the door behind him.

Gabe turned and waved to the young woman driving the cab. She waved back as she pulled out into traffic. The aroma of red beans and rice seeped out from under an apartment door, making his mouth water. His stomach growled, reminding him he’d forgotten to eat supper. He’d been doing a lot of that lately. It seemed like beer and pain pills had become his steady diet. But that was going to stop now.

The long winding staircase seemed to go on forever.

"Well, Stefonelli, get moving," he mumbled. By the time he worked his way to the second landing, he was short of breath and sweat dripped down the side of his face. He wiped his forehead with his uniform sleeve. "Lynne, it wouldn’t have hurt my feelings any if you got a ground-floor apartment." He struggled up the remaining flight of stairs, amazed when he finally reached the third-floor landing. Suddenly the hallway tilted, the floor swirled. He grabbed the railing.

"Oh boy." He tried to focus on the door in front of him. But it wasn’t easy when the floor kept moving like a ship out to sea. "305, that’s the number I want." He pounded on the door. "Hey, Lynne, it’s Gabe Stefonelli. Open up!"

Nothing.

He pounded harder. "Please, I’ve come to see my daughter." Another wave of motion caused him to grab the doorframe, but his wet palms slipped. The next thing he knew he was falling. He landed hard, banging his knee. For a few seconds, he just lay there. Pain shot up his thigh. Slowly he turned over on his back.

The hallway was really spinning now. He closed his eyes for a moment.

Well, you can’t just lay here, Stefonelli. Get up off your back. You don’t want Lynne to see you like this.

It took him a few minutes but he was finally able to pull himself up by grabbing the railing. He wiped sweat from his chin. Taking the painkillers and chasing them with liquor had been stupid. Nothing was going to stop the pain of his loss. He pounded harder. Why didn’t she answer the door?