I’d drive to Gus’s house, and Gus’s parents would make him leave.
“You are, of course, familiar,” Van Houten said, “with Antonietta Meo.”
“Yeah, no,” I said. I turned on the stereo, and the Swedish hip-hop blared, but Van Houten yelled over it.
“She may soon be the youngest nonmartyr saint ever beatified by the Catholic Church.
She had the same cancer that Mr. Waters had, osteosarcoma. They removed her right leg.
The pain was excruciating. As Antonietta Meo lay dying at the ripened age of six from this agonizing cancer,
she told her father, ‘Pain is like fabric: The stronger it is, the more it’s worth.’ Is that true, Hazel?”
I wasn’t looking at him directly but at his reflection in the mirror.
“No,” I shouted over the music. “That’s bullshit.” “But don’t you wish it were true!” he cried back.
I cut the music. “I’m sorry I ruined your trip. You were too young. You were—” He broke down.
As if he had a right to cry over Gus. Van Houten was just another of the endless mourners who did not know him,
another too-late lamentation on his wall. “You didn’t ruin our trip, you self-important bastard.
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