Terri appreciates it but still gives him grief. “What, I married those two jamokes instead of you?”
“They’re good kids.”
“When this baby comes,” Terri says, “if this baby ever comes, don’t think those two knot-heads are going to be over here changing diapers, because that’s going to be you, Danny Ryan. You knocked me up, not them.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Terri. That’s good to know.”
Terri’s eating increasingly weird shit.
One night Danny comes home, she’s sitting at the kitchen table chucking down something he don’t recognize.
“What is that?” he asks.
“An English muffin with green beans, melted cheese, and grape jelly,” she says, like it’s obvious.
“Wow.”
“Hey, you want some, make your own. I’m off my feet.”
Another night she gets on him about Madeleine. They’re lying in bed watching Carson when she says out of nowhere, “I miss your mom.”
“I don’t.”
“I do,” Terri says. “I like her. And it would be nice to have her help, you know, when the baby comes.”
“Yeah, because she’s so good with babies.”
Terri isn’t letting it go. “Are you ever going to forgive her?”
“Why?”
“Why do I ask,” Terri says, “or why should you forgive her?”
“I dunno. Both.”
“Because I’m your wife and I get to ask questions,” Terri says, “and because one day you’ll be standing at her grave and you’ll be sorry you didn’t.”
“No, I won’t,” Danny says. “Because I won’t be at the funeral.”
So Terri keeps getting bigger and weirder, and the uneasy peace between the Italians and the Irish holds up. While everyone knows it’s a truce and not a peace, still everyone acts with a measure of restraint. The Irish stay pretty much in Dogtown, the Italians on Federal Hill, as guys from each side keep a distance and a wary eye but are careful to avoid any other contact, lest a careless word strike a spark.
Twenty-Five
The baby comes in June, one day early.
Danny would say later that Ian slid out like he was trying to beat a double play at second.
Terri, she didn’t share this observation.
She’s in labor for six long hours, and it’s three in the morning before Ian decides to make his appearance in the world. Danny, he hangs in, he’s right there with the ice chips and the encouragement and the rhythmic breathing and all that happy crap. He’s seen his share of blood, although nothing like this, but Danny’s a soldier and is right there when the nurses wrap up the baby and lay him on Terri’s chest, saying, “Here’s your son.”
Ian Patrick Ryan.
Six pounds, four ounces.
All the fingers and toes.
Danny knows true happiness for maybe the first time in his life.
He don’t even get that mad when, later that morning, Terri—who recovers with astonishing speed—insists on calling Madeleine. “She should know she has a grandson.”
“I’m not talking to her.”
“Then go down to the cafeteria and get me an omelet,” Terri says.
“Didn’t you already have breakfast?”
“And now I’m going to have another one,” she says. “A cheese omelet. Cheddar.”
Danny obeys.
Madeleine answers the phone. “Terri? Do you have news for me?”
“Ian Patrick Ryan,” Terri says. “Six pounds, four ounces. Congratulations, you have a grandson.”
“And how are you?”
“I’m great,” Terri says. “I feel like I got a, I dunno, a basketball out of my stomach.”
“I’m so happy.”
“Are you going to come out and meet him?”
“I’d love to,” Madeleine says. “But I don’t think Danny would like that.”
“I love my husband,” Terri says. “But he can be kind of an asshole.”
“We’ll work on it,” Madeleine says. “See how it goes. You never know.”
“I’ll send pictures.”
“Please.”
They chat for another minute and then hang up.
Madeleine is surprised to find that she’s crying.
The truce holds through summer, and it’s the summer of little sleep, colic, late-night feedings, early-morning wake-ups, and Danny doesn’t mind any of it. He just figures it comes with the territory, being a father, and even though Ian doesn’t do a lot except spit up, poop, and sleep, Danny still loves just looking at him, holding him, feeling him get heavy as he drops off.