Page 317 - The Grotesque Children's Book

Chapter 46.

All the cheer and cloves in the world

“The cloves in my tea seem to be helping, son,” said Jacopo del Meglio, handing the cup
back to his son Santi. “They're thinning my spittle.”

Santi smiled grimly. “Who knew we'd get to the point where we were worrying about the
thickness of our spittle! Let me make you another cup, Father.”

“We're trapped in our bodies, aren't we? The older we get the more trapped are we.”

“I suppose that's why we have children, isn't it, Father?” Santi put the kettle over the fire.

“To -- trap us? I don't follow.”

“No, Father, no! To be another helping set of hands outside our own bodies. Is that how
you feel, is trapped?”

“Soon I'll be free enough. It won't be long now.”

“Now, now, we've talked about this, Father. The cloves are going to cure you! You'll be
well in no time. You'll live another ten years!” A month, if he's lucky; well, or unlucky,
depending on the severity of the pain of the end. Poor Guilia's final days were so awful.

“I suppose that's your duty, Santi, is trying to keep me cheery until the end. Such a good
son you are! You were a good husband as well. But all the cheer and cloves in the world won't
stave off the inevitable.”

This is my fault, thought Santi now and always, I brought this scourge into our house. It
killed my mother and my wife, and now I'm to watch the last of my family die before my eyes. I
can only hope this final penance cleanses me of whatever wrongs I committed, to cause such
horrid wrath to descend upon me and my family. Please let this be over quickly! “Dr. Valerius
says once the lungs are clear of bile, the rest of the body will cleanse itself.”

“He doesn't say that, I'm sure. No need to ply me with falsehoods, Santi. That does
neither of us any g --” Here another great bout of coughing took over the dying man, a racking
sound, a heaving up of something gruesome from deep inside his body, trying to work its way up
from within and then out of the mouth. But Jacomo's chest pains had been so chronic for so
long, a cough so excruciating, pounding as it did on the bottom of the lungs and throat. There
wasn't strength in the cough to drive up the gruesomeness, but merely to agitate it, causing more
coughing, which caused more agitation, and always, always unimaginable pain.

“You see, Father?” Santi tried to say through his rising tears, “that's the sound of thinning
spittle! You're getting better and better. Here's more tea, coming right up!” The kettle wasn't
yet boiling, but Santi pretended it was, to give him an excuse to turn away from his father to hide
the tears.

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