Eleanor showed surprise at her deteriorating physical condition.

I got short of breath just giving you the finger at the window, she said.

Her daughter Gina’s face turned hard as a week-old cannoli.

You might feel better if you were more appreciative, she said.

We love you, Mom, Vic said.

Eleanor sneered.

You love the money you think I hid in the attic in the house where you’re living. You love the money I’m spending to stay here at the nursing home. You love the idea of me dying and you putting in a swimming pool with the money in my will you think you’re getting. Love this, you chooch.

Eleanor threw her left arm upward and slapped the bend in the elbow with her right hand.

Fongool, she said.

Gina, please control your mother, Vic said.

Control this, Gina said, grabbing her crotch the way Roseanne did that time she sang the National Anthem at the baseball stadium.

Jesus Christ, you Italians are all alike, Vic said.

You’re Italian, you dumb sonofabitch, Gina said.

You want to push the wheelchair?

No, you, Gina said.

I’ll push it over a cliff, Vic said under his breath.

Eleanor spun around in the chair.

I heard that.

Eleanor breathed in distressing spurts, huffing and puffing like a big bad wolf at the pigs’ front door.

Stop giving me the malocchio, Vic, she said.

Eleanor responded with the time-honored Italian defense against the evil eye, pointing her pinkie and forefinger at her son-in-law like a pumped-up groupie at a heavy metal concert. She then thrust a thumb toward the nursing home.

They’re dropping like flies in there, she said.

That’s why we’re taking you home with us, Gina said.

I like living here. You don’t visit. I eat macaroni four times a week. I have men friends.

We want to protect you in your golden years, Mom, Gina said.

You still drinking a big bottle of Sambuca a week, Gina?

Mom, please.

I miss your father.

Mother.

He was a saint, Vic said.

I better have my own room, Eleanor said.

We’re making a nice granny flat for you in the garage, Gina said.

Out of sight, out of mind, Eleanor said.

Vic mumbled, only softer this time

You’re out of your mind, all right, you old witch.

I swear to God, Victor, I will poison you. I saw a woman do it on NBC Dateline while I was sitting in the day room with all those other wrinkled biddies.

Eleanor launched into a coughing fit.

Vic bit into his knuckle to keep from saying anything else.

Gina gave her mother a handkerchief to wipe her mouth. Taking back her handkerchief, Gina wiped her eyes, blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes again.

“I’m getting emotional, Mom,” she said.

That woman on Dateline put rat poison in the ravioli, Eleanor said.