Everyone was nervous, excited and a little scared—Johnny Saxon was flying home to his folks in Brooklyn, and he was bringing his love with him . . ....
Only the two of them were in the white hospital room. The eighty-two-year-old man with the snow-white hair and the thin, drawn face lay back on the white pillowcase. His deeply-set brown eyes stared at his grandson glassily. Falteringly, in a hesitant mixture of Italian...