by Terri Favro
10
Marcello comes-to in a slope-ceilinged room the bright yellow of a child’s crayon sun. A man with the face of an unshaven bullfrog is looking down at him, the tell-tale scent of Sen-Sen barely masking the stale Hiram Walker on his breath. Same brand as Pop, he thinks: no, no, Senior’s not his father, he’s just found out his father is a question mark.
A bright light shines in his eyes. Penlight, Marcello registers. The bullfrog is holding it up as he peers at him. He can hear the man’s breath wheeze.
“Don’t worry, you’re still a pretty boy. Thank your Pop for not smashing in your nose.” Somewhere in the room, someone laughs. This must have been a joke.
The bullfrog man looks familiar. Marcello’s brain gropes in the dark, trying to remember him. Oh yeah, one of the craps players. Sighing, he closes his eyes.
“Hey hey hey none of that,” says the bullfrog man, shaking Marcello’s hip. “Gotta stay awake.”
“How you know it’s a concussion?” says a voice.
“Lookit his eyes. I’ve seen it a million times with fighters. Got a couple of cracked ribs too. Nothing you can do but let ’em heal. Want me to tape him?”
“Go ahead,” says the voice.
The bullfrog man gently slides an arm behind Marcello and moves him up to sitting. The pain is fierce, a sword running through one side of his chest and out the other.
“Ida?” he moans.
“Not even close, sweetheart,” grunts the bullfrog.
“How long before he can walk normal?” asks the voice.
“Day or two. But like I said, you gotta keep him awake for a day and a night to make sure you don’t die in his sleep.”
The voice says: “Guess I better get him a nursemaid.”
After the bullfrog leaves, Marcello’s brain skips over time like a stone on a pond. At first, he’s still in the bright yellow room, on a narrow bed, a plaid comforter tossed over him despite the heat. When he pivots his head, he can see that the walls are covered with athletic ribbons and awards; one large framed black and white photograph is of a white-haired teenager in a football uniform, a plaque screwed into it reading Zenon ‘Glen’ Kowalchuck, Captain, St. Dismas Bandits, City Champions 1955. Except for the low rumble of a television from somewhere, the room is very quiet. Despite the bullfrog’s warnings, Marcello dozes.
He wakes up to a sensation of movement. Someone is shaking his legs, trying to rouse him. Opening his eyes, he sees Bum Bum. The kid pulls a pack of Export As from his pants and taps out a cigarette, holding it toward Marcello as if offering medicine. When Marcello drops the cigarette, Bum Bum puts the smoke between his swollen lips and lights him up.
Marcello relaxes a little as the smoke fill his lungs. It’s better than nothing: he vaguely remembers the bullfrog saying to the voice And nothing for the pain neither for twenty-four hours, after that he can pop 222s.
“Where’s Ida?” he mumbles.
“Andolinis’. Kowalchuck afraid your Pop gonna kill her.”
Marcello says a silent prayer of thanks as Bum Bum gets up and leans over him, tear tracks still visible through the dirt on his face. “C’mon, I help you get up. Something on TV you gonna wanna watch.”
In the main room of the flat, Marcello lies with his head on a velvet souvenir cushion from the Ripley’s Believe It or Not Museum, the skin of his back sweaty against a plastic couch cover. Old Mrs. K. is spread out in a recliner next to him, feet up, eyes on the TV. Bum Bum is fixing them tumblers of Tang and bowls of Cheerios brimming with milk.
A TV voice is saying: All report they are ‘go’ for the mission…the swing arm will now come back to its fully retracted position…Launch Director Rocco Petrone now gives a ‘go’.
On television, white smoke pours from the Saturn rocket as it thrusts skyward: Lift off! Tower cleared! We have lift off at thirty-two minutes past the hour, the lift off of Apollo 11. We’re through the region of maximum dynamic pressure now. This is Houston, you are good for staging. Then they hear the voice of Neil Armstrong – through the static he sounds strong, confident, almost joyous: Hey Houston, Apollo 11. This Saturn gave us a magnificent ride. It was beautiful.
Marcello, Bum Bum and Mrs. K. stare at the screen as the camera follows the rocket turning from a flying white skyscraper into a distant gleam in the blue. Mrs. K. mumbles something in Ukrainian that sounds like a prayer. Marcello makes the sign of the cross. Bum Bum spoons up Cheerios, burps and asks, “You think they find green girls up there, like on Star Trek?”
Marcello laughs, then winces at the pain. “No, just rocks and craters.”
“Why bother go?” wonders Bum Bum.
Later, with Walter Cronkite interviewing everyone from the head of Mission Control to the guy selling hot dogs at Cape Kennedy, Bum Bum pulls a book out of his pants: Marcello’s beaten copy of I, Robot.
“I can’t make the story go on my own.”
Marcello opens the book but the words stagger all over the page. “My head hurts too much to read, Pasquale.”
The boy nudges him. “You gotta stay awake.”
Marcello stares at the book until he finally focuses his eyes, then starts reading. Mrs. K. turns to listen.
In the middle of the chapter, a thought occurs to Marcello: stopping, he looks at Bum Bum and asks: “Was it you brought the flowers and chocolates to Ida?”
The boy shakes his head, then nods. “I bring them over, but they not from me. Wedding present from Kowalchuck.”
Marcello considers this – why did Ida say they were from Senior? – until his train of thought slides to the floor along with the book. When Bum Bum puts it back in his hands, he starts reading one word after another again but can’t keep the thread of the story in his head. Bum Bum sighs in contentment and leans against him, the pressure of his body painful yet comforting against Marcello’s taped ribs.
Some time that day – morning, afternoon, who knows – with Marcello still dizzy and chain-smoking Export As, Kowalchuck shows up at the flat. Pulling one of the captain’s chairs out from the poker table, he sits in front of Marcello, elbows on knees. The dial on his watch reads quarter to three. Marcello has to work hard to figure out how many hours he’s been there.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’ve come to make the peace,” Kowalchuck tells him.
Marcello coughs painfully. “Ida okay?”
Kowalchuck chuckles, patting Marcello’s leg. “One track mind. Your father sure as hell don’t want his bride no more, now that you ruined her. She’s safe and sound with Prima. The Chevy too. But I’m owed a shitload of money for bringing her over.”
“I’ll look after it. Ida’s with me now,” says Marcello firmly, then asks: “How much?”
“Two thousand.”
Marcello gives a low groan.
“That job I told you about. You do it, we call it even. I’ll even take your gambling debts into consideration. It goes about four days from now – you oughta be okay by then.”
“I won’t beat anyone up,” says Marcello.
Kowalchuck waves a hand dismissively. “I don’t need nothing like that. Just a big, smart guy who makes an impression. You talk good. You can help me bring pressure to bear.”
“What if I don’t?” asks Marcello. As usual, he wants all the facts.
“Then I keep the woman myself,” says Kowalchuck. “I could use someone to look after Ma. Cook, clean. Other shit, too.”
Marcello takes a moment to weigh the odds. On one side, Ida. On the other, Kowalchuck’s job. The decision is clear. He offers Kowalchuck his hand.
“Now heal up so you can settle your debt,” says Kowalchuck. “Then you can run off and live happy ever after, like fucking Blondie and Dagwood.”
11
July 19
“His job was to scare the woman. Yours was to s
care the kid. Wasn’t that obvious?” asks Kowalchuck, as he walks Marcello to the car.
“Nothing was obvious,” says Marcello, fighting a desire to vomit.
He notices the wet grass under his boots, the phlegmy catch in Kowalchuck’s throat, the frantic barking of a dog in the distance. Every sound is so crisp, every detail so sharply defined, that they press themselves deeply into his mind, returning to him years later in nightmares and illness.
The stars shine down on Marcello and Kowalchuck, a thousand thousand eyes witnessing their actions.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this, thinks Marcello.
All he was supposed to do was stand there and give some fat businessman something to think about. You might have to say a few firm words, Kowalchuck assured him. That’s all it should take to inspire fear, persuading the guy to do whatever it is that Kowalchuck wants him to do. A good thing, since all that’s holding Marcello together are the bandages around his ribs and a handful of 222s.
Pain enhances, rather than detracts, from the impression he wants to create. With his black clothing and boots and his physical size, Marcello easily inspires fear. His swollen and bruised face only heightens the sense of him being a dangerous man.
Look at this guy – somebody turned him into mincemeat and he’s still ready for a fight. Want to take a poke at him? Be my guest.
It’s a bluff, like in poker. Marcello’s only consolation is that he’s too deeply wounded to hurt anyone else.
Kowalchuck has already outlined the rules for this job:
They all arrive together in one car: Kowalchuck, Marcello, and a third man of Kowalchuck’s choosing. After, the Chevy will be waiting on a concession road so Marcello can make a clean getaway.
Kowalchuck does all the talking. Unless he asks you a direct question, you keep your mouth shut. If anyone else asks you a question, you don’t answer.
Don’t do anything unless Kowalchuck tells you to.
Wear black: a close-fitting, short-sleeved black tee shirt, black pants, black combat boots. You want them to see how strong you are. How you could crush them with one hand. It’s part of the intimidation thing. Make sure the cracked ribs are taped up nice and tight so you don’t slouch.
No improvising.
When Bum Bum helps him walks downstairs from Mrs. K’s flat to the Impala, Kowalchuck is at the wheel, the other man in back. Kowalchuck waves Marcello into the shotgun seat. Glancing back, he sees that the other man is the broken-down biker from Hamilton. Stan.
“Open the glove, Junior. Something in there for you,” says Kowalchuck.
Marcello opens it to find a set of brass knuckles. “What do I need these things for?”
“Makes things go smoother.”
Marcello’s chest is aching badly now; the cracked ribs are dulled by painkillers but nothing touches the burning on his chest. The scratches have started bleeding again, a sign that he’s about to make a mistake, as if the brass knuckles and Stan’s presence weren’t enough to tell him that. He knows he should leave right now, but he can’t get out of a moving car; there’s a sense of irrevocability to the whole thing that makes him feel lightheaded. Otherworldly.
They drive through darkness for about thirty minutes, maybe forty. Still not thinking straight, Marcello forgets to time the trip. Later, when he attempts to recreate the route, to figure out exactly which farm lane they pulled into, he won’t be able to.
From the farm lane, they pull onto a long gravel driveway cutting through the frontage of a tender fruit farm: Marcello can make out the expanse of strawberry fields and beyond it, a peach orchard. On farms like this, there is usually a dog or two, mean as hell. The kind that would go for the wheels of your car even before you got out. Not tonight.
They park in the yard of a weathered grey farmhouse, the tall saltbox shape of every other farmhouse Marcello has ever seen, and walk to the front door. It’s a strangely suburban door, with a painted glass window of geese rising off a lake, out of place against the peeling clapboard walls.
Stan walks along the outside wall of the house. Marcello can hear the snips of wire cutters in the darkness as he severs the Bell line, isolating everyone inside the house from the civilized world beyond.
“Take off your jacket, Marcello,” says Kowalchuck, quietly, as they stand at the door. “You have to let them see you.” Marcello pulls off the jacket and slings it over one arm, the brass knuckles weighing down one pocket.
Kowalchuck doesn’t knock. He pushes open the door and stands in the hallway with Stan on his left and Marcello on his right.
They can hear the sound of a radio. It isn’t music or anything you’d hear on a regular station, but a monotonous voice reciting weather observations:
Township of Bramborough. Ten-oh-five p.m. Winds five miles per hour out of the south-south-west. Temperature, sixty-eight. Probability of precipitation ten percent.
A woman walks into the hallway. She’s thin, washed out, with a faded blonde dye job, her hair pulled tightly back off a face that has seen too much sun and wind; she looks skinned, like the carcass of a squirrel. Her eyelashes and eyebrows are so pale, she reminds Marcello of a battered angel, in an apron and rubber gloves dripping with dish soap.
“You again,” she says to Kowalchuck. Her voice sounds creaky and hoarse, as if she has a sore throat.
“We have to talk to George,” Kowalchuck tells her neutrally. He might as well be the meter reader.
A man comes to the door, a sunburned guy in overalls, broken-down leather slippers and a faded tee shirt reading Round-Up. This is the fat businessman Kowalchuck told him about?
“What the hell are you doing here? I’ve already given you my answer!” He’s almost snarling, but Marcello can tell he’s scared; he keeps stepping forward, then retreating.
“Wrong answer,” says Kowalchuck, very calmly. “Just to remind you, George, you’re still into me for ten thousand. Saying no doesn’t make any sense. Wouldn’t want your family hurt.”
“I’ve been paying you when I can, for Chrissake. I’m going to call the cops.”
“Go ahead,” says Kowalchuck. “I’ll be happy to tell them what you’ve got planted in the field.”
The farmer hesitates; Marcello realizes now why he’s so scared. He’s stuck. Made some bad choices that are catching up with him. Like Marcello. Probably like Ida, too.
“Who’s this guy?” asks the farmer, gesturing at Marcello.
Kowalchuck glances down at Marcello’s bare hands, folded in front of him; the brass knuckles are still in his pocket. “This is my son. Mean son of a bitch, meaner than me. I brought him along to spend some time with your son, to help persuade you.”
That’s when the boy comes into the hallway. He can’t be more than thirteen, with a wide, reddish face and a shaggy thatch of blonde hair. He looks like his mother. He’s wearing a Minnesota North Stars hockey jersey that the mother probably found in some thrift store. No kid wears a jersey from a lame-ass expansion team unless they have no choice. When Marcello sees the boy, he realizes finally and absolutely what a mistake he’s made. But there’s no turning back now.
The mother grabs the boy by his arm and stutters, “Ethan, go back, go back now, in, into the kitchen and finish your work.”
But the boy shakes off her hand and stands looking from one to the other of them. He’s short for his age, hasn’t had his growth spurt yet, his face still delicate, hairless and thin, almost pretty.
Marcello stares at Ethan and thinks There wasn’t supposed to be a kid, but of course it never came up, one way or the other. The boy looks at Marcello and takes a quick step back. Marcello notices a spreading stain on the boy’s blue jeans and the smell of urine.
He’s just scared a thirteen-year-old into peeing his pants.
Marcello is filled with a powerful sense of self-disgust. And h
e hasn’t even left the front door yet.
Marcello, Stan, Ethan and his mother are in the kitchen. Marcello can hear the farmer’s voice, shouting in another room, but he can’t hear Kowalchuck’s replies; of course not, because he stays in control. The man doesn’t know what’s going on in the other room with his family. He can only imagine what Marcello and Stan are doing to them. Marcello wonders what Kowalchuck is telling him.
The kid is sitting at the table in front of a textbook. Summer school, thinks Marcello. He recognizes the book, which he almost knows off by heart: Pathways to Algebra: 2nd Edition. He glances down involuntarily to check the kid’s answers. Then he realizes how ridiculous this is and averts his eyes. Bad guys don’t correct their victim’s homework.
He knows he can’t reassure these people or comfort them in any way. They think he’s the one Clint Eastwood comes in and shoots. There’s no point in smiling or offering false niceties: he came here tonight to scare them and he’s doing a hell of a job.
“This will be over soon,” says Marcello reassuringly. “No one is going to get hurt.”
“We’re already hurt,” rasps the woman.
Dressed in the same tight black fatigues as Marcello, Stan has been sitting quietly on the other side of the room, on a stool pulled up under a bulletin board with notices tacked to it: Egg Pick-Up, Sunday. St. Dunstan’s Fair, Aug. 12. A recipe for Easy No-bake Quiche, clipped out of the Hamilton Spectator. A blue ribbon from the Niagara District Fair reading Best in Show, Peach Preserves.
“What’s through that door, there?” asks Stan.
The woman looks where he’s pointing. “The hallway.”
“Show me,” commands Stan.
What’s he doing? wonders Marcello.
The woman stands up cautiously and goes to the door. “The hallway leads to the living room. There,” she points out.
