One Hit Wonder

by Charlie Carillo

  “Good night,” she said, but it sounded more like good-bye. It was a time to say nothing, so I said nothing, and I’m sure she appreciated it. This wasn’t love, and it wasn’t quite lust, either. It was a political act, an extension of the crime we’d just committed, something to do besides going crazy on a Cruise to Nowhere.

  Sharon Sherman pulled on her panties and her slacks but carried her shoes in her hands as she made her barefooted way back to her cabin.

  I didn’t even get a backward glance.

  I slept late, and would have slept even later if not for an urgent announcement over the public address system that nearly blasted me out my bed:

  “Attention, all passengers! Anyone with information regarding the whereabouts of the shuffleboard equipment, please report to the cruise director’s office.”

  I sat up in bed, laughing even as my head hammered with a hangover. It hadn’t been a dream! This crazy thing had really happened!

  It was the big topic at breakfast, which was served buffet-style, and as I piled scrambled eggs onto my plate the cruise director was doing her best to placate a chubby guy with a comb-over. It seems he was in the shuffleboard finals, and what, he demanded to know, was going to happen now?

  Meanwhile, the cruise director went to great lengths to try and resolve the shuffleboard snafu. She actually radioed a passing cruise ship to attempt to borrow their shuffleboard equipment, but the captain of that ship refused to stop and help.

  And so it came to pass that I handed out “co-winner” trophies to the comb-over guy and his equally unhappy fellow finalist, a Hungarian with dyed red hair who wheezed like a harmonica with every breath he took. My contract called for me to play the piano and sing one last time, during a late lunch that was served an hour before the cruise came to an end in Los Angeles.

  Sharon Sherman did not show up for breakfast or lunch. She must have stayed in her room until the ship reached the dock, and hurried off the boat as soon as the gangplank went down. I never saw her or heard from her again.

  And the Barca D’Amore cruise director never hired me again. She must have suspected I had something to do with the shuffleboard fiasco.

  That was really the beginning of the end for me in Los Angeles. If I’d made it as a cruise ship singer I probably would have stayed on the West Coast, and never returned to Little Neck, and never gotten the shocking news that awaited me the following day.

  CHAPTER TEN

  It happened innocently enough, when Flynn started busting poor Patrick’s balls about his girlfriend, Scarlett, who worked the lunch counter at the local Kmart.

  We were on our lunch break, sitting in the shade of a swamp maple. Patrick blushed and his ears went red as Flynn’s barbs kept coming, one after another.

  “How’re you two gettin’ along these days, Patrick? The guys get fresh with her at Kmart? Lotta young guys stop in there for lunch, ya know…. Patrick, Patrick, what’s she gonna do in September, when you go away?”

  That last one stung the kid pretty hard. He drained the last of his Gatorade and squeezed the empty bottle in his hands.

  “She’ll e-mail me,” he said softly. “And we’ll talk on the phone. We’re in love, Mr. Flynn.”

  At that magical word the old Irishman relented at last and toasted Patrick with his coffee cup. “Good for you, Patrick. Love is a beautiful thing. Ask Mickey, here. Ain’t love a beautiful thing?”

  “That’s what they say.”

  “Makes the world go ’round, am I right?”

  “They say that, too.”

  “Well, Mick oughta know. He wrote the all-time love song, some say.”

  “I’d love to hear that song,” Patrick said sincerely. “I couldn’t find it on YouTube.”

  “Oh, Christ, Patrick, back in the day, it was the only thing you heard on the radio!”

  There were only a few minutes left to the lunch break. Patrick moved closer to me.

  “May I ask you something?”

  “Sure, Patrick.”

  “Did you write your song for a girl?”

  I was eating a peanut butter sandwich, which went gluey in my suddenly dry mouth.

  “Yes,” I managed to say.

  “Lynn,” Flynn helpfully added. “Lynn Mahoney.”

  “Lynn Ann Mahoney,” I said, and it hit me for the first time that she had the perfect initials for a runaway: L.A.M.

  Patrick’s eyebrows went up. “Mahoney like the fireman family?”

  “Same family,” Flynn said. “She was the only girl. God help them. What a tragedy, huh? What…a…tragedy.” Flynn sighed, then smiled. “Anyway, Mickey was nuts about that girl like you’re nuts about Scarlett.”

  “That’s true,” I admitted. “And the boss-man here busted my chops about it just like he’s busting yours.”

  Patrick’s eyes were wide with wonder. “Whatever happened to her, Mickey?”

  “She moved away a long time ago.”

  “Ran away,” Flynn said. “I mean, I’m sorry, Mick, but that’s what really happened.”

  I rolled my eyes. “All right, she ran away. She ran away and she never came back.”

  Flynn’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “What are you talkin’ about?”

  “What do you mean, what am I talkin’ about?”

  “Mickey, you knucklehead…she’s back.”

  My heart stopped, and then it started again at a gallop, and for a moment I thought I might faint. “What do you mean, she’s back?”

  “For Christ’s sake, Mickey, she moved home with her mother a coupla months ago. You didn’t know that? How could you not know that?”

  Flynn didn’t have a lot of details. Lynn’s mother had suffered a stroke, and she could no longer live alone, so her daughter—her only child still living!—had moved back home to Little Neck to take care of her.

  And according to Flynn, this had happened two months ago, which meant that Lynn had moved back to the old neighborhood even before I did.

  I was numb for the rest of the workday, pushing my mower like a man possessed. It’s a miracle I didn’t run over every flower bed in Great Neck. For once, I was looking forward to the evening meal with the folks, which on that night happened to be tuna casserole, heavy on the noodles.

  I waited until my mother had set all three plates down and settled herself into her chair before clearing my throat to calm myself. It didn’t work. I was hotter than my lawn mower’s motor at midday.

  “How come you never told me that Lynn is back?”

  My father’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth, noodles dangling. “She is?”

  “Come on, Dad. You knew.”

  “I swear to God, I didn’t know.”

  I believed him. He was too wide-eyed to be bluffing. My mother, on the other hand, was keeping her eyes on her food.

  “Mom. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “What makes you think I knew?”

  “Because you know everything that happens in this damn neighborhood.”

  “I don’t know everything.”

  “You know everything that goes on in Little Neck. If Flynn knew it, you knew it. He probably found out from you!”

  She lifted her eyes to look at me, thoroughly unintimidated at being caught in a lie. “Is it really such big news? Her mother’s not well. She came home to take care of her, that’s all.”

  “It was big news when she didn’t show up to bury her father and her brothers! You couldn’t wait to tell me about that!”

  An iron grip around my left wrist, almost tight enough to cut off my circulation. All those years of working with heavy tools had given my old man powerful hands.

  “Mickey. Take it easy.”

  “Dad, please let go of me.”

  “I will, but calm down.”

  He let my wrist go. I rubbed it, feeling the tingle of blood return to my fingers.

  “I just think it’s funny you didn’t tell me, Mom,” I began as calmly as I could. “We hear about every illness and every death at this tab
le, every biopsy, every tumor, every shadow on every X-ray, but a piece of news like this just goes by the boards, somehow.”

  “What do you care if she’s back?” she all but hissed.

  I had to laugh. “How could I not care? I loved that girl!”

  “She ruined you!”

  A slap in the face couldn’t have stunned me more than those three words. I flinched as if I’d actually been struck.

  “Ruined me?”

  “She broke your heart, Michael.” She leaned closer to me, in danger of getting tuna casserole on her blouse. “Did you hear what I said? That girl broke your heart, but she did more than that. She broke something else that couldn’t be fixed. She changed you forever.”

  I was shocked to see her eyes fill up with tears, tears of grief. My mother was mourning the loss of the boy I used to be. She dabbed at her eyes with a paper napkin, sighed, and came back strong, her eyes red but dry. She’d waited a long time to say these things, and the time had come at last.

  “She wounded you. I can’t forget that it happened. I remember the person you were before you knew her, and the person you became after. She took all the sweetness out of you.” A wistful little smile tickled her lips. “Don’t you think I remember the sweet boy you were?”

  I swallowed, tasting bile. “Everybody gets their heart broken, Mom.”

  “Not like that, they don’t. The way she just disappeared…there’s something seriously wrong with that girl, Michael. No normal person does the things she’s done. Running away like that. Missing those funerals.”

  “You can’t make judgments about funerals. Some people just can’t go through with it. You’re different.”

  She turned to my father. “See how he turns things around?”

  “She goes to ten funerals a week,” I said to him. “To her it’s like going to the movies. And the ‘seriously sick’ they pray for in church are like the coming attractions.”

  “Mickey. Don’t make fun of your mother.”

  “No,” she said, holding up a hand, “let him. Let him make fun of me. I’m an easy target. That’s fine. And do you want to know why you feel free to do it, Michael? Because deep down, you know that I’ll always love you, no matter what happens. I’ll always be here for you. It’s safe to take it out on me.”

  The hand in the air turned into a pointing finger, aimed at me. “When you had nowhere to turn, you came here. You didn’t run to Lynn Mahoney. Remember that.”

  “I didn’t know where she was.”

  “Well, now you know. She’s back with her mother, just like you’re back with your mother. She’s also working as a teller at the Queens County Savings Bank. Actually, it’s an HSBC now. All right? Now you know everything. Happy?”

  “I don’t remember the last time I was happy, Mom.”

  “And we know whose fault that is. Miss Free Spirit herself.”

  She got up. “Now I’m going to work. Yes, Michael, another funeral ceremony. Would you like to come with me? No? Well, then, I’ll just clear the table before I go.”

  She picked up our three barely touched plates of food and tossed them in the sink, food and all. It was far and away the most reckless thing I’d ever seen her do, and even my father was shocked.

  “Donna, for Christ’s sake! What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  “That’s right. Side with your son. I’m used to it.”

  She bolted out the back door, giving it a good slam. We sat still for a moment, and then I got up to inspect the noodly mess. Somehow, the dishes hadn’t broken. Even when she was reckless, she was cautious. I started to clean it up.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Cleaning up.”

  “No. Leave it. It’s her mess. She’ll clean it when she comes back. You and I are going out for a little while.”

  “Out?”

  “Out.”

  “Dad, I’ve got to see Lynn, that’s all there is to it.”

  “Not yet. You’re all steamed up. You’ll make the wrong move. Just come with me.”

  “Where?”

  “Hey. I’m your father. Just do as I say.”

  It was an almost laughable command. I’d pretty much been on my own since I was eighteen, and here he was, twenty years later, giving me an order.

  Funny thing was, I was happy to obey. I followed him to his car and we took off as if we’d just pulled a bank job.

  We were out of the neighborhood before I dared to ask, “Where are we going?”

  He shook a Camel into his mouth and lit it with the dashboard lighter. “Belmont.”

  “The racetrack?”

  “I’m thinkin’ you might like it.”

  I’d never been to the track with my old man before. I had zero interest in racehorses, or any other kind of gambling. I’d never even bought a lottery ticket. Gambling bored me, but my father was hooked. I’d grown up with the Racing Form around the house, and Steady Eddie would study it with pen in hand, making marks on the pages as if the words were revealing truths only he could perceive.

  The worst possible thing had happened to him the first time he ever went to the track, according to my mother—he won big. He’d picked five winners. That was before I was born. He was apparently still trying to recapture that one glorious day. If it’s easy the first time, why shouldn’t it be just as easy every other time?

  It suddenly hit me that I truly was his son, after all. My first song had been a breeze. We’d both failed to learn our lesson, him from the horses, me from my music. Success was a bitch who’d fucked each of us once and then vanished, without even leaving a note on the pillow.

  “Do you remember that time you nearly hit that lamppost with your bike?”

  My father’s words jolted me. I needed a moment to figure out what he was talking about.

  “You mean when you were teaching me to ride?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sure I remember. You saved me at the last instant. Grabbed the bicycle seat just in time.”

  He nodded, dragged on his cigarette. “Last night I had a dream that you hit that pole. I didn’t get there in time.”

  “You dreamed this last night?”

  “Funny, huh? You smashed your head. You weren’t wearing a helmet. Nobody wore helmets in those days. Had to rush you to the hospital.”

  A shiver went through me, and then I tried to lighten it. “It was just a dream, Dad. Who knows what it means?”

  “It means I should have looked out for you better when you were a kid out there in California, is what it means. Maybe I shouldn’ta let you go in the first place.”

  He was trying to apologize for the mess of my life. He had to do it while he was driving, so he could keep his eyes on the road, away from mine.

  “Dad, it doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters.”

  He turned to look at me. There was nothing to say, and the silence was excruciating.

  Just then, some asshole driver cut him off on the highway. He jammed on the brakes and flung a protective arm across my chest.

  “Did you see that dumb bastard, Mick? Talkin’ on a cell phone. Always on their cell phones, these goddamn idiot drivers!”

  “It’s okay, Dad, it’s okay.”

  “Cell phones! Goddamn cell phones! Why the hell do people have to stay in touch with each other twenty-four hours a day? What the fuck is that asshole talking about that’s so fucking important?”

  “Easy, Dad….”

  His arm was still across my chest, protecting me. He seemed to notice it for the first time and dropped it suddenly, seeming embarrassed.

  “Dad. Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For taking me in when I had no place to go.”

  He looked at me, rolled his window down, threw his cigarette away and turned his attention back to the road, on guard against further idiot drivers.

  “You paid off the mortgage,” he said to the windshield. “I should be thanking you.”

  At the racetrack I be
came his little boy again. He bought me a soft pretzel and a beer and if somebody had been selling teddy bears, he probably would have bought me one.

  He touched the rim of his plastic beer cup against the rim of mine. “Cheers, Mick. We never had a beer together, did we? How fuckin’ sad is that?”

  “Better late than never, Dad.”

  I followed him around as if I were five years old, a kid visiting Daddy at his office. He led the way to the viewing area, a ring where the jockeys take the horses before a race. This gives the gamblers one last chance to eye the merchandise before laying down a bet. It was a serious business, almost somber, and deeply depressing. These magnificent animals, bred and fed and groomed to perfection, were being evaluated by a lot of slack-gutted guys with three-day growths of beard, scuffed shoes, and baggy pants buttoned below the belly.

  One of them, a balding guy with an ear-to-ear comb-over, sidled up to my father and asked him who he liked in the first race. My father shrugged, clutching his rolled-up Racing Form. He wasn’t about to share.

  “You’re a real prick, Steady Eddie,” the guy said without a trace of malice. He shuffled away and my father winked at me. I was startled and touched at the same time. I don’t think he’d ever winked at me before. It was a hell of a time and place for my first wink.

  He tapped my shoulder with the rolled-up Racing Form, jerked his chin toward a chestnut stallion and leaned close to my ear.

  “That’s the one,” he whispered in my ear, and again I was startled, as this was the first time my father had ever whispered to me.

  I didn’t know what to say, and when at last I spoke my words couldn’t have been more stupid.

  “You sure, Dad?”

  “Sure? Am I sure? That’s very funny, Mick. If I were sure about this shit, we’d have a mansion in Kings Point.”

  “I mean—”

  “Track’s a little muddy. This one’s good on mud.” He pointed at the board. “He’s goin’ off at twelve to one. I’m gonna play him.”

  “What about that one? He any good?”