“You seem like a nice guy,” he said. “Then again, in my line of work, anybody who isn’t spitting in my face is a nice guy.”
“How long’s the DNA thing going to take?”
“We’ll know in a week. Maybe less. I’ll call you, or you can call me.” He gave me his card.
“So my…this kid’s in Massachusetts? Where exactly—”
“Don’t even ask, Mr. DeFalco. I can’t tell you more than that right now.”
Aaron Sherman…or was it Aaron DeFalco? The child, my maybe-probably son, was only 250 miles away. A train ride. A five-hour drive. I could be there before midnight, if I knew where I was going….
Belachek picked up the tab and left the waitress a three-dollar tip. He reached over to pick up the photo of the child, but I grabbed it first.
“Can’t I keep it? I’m sure you have copies.”
He thought about it, shrugged, let me keep it. We left the diner together. I walked him to his car.
“Can I say somethin’ to you, kid?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No, you don’t. Listen. I like you, so I’m gonna tell you something.”
“I’m listening.”
He gripped me by the shoulders, the way a school guidance counselor might grab a gifted but lazy student.
“Life takes funny turns,” he said. “Try to turn with them. Otherwise, you hit walls.”
“I’ll remember that. Can I ask you one thing?”
He released my shoulders. “Name it.”
“I already asked you, but I’m asking again—do you think this kid looks like me?”
Belachek took the picture and held it beside my face. He looked from one to the other, squinting one eye.
“Let me put it this way. If this kid were frowning? Hell, he’d be a dead ringer for you. A dead ringer.”
We were sitting around the kitchen table, finishing our meal. It was lasagne left over from the night before. My mother was urging my father to have the last spoonful, because otherwise she was going to have to throw it away.
“Take it, Eddie.”
“For Christ’s sake, I don’t want it!” He cobwebbed his hands over his plate, fingers spread wide. The spoon came my way, and I covered my plate as well. My mother stood there like a pilot in the fog, with no place to land. She sighed, shook her head, dumped the spoonful back into the pan.
“It’s a sin.”
“Gluttony is a sin, too,” my father said. “If I’d forced it down, I would have sinned.”
“Oh, Eddie—”
“I have something to show you,” I blurted, a lot louder than I meant to say it. I took the photo of Aaron from my shirt pocket and passed it to my father, who looked at it quizzically before passing it to my mother. She studied it for a few moments before guessing, “Is this Mikey Gallo’s son?”
Mikey Gallo was a bus driver and an usher at the seven o’clock mass every Sunday. What the fuck would I be doing with a picture of Mikey Gallo’s son?
“No, Mom, that’s not who it is.”
“He looks a lot like Mikey Gallo’s son, doesn’t he, Eddie?”
“Who the hell is Mikey Gallo?”
“He’s an usher at St. Anastasia’s…oh, that’s right, you don’t go to church, do you?”
“You go enough for the two of us. I figure I’m covered.”
“That’s not the way it works, Eddie, we each have to—”
“This boy is your grandson. Maybe.”
I don’t know why I said it that way, instead of saying he was my son, maybe. I guess I wanted to connect the baby to my parents as directly as I could.
My mother went pale. My father got up and stood behind her. He shook a Camel into his mouth and lit up, sensing quite correctly that if ever he was going to get away with smoking in the house, this was the time. Surprisingly, my father spoke first.
“Good-lookin’ boy,” he said softly.
“Oh my dear sweet God in heaven,” my mother said to the ceiling. It wasn’t a cry for help, or mercy. It was a call for order, some semblance of order in her son’s crazy, crazy life.
She turned to me, trembling. “Are you sure he’s yours?”
“Pretty sure, Mom. I’ll know for certain in about a week.”
“Jeez, Mickey, you been ridin’ bareback, or what?”
“I know, Dad, I know.”
“When’d you find out about this?”
“About two hours ago. A private eye from Los Angeles tracked me down.”
He put a hand on my shoulder, as if to share the burden of the weight of the world with me. My mother put the photo down on the table and rubbed her eyes.
“How old is this child?”
“Nine months.”
“And his mother waited all this time—”
“His mother just died. She was a very private person who was happy to raise the kid all by herself. Never told anybody I was the father. It was revealed in her will.”
“Her will?”
I nodded. “If she hadn’t died, I never would have known about little Aaron, here.”
My mother’s face softened. Hearing the boy’s name made it all real to her. “Aaron? That’s a biblical name!”
“I guess it is.”
“Was this woman a Catholic?”
“You know, Mom, I have no idea.”
“Well, how did you meet her?”
I was too tired to sugarcoat it, or smooth the edges.
“She was on that cruise ship I worked on, the one that sank a few weeks ago. We had a one-night fling. That’s all. It just kind of…happened.”
My mother shut her eyes over the carelessness of her only begotten son, the kind of person who could have sex with a woman without knowing about her religious beliefs, not to mention her educational background, her father’s line of work, whether the family owned or rented….
She opened her eyes and studied the photo again. “This poor child has no mother.”
“He’s with a cousin right now, someplace near Boston. The cousin wants me to take him. There’s a big trust fund. That’s a good thing, right?”
My mother shook her head, chuckled in a sad way. “Michael. Your life.”
I braced myself for the worst. “What about my life, Mom?”
Her next words really did surprise me. “You never got away with anything,” she said softly. “Whatever you did, you paid for it, and then some. Ever since you were a kid. You never…caught a break.”
She spoke the words the way you’d deliver a eulogy. I actually shivered at the sound of them. It was more like something my father would have said, with a few “shits” and “fucks” thrown in.
“Hey, Donna, take it easy,” my father said. “What about his song? Didn’t he get a break with his song?”
She chuckled again, the same way. “You think so, Eddie? I think that song was the biggest curse of all. Look at where it’s gotten him. Look.”
They looked at me, their shipwreck of a son. My father tipped his ashes into his cupped palm. My mother had apparently gotten rid of all the ashtrays.
“Well,” my father said, “let’s not get too excited just yet. Let’s wait for the test to come back, and figure out what’s next.”
I had to admire them. They were pretty calm, considering what was happening. For twenty years it had been just the two of them in the house, and then I returned out of the blue, and suddenly here they were, one lab test away from becoming a three-generation family under one small roof.
My mother wiped sudden tears from her eyes. Grandmother-hood is supposed to be something you dream about and anticipate and grow into. It’s not supposed to land in your lap like a football. She’d been cheated out of something precious.
My father put his arm across her shoulders. “You know, I think we still have the crib in the attic.” The crib that had held me!
My mother sniffed, cleared her throat. “No, Eddie, don’t you remember? We gave it to the Lamberts when their daughter was born.”
“Oh that’s right, that’s right.”
“I suppose we could get it back. That child must be ten, eleven years old by now.”
“Unless they gave it away to somebody….”
They were amazing. They’d gotten over the initial shock and gone straight to the practical matters ahead. They were a good team, my parents. I guess that’s why they’d lasted, and would continue to last. They were totally different people who gave each other all kinds of bullshit, but when it came to the big-ticket issues they pulled their oars in the same direction.
But they were also getting old, and they did not need this latest mess of mine.
“Listen,” I said, “this is my problem. No matter how it goes, I’ll handle it.”
They looked at me the way parents look at their little boy in a space suit who’s just announced that he’s going to fly his cardboard rocket ship to the moon. My mother reached across the kitchen table, clasped my hands in hers and held on as if I were a lifeline.
“Michael, tell me one thing.”
“Anything, Mom.”
Her eyes brightened with hope. “Did you at least like the mother of this child?”
I nodded. “She was nice, Mom. She was really nice. We kind of…connected.”
“Evidently.”
She let go of my hands, slid back in her chair, tucked her hands between her knees. “Well, that’s something, anyway. That’s something. It’s good to know she was a nice person. Isn’t that a good thing, Eddie?”
He kissed her on the forehead. “Well, it ain’t a bad thing.”
“Take that cigarette outside, please.”
I went to sleep early, and it wasn’t until the middle of the night that I sat bolt upright in bed and realized that this jarring turn of events might just be the solution to my problems.
CHAPTER THIRTY
It was so simple. Lynn would raise little Aaron with me! We’d ride up to Massachusetts, pick up my child, and begin our lives anew. Together we would shape this little life, restore old bonds, heal old wounds.
Would she want to raise another woman’s child? Of course she would, if the child was mine! All I had to do was get Lynn to forgive me. Piece of cake, or so I hoped and prayed.
I didn’t need a DNA test to tell me what my heart already knew. I was the one. Little Aaron was mine. I was eager to get this thing going. I wanted Lynn and I to meet him before he took his first step. That would be a hell of a thing to miss.
I didn’t fall back to sleep for hours. I was yawny and tired when I reached Flynn’s garage the next morning, and he stunned me with the words, “You lost.”
I had no idea of what he was talking about. The DNA test? My mind? What?
“The radio contest,” Flynn continued with a smile. “‘Feelings’ was voted the sappiest song. ‘All by Myself’ was second. You were third.”
“I demand a recount.”
In the midst of it all was Patrick, poor heartbroken Patrick.
He’d talked it over with his parents and agreed to stick to the plan and play football for Purdue University. Then he’d gone to see Scarlett and told her they’d make it work, that she could come and visit him, that he’d be home for Thanksgiving, but that didn’t keep the two of them from having an all-night fight over his imminent departure. The undeniable truth was that his athletic gifts were taking him away from the most important thing in his life for the next four years. At his age, the time did not pass swiftly.
At the lunch break Patrick’s normally voracious appetite was gone. He barely touched his food and stared off at the sky, as if he were imagining that maybe there was a gentler planet somewhere out there in the galaxy where life would work out better for a guy like him.
Flynn’s voice was kind. “Come on, Patrick, eat up. You’ll faint out here if you don’t eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You got some time before you go to Purdue. Try and enjoy it.”
He shook his head. “I have to be at football camp in ten days.”
“Well, that’s better than nine days, ain’t it?”
Patrick turned his gaze toward me. “Mickey understands. Mickey’s the only one.”
“Tell him, Mick,” Flynn said. “He ain’t listenin’ to me.”
I patted his rock-hard shoulder, tried to give it a squeeze. “First things first, Patrick. Finish your lunch. You’re going to need it.”
I meant what I said. We were at the Haffner house, the toughest lawn of the week, a place we simply called “the hill.” It was a slope of green that was more like the side of a mountain than a lawn in Great Neck.
But Patrick ignored my advice and rose to his feet. “I’m going back to work.”
“Patrick, buddy, don’t do the hill by yourself. Sit. Eat.”
“You got another fifteen minutes,” Flynn added, but Patrick ignored him, too. He pushed his mower to the top of the hill and pulled the rip cord.
“Lucky you, Mick,” Flynn said. “By the time we finish lunch Patrick’ll have the hill all done.”
He cut the flat part at the top of the lawn first, the easy part, and then the hill was all his.
“He’ll love Purdue,” Flynn said. “You watch. He’ll go and he’ll love it.”
We sat and watched him work. Something funny was going on. You had to stand at the top of the hill and work your way down on the sides of your feet, holding on tightly to the lawn mower so it wouldn’t get away from you. If the grass was even slightly wet, you slipped and fell on your ass.
Patrick was handling it fine, but he was moving too fast. The muscles in his arms were bulging and ropy, and his eyes burned with concentration. Soon he had half of the hill cut.
Flynn looked at his watch. “Five minutes left for lunch,” he chuckled. “Looks like you’re off the hook, Mick.”
And then Patrick looked at me, the way you’d look at someone you know you’re seeing for the last time. Suddenly he lost his footing, and his lawn mower plunged toward the street.
He should have just let it go, but this was a kid who never let anything go. Clutching the handle, he strained in vain to stop the mower while his legs raced down the hill, picking up speed with each stride.
“Let go!” Flynn shouted.
An oil truck was approaching. Patrick and his mower were heading straight into its path. I jumped to my feet and raced toward Patrick. I dove at him, wrapping my arms around his waist. The two of us tumbled and hit the sidewalk as the lawn mower rolled into the street and was smashed to pieces by the truck.
Flynn hop-limped toward us as the oil truck screeched to a halt. Patrick’s heavy breaths were like cloth being ripped. He was facedown on the sidewalk, and I was on top of him. He turned his head to look at me, his nose bleeding profusely.
“Jesus Christ, Patrick!”
“You okay, Mickey?”
“Elbow hurts…. You?”
He put a hand to his face, brought it away wet with blood.
“I think my nose might be broken,” he said calmly, as if he were delivering a weather report. Then he fainted dead away.
We had to carry Patrick to the truck. He regained consciousness halfway through the ride to the emergency room and insisted that he was fine and wanted to go back to work.
“Shut up, Patrick,” Flynn said. “Just shut up.”
All I had was a scraped elbow, but Patrick’s nose was broken and he’d suffered a mild concussion. He was stretched out on a cot that wasn’t quite long enough for him. They wanted him to rest for an hour or so before heading home. Flynn had to go back to the Haffner place to pick up all the equipment we’d left behind. I told him I’d stay with Patrick.
Flynn shook hands with both of us.
“I’m sorry I broke the mower, Mr. Flynn,” Patrick said.
“Hey. Forget about that. Rest, okay? The two o’ you, rest. Day off tomorrow.”
He left the emergency room. Five minutes later Scarlett showed up, and suddenly I knew what Patrick’s torment was all about.
She was stunning, an absolute jaw-dropper, with sky-blue eyes and long brown hair. She wore a sleeveless Kmart smock that showed off the barbed-wire tattoo on her bare upper arm.
She took one look at the bandage over Patrick’s nose and the dark circles under his eyes and burst into tears.
“Ohh, baby, baby!”
He rose from the cot on unsteady feet. Scarlett fell into his arms.
“I’m okay, Scarlett, I’m okay.”
“Your nose! Is it busted?”
“Yeah.” He chuckled. “I’m not gonna be as handsome as I used to be.”
“What happened?”
He told her how he’d been cutting the steep lawn and lost his balance, and how I’d tackled him just before he would have gone into the street with the lawn mower.
Scarlett was puzzled. “Why didn’t you just let go of the mower?”
“I don’t know. Somehow I couldn’t.” He gestured at me. “Mickey here saved my life.”
“I also broke his nose,” I couldn’t help adding.
Scarlett turned to me. We’d never been properly introduced and here she was now, leaping into my arms and hugging me as if I’d just pulled her aboard a life raft.
“Oh, God, Mickey, thank you, thank you!”
“You’re welcome.”
“By the way, I love how you flipped the bird to that asshole from Hollywood Howl.” She looked at her watch. “I have to get back to Kmart. Believe it or not, my stupid boss wouldn’t give me the afternoon off, even after I told him what happened.”
She gave Patrick a gentle kiss on the lips, eased him back down onto the cot.
“See you later, baby. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
And just like that she was gone, with so much energy and spirit I half expected her to fly out the window like Tinker Bell.
Patrick watched her go with a childlike smile on his lips.
“See that, Mickey?” he said. “See how special she is? See why I can’t go to Purdue?”
My bandaged elbow was throbbing. I’d refused a painkiller and now I was sorry I’d done that. I gestured for Patrick to move his feet so I could sit on the end of the cot. I wanted to be close to him for what I had to say.
One Hit Wonder Page 29
