“Julia, sorry to bother you so late. This is Nat Waters. I’ll be dropping off your shithead brother in about an hour. He’ll have some news for you. You probably won’t want to, but let him in anyway. I don’t want him out on the streets.”
Julia folded her hands. I slumped onto the bench. It was ice cold in that kitchen.
“So I don’t know what to ask first,” she said. “Let’s start with what happened to your face.”
I ran my knuckles along my jaw. “Waters tried smacking some sense into me.” I sipped my beer. “I got knocked around, I got a stern lecture. It was glorious, like having the old man back for a brief, shining moment.”
Julia said nothing. Behind her eyes, I could see her rifling through the files, counting the nights she’d listen to me talk shit while a bruise flushed and colored on my face. But this night was different. Her eyes didn’t go soft with sympathy, like they always had in the past. I could tell, just from the set of her shoulders, from the feel of the room, that she’d been loading up for me since she got that phone call. Bad memories weren’t going to get me off the hook this time. Waters wasn’t the only one getting sick of my shit.
“Did it work?” she asked.
“Did it then?”
“God, you are fucking tiresome sometimes,” she said. The words came out slow and heavy. She meant it. “What’s the news?”
“Waters said they have some leads. He didn’t say so directly, but I think he thinks they’re gonna get someone for killing the old man.”
Julia’s eyes defrosted. She was excited, hopeful, for a moment.
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” I said.
Julia blew on her tea. “Do I want to know why Waters was smacking you around and driving you home?”
“You might enjoy this,” I said. “I decked Purvis at the old Choir Loft.”
The color drained from her face. “You fought a police detective in public?”
“I kicked his ass.”
“You assaulted a cop?”
She wasn’t enjoying it. I went on the defensive.
“He had it coming. You think I’d do something like that without a good reason?”
“You are unbelievable, Junior.” She threw her hands up. “I can’t believe I’m surprised, but I am.”
Christ, what was her problem? She knew firsthand what a little shit he was. I had to drop the big card.
“He was bad-mouthing Mom.”
It didn’t have the desired effect.
“So what?” she said. “Who cares what he thinks? Or says?”
“I thought you would, of all people. About Mom, at least.”
“Me? I knew Mom better than anyone in this crazy family. What do I care what a jerk-off like Carlo says?” She slumped in the chair, covered her face with her hands. “I can’t stand it. I really can’t.” Then she sat back in her chair, slowly wrapping her fingers around her mug. It was like having my mother back from the grave. “The problem isn’t Purvis, or Waters, or Dad. The problem is you, Junior.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. You’re a bitter, hateful man who doesn’t know what to do with himself, beyond get drunk and pick fights with a world that’s not interested. I keep waiting for you to grow out of it, but you only get worse, the older you get. And I am fucking fed up.” Julia stood, waiting for me to answer. “Look at you. Your father’s wake is tomorrow night and you’re shit-ass drunk, coming home in the back of a cop car.” She pulled the blanket around her and leaned into my face. “You want to run amok through your own life, that’s fine, but not through mine. I won’t have it. You said you came here for me, and you’re making me miserable. It’s selfish and it’s mean.”
I gaped, mouthing at the air like a fish on the bank. “It’s not on purpose.” That was the best I could do. “Purvis was asking for it. You weren’t there.”
“Do you do anything on purpose, good or bad? Or is everything just random with you? It sure seems like it. It doesn’t matter if I wasn’t there. I know you. You just walk around, blowing shit up at random, thinking of excuses for it later. Getting pissed off when people don’t understand.
“And who cares about Purvis? What about what I’m asking for, Junior? You got anything coming my way? Any kindness? Compassion? Or is anger all you’ve got to give anymore?”
“Why not? It’s all I ever got,” I said. “And now it’s all I’m getting from you.”
“That’s such bullshit, Junior. You know it. You make me furious, but I love you. Mom loved you. Virginia loved you. Molly probably still does. Who knows how long she has? I know you won’t believe it, but somewhere inside, Dad did. He could never have been so . . . so violent with you if he didn’t.
“You’ve had your share of the good stuff, Junior, even if you never got it from him, but all you ever do is spit it back in people’s faces. You always throw it away. It broke Mom’s heart when you stopped coming back here to visit. She blamed herself, and you let her. Why, Junior? Why do people have to pay such a price for loving you? Why is the pain all you’ll accept, all you’ll remember? Why can’t you hold on to anything else?”
I didn’t have an answer. But I didn’t argue with her, either.
“When does your whole life stop being about Dad? I’m sorry. I am. Even now, mad as I am at you, my heart breaks for what he did to you. I’m sorry I couldn’t stop it. I’m sorry Mom didn’t stop it. It’s horrible. But it’s over now, Junior. It’s been over for years.”
“It’s never over,” I said. “I want it to be. So bad it hurts.” I was crying. She wasn’t. “I’ve tried, Julia. I really have. But it hurts all the time.”
“Then try something different,” she said, her voice thick with the emotion she’d exiled from her face. “Please. There’s nothing I can do but beg you.”
“It’s too late. I’m too polluted, Julia, and I’ll never be clean.” I held out my empty, swollen hands. “What do I do? I don’t know what to do.”
“I can’t tell you that. It’s your life. Yours, Junior. You have to find it.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but she cut me off.
“I’m sorry. I should’ve known better than to ask for your help, to ask you to suddenly be the son and the big brother you’ve never really wanted to be. It was too much to ask.” She was crying now. “I just . . . I just wanted it.” She wiped her eyes in the blanket. “Just go home. It’s okay. It’s what you wanted from the beginning. You win.”
She dumped her tea in the sink and went to bed.
I went as far as the backyard. The rain had stopped, though the sky hadn’t cleared. Out there, I couldn’t hear her crying.
I smoked and drank a beer, and then another. Try something different, my sister said. I looked across the neighbors’ yards, the flower boxes, the concrete patios, the plastic lawn furniture, the oblong swimming pools covered with dark blue tarps. The block was silent; it was too early in the spring for the hum of air conditioners and pool filters. It was too late at night for the mumble of televisions.
Try something different. Like what? Be like Waters? Wandering all night, a used-up man in a used-up car full of used-up coffee cups, hollering about what a knight in shining armor I was? Should I be more like my neighbors? Get me a Sears tie and a real job. A steady paycheck, benefits, a 401K. I could fight with the rest of the block over who gets to park the minivan where. Over whose neglected Christmas puppy barks too much. Is that what I should do with myself? Live my life on a train schedule, a bus schedule, a ferry schedule. A school, dentist, and soccer practice schedule? I’d already lived a life on everyone else’s schedule; I’d already been a kid.
I lit another cigarette, easing into an old, rusty lawn chair. I stared into the burning match, pulled from a Crossroads matchbook. When it burned down, I tossed it aside and lit another, breathing in the sulfur. I had a bad ache in my chest, different from the sharp stabs I’d started getting since the shooting. It felt old, like my busted ribs from years ago hadn’t healed right. Yeah, I was my o
wn man all right. Didn’t my beer and my cigarettes, my afternoon of ex-lovers, my split knuckles, my ride home in the back of a cop car tell me so? A dozen years out of the house, shift after shift, bottle after bottle, girl after girl, sunrise after sunrise, and there I was in my father’s yard—drunk, angry, and alone. I lit another match, watched it burn down.
I’d spent countless nights out here in high school. Sleepless, restless, for no reason I could figure out, clinging to the ache of something broken in my chest then, too. I chain-smoked around the side of the house, pounding down a strong screwdriver full of Mom’s vodka. Through the chain-link fence that bordered the yard, I stared out at the empty street and wrestled with the urge to wander the dark and silent neighborhood. I needed to go looking for something. Sometimes I even felt something calling to me. It wasn’t a voice. It was just a hum in the air, like the vibrations of the metal tracks before the train rolled into the station. But I knew there was nothing out there to find. I knew I was surrounded on all sides by streets just like mine, full of houses, and backyards, just like mine. And so I never went anywhere. I stayed in the yard watching the empty street and listening to the trains rattling in the distance.
I tossed the matchbook into the grass. I wandered around the side of the house and pissed on the wall. If I was gonna be a disgrace, I might as well go all the way. I wasn’t even sure I should be there. My sister had done what even my father never had. She’d thrown me out of the house. Could she do that? Wasn’t it my house, too?
I staggered back to the chair and sat. I’d leave in the morning, my house or not, if Julia wanted me to. I had to go get my car, anyway. But I’d go to the wake. I’d give her that, show her something, at least. Maybe I’d even get a suit, if I could find one. I drank the last of my beer and flicked my cigarette butt into the neighbor’s yard. I’d had enough of my life for one day, enough of my own head. I wanted to pass out right there in that chair.
So I did.
At sunrise, the daylight chased me inside.
I WOKE UP, IN MY OLD BED, at noon. I couldn’t hear Julia in the house. I wondered for a second if maybe she’d had enough of this silly production and had gone back to Boston. I certainly wouldn’t have blamed her. When I stumbled into the kitchen, I saw a note on the table. She’d simply gone to the store.
I pulled open the fridge. The sight of beer made me queasy. Disappointed, I remembered everything. The bar, Purvis, my mother, Waters, Julia, the backyard. That made me queasier. As much as I drank the previous night and as bad as I felt that morning, I felt entitled to a blackout. I swallowed a glass of juice, belched half of it back up, and put on a pot of coffee, wondering if Dad had left anything in the liquor cabinet that wasn’t too harsh to drop in my coffee. Just to still the shakes.
On my way to the liquor cabinet, I noticed my travel bag sitting on the couch. I unzipped it and pulled out a T-shirt, holding it to my nose. Everything in my bag had been washed and folded, and neatly packed. I got the message, and I agreed. Maybe there was nothing left to talk about. I put the T-shirt on and walked back into the kitchen for my car keys. Then I grabbed my jacket and my bag and headed for the door, leaving the coffeepot gurgling on the kitchen counter.
STANDING ON THE ELEVATED train station on Richmond Avenue, through the scraggly, budding trees, I stared at the corner where my father was murdered. The sun beat down on me hard, and even with my jacket off, I sweat bullets. My fresh T-shirt was soaked and I couldn’t smell anything but the stink of sour liquor.
On my way to the station, I’d forced myself into the deli on that corner, for a paper and a cup of coffee. Everyone inside was a stranger, but I felt accused and exposed before their eyes. I tried hating them. I tried glaring at them, but I couldn’t lift my eyes to theirs. All I felt was ashamed, like I owed every one of them an apology and an explanation for being alive. The bag I carried gave me away, marked me like Cain. I knew they saw it and knew what it meant. That I’d been sent away, that somewhere I was unwanted and unwelcome.
But I had waited in line, paid for my coffee and Daily News, considering the whole experience a minor victory. In front of the store, I tossed away the lid of the coffee and opened the paper to the sports section. There’d been a Met game the night before. They’d gotten killed, 12-3. Gave up eight runs in the first, went through three pitchers before they got three outs. The Yankees had won their fifth game in a row. I saw there was another Met game that afternoon. I stuffed the paper into the trash, picked up my bag, and walked away.
No one else was on the train platform, and I was glad for it. I was feeling bad, bone-deep bad. My sister’s words clung to the walls of my skull like bats. I felt too grotesque to be looked at, like every ugly thing I’d thought and felt and said over the past three days had sprouted legs and was crawling around on the outside of my skin. More were popping out into the sun every minute. I felt like soon their weight would crush me to the ground. I’d still be lying there when the sun went down and the evening trains brought the commuters home. They’d step over me on their way to their cars. I turned my back on the corner and leaned my weight on the platform railing, studying Amboy Road.
The Amboy Twin movie theater was gone, replaced by the shrill green-and-white neon of a diner. I remembered sneaking pony bottles of beer into that theater. And the time, during a Godzilla double feature, that Molly knocked over an empty and it rolled, highly audible, under the seats and broke against the wall under the screen. Then Jimmy somehow convinced the usher we weren’t responsible, though we were the only people in the theater. Jedi mind trick, Jimmy said.
There was a video store where there used to be something else. The yard of the tire store still swelled with tires but obnoxious purple neon now framed the roof. Next to it sat a Quickie Lube that was formerly a beauty salon. Up and down Amboy it was the same story. The buildings had new proprietors and so they had new signs, new lights, new uniforms for their employees, but the same graceless, boxy shapes; their yards and parking lots still littered with trash and encircled in rolling coils of barbed wire. So much had changed, but really, from where I stood, the neighborhood didn’t look, or feel, any different.
I glanced up and down the tracks. There was no train coming. I knew that you could hear them vibrating the rails before you could see them, but I looked anyway. I knew it might be a while, that the trains ran infrequently during the afternoon and late at night. The line existed mostly for the morning and evening rush hours. Herds of commuters packed it every morning and rode it to the boats that carried them en masse to Manhattan, where they rode the subway to various cubicles, where they sat, like cubes in an ice tray, for the day. Every evening the process was repeated in reverse.
In high school, I rode the train to high school every day, from Eltingville to Oakwood Heights, a miniature of my father in my jacket and tie, going somewhere because I had to, not because I wanted to, and never thinking much about the difference. Sometimes Molly met me at the Oakwood Heights station after school and we would make out on the platform while train after train rattled away beneath out sneakered feet.
After Molly left me, the fall of my senior year, right when I turned eighteen, I took to riding the train, just to ride it. To get out of the house. I’d get on at Eltingville, maybe with a pack of cigarettes, maybe with a beer or two, and ride toward St. George, the ferry stop, the last stop. Then I’d cross the tracks and ride the train all the way back in the other direction. Both ways, all the way up and down the line, I’d gaze through the window at the passing buildings and roads and lights and think. Think about the girl. The end of high school. Where I was going. What I was not going to be. I’d curse the island. Everyone and everything on it. A deep thinker without many deep thoughts to think.
I was going to be bigger, better. I was going to be unique. How that would happen, I never figured out. I never got as far as planning the future, but I had clear snapshots in my head of how it would be. I had sharp clothes and a cool haircut. I raced around Manhattan, always on th
e move, in and out of the shadows of skyscrapers, flicking half-smoked cigarettes into the gutter as I caught cabs and hustled down train station stairs, gliding from someplace merely impressive to somewhere important. I wasn’t rich or famous, but I was Big Time, whatever that meant, another free and fearless, whip-smart prince of the City. One of the many I had never met but knew lived over there just across the water, just beyond my vision, walking through their days with six inches of ether under their Spanish leather shoes, nodding to one another as they passed on Park Avenue. I’d be unassailable and invincible inside the grand castle of concrete, steel, and glass that was Manhattan. I’d be home, and I’d belong there.
Fresh Kills Page 28
