Her guard was all the way up that night. "You hungry?"
"Yes," I said.
"You didn't eat so good when you and your father lived alone." A statement.
"Sometimes we ate out," I said.
"Mmmm." She was confirming her own thoughts. She put a bowl of spaghetti before me. "You remember the last time you ate here?"
I hesitated. "I never ate here before."
"Ali! You don't remember!"
Vic bared his teeth tightly. "God, Ma, he was a baby. Why do you bring that up?"
Connie ignored Vic as she loaded his dish. "That was some fight," she said. "I still get knots right here when I think about it." She made a tight fist and held it near her stomach.
"Forget the knots, let's eat," Vic said, winking and squeezing my knee.
Eating noises. Connie pointed at my side dish. "He don't like it."
I was poking my fork into something I later came to love: bread, raisins, capers, and cheese, mixed together and baked into half a red pepper. It reminded me of a little coffin and was too sharp a taste for my first day.
"You don't like it, don't eat it," Connie said, as if she didn't mind.
"This food's gotta grow on you," Vic said. "Eat a mouthful tonight, next time eat two. Before you know it you'll love it."
I held my breath and swallowed a mouthful without chewing. It went down like a giant slippery aspirin.
"I promise it won't taste so bad next time," Vic said. Already I was chasing it with a forkful of spaghetti.
"You talk like my food's poison," Connie said.
"Ah, quit acting hurt, Ma."
Connie pointed at him with a fork. "You. Don't eat so fast."
She had a point. Vic ate with the speed of an animal fleeing predators. He held his fork in his right hand and a piece of Italian bread in his left, which he used to shove food onto the fork. When the bread got mushy with sauce he took a bite off it, then resumed work with the dry bread.
"You'll bite a finger off," she warned him. "Gonna get fat."
"Ah, I burn it off fast," Vic said, a crumb flying from his mouth. He elbowed me, and I found myself smiling and nearly echoing, "Yeah, he burns it up fast," but I stopped myself. Why make an enemy of Connie when I barely knew Vic?
The rest of the meal was quiet, save for low, muffled belches out of Vic. Connie picked up a bit of food that had flown from Vic's mouth and crushed it in a paper napkin.
"Now don't go thinkin' your father don't love you," she said.
A direct hit; my eyes welled with tears. Vic stopped chewing and shot a searing look at her. Then he softened and looked my way, prodding me with an elbow.
"What team do you like, the Yankees or the Dodgers?"
I'd never even heard of the Dodgers. "Yankees."
"Me, too. My father likes the Dodgers, he's ready to kill O'Malley for sendin’ ‘em out west. Listen, if I make the majors, I'm gonna play for the Yanks."
"Big shot," Connie said, getting up to clear the table. The meal had lasted barely ten minutes.
Vic ignored her. "Only thing is, they got so many good players that hardly anybody gets to play every day, except for guys like Mantle and Maris." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "See, I don't wanna warm some bench when I get there."
It never occurred to my uncle that he might not make the major leagues, but only that he might get cheated out of valuable playing time once he arrived.
He folded his big hands behind his head. "The big dough's in New York. You set yourself up nice, and then you can get into, like, broadcastin'. That's how come I'm takin' a speech class in school. They remember who you are when you play in New York."
"They forget," Connie said above the thumping of hot water into the sink. "You'd be surprised how fast people forget." Again he ignored her. His eyes narrowed suddenly. "Who hit more homers last year, Hank Aaron or Mickey Mantle?"
"Mickey Mantle," I guessed.
"Wrong!" Vic roared joyfully. "They both hit forty! See? Here's a guy hittin' homers all over the place and nobody knows about it, 'cause he doesn't play in New York. Poor guy's stuck in Milwaukee."
"Shut up already," Connie said. "Every night we hear this."
She finished washing the dishes. We climbed the stairs to the front parlor and watched TV for a while. Not once had my grandfather's absence been mentioned.
They set my cot up next to the bedroom window, which was open all the way. Warm air puffed through the screen, but you'd be exaggerating if you called it a breeze.
The sheets were stiff, having been hung to dry in the dead air of the basement because it had rained earlier in the week. Getting into bed was like climbing into an envelope.
It wasn't dark and it wasn't quiet. Light filtered in from the street lamp. Two or three radios played somewhere. There were bouts of distant laughter and the screech of brakes on Atlantic Avenue.
"Vic?"
"Yeah?"
"Is there a party going on somewhere?"
"Whatsamatter, can't you sleep?"
"Too much noise," I complained. "Is it always so bright in here?"
"Are you crazy?" He hated being awakened. "Here, sleep on this side," he said, rising.
"It'll be the same over there," I whined.
"The same," he mimicked. "Roll over and close your eyes." "I already did."
"Well, just shut up."
I heard his irregular breathing across the room and imagined him hating my guts. Now and then he sucked in his breath and socked the pillow with his fist.
I had to break the silence. "My father cried when he left."
"I saw him cry once before," Vic said, startling me with his friendliness. He sat up, propping his head up with his hand.
"The time Dixie died, a long time ago. You never knew Dixie. Swell pooch. Well, anyway, he made him a coffin out of an old desk drawer and stuck him in a pillow case. Buried him right out in the backyard."
Vic flipped onto his belly. "Didn't make any noise when he cried, though. Cried and cried until his eyes got red, but .. . funny." He looked at me. "Didn't he cry when? . . ."
"When my mother died," I said, completing his sentence. "No. Not around me, anyway."
Vic let it sink in. "Weird guy." He reached around under his mattress. "Want a Milky Way?"
"We just brushed our teeth."
"Ah, it's all right, you just rub the chocolate off with your tongue. Here."
He tossed one at me. It landed in the sheets, near my knees. "Dixie," Vic said through a mouthful of candy. "Once in a while my mother still chucks a bone out in the yard for her, where your father buried her. You can't touch the bone, either. It has to sit on the grave till it rots."
His voice grew serious. "So if you see a bone in the yard, don't touch it, 'cause it's for Dixie."
"Okay," I said.
"Especially if my mother's lookin'."
"I won't. What would I want with a dumb bone, anyhow?"
He flipped onto his back. "I'll tell you this — your father's all right. He was good to me when I was a shrimp."
I let his remark go without comment.
"But he was always a little crazy," Vic continued. "Remember when he got married, and everybody told him . . . jeez, do you believe this? I'm expectin' you to remember your father's wedding!"
"What did everybody tell him?"
Vic sighed. "All right. When he got married nobody was marryin' Irish girls. That's the truth. I mean it's no big deal now, but to my mother . . ."
"What?" I said. "Say it."
Vic licked his lips. "My mother thought she wasn't good enough for Sal," he said. "She apologized a million times since then," he added quickly.
The news hit my heart like dull daggers.
"God, I shouldn't have told you that," Vic said, pummeling his bedding. "Why the hell couldn't you fall asleep?"
Vic rolled away from me. I saw the black back of his head, suspected he was nowhere near sleep. I was right. When he rolled to face me again his eyes were wide ope
n.
"Nobody could ever tell your father what to do," he said with fierce pride. "If he had his hand on a hot stove and you told him to take it off he wouldn't. A rock head. Now it's the same thing. He wants to drive away, he drives away. Understand this? Joseph?"
"Joey," I corrected. "No, I don't."
"Want another Milky Way?"
"Yeah."
This one landed on my navel. "They got married real young, they had you right away. . . . He's makin' up for lost time, I figure. Few weeks and he'll be back, guaranteed."
The bedroom door opened. Connie's form filled the doorway. "Talk soft."
"Sorry," Vic said, wincing.
She looked at me. "He keeping you awake?"
"No," I said, "I'm keeping him awake."
"Lie down and shut up," she instructed, pulling the door closed. It was shut nearly all the way when it opened again, suddenly.
"You ain't foolin' me," she said to both of us. "I find the candy wrappers in the morning."
The door closed for good. Vic's breathing became rhythmic with sleep. I ran my tongue over my teeth to get rid of the last traces of chocolate and caramel.
The night that had given Connie "knots" was still a mystery, but that was all right. I could wait. I certainly wasn't going anywhere.
"Nowhere to go."
I hadn't meant to say it out loud. Vic rolled over.
"What'd you say?"
"Nothing."
He pushed a thick knuckle against one eye. "Aw, c'mon, kid, get used to this place and sleep, already."
CHAPTER TWO
When I awoke the next morning I was alone. "Dad?" I said, then I remembered.
Sheets, blanket, and pillow lay in a thick tangle at the head of Vic's bed, and clothes were scattered on the floor. It didn't seem late. I finally found a clock under one of Vic's undershirts. It was a little after eight.
I tugged on yesterday's shirt and pants and walked into the hallway. The window at the end of the hall faced the backyard. It was a plot of black dirt about ten feet wide and fifteen feet long, next to the garage. A wild, snaggled, fruitless vine grew up the side of the wall. A few weeds speckled the dirt, and a thin beard of moss. Connie threw her decomposable garbage out there — melon rinds, coffee grounds, orange peels. The sweet smell of decay rose to the window.
I could hear water running and smelled coffee from downstairs. Still half asleep I went to the bathroom. The door was open. I let out a yelp upon finding my grandfather, Angelo, shaving at the sink.
The whole room smelled of Rise. Angelo wore gray work pants and a sleeveless undershirt, and he was putting the final touches of lather on his face with a brush, even though the cream came from a can. He spotted me in the mirror.
"Hey." He smiled, teeth bright yellow against the snowy lather. He took a bent cigarette from the edge of the sink and puffed on it, rinsed his razor, and pinched my cheek.
"Boy, did you grow." He turned to the mirror and began scraping his cheek. "If you want to use the toilet I won't look," he promised.
"I don't have to go," I lied. My bladder was bursting. "Didn't you just get up?"
"Yeah."
"So use it, use it," he urged. "Everybody's gotta go when they get up." He banged the razor on the edge of the sink.
I stood before the head. My cock was tinier than I'd ever seen it — I imagined a cork inside it, blocking the flow. Diplomatically, Angie started to whistle. I moaned with relief as the urine started to flow, aiming for a rust streak at the back of the bowl.
"So," he said. "You're staying here."
As if I had a choice. "Uh-huh," I said.
"Good, I'm glad."
"Where were you last night?"
He turned around to look at me. I was through pissing and shook myself, tugged the zipper. "I'm sorry. It's none of my business," I said meekly, but Angie just laughed.
"I got home three hours ago. Don't tell your grandmother."
"Didn't she wake up when you got home?"
"Nah. I'm always quiet." He finished shaving, filled the sink with cold water, and splashed his face. He rubbed it with a towel, and I noticed the furrow of eyebrow across his forehead. It was one thick line of hair, unbroken over the bridge of his nose. The hair on his head was silver but the brows were jet black. Looking him in the eye was like looking at a cobra.
With wet hands he rubbed his scalp and began combing his thick hair straight back. A grin tugged a corner of his mouth. He knew how good he looked.
I asked, "How can you get into bed with her and not wake her up?"
He shut the water off. "My room's at the other end of the hall." He flicked the comb through his hair once more and put on a plaid sport shirt. He rubbed my hair and turned to leave the bathroom, buttoning his shirt.
"Did you have a fight with her?" I asked.
"What?" His voice was shrill.
"I mean, how come you have different rooms?"
He tilted back his head and let out a howl. "The questions you ask!" he said. "I say she snores. She says I snore. That's how come." He reached into his shirt pocket and gave me a pack of Wrigley's Spearmint Gum with three sticks left. "See you later," he said as he left, laughing.
When I was through washing my face and brushing my teeth I went downstairs, where Connie sat with another woman.
"He finally got up," the woman announced, as if I'd kept her waiting.
Connie said, "This is my friend Grace Rothstein from next door." We exchanged stares. I even sniffed the air, sensing an enemy. She lowered her head and bared large, rodentlike teeth. She was ten years younger than Connie, tall and whipcord lean. Her hair was bleached an outrageous blonde.
"Coffee," Connie said to me, moving to pour it. I'd hardly ever drunk it — my mother used to say it was bad for me. I felt flattered and doused it with sugar, pouring from a glass cylinder that obviously had been swiped from a diner.
"Where's Vic?" I asked.
"At graduation practice," Connie said.
"Where's Angie?"
"He has a plumbing job today, with Freddie Gallo. You didn't meet Freddie yet."
"Eh, I don't know how they work when they stay out late like that," Grace said.
"My husband never needed a lot of sleep."
"Thank God for that, Con, he never got any. My Rudy, he’s always there, even when I don't want him."
They cackled. I sucked down the last of my coffee. There was a thick, sluggish trail of sugar at the bottom of the cup. I stuck my finger in it.
"How come you and Angie have your own rooms?"
Grace cackled with renewed vigor but Connie fell silent. She hissed something at Grace before turning to me.
"That don't concern you," she said.
My ears grew hot. "I'm sorry. My mother and father had the same room," I explained lamely, sucking my finger.
"Ahh!" Grace exclaimed, prodding Connie's side. "The Irish, they like that!"
Grace got up from the table and reached for an upright rolling cart that had been leaning against the table. "What else besides the spinach?"
"Nothing. My husband will get the bread."
"Eh. He's good for something."
Grace grunted her good-bye and left. We heard the cart wheels bang as she dragged the thing up the cellar steps. Connie moved to the stove.
"She's Italian," Connie said. "She married a Jew."
I didn't even know what a Jew was, but I knew what "Irish" meant and asked what Grace's crack about them had meant.
Without turning to face me Connie said, "My friend's a little crazy."
"She was talking about my mother."
"Yes."
"What did my mother like'?"
Connie's face was flushed. "Your father," she answered. "Don't make me explain Grace. Here, take more coffee."
"No, thank you."
"All right, I'll make you an egg."
"I'm not hungry."
"That’s crazy, everybody's hungry when they get up- "
A gigantic engine
roar from the street interrupted her. I jumped with fright but Connie didn’t flinch. "That’s Johnny," she said. "He’s gonna give us all heart attacks."
"Johnny who?"
"Johnny Gallo. Your grandfather's buddy's son. He plays with his car every day. You'll meet Freddie later. Go meet Johnny now." She pointed toward the cellar door.
Grateful for the dismissal, I cut through the furnace room, where strings of peppers hung drying. From the back door a set of steps led to the long driveway, bounded on the other side by Grace's house.
Directly across the street from where my father had dumped me was a black car surrounded by a halo of bluish smoke. Its hood was open, and a young man hunched over the engine. It roared again, seemingly of its own accord. A fresh spout of smoke surrounded the car.
By this time I was coughing. Johnny noticed me and killed the motor from where he stood.
"Bet you're Vic's nephew, the kid whose old man run off."
"My father's on a trip," I coughed.
"Whatever." He wiped his hands on a rag. A large-boned, dull-eyed girl sat on the curb, sucking noisily on half an orange. When she finished it she threw the rind across the street and watched it roll, her mouth hanging open.
Johnny jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "She's retarded," he said. "Look at her. Ya believe she's almost fifteen?"
The girl's knees were pebbled with dirty scabs. She wore a loose red dress, scuffed patent leather shoes, and thin white socks. The mouths of the socks were stretched wider than her calves. There was a wet ring around her mouth dotted with bits of orange. Her hand idly massaged curbside rubble.
The door of the house behind her opened. A frazzled-looking woman in a pink nightgown leaned on the knob as she stuck her face out.
"Louisa! Your bath is ready."
Louisa seemed to react from the feet up, and staggered to a standing position. When she was finally erect she turned and bolted up the porch stairs, like a horse flicked with a whip.
"Poor bastid," Johnny murmured. "Do me a favor, kid, start the car."
I slid behind the wheel, tingling with fear. "I don't have a license."
"Ah, don't worry, you ain't goin' anywhere. Don't even press the gas pedal, I can do it under here." Johnny's head disappeared, reappeared redder. "Now," he commanded.
Shepherd Avenue Page 2
