He leaned toward me, his face inches from mine. "Darkness," he said, the word riding to my face on a wave of wine. "Darkness like no man knows. You think you know what darkness is? Only corpses know. You shut off the light in the bedroom but the light from the street shines through the curtains. You can go in the closet but the light still comes in under the door." He prodded my shoulder. "If you wake up at three in the morning don't you see the whole room, the pictures on the walls clear as day?"
"The light bothers him at night," Vic said. Freddie snapped him an irritated look for interrupting his narrative.
"They waited till they thought I was dead," Freddie said. "But oh, how I fooled 'erm! When I heard the shovels comin' close I made like I was dead. The lousy shit foreman puts his hands around my waist to pull me up and I turn around and punch him, boom! Knocked him out cold."
"Your language," Connie commented.
"He’s heard worse, Freddie said, the spooky mood dissolving with the end of his story. Actually, I’d rarely heard vulgarity from either of my parents. Freddie drained his wine glass and held it out for more.
"That happened twice?" I said. He nodded. "How come you fell for it twice?"
Vic roared with laughter. Angie hid his face so Freddie wouldn't see him smile. Freddie waved me off.
"Ah, you got nothin' to worry about. You'll go to college and work in an office and have soft hands like a prince."
"Wouldn't be the worst thing in the world," Angie said.
"Feel these hands." Freddie cupped his hands around my elbow, then dragged them down toward my wrist in a snaky spiral. "That's how a man's hands should feel."
Connie said, "All your hard hands ever got you was buried twice. The second time you were unconscious, you almost died. So shut up."
"But I got out!" he exclaimed, releasing my wrist. "By Christ, I got out!" Blood tingled back into my hand.
"Calluses," Connie said wearily. "Your tongue oughta have calluses, the way you talk. And in the end you joined that union."
"They made a rule," Freddie said meekly. "You can't fight a rule."
Connie clapped her hands. "Enough. All of you put on clean shirts, we have to be there in twenty minutes."
"Where?" Angie asked, his brow knotting. "What's going on?"
"The christening party for the new baby down the block. I told you about it last week."
"Another present," Angie moaned. "You take care of it?"
"We're giving money. Freddie, go home and change." She spoke as if he were a child. He climbed off the bench without thanking her for supper and cracked Vic across the back of his head with three knuckles.
"Don't be so scared of dirt, Mr. All-Star."
Vic rubbed his skull and said, "Let's compare bankbooks in a year."
The house with the baby was near the train, a sister house to my grandfather's. The only differences were green shutters instead of black ones, and a slightly less ornate wrought-iron fence in front.
The family's name was Caruso. They lived on the second floor, above the new mother's parents. As we entered the vestibule a strong, soupy odor filled our nostrils, but that smell was displaced by the tang of laundered diapers as we climbed the stairs.
I stayed close to Vic as we made our way across the crowded flat, a porpoise following a ship. He shook hands with people, dutifully pecked hairy-faced women on the cheek, and introduced me with the word, "S'mynephew."
He got us soda in paper cups. We sat on a long couch, crinkling the plastic slipcovers. The place was so jammed with covered furniture that it would have seemed crowded with no people in it. Even the long windows lent no sense of space — they were veiled in white fishnet curtains that were rough to the touch, like screens. They billowed at the faintest breeze.
I sipped my soda and gagged. "This went bad, Vic, it's sour," I whispered.
He sipped from my cup. "It's fine."
"That's not what Coke tastes like."
"You dope. You never had cream soda? Hey, look at this guy comin' in now, he's a real character. Junkman. Lives across the street from us."
Mel hadn't told me about Zip Aiello. He was short and wide-hipped and his thinning brown hair was slicked straight back. His mouth was set in a severe pucker, as if the tang of lemon juice were on his tongue.
He made his way toward us, hands deep in the pockets of his loose gray pants. Vic introduced me and Zip went into a nodding routine, as if some biting, ironic truth had been whispered into his ear by his Creator. I lifted my hand to shake with him, but his balled fist never left his pocket.
"I seen you from the window," he said.
Vic winked at me. "So what's happening, Zip?"
Zip shrugged. "Found a little copper," he said casually. "Thirty, forty feet. Leaders. Guy was throwin’ ‘em out, puffin' up new ones. Amoolinum."
"Aluminum?"
"Whatever. What are you, an English teacher?"
"Gonna sell it?"
"Sure. Everybody knows copper's better. Don't rot. Amoolinum pits. Copper turns green but it don't rot."
He walked off without saying good-bye, having gone back into his nodding routine. Connie passed by and saw him on the way to the cake table.
"Eh, but what's he thinkin' about?" she asked. "He'll wind up killin' all of us."
Vic said, "He's the champion bottle collector in the neighborhood, too. He sees a bottle in the curb, he'll jump out of a speedin' car to pick it up." There was affection in Vic's voice, then he suddenly lost his relaxed look and stiffened as a heavyset girl made her way toward us.
"This is Rosemary," he said. She hooked her arm through his elbow. "We go out," he added, sort of apologetically. Rosemary forced a smile at me. Her face had so much makeup on it that it didn't reflect light. She pulled Vic to the other side of the room to talk with him.
Unmoored, I drifted about until Mel caught my elbow.
"They made me put this dress on." It looked awful, loose at the chest and snug at the waist. She kept tugging it down in back.
Suddenly there was a chorus of "oohs" and "aahs" throughout the room as the new mother appeared, baby in her arms. The infant was like the stamen of a flower, surrounded by blanket petals.
The mother's hair was pulled back into a ponytail. It was a few seconds before I even noticed her husband behind her, a skinny man in a dark suit. He touched a hand to the baby, then indicated the gift-laden table.
"You've been so generous," he said in a quivering voice. "It's wonderful for our Joyella to have such wonderful friends as she starts her life."
Everyone murmured approval, but as the new father was about to continue his speech there was a commotion in the stairway. A man in a three-piece white suit walked with great solemnity to the parents. His silvery hair looked freshly barbered, and a gold watch chain was looped across his round belly. There was a fat red carnation in his lapel.
"Holy shit, that's Ammiratti," Mel hissed. "He's on everyone's shit list."
With a flourish he placed an envelope on the gift table, pecked the mother on the cheek, and shook hands with the father. He apologized that his wife couldn't come - her stomach was troubling her. The father nodded without offering words of sympathy.
Crimson crept up Ammiratti's neck. He mopped his face with a handkerchief and bowed to the silent room, then left. Conversation resumed when the echo of his footsteps faded.
"A flower in his lapel," Grace Rothstein said shrilly. "Forty cents every day for a fresh flower!" She slapped her right hand into the crook of her left elbow, kinking it into an obscene right angle. Everyone but one guy laughed, and I knew he had to be her husband, "Uncle Rudy."
"Ammiratti's a rich bastard," Mel explained. "He owns a lotta houses, plus that empty lot where the hole is. Everybody hates him for that."
"How come?"
"'Cause burger joints bring colored people," she said, irritated by my ignorance. "He screwed us. He sold everybody out even though he has more money than everybody else put together."
&nbs
p; She bit into a thick cream pastry. I knew she was parroting the words of the adults she lived with.
"The balls on him," she continued, through a mouthful of cream. "Walkin' into a roomful o' people who hate you and pretendin' they love you."
Johnny Gallo came in, sticking out in that chubby crowd like a foreigner. He had no hips or buttocks, and wore black T-shirts and slacks that made him look even taller and slimmer than he was. His sideburns were shaved high and his black hair was combed straight back. He looked like a walking sperm cell.
Mel had a mild crush on Johnny, and ditched me to join him. I was marooned in the midst of all those cliques - Vic and Rosemary, Angie and Freddie, Connie and Grace. For the first time in two days I felt a real pang for my father.
The baby lay asleep in her bassinet. I felt a little jealous of her, wishing I was little enough to climb in there and lie beside her.
"You like it here okay?" Vic asked that night when the two of us were in bed.
"I guess," I said.
"When I get a little more time we'll play more stickball and stuff. I gotta practice right now, with the playoffs and everything."
"I don't mind."
"Hey. I forgot to ask you how you liked my girl Rosemary."
"She's nice," I lied.
"Yeah, she's somethin'," Vic said. "She got me through school, you know? Helpin' me with homework and stuff. Never yelled at me, no matter how stupid I was."
Before falling asleep I noticed Vic staring at the ceiling, smiling.
CHAPTER THREE
While coffee percolated each morning, Connie combed out her hair and braided it. I would watch from the doorway to the basement, without her knowing it.
Loose, it hung to her breasts. Her expression while she worked the comb was somber, as if the stroking motion stirred up thoughts of her life's mistakes. She also looked glum because she didn't put her teeth in until she was through braiding.
Save for six brown lower teeth, the dentures were a complete set. They didn't embarrass her. She had given birth to her kids in the days before doctors knew about calcium loss, so she felt the missing teeth weren't her fault.
Besides, she took exceptional pride in her moist skin, boasting that she'd never had a pimple in her life. Three "no's" accounted for that - no restaurant food, no liquor, no makeup.
Talcum powder and aspirins were the only things in the medicine cabinet. She even made the dresses she wore, simple tentlike things with buttons at the cleavage.
Only her underwear was elaborate. She referred to her girdle as a "harness," full of hooks and straps. Hanging on the shower rod to dry, her pink slips looked like sails. They billowed when you opened the bathroom door.
She wore black nun shoes, and she didn't walk so much as she tilted from foot to foot. With each step the entire plane of her flat foot came down, thunking decisively.
Overhead, on the top floor, lived another person, who trod so lightly that I didn't even know he existed until my third day there. His name was Agosto Palmieri. We knew he was there only when he played his opera records.
With the exception of this peculiar loner, most of the other people I'd met came out to see Vic play baseball.
Even the meticulous Angie ate supper fast on game nights. On the first one I was there for Vic sat with his cap on backwards and his feet in slippers, cleats at his side. He said the hat made him feel lucky, so Angie waived standard table etiquette.
His uniform was creamy white, with blue piping down the outside of his legs and "Lane" in slow, lazy script across the chest. When he flexed his arms the piping near his biceps jumped.
Grace and Freddie arrived at the end of supper to catch a ride to the ballpark with Angie. Even Johnny Gallo stopped by, wiping his hands on a rag before shaking hands with Vic to wish him good luck.
Rosemary never came over before a game. She and Mel were waiting for us at the Franklin K. Lane bleachers when we all got there.
Vic was the same height as my father but he looked squatter because of his thickly muscled build. Shirts buttoned all the way up pinched his neck, nearly strangling him.
But he looked slimmer in a baseball uniform, graceful and confident. It was the end of his season but he was hitting an astonishing .500. He was the center of attention even during warmups with his teammates, joking and laughing, making lightning throws to first base with easy, almost casual motions.
Angie intently watched the practice session, as if it were the actual game. Connie sat back, arms folded under her breasts, a stance she maintained throughout the game.
Mel pointed at Vic. "Now you'll see a real ballplayer," she bragged, as if he were her uncle. "I'll bet he gets us free tickets when he's with the Yankees, Joey."
Rosemary sat with a woolen shawl across her shoulders, knitting needles and ball of yarn in hand. She made it clear that she was in no way a baseball fan but in all ways a dedicated woman, loyal enough to endure nine innings of boredom.
She turned to me with a smile and said, "What are you reading this summer?"
"Nothing."
The smile vanished. "Nothing? No books?"
I shrugged. "There's no school."
"That's no reason to stop reading."
I just stared back at her. She shook her head as if I were a terminal case. "You sound just like Mel," she said sadly. "I have wonderful books to lend, if you'd like them."
"Okay," I said, knowing I'd never take her up on it.
Lane won, 12 to 3. Angie sat still through his son's two diving catches on the infield dirt, his two singles, and even his eighth-inning home run, afraid that he'd jinx Vic by cheering.
That homer was something to see, a white missile soaring into the growing dusk and bouncing on the street beyond. Head bowed, Vic made the slow, heavy trot around the bases to the screams of Freddie Gallo. Mel grabbed my shoulder and couldn't stop shaking me. Rosemary, who had dozed off, asked crankily, "What happened?"
Nobody answered. I remember wanting to tell the strangers behind us who the hero was, that I shared a bedroom with him. For the first time in my life I wished I was someone else.
When the last out was made - a pop-up to Vic, fittingly enough - the team swarmed him, instead of the winning pitcher. Seconds after the catch Vic tore himself away from the guys and trotted to us, scrambled up the bleachers, and dutifully pecked Rosemary on the cheek.
"Be right back," he promised, hustling back to the field. His cleats left deep scars on the seats.
True to his word, Vic returned moments later, having changed from spikes into sneakers.
"Hey, Vic, come on!" one of his teammates shouted.
"Can't!" he called back, gesturing at all of us. He gave one spike to me and one to Mel, allowing us to knock the dirt out of them.
"Ah, come with us for a little while," the teammate persisted. "I gotta go!" Vic yelled, sounding sort of timid. When the game ended so did his magic.
The ride back to Shepherd Avenue was crowded, with Mel and Rosemary added to the car. The inside of the car had a nice smell to it, a workman's smell - grease, epoxy, cement, and other things Angie carried to his jobs.
Vic sat in front, wedged between Angie and Rosemary. I sat on Freddie's bony knees. His beer breath blew warmly past my ear.
"That was your longest homer yet," Freddie said. "Madonna mi, when it went over the fence I swear it was still climbin'."
While the rest of us chorused our agreement Rosemary said, "You should have taken a shower, Vic."
"School showers are filthy," Connie said. "In five minutes he's home in his own bathroom."
Awkward silence. Mel said, "The singles were good, too." "Yeah, well, that pitcher stunk," Vic said, uneasy with all the praise being heaped upon him.
Angie patted Vic's knee at red lights. We got a quart of lemon ice at Willie's and ate it on the porch. Vic took five minutes to shower, coming out with his wet hair slicked back. Freddie described his titanic homer to any passerby willing to listen.
The commotion ex
cited my bladder, and when I went to the bathroom Vic's clothes were all over the floor. He'd obviously yanked down his pants and his underpants at the same time - it looked as if he'd vaporized while standing there. Crowning the pile of clothing like a cherry on a sundae was the athletic cup I'd placed against my nose during my first hour in Brooklyn.
How long ago it seemed, and yet it was only a matter of days! It was getting hard to remember the last time I'd been in a room alone.
On my way back to the porch a man in a loose green bathrobe stood in the middle of the staircase leading upstairs.
"Vic win?" he asked. I nodded. "Good," he said, and climbed back up, blinking eyes as blue as my father's.
That was my official meeting with Agosto Palmieri.
By the time I got back outside, Vic, Rosemary, and Mel had left, and things were a little calmer than before. Vic was on Rosemary's porch, practicing his diction lessons to sharpen his skills as a future sports announcer. As Rosemary did her knitting he read consonant-clogged sentences aloud. She corrected him without looking up from her work.
Freddie left minutes later. Angie and I knocked off the rest of the lemon ice. When Vic returned and went in to bed Connie finally let it out.
"And I suppose that girl smells like a rose all the time." Rosemary's shower remark had been recorded and filed indelibly.
When I went to bed a little while later Vic was fast asleep, his arms folded over his eyes. I stared at his heaving form, trying to figure out how a pile of bones and muscles cooperated to hit a baseball such a terrifying distance.
CHAPTER FOUR
With breaks for lemon ice Mel and I found things to do all day long, without plans.
My father had sneaked fifteen dollars into my pocket before leaving, a fortune spread over a summer. Punks sold at ten for a nickel, and a child with a lit punk had power. You could light a firecracker, or search for red ants in the cracked bark of sooty maples. A touch of the glowing, slow-burning punk tip turned an ant into a hissing ash.
When it got too hot to do anything we sat on my grandfather's stoop in the shade of a maple. Our conversations were always future tense, what we'd do as adults, away from homes we knew were temporary. "We'll probably get married," Mel said, in the same flat tone she used to say the Yankees would win the World Series.
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