Shepherd Avenue

by Charlie Carillo

Nat scratched his scalp. "That's two thousand big bottles at a nickel apiece, Joey. Five thousand little ones."

  "Whatever."

  "Take you a long time."

  "I'm not going anywhere." Yet, I should have added, holding out my hand for my silvery payment.

  On the street, Zip would yell to me, "Hey, kid!" He'd rub his right thumb against the other fingers of the same hand. It was a question: you makin' much money?

  "Pretty good." I could be as vague as that sly operator.

  "You gettin' along with the Jew?" He referred to Nat that way without apparent malice. "Not bringin' him no chipped bottles or nothin', are ya?"

  "Nah."

  "You're lucky nobody sticks a knife in you, where you go."

  If anything, the residents on my turf were awed and amused by the sight of the very little white boy with a sack on his shoulder. There wasn't a bottle I wouldn't pick up, no matter how dirty or stinking it was. My mother's warnings about germs and Connie's equivalent instructions to "schieve" things went right by the boards. If I got a disease and died from germs on bottles plucked from sewer water, it would be my father's fault. If a Puerto Rican stuck a shiv in my heart for prowling around his neighborhood, same deal. He would have to live with it. I wouldn't have been hunting for bottles in the first place if he hadn't ditched me.

  A maniac. These wild thoughts and my quest for a hundred dollars were making me crazier all the time.

  I hardly said a word at meals. There was nothing I had to say to my grandparents. As long as my appetite was good Connie let me be, and usually it was tremendous from all that walking and hauling. At night I fell asleep as soon as I got under the covers.

  "I'll show you, Daddy."

  Crazier and crazier. One blistering afternoon a couple of Puerto Rican painters sat on the stoop of a house eating their lunch. Behind them, the building was turning a lively pink. I was sure that if I came back at night, the place would glow in the dark.

  The older men sipped coffee but the rookie of the crew drank from a big bottle of White Rock ginger ale, worth five cents empty. I stood in front of the stoop, watching and waiting. The youth noticed me staring at him.

  He jerked his chin up at me. There was a thin pencil mous­tache on his lip that vanished from sight with his head tilted like that. "Whatchoo want, man?"

  "You gonna finish that soda soon or what?"

  The man who seemed to be the foreman whirled his forefinger around his ear.

  "I want your bottle," I explained. I shook my sack so he could hear my bottles clink and know what I was doing. The older painters laughed but the moustached one shrugged sympathet­ically.

  "I like to drink it slow, buddy boy."

  "I'll wait."

  And I did. A nickel was a nickel. When he finally finished he handed over the bottle. The White Rock girl's breasts were smudged pink. The older guys laughed as I walked off, but I heard the moustached one say, "Hey, come on, you gotta admit that took balls."

  After about a week I had an inch of money at the bottom of my grape jar but then the cash flow slowed to a trickle. I had picked my territory clean. People weren't littering fast enough to suit my pace. I complained to Zip, who sympathized through his laughter.

  "You gotta wait a few days, let 'em pile up."

  "I don't wanna wait."

  "Hee-hee-hee. Don't worry, you'll make money long as it stays hot."

  But I had no patience. I acted as if a loan shark were at my heels.

  It wasn't just my father's fault. It was Mel's fault. It was my mother's fault. It was everybody's fault. The only reason I was able to fall asleep during the bottle droughts was because I grew weary trying to figure out the priority of my grudges. I was mad at so many people it was hard to keep track of them all.

  "You may just make that hundred, you son of a gun," Nat said. "You got the drive, all right."

  It was his fault, too. He wouldn't take beer bottles and there was a fortune in brown glass going to waste in the form of those sour-smelling things I kicked aside daily.

  He flashed his moss-sucking smile. "If I took beers you and Zip would take all my money and I’d have to go out of business."

  "Don’t bullshit me, Nat."

  He shook his head at my vulgarity but he said nothing. We did business together, so I was allowed to curse like an adult, without lectures.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Freddie Gallo was going to turn seventy years old in mid-July, and Angie wanted to throw a surprise party for him. He told Freddie's wife there was more room for a party in our basement than there was in hers, and she readily agreed.

  She was a small, timid woman with jumpy eyes - I never even learned her name, because all anyone ever called her was "Freddie's wife." She was a lot younger than Freddie, who had married late and fathered Johnny when he was more than fifty years old.

  Once when he had a little too much wine at our house Freddie told Angie he could still knock up any woman around with one shot, like that, and he snapped his fingers. Connie overheard him and rapped him on the back of his head with a wooden spoon. Still, she agreed to help with the party.

  Angie asked Freddie to come for a walk to nearby Highland Park on the night of his birthday. As soon as they were out of sight I was rushed to the bakery by Connie.

  Ironically, the cake I picked up wasn't nearly as good as one she could have made herself. It was a sheet cake, barely two inches high, coated with white sugar icing that stood stiff for hours without wilting. Where it nudged the box it left dark, oily stains. There were pink rosebuds along its border and HAPPY BIRTHDAY in red icing across the middle.

  It cost three and a half bucks. The baker packed it in a pizza-type box, which I carried on the flat of my hand. I walked home as if I were on a tightrope.

  A dozen brimming cups of lemon ice were packed in the freezer, and the big white enamel coffeepot Connie saved for special occasions was on the stove. Cups and stacks of saucers stood ready, and the sugar dispenser was full.

  Grace brought a bag of assorted cookies, stuffed with raisin and fig fillings and crusted with egg yolk and colored sugar dots. She never spoke to me these days, never mentioned the day she'd hauled me to my mother's home.

  All the other guests were there by five to seven, because Freddie and Angie were due back by seven. Johnny Gallo arrived in dress clothes, as he had a date to keep by eight o'clock. Uncle Rudy sat at the table with his hands folded, the same stance he struck during lulls at his deli.

  Rosemary arrived, a shawl across her shoulders though the night was far from cold. I went up and got the bundle of books she'd given me, still tied with string.

  "You may keep them, Joseph."

  "I don't want anything from you."

  She shrugged elaborately and put them under the table, by her feet.

  Zip had a present for Freddie he carried unwrapped - a solid brass spigot in the shape of a lion's head. Someone had thrown out an old bathtub without bothering to salvage the metal, he explained, turning the greenish thing over in his hands.

  "A little polish and she'll shine like gold," he promised.

  I had a present for Freddie, too - a picture of him buried alive, digging his way out like a mole. I gave him circus strong­man muscles and made his bald head resemble a light bulb. I hadn't shown it to anyone yet. I still didn't like Freddie but I did the painting to show off my skills.

  Seven o'clock came, then seven-thirty. Connie served the coffee, the cookies, and the lemon ice but refused to cut the sheet cake until Angie and Freddie, wherever they were, got home.

  Freddie's wife was a wreck but Connie said they probably stopped off at a bar and lost track of the time. But she was no actress, my grandmother - the fury in her tone blanched out the soothing words.

  "Let's go to that bar and find them," Freddie's wife wailed.

  "No." Connie was gracious but firm. "They ain't kids. Angie knows that people are waiting, they'll be here."

  She cut and served the cake.

  "Ba
rs are evil," Freddie's wife said.

  "Christ's sakes, Ma," Johnny said. He kept looking at the kitchen clock.

  Zip rubbed the lion's head spigot in his hands. "If I'da known they was gonna take so long I coulda shined it up."

  "You wouldn'ta shined it anyway," Connie said. He went home, leaving the spigot on the table. At five to eight Johnny left, saying there was no way he could miss this date and that he'd catch his father later. Freddie's wife gave out a little cry but she couldn't stop him.

  "Work early tomorrow," Uncle Rudy said a little while later, leaving with Grace. Rosemary picked up the books and Connie told me to walk her home.

  "No!" Rosemary yelped, startling Connie. "I'll be all right, it's not late." She rushed outside.

  The ravaged sheet cake looked ridiculous under the fluores­cents. Freddie's wife started to cry. Connie told her to go home, and then we were alone together in the basement.

  She sipped coffee and stole glances at the clock. There were cups and plates to be washed but she made no move to clean up. It was the longest I'd ever seen a dirty dish remain on her table.

  "Go to bed," she said to me at a quarter to ten. It sounded like a suggestion. I suspected she wanted me to wait up with her.

  "When I'm tired," I said. She shrugged lightly. I was tired, though - my eyes closed a few times and my chin kept bump­ing the table and jouncing my teeth. Waiting for Angie and Freddie had become a game of endurance.

  "Ah, what I put up with," Connie said with a yawn.

  At twenty past ten Angie's footsteps sounded in the drive­way - he was alone. I picked up my head from my folded arms, my vision still sleep-blurred. I blinked to clear my eyes. This was going to be a scene I wouldn't want to miss.

  He had his hat on, but he wasn't wearing one of his sweater-vests, which he usually wore in all kinds of weather because they had pockets for sunflower seeds, cigarettes, and matches. He moved without a word to his seat, like a boxer to a corner after a tough round.

  He didn't remove his hat. Connie rose and gave him a cup of coffee, a dollop of milk, two spoons of sugar. She stirred it and clicked the spoon twice on the rim of his cup before laying it on the saucer. Angie stared into the coffee whirlpool.

  "And where were you?" she asked tonelessly. No accusation, just a question.

  His answer, given before an enormous swallow of coffee, was one word: "Hospital."

  Connie's scalp jumped back, the creases in her forehead mo­mentarily disappearing. Angie put his cup down.

  "Freddie had a heart attack, right in the park. He died. He's dead."

  He took another drink of coffee. I could hear him swallow.

  "He has my vest," Angie said. "While we were waitin' for the ambulance to come I put my vest over him. Somebody said it's important to stay warm when you have a heart attack."

  Connie reached for his hand, changed her mind, and instead folded her hands on the table.

  "I didn't want to take the vest away when they put him in the ambulance." He moved to rub his hair, felt his hat and removed it.

  Connie's forehead was creased again. "It was an old vest."

  "That's what I figured."

  "You did right."

  Angie finished his coffee. "Good," he murmured into the cup, meaning the taste of the coffee. Then he looked up sharply. "Did you hear the noise up the street? All the sirens?"

  Connie lifted her hands defensively. "When don't we hear sirens?"

  He thought it over. "That's right," he said. "I was just across the street with his wife. The kid's out on a date. Jesus, I'm tired."

  Connie said, "You coulda called."

  "I don't even know our phone number. Ain't that something? Besides, who thinks of things like that?"

  Connie stood. "Maybe I better go across the street."

  "No." Angie's voice was gentle but firm. "Stay with me to­night," he said, his face reddening. He looked into the cup, as if it helped him concentrate. "He was on one o' those whud­dyacallits, the things you walk across on your hands."

  "Parallel bars," I piped in, recalling a gym activity I'd hated at school in Roslyn. Angie looked at me, seeming to notice me for the first time.

  "Yeah, the bars," he said. "Freddie's moving across them when all of a sudden he tells me his arms hurt. He drops off before he reaches the end and doubles over. Me, I kid him about it. He always brags how he always makes it all the way across. Then I see his face is the same color as the sidewalk."

  Angie squinted, like a man trying to remember details from a twenty-year-old event. "He didn't die right away. I held his hand for a while and a lady called the hospital and I rode with him. Me, I never even thought about callin' the hospital. Why should I? You don't bring an ox to the hospital, do you?"

  "Okay, okay," Connie said. With a jerk of her head Angie didn't see she motioned for me to go upstairs. This time she meant it. I stood, trying to figure a way to say good night to Angie.

  "Freddie was stronger than anybody," he blurted. "My God, they tried to bury him twice and he dug his way out of his own grave. How could he die like that?"

  "Hearts are tricky," Connie said, jerking her head at me more urgently.

  I took the lion's head spigot in my hands. "This is what Zip was gonna give him," I said. "He says it's solid brass and it'll shine up like gold."

  Angie looked at it.

  "Connie says the tile he'd have to break . . . to install this thing'd cost . . . more than it's worth.. ."

  I was panting. Angie looked at me as if he couldn't decide whether to beat me or hug me. Was this kid making a joke in the face of his best friend's death?

  His lips twitched. He made a hissing sound as he showed his teeth, and then he was laughing.

  God, what laughter! Connie moved behind him and shoved me toward the stairs. I was halfway up when I heard his laughs turn to sobs. I tiptoed back down for a peek. Connie stood behind him, patting both wet cheeks.

  They stayed downstairs for another hour or so. In the middle of the night Angie moved from his room to Connie's. They were still asleep when I crept down to the basement the next morning. Death, it turned out, didn't affect all patterns. The kitchen was immaculately clean - dishes washed, food put away, floor swept. I went to my rolltop desk and tore up my Freddie Gallo painting without showing it to anyone.

  I was infuriated when they refused to let me go to the wake. I thought it was like a party I was being kept from attending. "You're too young," Connie said. "Stay home."

  I appealed to Angie, who murmured, "Watch the house for us while we're gone, kid." I painted while they were away. When they came to the house afterward for coffee and gossip, I was permitted to listen to their stories.

  How Johnny Gallo had become hysterical upon returning home at two in the morning to find his shattered mother sitting up with Deacon Sullivan.

  How the undertaker - could it have been the father of Phil, the somber kid from the stickball game? - had given the Gallos a small room in the parlor, even though a dead woman hardly anyone came to visit lay in the other spacious room.

  How the knot in Freddie's tie was too big and looked ridic­ulous anyway, because he never wore a tie when he was alive.

  How Freddie's sister, a woman who hadn't spoken a word to him in fifteen years, showed up and became hysterical, grabbing Freddie's powdered hand and ordering him to "Wake up!" be­fore the funeral director was able to pull her away.

  How funny it was for a man to die on his birthday, and how odd to see the same date for the birth and the death printed on the gold plate inside the casket.

  Vic made his usual collect call the next night, hours after Freddie had been buried. Connie listened while Angie talked to him about his hitting and then took the phone from him.

  She began to tell about Freddie but Angie flapped his arms to stop her. Then he grabbed the phone from her.

  "Your mother ran to the stove, she smelled something burn­ing," he said. "Don't listen to that manager's advice, you just swing your swing. Yeah,
we miss you, too." He hung up. Connie was staring at him.

  "No sense telling him about Freddie," he said. "Ain't he already having a rough enough time?"

  That was certainly true. Vic's letters got gloomier and gloom­ier, but they were also a shade more insightful - he wasn't just dashing them off, like a camp kid forced to write letters home. Hard times forced him to think; for once he couldn't coast on natural ability.

  "How come I never get to talk to Vic?" I complained.

  Connie said, "You know what it costs to call from West Virginia? Take the garbage out."

  I took the greasy bag out to the can, bashing the lid down on top of it. It had contained the remnants of the birthday cake that was to have celebrated Freddie's seventieth.

  "Kid," I heard someone call. "Hey, Long Island."

  I knew it was Johnny Gallo. He called me that a lot, a trace of contempt in his voice. He was weaving his way across the street. It was weird to see him moving clumsily.

  "Hi, Johnny," I said, scared stiff. His eyes were red and bleary and he had on a black suit he must have worn to the cemetery. He put his hand on the back of my neck, his fingers remarkably strong from all the tools he handled daily to repair engines.

  "Long Island, you're all right." He belched wine breath into my face, then pointed at his house.

  "My fuckin' mother, she can't stop cryin'. I had to get a load on." He straightened his tie - that is, he thought he was straightening it. It veered to one side of his collar, like a hang­man's noose.

  "Been drinkin' my father's wine," he said, in a tone that suggested he'd actually been drinking his father's blood. "My old man, he made his own wine. There's three gallons left. When we finish those . . ."

  He spanked his hands together, like a magician who's just made a rabbit vanish. "No more. I don't know nothin' about makin' wine."

  I shivered. "Maybe you should go to bed, Johnny."

  "What do ya hear from Vic?" he said, ignoring my suggestion.

  I shrugged, tried to relax. "They don't let me talk to him. He sounds kinda homesick in his letters."

  "Homesick!" Johnny laughed. "For what? This fuckin' neigh­borhood?" He pointed toward the elevated tracks. "Spooks and spicks livin' three blocks away, three lousy blocks! It's like a plantation over there."