Shepherd Avenue

by Charlie Carillo

  "You mean," Angie said, "you got cut permanent?"

  Vic sucked the soda off his finger. "Nobody cut me, Pop. I just don't want to play ball for anyone." He squeezed the glass so tightly his fingernails went white.

  "All this shady stuff," Angie sputtered. "You got something to say, mister, just say it."

  Vic grinned, his cheekbones glistening with sweat. "Okay, here it is." He stood. "I quit that team. I fucking hate baseball." His grin widened. "Happy?"

  The grin intensified the shock of the word. Connie gasped, and at the same time the glass in Vic's hand shattered. Blood flowed down his palm. She took a napkin and clasped it against the wound. He stared blankly at her as she played nurse. Blood soaked the napkin.

  "I've always hated it," he said more softly. Angie picked up the bits of busted glass.

  "Enough," Connie said. She was crying.

  Vic looked at her. "I don't know what you're cryin' about, Ma. You didn't even say good-bye, the day I left."

  For a while it seemed as if Vic wasn't going to leave our room, except to use the toilet. He slept all the time, sometimes thirteen hours at a stretch.

  And when he was awake he was usually stationed at the basement table, yawning over a cup of black coffee.

  Food barely tempted him. At meals he ate a few thin slices of whatever meat was being served and a mouthful of greens. It annoyed Connie and worried Angie, who couldn't imagine a man sitting down to a meal without eating at least one slice of bread.

  He was more relaxed around people than he had been before. When anyone asked about his abandonment of a baseball career he answered in low, cool tones. He lit cigarettes in their faces, seeming to enjoy their astonishment at this new corrupt habit. He smoked a pack a day and inhaled all the way to his ankles.

  He had little to say to me. We'd walk past the hamburger joint - by now almost completely finished, new glass and all - and he'd say, "Jesus, that went up fast." He'd sit on a crate and watch the chickens but never join in to feed them or clean the coop.

  Rosemary appeared after dinner each night. The tables were turned now — she was ill at ease in his presence, while he seemed almost amused by her discomfort. Nothing she tried got him out of the house at night.

  "Let's go see a movie, Vic."

  `There's nothing good around, Rosemary."

  "It'll do you good to get out of the house. Let's go."

  "All I ever did in West Virginia was go to movies. I'd rather watch TV."

  He only went out with Johnny Gallo. Once he didn't get home until four in the morning. When he crept into bed I asked where he'd been, but he just grunted "Out," grumpily.

  "Where out?"

  "If I wanted you to know I would have told you."

  I was hurt. He'd never spoken so roughly to me. It was days before I even tried talking to him.

  Then he stopped going out with Johnny and returned to his sleep and coffee routine. He glided around the house with haunted, accusing eyes. I wanted to break the ice but it was ten feet thick.

  "Hey, Vic, how come you never wrote me a letter?"

  He lit a cigarette. "I said hello to you in all my letters."

  "But I never got my own letter."

  He stubbed out the butt after just one puff. "Hey. I got my parents bugging me, I don't need you too, all right?"

  I refused to give up on him. I tossed a Spaldeen at him as he lay on his bed. He practically cowered as he caught it. "Teach me to be a power hitter, okay, Vic?"

  He squeezed the ball until it seemed ready to explode, his knuckles white. "Joey. Listen to me. I can't teach you anything. I'm a fucking failure, do you understand? If you hang around me you'll get tainted."

  "What's tainted?"

  "It means my shit will rub off on you. And you don't need that, right?"

  I gave up the battle. "We were gonna be teammates," I said, even though our dream was smashed.

  Vic tossed the Spaldeen aside and lit another cigarette. "Yeah, well, now you've gotta make it to the big leagues all alone, pal, because your uncle can't cut it. I'll cheer you from the cheap seats." He scraped the match three times before it lit. "Can't even light a fuckin' match." He rolled onto his side, away from me. Only the puffs of smoke that clouded his headboard told me he was still awake.

  I decided then never to become a professional ballplayer. Connie had told me I could do only one thing anyway, right? Fine. I would be a painter. Nothing but painting, the rest of the way. Painting and, for the time being, bottle collecting.

  On the second Sunday after Vic's return Connie left the house after supper to see Grace Rothstein. She was gone for an hour while the rest of us watched television.

  She entered the parlor and waited until we were all looking at her before speaking.

  "Tomorrow you start work at Uncle Rudy's deli."

  Staring at Vic, I could have sworn I saw his face turn the color of cement. Minutes passed before blood came back to his cheeks. In the space of an hour a man's fate was determined while he innocently watched television.

  Every muscle in Vic's body seemed tense, ready to explode.

  A vein in his neck stood out like a caterpillar, and from where he sat he could easily have kicked in the TV screen. I thought he would, but instead the tension left his face and his eyes wettened.

  "Okay, Ma." Defeated. Connie turned and went to her room without saying good night.

  "Well," Vic sighed. "The ball game is over."

  Angie said, "It won't be too bad. Your brother worked in that deli for a while, there's a lot you can learn. You gotta do something, you know."

  "I know, Pop, I understand. It doesn't matter."

  But it did. It was Angie's fate as well as Vic's. Until then he'd believed Vic would pack up his gear and return to the Nuggets, eager to tear the cover off the baseball.

  Now that wasn't going to happen. Connie had held her own closed court and found Victor Ambrosio guilty. His sentence was to chop celery, shred cole slaw, and peel potatoes for an indefinite length of time.

  Angie and I left the parlor. Vic remained planted in front of the TV. He knew he'd be rising very early for work, but he didn't have to worry about oversleeping. He had an alarm clock named Connie, who was sure to be up at dawn to pour coffee into him and prepare him for the first regular workday of his life. She'd be tougher on him than any baseball coach he'd ever known.

  There was a glazed look in Vic's eyes when he got home from his first day at Uncle Rudy's. That night he sat on the porch, smoking and drinking coffee, staring at the sky.

  He stopped shaving. Grace complained to Connie that he was a sloppy image for the deli. Connie got him to shave his cheeks, at least, leaving a moustache. It grew fuller and thicker by the day, giving his face an even more emaciated appearance. Angie hated the moustache but resigned himself to it.

  "Eh, he's workin' now, he can do what he wants."

  Usually he couldn't sleep. He read black-bound books from the local library until dawn by the light of a small bedside lamp.

  It was as if all the sleeping he'd done when he first got home made rest unnecessary now.

  Connie scolded him for smoking in the bedroom, saying the smoke was bad for me, but I told her I didn't mind. I wanted his friendship back. I still couldn't figure out how I'd lost it.

  That Friday Connie had the evening meal timed for Vic's arrival home. When she heard his footsteps in the driveway she broke handfuls of spaghetti and dropped them into a pot of boiling water. By the time Vic had washed up the spaghetti was cooked and in a big bowl, a light coating of sauce over it.

  We sat with false heartiness, hoping to carry Vic along into the spirit. "See?" Angie said. "You worked a week already, it went fast."

  Vic grunted. "I never saw so many boiled potatoes in my life. How the hell can people eat so much potato salad?"

  Angie poured a generous glass of wine for him. "Forget it now, it's the weekend. And watch your mouth."

  "The weekend'll be over in two days, Pop."

/>   "Vic, if you look at it that way you'll go nuts."

  "I'm already going nuts."

  "Hey." Angie gestured with the bread knife. "I worked fifty years, I'm not crazy yet."

  Connie lifted the spaghetti high on two forks and dished it into small bowls, then spooned sauce and meatballs. "You'd better give it to me now before you lose it, Vic."

  He wrinkled his eyebrows, puzzled. Connie's hands were busy, so with a jerk of her head she indicated the envelope that jutted from his shirt pocket.

  Vic shoved it deeper into his pocket. "I can handle it, Ma."

  "Gimme, you'll lose it. Grace goes to the bank Monday, she'll take care of it."

  "Oh, sure, Ma," Vic laughed. "I'm supposed to let my boss be my banker? I know how to handle money, I lived on my own."

  "It's easier for Grace to —"

  "I can do it, Ma. You act like the bank's in China." He yanked the envelope out and laid it beside his plate. Two coins rolled from its open end. Vic caught them and put them back.

  Everyone but Connie started eating. "What'd you do that for?"

  "What?" Vic asked.

  "The envelope's open."

  "So? I bought cigarettes."

  "You didn't have change for cigarettes?"

  Vic threw his fork on the table. "Jesus, Ma, whose money is this, anyway?"

  "Your brother used to give the envelope without opening it."

  "Good for him. I'm not my brother."

  "You sure ain't."

  "Well, at least you know where I am."

  Silence, save for the fluorescent hum. Finally Vic forced a smile. "Ma, whatever you want from me I'll pay every week. I just don't feel like playing around, so let's make it a definite amount."

  Connie looked as if she'd just been slapped. "I don't want a penny from you."

  "You should, Ma, I'm all grown up." His voice was cold. "What's a fair board around here, Pop? Ten? Fifteen bucks a week?"

  "Not at the table." Angie was dead serious, his voice dan­gerously quiet. "Put it away, Victor."

  "In a sec. Let's clear this up first. What'd Sal pay when he lived here?" His voice was loud and rough, a carnival barker's. Connie looked down at the tablecloth. Angie gripped the edges of the table. Vic gently touched her wrist.

  "What'd Sal give, Ma?"

  "I took ten."

  "Ten bucks!" He released her wrist. "Well, that was . what, ten years ago? So you figure with the cost of living goin' up and everything . . . how about if I give fifteen?"

  Connie was weeping.

  "Fifteen okay, Ma?"

  "FIFTEEN IS PLENTY!" Angie slammed his fist so hard on the table that the bowls jumped. I felt like sliding under the table, but Vic just nodded and calmly pulled a ten and a five from his envelope and laid the bills beside Connie's plate.

  "I swear on the cross I'll never do this at the table again."

  He finished his tiny portion, rinsed his fork and bowl, and dried his hands.

  "Eat fruit," Connie begged.

  "I'm going out now. I need a shower, I smell like potato salad." He left, and the rest of us poked at our food. Connie stayed red-eyed for hours.

  "Least he's going out," Connie said.

  Angie said bitterly, "We bargained with our son like he was a Jew."

  "What does that mean?"

  Angie held a palm up. "Joey, do me a favor, stay out of this one, okay?"

  He'd never spoken so sharply to me. Of all people, Connie said, "Hey, come on, he's just askin'."

  "He's always just askin'. Whole family's fallin' apart and he's askin'." He jammed his hat on his head and stalked out of the house. I looked to Connie for more sympathetic words but that well was dry. She shrugged elaborately: what do you want from me?

  I went up to my cot and slammed the door behind me. Vic came in so late that night that I didn't even hear him. When I left the house at dawn I was extra quiet so I wouldn't wake him up. He slept with his mouth open, gripping the pillow with both arms as if it were the side of a lifeboat.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Sack over my shoulder, I headed for my bottle terrain as if in search of enemies I meant to shoot dead. I would miss breakfast but I didn't care. Zip was going outside just when I was, and he seemed startled when I didn't wave back at him. All his life he'd been the human stone with other people.

  Good, good. A taste of his own medicine.

  I was in luck. There must have been a Puerto Rican block party the night before, because Nehi bottles were all over the place - on window ledges, clustered against curbstones, jammed into trash cans.

  It was like coming upon a wild garden heavy with exotic fruit. It was hard to decide where to start gathering. I plucked a grape soda bottle off a window ledge just as a young woman in a blue nightgown with a bow at the neck was rolling up her shade. I heard her scream but didn't look back as I moved on to get more bottles.

  Tough on her. I needed the two cents.

  In no time at all I had forty bottles in my sack, the most I'd ever jammed into it. I would have taken more but I was out of room. I carried the load to Nat's, then came back and found another twenty-three.

  He waited until I'd returned from the second trip to pay me. "A buck forty-five," he marveled. There'd been a few big bottles in the haul. "You'll catch up with Zip yet."

  I listened to the silvery song of the nickels and dimes as they flowed into my pocket. My mouth was actually watering. Now I was sorry I'd wasted my beachcomber money on lemon ice for Connie and Angie. They were no friends of mine.

  "Hey, Nat, you're a Jew, right?"

  He closed his fish mouth and forced a slight smile. I could practically see the shape of his upper teeth through his tight lip. "Yes I am," he said in a formal tone. "How did you know that?"

  "I heard Zip say it once. . . . What's it mean when you bargain like a Jew?"

  His face was darkening as if a gray dye were being pumped into his veins. "Who said that, Zip?"

  "No. My grandfather said it last night when my uncle gave him fifteen dollars for room and pord."

  "Board."

  "Yeah, that's it."

  Nat sighed and shut his eyes. "Oh dear God, let it stop," he whispered. "It just never stops."

  "What never stops?"

  He blinked wet eyes and focused them on me. "People hate Jews for bad reasons. . . . I should bite my tongue, for no reasons. Did you study about Hitler in school yet? No? He put Jews in ovens, just like your grandma put that duck in the oven. My mother and father went into the ovens." His eyes welled up, sparkled. "So did six million other Jews."

  He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped away a sweat moustache. Then he mopped the back of his neck.

  "Low blow your grandfather threw," he said to the grimy cement floor. "Low blow." He blew his nose.

  Angry as I was at Angie, I felt forced to defend him. "He's not really a bad guy, Nat. He'd never do anything like that."

  "That's what everybody said about Hitler. Nice guy, cried when his canary died."

  I knew he wanted me out of there. "I'm sorry, Nat." I slung my empty sack over my shoulder.

  He patted the sack. "You didn't do anything, Joey. You just raked up the ashes a little. Now go, go home. This is America. Bring me more bottles, make money. Go." He swatted my ass lightly to get me started.

  Nobody yelled at me for missing breakfast, and that afternoon Connie handed me another letter from Mel, again on that ridiculous pink paper.

  Dear Joey,

  This place sucks. I want to bust out of here. I'm not even alowed to watch TV no more. They say I watch it too much but my fucken ant still won't let me play in the yard. When are you comming? Did you find enuf bottles to pay for the train yet? If you are comming I won't bust out. It's easy to get here. You take the train to the long eyeland railroad in jamayka and then you ask the man where the train to patchog is. It's a long ride but my ant's house is real near the stashun, I can wait for you there. I tried to look for bottles too but I hardly found any
. Every buddy here brings them back themself. Don't feel bad because they didn't let you see Freddie when he was dead. I saw my uncle when he died, he was just like asleep.

  your friend Mel DiGiovanna

  I got some "cheap" paper from Connie and went straight to work on my reply.

  Dear Mel,

  Vic came home. He's not a good baseball player anymore and he doesn't like me anymore. Angie doesn't like me, either. He yelled at me last night. But I don't care, today I made $1.45 from bottles. The guy who gave me the money has no mother and father just like you. A guy called Hitler cooked them in a oven and also six milyun other people. Don't bust out yet. I am going to visit you when I have a lot of money. This is no bullshit. I am really going to do it.

  your friend Joey Ambrosio P.S. We got five chickens in the yard now. One of them got his eye pecked out by jellis chickens. We had a duck too but Connie killed it. Angie helped her. I pulled some of her feathers out.

  When I sealed the letter in an envelope I was all but giggling with glee at having written a vulgar word - and oh, what a fit Connie would throw if she ever came across Mel's letter and read about her "fucken ant!"

  I trotted to Atlantic Avenue, Nat's coins jingling in my pocket. I sort of expected an alarm to go off in the mailbox upon its acceptance of my letter with the dirty word in it, but no. Nothing ever happened to you as long as you were sneaky.

  My elbow was gripped from behind: you didn't get away with everything, after all. Angie whirled me around.

  "I've been lookin' all over for you. Where've you been?"

  "No place."

  "Don't tell me no place. . . . You mad at me?"

  "No."

  "Don't tell me no. I can tell you are."

  A Mack truck roared by. We were shrouded in a cloud of black oily smoke that made us cough. Angie pulled me in the direction of the house but I yanked myself out of his grasp.

  "Hey, look, Joey, I was real upset last night when I talked like that. Don't be mad no more, okay?"

  I slid my hand into my pocket and tickled the money so softly it didn't make noise. "You hate Jews. You're like Hitler."

  He staggered back as if I'd shoved him. "I'm what?"