Return to Shepherd Avenue

by Charlie Carillo

  So I took the subway out to Queens to see the other one.

  * * *

  I hadn’t spoken with Vic since the day he’d come to get me at the police station. He wasn’t home, but I knew where to find him.

  He stood behind the rusted backstop at a dirt baseball field near his house, arms folded above his substantial belly. A baseball cap was tilted low over his brow as he yelled advice to the kid at bat, who couldn’t have been more than twelve years old.

  “Eye on the ball, Dermot!” he called out. “I ain’t gonna say it again!”

  The pitch came in, and the kid fouled it back.

  “All right, you made contact!” Vic yelled. “Hallelujah! Now let’s see if you can hit it forward for a change!”

  Then he yelled to the pitcher: “Lay it in, Brian, it’s only practice!”

  The pitcher did as he was told. Dermot hit the ball up the middle, a clean single. Vic applauded.

  “Good boy, Dermot! But remember: In a real game, the pitcher ain’t your ally!”

  I joined Vic at the backstop, folded my arms over my belly just like him and stood beside him, waiting to be noticed. A few pitches later he turned his head, saw me, did a double take, took off his hat and swatted me with it. This was a “hello” in the Ambrosio family.

  “What the hell are you doin’ here?”

  “I was in the neighborhood.”

  “You in trouble again?”

  “No, no, no. Can’t I visit my uncle without setting off alarms?”

  He shrugged, put his cap back on over his thick, bristly hair. “Practice ends in ten minutes. There’s a diner across the street, if you feel like gettin’ us coffee.”

  “Still take it light, two sugars?”

  “Yeah. Christ, that’s some memory you got.”

  I had to laugh. “Believe me, Vic, it’s an affliction.”

  * * *

  We sat in the bleachers with our coffee, watching the kids take their mandatory lap around the field.

  “Look how they cut the corners,” Vic said. “One lousy lap and they can’t hack it.” He got to his feet and bellowed: “Around the field, not across it!”

  He sat back down. “See how lazy they are? They live maybe three blocks away, and their mothers drive them here. I got one or two can play a little, but they won’t stick with it. They’d rather play video games.”

  “So why do you coach them?”

  He smiled. “I love this game. Also, I got nothin’ else to do.”

  He gulped half his coffee down, gave his throat a second to settle and then finished off the rest the same way.

  He crushed the cup in his fist. “The suspense is killin’ me. Gonna tell me why you’re here, or what?”

  I put a hand on his shoulder, the way you do when you’re about to break shocking news.

  “Thing is, I wanted you to know that I did something a little crazy.”

  “Yeah? Crazier than the bridge thing?”

  “You tell me.” I swallowed, hesitated. “I bought the old house on Shepherd Avenue.”

  He made a snorting sound, then laughed. “Bullshit!”

  “Swear on my life.”

  Vic’s face went pale. All he could do was stare at me in wonder before gasping: “What the hell?”

  “Yeah. It’s mine. I own it.”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Joey.”

  “No, it’s true. I’m all moved in. I’m living at two-oh-seven Shepherd. Gettin’ it in shape. It’s going good.”

  He folded his hands in mock prayer. “Joey. Please, please tell me you didn’t do this thing.”

  “It’s done, Vic. I thought you should know.”

  He threw his crumpled coffee cup toward a wire garbage basket, twenty feet away. It went right in, without even touching the sides.

  I clapped my hands. “Three-pointer! You’ve still got it, Vic.”

  He startled me by grabbing my shoulders. “Why would you do a fucked-up thing like that?”

  I shrugged myself out of his grip, squared my shoulders. “It’s where I was happiest.”

  He laughed out loud. “Are you kiddin’ me? You were happy with my mother and the way she treated you? Please tell me what was so great about that!”

  It was a good point. Connie was never affectionate with me. She never hugged me or kissed me or told me I could grow up to be whatever I wanted to be. She wasn’t a dreamer. Her horizons reached only as far as the back burners on her trusty stove, which still stood in the kitchen I now called home.

  “Think back, man,” Vic said. “She was brutal to you, absolutely brutal.”

  “She could be, yeah.”

  “So why were you happiest under my mother’s roof?”

  “Well, I could count on her, Vic. Haven’t had a lot of people I could count on, and she was one of them. Consistency, you know? Not many consistent people around, when you think about it.”

  He let that sink in. I plunged ahead.

  “And your father was the best man I ever knew. Who was better than Angie?”

  Vic’s eyes went bright with tears. “Nobody.” A grin split his face. “I ever tell you about the time I went with him on a plumbing job in the neighborhood? This was probably before you were born. Some poor young widow had a busted pipe under her kitchen sink. Water everywhere, her little kids runnin’ around, splashin’ all over the place. A real mess. I went with him to help out. Took a few hours to install a new pipe, him workin’ under the sink, me holdin’ the flashlight, and when we were done—we even mopped up the water!—the widow says, ‘What do I owe you, Anj?’ ‘Forget it,’ my father says, and off we go. His time, his materials—no charge. On the way home I say to him, ‘Why didn’t you charge her, Pop?’ He shrugs and says, ‘Ahhh, she needs the money more than me.’”

  Vic wiped his eyes at the end of the story. “And that’s not the only time something like that happened. It’s not like he was rollin’ in dough, either.”

  “Well, maybe now you understand why I bought his old house.”

  “No, I don’t understand. I’d understand if you went to their graves once in a while—that I could understand. Let me break it to you gently, nephew: They’re gone. Doin’ what you did ain’t bringin’ ‘em back.”

  “I don’t want to bring them back.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  I had to think about that for a moment. “Peace, I guess.”

  He snorted. “Peace, on Shepherd Avenue. Good luck with that.”

  We were both quiet, watching Vic’s ballplayers gather their equipment and walk away.

  “So . . . what’s the old neighborhood like these days, anyway?”

  I turned my face so he wouldn’t see me grinning. I knew curiosity would get the better of him.

  “Looks pretty much the same. Lot of bars on the windows, things like that, but the houses haven’t changed much.”

  “Lotta blacks?”

  “Yeah, and Puerto Ricans . . . Hey, you won’t believe who lives across the street. Justin Wilson.”

  Vic sat up straight. “Holy shit.”

  “I run with him some mornings in Highland Park. Nice enough kid.”

  “He’s about to go first in the draft!”

  “That’s what everybody says. And get this: Remember Nat the bottle man?”

  “Nat the Jew?”

  “Right. Still alive, still around.”

  “Come on. He must be a hundred!”

  “Ninety-eight. Looks pretty good, too.”

  “Jesus H. Christ!”

  “Come see the old house, Vic. I really want you to see it.”

  Vic buried his face in his hands. I thought he’d be smiling when he took his hands away, but he wasn’t. He looked about as happy as a headstone.

  And he stared straight ahead at the empty ball field through eyes brimming with tears when he spoke again, so softly I could barely hear him.

  “I wish you a lotta luck, Joey,” he said, “but I am never, ever goin’ back there again.”

&n
bsp; Chapter Eleven

  There was something wrong with Justin. We were trotting around the Highland Park reservoir at an unusually slow pace when suddenly he came to a halt, as if he couldn’t run another step. He looked a little pale.

  “You okay?”

  He shook his head. “I’m freakin’ out, man.”

  “Why?”

  “Gotta get on a plane today.”

  “No kidding! Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know . . . Arizona? Gotta look at this college that wants me to go there.”

  “Arizona State? That’s a top baseball college! Lot of great players went there.”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  “I think they offered a scholarship to my uncle.”

  “The guy who washed out?”

  “Yeah. Maybe he should have gone to Arizona . . . So what’s the deal? You’re not turning pro?”

  “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doin’, man.”

  He sat down on a bench and let his hands hang between his knees as if they were too heavy to hold up. I sat beside him. He was actually quivering.

  “What’s wrong, Justin?”

  “Ain’t never been on a plane before.”

  “You scared?”

  “Little bit.”

  “There’s nothing to it.”

  He looked at me. “You been?”

  “Many times.”

  A plane crossed over our heads. Justin watched it go and shook his head in wonder.

  “How the fuck do they do it? Big heavy thing like that, way up in the sky.”

  “That’s nothing for you to worry about. All you have to do is sit back and relax.”

  “Maybe I won’t go.”

  I dared to put an arm across his shoulders. “Buddy, if you’re going to be a ballplayer, college or pro, you’re going to ride in planes. That’s the deal. Might as well get started.”

  He forced a brave smile. We got up off the bench and trotted back to Shepherd Avenue.

  * * *

  Things were moving along. I couldn’t stand my white metal front door, so I hired Eddie Everything to replace it with a brown wooden door with a big, heavy knocker. I also hated the sound of that damn doorbell, so I had Eddie disconnect it.

  I got to work painting the window frames and sills in the bedrooms. The woodwork was always the toughest, most time-consuming part of any paint job, but it was also the most gratifying. I used semi-gloss paint that left a sheen even after it dried, and in the waning afternoon light I was happy to see how much brighter my home seemed. It was almost like I was resurrecting the place, and with that happy thought I showered, flopped on my bed and fell into a deep sleep, from which I was jolted by the very first knocking at my front door.

  The pounding continued as I tugged on my jeans and a T-shirt. I tripped on a drop cloth on my way to the door and when I opened it Rose was standing there, breathing hard and looking annoyed, as if I’d stood her up.

  “What are you, deaf?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s my son, my Justin.”

  “Come in.”

  She hesitated. “Is this a new door?”

  “Yeah. I hated the other one.”

  “How can anybody hate a door?”

  “Are you coming in or what, Rose?”

  I led her to the newly painted kitchen. She sat at the table and I offered her coffee. She rolled her eyes.

  “You don’t got a beer?”

  I cracked open two cold ones and sat with her. She took a long swallow and shut her eyes, as if that would help speed the alcohol to its destination. The suspense was killing me.

  “What’s wrong with Justin?”

  “He left. That’s what’s wrong.”

  “Yeah, he told me. He’s on his way to visit Arizona State.”

  “Uh-huh. Thanks to you.”

  She said it accusingly.

  “Wait a second. You didn’t want him to go?”

  “You catch on quick, don’t you?”

  “Whoa, whoa, Rose—all I said was that it’s no big deal to fly!”

  “Yeah? What if the plane crashes?”

  “It won’t.”

  “Who are you, God? You know everything?”

  “I know that Justin will be fine.”

  She took another long slug of beer, closed her eyes again.

  “He’s gonna be gone three days.” She held up a dramatic forefinger. “And this is the first time he’s ever been away from me. You believe that? Shoulda seen him pullin’ away in that car the college sent for him, lookin’ back at me like a puppy.”

  “This experience will be good for him.”

  She cocked her head. “You think?”

  “Rose, you’ve done your job. He’s a good kid. Have faith.”

  “I’m thinkin’ I shoulda gone with him, but I couldn’t get the days.”

  “Days?”

  “My job. I manage the Laundromat on Fulton.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Well, why the hell would you? You, with your own washer and dryer!”

  “You’re pissed off at me because I have a washer and a dryer and a new door?”

  She saw the absurdity of her anger, sighed, let her shoulders sag.

  “Ahhh, I ain’t mad at you.” She wiggled her empty bottle. “We’re gonna need more beer, Jo-Jo.”

  Nobody had ever called me “Jo-Jo” before, and I’m not crazy about nicknames, but instead of protesting, I did the only thing that seemed appropriate, under the circumstances.

  I got two more beers. And that’s how it started.

  * * *

  Rose told me about her life: marriage at sixteen, motherhood at seventeen. I quickly did the arithmetic and realized she was thirty-six years old—which is to say, twenty-four years younger than me.

  I’d been around the world, seen so much of it with my restless father. Rose had seen Brooklyn. And only the roughest parts of it.

  She was young. I was old. We had absolutely nothing in common, except for maybe one thing:

  I’d managed to alienate myself from the only two people on the planet connected to me, and Rose’s lone link to the human race was in a plane bound for Arizona.

  So for the moment, we were both alone in the world.

  When it comes to bonding, loneliness has everything else beat. Especially when you’ve each had four beers, and night is falling, and the idea of spending the night by yourself is too much to bear.

  “You know,” she said, gesturing at me with her nearly empty beer bottle, “you’re a good listener.”

  I shrugged. “It’s easy when the other person is a good talker.”

  “You sayin’ I talk too much?”

  “I’d really have to know you better.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  My blood tingled. Rose finished her beer, got up from her chair and came to my side of the table. She startled me by gripping my shoulders and going nose to nose with me, like a basketball coach giving advice to a player he’s sending into the game.

  Even with all that beer in me, I knew this was going to be nothing but trouble, and the last thing I needed was trouble while trying to settle into my new life. But at least when you’re in trouble you feel alive, and that was a sensation I’d been lacking.

  She nuzzled my nose with hers. “You gonna kiss me, Jo-Jo?”

  “Rose. You don’t know me.”

  “My boy likes you. That’s all I gotta know.”

  “It’s getting dark, so maybe you can’t tell that I’m old enough to be your father.”

  “I didn’t ask for your birth certificate. I asked if you were gonna kiss me.”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  “If you think too much, it won’t happen.”

  “So you’re saying I should just do it.”

  “Ahh, never mind, I’ll do it.”

  And she did, with an amazing blend of passion and gentleness. That first kiss went on and on, through the approach
, passing and fading of a wailing fire engine that roared down Shepherd Avenue.

  At last Rose drew back. She took my hand, pulled me to my feet and said, “Which room?”

  I had to chuckle. “Any one you want. They’re all mine. But the one with the bed in it is straight down the hall, facing the backyard.”

  She smiled, the first time I’d ever seen her do that. Her teeth were beautifully white in the moonlight.

  “That’s the one we want,” she said, leading the way.

  Luckily I’d packed a box of condoms when I moved to Brooklyn, never really expecting to use them, the way you buy a fire extinguisher with that same attitude.

  But once we got going I realized it was a good thing I’d brought the condoms, and a shame I’d procrastinated about getting a fire extinguisher.

  Hot, hot, hot. In the midst of it Rose actually gasped an apology.

  “I’m outta practice, man,” she said. “If it ain’t right, say so.”

  “It’s right. Jesus, is it ever right! I think I’m the one who’s been wrong all these years.”

  “No, no, you’re doin’ good.”

  “Yeah, well, nothing like the smell of fresh paint to get a man going.”

  She laughed, a wonderful sound, somehow rich with both glee and regret.

  “You are one crazy white guy . . .”

  I conked out as if I’d been hit with a baseball bat, and when I awoke Rose was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed and tying her shoes. The bed creaked when I sat up and she turned to me, startled.

  “Shit! Didn’t wanna wake you.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “Yeah, I gotta go. Justin’s gonna call me in ten minutes.”

  She showed me the face of her cell phone. It was ten minutes to ten.

  “So take the call here.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Why not? I’ll be quiet.”

  “Can’t take that chance, Jo-Jo.”

  Her shoes tied, she jumped to her feet. “I’m outta here.” She kissed my forehead. “Go back to sleep, you earned it.”

  “I’ll walk you home.”

  “No way!”

  “I’ll walk you to the door.”

  She couldn’t object to that. So I followed her to my front door, which she opened a crack to peek out on the street.