Return to Shepherd Avenue

by Charlie Carillo

“So what’s the deal?” I asked. “Am I going to see you again?”

  She turned and looked at me as if I were insane. “Whachoo think, man? I’m right across the street!”

  She held up an instructive finger. “But I come to you. You don’t come to me. We got a deal?”

  I nodded, or maybe it was a shrug.

  Whatever it was, it was what she needed to bolt down my stoop, across the street and into her house, slamming the door as if it owed her money.

  Chapter Twelve

  The next morning I did a risky thing. I took a walk down Fulton Street to the Laundromat where Rose worked.

  It was a long, narrow place, like a tunnel, between a fried-chicken joint and a check-cashing place. A row of washers lined one wall, facing a row of dryers against the other. The only natural light came from the front window. It was one of those places where fluorescent bulbs burned all day.

  People could do their own laundry or leave it for Rose, whose ponytail flicked back and forth as she struggled with mountains of laundry. I watched her tug a huge load of sheets from a washing machine into a wire cart. Then she rolled the cart to the other side, loaded the sheets into a dryer, fed a few coins into the machine and got it going.

  Heavy work, all-day work. A customer at the front desk needed change, and before Rose could catch sight of me out there on the sidewalk behind the LAST WASH AT 6 P.M. sign, I ducked my head and hurried home.

  I was restless. There was plenty more work to do on the house, but I couldn’t get down to it. I craved contact. My daughter had frozen me out, my uncle refused to come near the place and Rose had made it clear that whatever was to be with us, she would be calling the shots.

  So I went to my laptop and did a crazy thing. I started searching for people from the old days on Shepherd Avenue.

  * * *

  Johnny Gallo used to live down the block with his parents. He was my Uncle Vic’s age, the local Romeo who was either working on his car or humping girls on its back seat. When he was eighteen Johnny got a girl pregnant, and they got married. My grandparents threw him an engagement party in our basement, and that was one sad party.

  I always liked Johnny, and we even committed a crime together. Late one night, when the White Castle hamburger joint at Shepherd and Atlantic was under construction, Johnny and I busted a few of its plate-glass windows.

  Gallo, Gallo. . . . it wasn’t a name like Smith or Jones, but it was a fairly common Italian name, especially in Brooklyn. There were J. Gallos galore in the residential listings, so I figured maybe Johnny had stuck with his abilities as a mechanic and found a listing for J. Gallo Auto Repair in Bay Ridge.

  Could it be the same one? With a trembling hand I dialed the number. It rang just once.

  “Gallo repairs,” said a voice I hadn’t heard in fifty years. Unmistakably Johnny’s. Holy shit.

  “You probably don’t remember me,” I began, “but a long time ago I lived down the block from you on Shepherd Avenue, and—”

  “Holy shit! Long Island, is that you?”

  He’d always called me Long Island because I’d grown up there, and because certain Italian-Americans feel obliged to tag you with a nickname within minutes of being introduced, which is what Johnny Gallo did to me in 1961.

  “Yeah, it’s me, Johnny. Can’t believe you recognized my voice!”

  “You kiddin’ me? You still talk like a prince! Ain’t heard many voices like yours in my life, Long Island . . . Hey. Who died? Vic?”

  “Nobody died. Well, my father died, but that was a while ago. You probably knew about it.”

  “Yeah, I read the papers. You, up on the bridge with his ashes! Christ, Long Island, are you okay?”

  “I’m great. I just wanted to get in touch with you.”

  “Yeah? Why?” His voice darkened with suspicion. “Somethin’s up, don’t bullshit me.”

  “Well, I wanted to tell you that I’m back in the old neighborhood. I moved into two-oh-seven Shepherd Avenue.”

  A long, dead silence, save for the whine of power tools in the background. Then: “Get the fuck outta here.”

  “Block’s looking pretty good, actually. I’m doing a lot of work on the house.”

  “Long Island, Jesus! Why didn’t you just buy a house in Afghanistan? Be a lot cheaper, and probably a lot safer.”

  “It’s not as bad as you think, Johnny. Lot of working people, trying to get by.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “I was wondering if I could see you.”

  “Sure! I wanna hear all about this. Come over tonight for supper, Nancy won’t believe it. Oh, excuse me—I meant to say for dinner. Isn’t that what they call it on Long Island?”

  “You’re still with Nancy?”

  “Of course I’m with Nancy. Be fifty years in September. Take down my address. Supper and dinner at six. You comin’ alone?”

  “Yeah.”

  He chuckled. “Now, why doesn’t that surprise me? Six o’clock, Long Island. Try not to get mugged on the way.”

  * * *

  Johnny Gallo’s house in Bay Ridge was part of a once all-Italian enclave that was now getting as Yuppified as Greenwich Village. Kids on the rise who couldn’t afford Manhattan rents had “discovered” neighborhoods like this, and they were willing to hack the long subway ride in exchange for a few decent rooms and direct sunlight, the kind that didn’t have to struggle down an air shaft.

  Johnny had a green-shingled house on a corner, under the shade of a big oak tree. It had a screened-in porch, a front yard the size of a ping-pong table and a low white-picket fence in need of paint. I climbed the steps and rang the bell, clutching a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label scotch.

  The door opened, and there he stood.

  “Holy shit. Long Island himself, on my front stoop.”

  Then he grabbed me in an embrace that was long and steady enough to soften the five decades since we’d last seen each other.

  “Jesus, man, it’s good to see you,” he said into my shoulder.

  Johnny was still Johnny. A potbelly marred his once-lean physique and his hair had thinned, but in an even way, all over his head. He combed what was left of his silvery locks straight back, as he did in the old days. It was like a corn field with alternate rows missing.

  Those sky-blue eyes were the same, though, alive with mischief. They glistened with happy tears as he pulled back from the hug, regarding me from head to toe.

  “Guess you turned out all right.”

  “You too, Johnny.”

  “I hope you’re hungry.”

  I handed him the bottle. “I hope you’re thirsty.”

  “Oh, Long Island, you’ve got class.”

  * * *

  There were seven of us at the table, and we sat down immediately and really hit that meal: rigatoni with red meat sauce, broccoli rabe, and plenty of Italian bread. Everybody served themselves from bowls in the middle. It was a happy table.

  Johnny’s wife, Nancy, sat to his left. I hadn’t seen her since that awkward engagement party all those years ago. She was surprisingly slim and pretty and told me she was a firm believer in daily Pilates exercises, which made Johnny roll his eyes behind her back. Next to them sat their son Nicky and his wife Christina. Nicky was just an embryo on the night of that engagement party, and now he was a fireman on the verge of his fiftieth birthday who vowed to get rid of his “love handles” before hitting the half-century mark, but that didn’t seem likely, the way he was chowing down on his mother’s meatballs.

  And across from them sat their twentysomething son Marco, a Wall Street go-getter, whose wife Megan, a violet-eyed, dimpled Irish beauty, was unashamedly eating for two during the sixth month of her pregnancy.

  “I grew up reading the Sammy Suitcase stories!” Megan said. She patted her belly. “This one’s going to be reading them, too.”

  Sammy Suitcase was the hero of my most successful books, a little boy who traveled the world with his footloose father after the death of his mother. Sammy
was always the new kid in school, the outsider, the last one chosen for games in the playground, and yet he always found a way to come out on top.

  Yes, it was a lot like my own life, except for the part about coming out on top.

  And after what Megan said, it suddenly hit me like a lightning bolt: Johnny Gallo, the onetime heartthrob of Shepherd Avenue, was soon to become a great-grandfather.

  I watched them in action, fascinated. They swiped food from each other’s plates and laughed at each other’s bad jokes. They kidded each other and knew just how far they could go with the kidding, and ultimately there was no such thing as going too far, because they really knew each other, and liked each other. A grudge in this family wouldn’t simmer for years. It would evaporate like mist in the morning sun.

  Nicky was teasing his son about how seriously he took his golf game up there in Westchester, and Marco fired back with a line about how he grew up thinking the smell of smoke was his father’s cologne, because that’s how he always smelled, and just about then I started feeling dizzy.

  “Hey, Long Island, you okay?”

  I snapped out of my daze and stared at Johnny down that long table, the way a sailor might gaze at a distant lighthouse.

  “I’m fine, Johnny,” I assured him. “I was just thinking, this is a great family you’ve got here. Just . . . amazing.”

  It was a thought that I’d somehow spoken out loud, as if I’d been talking in my sleep. Everybody stared at me. I’m guessing the Gallos had been called many things over the years, but never “amazing.” At last Christina spoke.

  “You never got married, huh?”

  “No. But I have a daughter. Haven’t seen much of her lately.”

  “You’ve got to bring her next time,” Nancy said. I noticed that she and Johnny were holding hands under the table, like two kids on a first date.

  Suddenly Nicky let out a gasp. “Holy shit, it just hit me,” he said, wide-eyed. “You’re the guy on the bridge!”

  The rest of them looked down at their plates. Johnny leaned across to tap Nicky on the back of his head, as if he were a five-year-old who’d just spilled his milk.

  “You hadda bring that up?”

  “Pop, I’m sorry, but . . .” He turned to me. “That was you, wasn’t it?”

  I nodded, feeling my face grow hot. “The human fly, in the flesh.”

  “Thing is, I know the guy who brought you down! An emergency-service cop, Billy Debowski! Right?”

  I hoisted my wineglass in a toast to the absent Billy. “He treated me well.”

  “Yeah, he’s a friend of mine! I was with him last night, and tonight I’m with you! That’s really—what’s the word I’m lookin’ for?”

  “Ironic?” I suggested.

  “Yeah. Really ironic.”

  “How is Billy?”

  Nicky chuckled. “When the bullets are flyin’, he knows just what to do. He’ll disarm a wacko with an automatic weapon, no sweat, but he has a panic attack when he can’t figure out what to get his girlfriend for her birthday. Which is why he’s always breaking up with his girlfriends on their birthdays. He’s famous for that. They call him Birthday Billy. Not to his face, of course.”

  “Please give him my best.”

  “Will do.”

  He reached over to bump fists with me. Everybody at the table relaxed, and I saw that Johnny and Nancy, those lifelong lovebirds, were once again holding hands.

  * * *

  An hour later it was just Johnny and me outside in his screened-in porch, sipping Johnnie Walker over ice. Nancy had gone to bed and everyone else had gone home. In the distance the lights of the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge twinkled, and I could smell the sea.

  “Sorry about Nicky,” Johnny said. “Sometimes I think he’s inhaled a little too much smoke, with the things he says.”

  “No harm done. He’s a nice guy.”

  “Yeah, I guess. We wanted more kids, but it didn’t work out that way.”

  “But you and Nancy—looks like that worked out pretty well.”

  He seemed surprised. “Why wouldn’t it?”

  “Well, it’s just . . . the circumstances . . .”

  Johnny’s eyebrows went up. “You knew about that?”

  “Everybody on Shepherd Avenue knew, Johnny.”

  He sighed, shrugged, sipped his whiskey. “No complaints. I got lucky. She’s a good girl, better than I deserved. What am I gonna kick about?”

  We clinked glasses and drank. Johnny topped off both drinks, enjoying himself and these stolen moments away from his clan. I could tell he wanted me to linger a little bit to talk over old times.

  “What’s it like back there?” he asked. “Is anybody left?”

  “Remember Nat the bottle man?”

  “Sure.”

  “Would you believe he’s still around?”

  “Get the fuck outta here!”

  “Swear to God. Hangs out on Atlantic Avenue all day.”

  “Christ, he’s gotta be ninety-five!”

  “Ninety-eight.”

  “Jesus, what keeps him goin’?”

  “The neighborhood, Johnny.”

  “Yeah? That’s what shoulda killed him! What about Vic? He ever get married, or what?”

  “No. He’s a peculiar guy, my uncle.”

  “No kids?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Shame the baseball didn’t work out for him. Jesus, he could give the ball a ride, couldn’t he?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  I was going to tell him about Justin Wilson, but didn’t feel like going into it. This was precious time for me and Johnny, maybe the last time we’d ever see each other, and I didn’t want to waste it on current events. I suspect Johnny felt the same way. He yawned, and I knew he had to get up early to be at his garage, but when I rose to leave he urged me to sit back down, have another drink.

  “Hey, Johnny. Remember the time we busted those windows at the White Castle?”

  He rolled his eyes, shook his head. “Glad you didn’t bring that up at the table. My family thinks I’m a model citizen.”

  “You were upset. Your father had just died.”

  “Yeah, and your mother had just died, and your father was on the road. Funny time for all of us, Long Island.”

  “Would you believe the White Castle’s still there? Got a drive-through window now.”

  Johnny laughed. “Window’s probably bulletproof glass.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Remember the night you ran away and fell down on the sidewalk? I was the first one there.”

  “I remember, Johnny.”

  “Madonna, how you screamed.”

  A foghorn sounded out on the water. Our glasses were empty, and Johnny made no move to fill them.

  “I’d better get going,” I said, but when I rose to my feet he reached for my elbow, as if to steady me.

  “Long Island. Why’d you move back there? You chasin’ ghosts?”

  “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “What, then?”

  I couldn’t do anything but shrug.

  He held up a thick forefinger. “Can I give you one piece of advice?”

  “Shoot.”

  “This daughter of yours—”

  “I really don’t want to talk about her.”

  “We won’t. All’s I’m sayin’ is, don’t let her disappear on you. Do not let that happen.”

  We shook hands.

  “You’re happy, aren’t you, Johnny?”

  He seemed surprised by the question. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Didn’t you ever feel . . . trapped?”

  He smiled, and it was the smile of the boy that made all those East New York girls swoon back in the day.

  “Thought I’d feel that way, at first,” he said softly. “But we got married, and Nicky came along, and then a funny thing happened: I got to know Nancy.” He chuckled. “We hadn’t been dating long, you know. Just a few weeks . . . all of a sudden, w
e’re man and wife. Sleepin’ in the same bed, eatin’ off the same dishes.” He shrugged. “Turned out, I liked her. Still do.”

  We embraced. “You’re a lucky man, Johnny Gallo.”

  “Aaay, I knew that before you did.”

  “Wish I could have made it work with a woman. But I always felt trapped.”

  He chuckled. “You Ambrosios. Somebody’s always runnin’ away.’”

  “Not anymore, buddy. If you’re looking for me, I’m at two-oh-seven Shepherd.”

  “I’ll remember that, Long Island.”

  I went out and closed the screen door behind me. I heard Johnny latch it, and before I could reach the sidewalk he called to me.

  “Joseph.”

  It was the first time he’d ever used my name. I turned and looked at him, his forehead pressed to the screen like a kid at a train window, those big blue eyes of his fascinated by the scenery, which was me.

  “Thing is, it’s only a trap if you’re tryin’ to get out.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next day I woke up, looked out the bedroom window at my green-painted, cemented-over backyard and decided I couldn’t stand it any longer. I gave Eddie Everything a shout, told him what I wanted and half an hour later he arrived with a pick, a sledgehammer and a wheelbarrow.

  “We’re working together on this one,” I told him, grabbing the sledge and taking a hard, spiteful swing at the middle of the pavement.

  I was shocked at how easily the surface broke. With the tip of the pick I was able to pry up a chunk of cement the size of an apple pie, and no more than two inches thick.

  Eddie laughed. “A real Puerto Rican pavement,” he said. “Just thick enough to dance on.” He rubbed the underside of the chunk with his finger and it crumbled like a stale cake.

  “Look at this! Mostly sand, not enough concrete. The Italians, when they poured cement—now, that was a floor. They buried a body under a bocce court, wasn’t nobody ever gonna find it.”

  “Ah, yes, Eddie, the good old days.”

  I swung the sledge and Eddie worked the pick. In three hours we had the whole yard broken up and cleared. The newly exposed soil was nearly as hard as the cement had been, but a rainstorm or two would change that.

  We loaded the cement chunks into the wheelbarrow and rolled them to Eddie’s car, where he spread a ragged blanket over the bottom of the trunk before we piled them in there. He had to make two trips to the dump and charged me a hundred bucks for that service, plus another hundred for the work on the yard.