Return to Shepherd Avenue

by Charlie Carillo

Then on to Atlantic Avenue—always at least a nod or a quick conversation with Nat—and then shopping along Fulton Street, under the elevated tracks. I wanted to support the local shops as much as I could. I bought meat from an eternally smiling butcher who was wildly proud of his products, always saying the same thing before wrapping up my purchase: “Is that a chicken, or is that a chicken? Is that a pork chop, or is that a pork chop?“

  Fruits and vegetables came from an open-air stall that spilled out onto the sidewalk, probably in violation of the law, but who was going to complain? The vendor was an unshaven guy who wore a black wool cap and fingerless gloves in all weathers and always looked left and right as he made change from the dirt-streaked apron around his waist. He sold the best tomatoes I’d ever tasted, and when I asked him where they came from he glared at me as if I’d asked if I could sleep with his wife.

  “They come from the ground,” he deadpanned. A true East New York response.

  And you got the truest sense of the neighborhood from the liquor store. Only the cheapest of wines were out on display, and everything else was behind a floor-to-ceiling Plexiglas barrier with a sliding window. On the other side stood the owner, a nervous, narrow-eyed guy in a black shirt who always took the money first before passing the bottles and the change through the window. I made half-a-dozen visits to the store before I earned my first nod of recognition from the man. At that point I was going to introduce myself, but the window slid shut before I could open my mouth.

  I was careful to steer clear of the Laundromat where Rose worked. The last thing I needed was to get caught lurking again.

  I even ventured into the White Castle for an occasional lunch, for old times’ sake—something my grandmother would have forbidden in the old days. The Italians on the block shunned the place when it went up in ‘61. Fast food was a sign that the neighborhood was changing, and it was time for them to pack up and get out, while the gettin’ was good.

  They were still making the same square little hamburgers, fried in diced onions and slapped onto the world’s softest buns. You could eat half a dozen and still have room for french fries and a chocolate malted.

  The girl behind the counter was a sad-eyed creature with a flawless cappuccino complexion. Even with her hair up in a sanitary net she was pretty, and I suspected she’d be even prettier if she smiled, which she didn’t.

  I ordered three burgers, fries and a chocolate malted, aware that I was the only white customer in the place.

  “Eatin’ it here?”

  “I’ll take it with me.”

  She brought my food in a bag and I paid up, stuffing a buck into the tip jar.

  “I remember when they built this place fifty years ago,” I told the girl, hoping she’d respond with surprise or curiosity, but her face remained blank until I added: “Me and this other kid smashed the windows while it was under construction.”

  Still no smile, but at least her eyebrows went up. “You get caught?”

  “No.”

  At last, a smile. “This job sucks,” she whispered. “I’d like to smash some windows here.”

  “I’d advise against it. Surveillance cameras everywhere nowadays.”

  “Yeah, that’s true.” She sighed. “You were lucky in your day, man. The shit you didn’t have to worry about.”

  “True dat,” I replied, and went home to enjoy my cholesterol festival.

  * * *

  Eddie Everything was jerking me around, as I’d feared he might when I paid him in advance. I’d hear him hammering in the backyard, then suddenly he’d be gone after an hour or two of work, claiming he had other jobs he couldn’t ignore.

  “Eddie. I really want this coop finished and full of chickens before the snow falls, you know?”

  “Boss, you gonna have it before the Fourth of July, or your money back.”

  “Could I have that in writing?”

  “My word is my bond, man.”

  “Eddie . . .”

  Justin Wilson was big news as he was selected in the first round of the Major League draft by the Seattle Mariners. He was the third pick overall, the first two picks being pitchers, which made sense, as most clubs believed in building their teams around superior pitching.

  Justin turned down the college scholarships and decided to go straight to the pros, signing with the Mariners for a sum the newspapers were calling “the better part of a million dollars,” according to his newly acquired agent, a big-name guy with a shaved head, a diamond earring and a capped-teeth smile.

  Everything was happening fast. First stop for Justin as a professional baseball player would be Rookie Ball in Arizona. For the second time in less than a week he’d be getting on a plane, and this time he wasn’t coming back, unless he washed out.

  On our final morning run together Justin admitted he was a little disappointed he wasn’t chosen first overall.

  “Pitchers are wusses. Play every fourth, fifth day, always complainin’ ‘bout their arms hurtin’. I’m out there every day, man, bustin’ my ass.”

  “Come on, you did great. You’re a first-round draft choice!”

  “Coulda got more money, if they’d picked me first overall.”

  I was dying to know exactly how much he’d signed for, but didn’t dare ask. “I’m sure you did all right.”

  “Yeah, I ain’t complainin’. Want to move my mother to a nice neighborhood, but she won’t go.”

  I felt my scalp tingle. “Really?”

  “She’s stubborn.”

  We ran hard the last few blocks of the way home, and Justin waited for the cool-down walk on Liberty Avenue to break it to me.

  “I know what’s goin’ on, man.”

  I froze. We stopped walking. Justin’s head was bowed and a drop of sweat hung from the tip of his nose. When would it fall? It quivered, quivered . . .

  “What’s going on?” I dared to ask.

  “Come on. You and my mom. Don’t treat me like a jerk. Saw her comin’ outta your house the other night, late.”

  Jesus. He’d gotten up for a glass of water after all.

  He wiped the dancing sweat drop away with the back of his wrist and looked at me, through me, breathing as hard as a bull preparing to charge.

  “Okay, yeah,” I said at last. “Yeah, it’s . . . going on.”

  Justin let me suffer for five excruciating seconds before putting a hand on my shoulder.

  “It’s cool,” he said calmly, the faintest of smiles on his lips.

  I swallowed. “It is?”

  “Yeah. I’m glad she has a . . . friend. Just don’t hurt her.”

  Oh boy. “I’d never do that.”

  It seemed like the right time for a handshake but neither of us moved to do that. Instead, the hand on my shoulder clamped into a vise and he held up a forefinger with his other hand.

  “One thing. She don’t know that I know about you. Wanna keep it that way.”

  “So how come you want me to know you know?”

  “’Cause I like you. I think you’re a good guy. A little weird, but good.”

  He released my throbbing shoulder. We started walking again, side by side. I took a deep breath and felt my eyes moisten. “You realize I’m a lot older than her, Justin.”

  His eyes flared. “You backin’ out?”

  “No! Not at all! Just stating a fact. I’m no kid.”

  “She ain’t either.”

  “Yeah, but I’ll bet she doesn’t get AARP mail.”

  We were half a block from home. Justin turned and held me by both shoulders this time, a blend of strength and affection.

  “She’s happy. I see that. Ain’t seen her happy in a long time, and I’m goin’ away, and I don’t wanna be worryin’ ‘bout her. Gotta focus on my fuckin’ game.”

  He dared to hug me, and when he pulled back from the hug his eyes were moist.

  “Ain’t askin’ you to marry her, or nothin’ like that. Just be good to her. And don’t be givin’ me a lotta bullshit about how old you are, Joe.
You still got a coupla good innings left, far as I can tell.”

  He ran the rest of the way at a pace I could never keep up with, and that was his good-bye to me.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I thought for sure that Rose would be banging on my door the day Justin left for Arizona, but she didn’t. Maybe she didn’t consider me a shoulder to cry on. She must have had other people in her life for that, or maybe she chose to suffer alone.

  Or maybe I’d never see her again. At that point, I really didn’t know, and the suspense was killing me.

  So I focused on my house, figuring I could move the chicken-coop process along if I offered to help Eddie Everything. But he insisted upon working alone, however sporadically.

  “Eddie. How soon before this is done?”

  “Boss, I don’t wanna rush it.”

  “I don’t need the Sistine chicken coop, here. Just something that shelters the damn birds!”

  “Who’s Sis-teen?”

  “Never mind.”

  Against Eddie’s advice, I embarked upon another project: the restoration of the floor in my front room, which my grandmother had always referred to as “the parlor.” It was a beautiful parquet floor gone dark with years of varnish and stains and footsteps, and I knew the room would be a lot brighter if I sanded it down and coated it with clear shellac.

  So I rented a belt sander from the hardware store around the corner (one of the few tools Eddie Everything did not have), donned a dust mask and got down to it.

  It was a loud machine, and you had to keep moving it evenly to avoid gouging the wood. I had about a third of the floor done when I was jolted by a hand on my shoulder.

  I shut off the sander, pulled off my mask. “Jesus, Eddie!”

  “Sorry, Mr. A., but there’s a cop bangin’ on the front door!”

  “A cop?”

  He nodded. “Big guy in a uniform. Looks mean.”

  More banging.

  “What the hell could he want?”

  Eddie hesitated. “Maybe he heard you were gettin’ chickens.”

  “How the hell would he know that?”

  “Hey, somebody sees me buildin’ a coop, they make a phone call . . . it ain’t complicated, man!”

  “Go out the back way. I’ll deal with the cop.”

  Eddie hurried away. A heavy fist continued to bang on the door until I opened it, and there indeed stood a cop almost as wide as the doorway, and half a head taller than me. He would have been a terrifying sight if his face hadn’t broken out in a friendly smile that was oddly familiar.

  “Hey, Mr. Ambrosio, how ya doin’ ? Remember me?”

  He pointed to his name tag, DEBOWSKI, and I burst out laughing. I was pleased, amused and relieved to be reunited with the man who’d escorted me down from the top of the Brooklyn Bridge.

  “Billy!” I said, extending my hand for a shake, “what the hell are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same thing,” he replied, and then we were both laughing as I urged him to come inside for a cup of coffee.

  * * *

  He’d found out where I lived from his friend Nicky Gallo, Johnny’s son, and wondered if I could do him a favor.

  “Name it,” I said, and from his backpack he took out one of my books. It happened to be one of my personal favorites: Sammy Suitcase and the Big Bully, in which our hero, the new kid in school, teaches a lesson to the class bully.

  This bully steals one of his classmate’s lunches every day—literally victimizing the kids in alphabetical order. So Sammy knows exactly which day his lunch is going to be stolen, and that morning he stirs a load of pepper into the peanut butter in his sandwich—and begs the bully not to steal it. When the bully bites into the sandwich and feels that his mouth is on fire, he’s stunned to find that his thermos has been emptied of its nice, cold lemonade by—who else?—Sammy Suitcase!

  Fourteen ninety-five at Barnes & Noble. I waved the book in Billy’s face.

  “You’re a little old for this kind of literature, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, well, the thing is, I’m datin’ this woman and she’s got a seven-year-old son, and he gets picked on, so this kid loves your books, ‘cause Sammy always knows what to do in a bad situation. Next week is his birthday . . . would you mind signin’ this one for him?”

  I took pen in hand. “What’s the boy’s name?”

  “Hector. Jesus, he’s not gonna believe this!”

  “Should I write him a little note?”

  “Aw, that’d be fuckin’ great.”

  I wrote: Hector, I wish you a happy birthday and I hope you enjoy this story. Best wishes, Joseph Ambrosio.

  Billy read the inscription. “He’ll go wild! Thanks, Joe.”

  “You’re a brave man, dating a woman with a young child.”

  Billy’s eyes widened and his smile evaporated. “Think I should stop seein’ her?”

  He was serious. Just like that, he was ready to dump her, if I gave the word. Unbelievable!

  “No, no! I’m just saying, when there’s a kid involved it can get . . . complicated.”

  “You’re right. Maybe I should break it off.”

  “I’m not right! I don’t even know these people!”

  He was actually starting to sweat. He rubbed his damp face with trembling hands. “Jesus Christ, what the hell am I doin’? All the single women in New York, I gotta go and find one with a kid!”

  “You’re doing a nice thing for Hector, that’s what you’re doing. Take it easy, Billy, everything’s fine.”

  I thought I’d show him the work I was doing on the parlor floor to calm him down, or at least distract him. He regarded the half-sanded surface and said, “Jeez, they don’t make ‘em like that anymore, do they? What’s that, oak?”

  “I think so.”

  “Nothin’ but linoleum on my floors.”

  The panic returned to his face. “That’s another thing. She’s hintin’ about movin’ into my house with Hector. You believe that? Two months we’re dating, and already she’s movin’ in with her son! Instant family! Whadda you think about that?”

  I shrugged. “Seems a little soon to me.”

  “Fuckin’-A right it’s too soon! Who the fuck does she think she is? Christ Almighty, I gotta end this mess!”

  Through the parlor window we saw a police car pull up, a cherry-red light flashing on its roof.

  “That’s my partner,” Billy said. “I gotta go. Great seein’ you, Joe.”

  He shook my hand and raced for the door. I ran after him, down the stoop and all the way to the squad car, which took off as soon as he jumped inside.

  “Billy, wait!” I screamed, running after the car. His partner jammed on the brakes as they reached Atlantic Avenue and Billy rolled down his window.

  “You forgot this,” I said, handing him my book.

  He smacked himself on the forehead. “Oh, shit! Don’t know if I’m gonna give it to him now, but thanks, Joe, thanks anyway.”

  His partner hit the gas, and just like that they were gone.

  I went back to work on the floor, sore in my hands and shoulders by the time I got it all sanded down. Eddie Everything was gone for the afternoon, spooked by the sight of a cop. The chicken-coop project would be another day behind schedule.

  I vacuumed the floor, then laid down a coat of clear shellac. It looked great in the late-afternoon sunshine, and made a bright room even brighter. Then I took a shower before hitting my laptop computer with another project that had become my obsession:

  The search for Carmela “Mel” DiGiovanna, the little girl who’d been my very best friend on Shepherd Avenue, back in the day.

  She was a year older than me, an orphan and a tomboy who’d lost her parents in a car crash and lived with an aunt up the block. We did everything together on those hot summer days, including playing a game of doctor in my grandfather’s garage that ended suddenly when that deacon from St. Rita’s caught us standing there naked.

  Mel was shipped out to anothe
r aunt on Long Island, and from there to a set of relatives in Arizona, and that’s the last I knew of her.

  Where to start on a trail gone cold, half a century ago? At least DiGiovanna was an unusual name, unlike Gallo, but what if she’d gotten married and taken another name?

  I checked phone listings in Arizona and on Long Island. No dice. I Googled her name and got nothing.

  I was down to Facebook and halfheartedly punched in her name. Up popped CARMELA DIGIOVANNA BOCCABELLA, along with a head shot of a woman with short gray hair and a big smile.

  Her nose was now tiny, but the features surrounding the gap where it had stood were unmistakable. The fury in those eyes, the smile that went all the way to her back molars . . . this was my very first girlfriend, all right.

  Status: single. Residence: Manhattan, New York.

  My God. Mel was in the city.

  I’d have to join Facebook in order to leave her a message, and I didn’t want to do that, so I went to the residential listings in Manhattan and found the only C. Boccabella in the book, an address on Central Park West.

  The phone rang just once. “Hello?”

  She didn’t sound happy, as if she were anticipating an annoying sales pitch.

  “Is this Mel?” I ventured.

  “Who the hell is this?”

  It was Mel, all right.

  “Uh . . . this is Joe Ambrosio. Do you remember me? From Brooklyn? Shepherd Avenue, a long time ago?”

  Heavy breathing. “Oh my God. Joey. Joey!”

  “Hey! How are you, Mel?”

  “Oh . . . my . . . God!“

  “I finally tracked you down!”

  “Joey! Where are you?”

  “I’m here, in New York. I know this is out of the blue, but I was wondering if I could see you some time.”

  “Yeah, sure. Now.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Now! Get over here, we’re having dinner at my place.”

  It was amazing. Nothing had changed. I was still doing whatever she said we were doing, when she said we were doing it. I had no choice!

  It was wonderful.

  She gave me her address and insisted that I get my ass over to her apartment immediately.

  I laughed out loud. “Jeez, Mel, it’s just like the old days. You tell me what to do, and I do it.”