Return to Shepherd Avenue

by Charlie Carillo

  “You didn’t wish Justin luck?”

  “Oh, I did. But the complete quote was: ‘I wish him luck, and go fuck yourself.’”

  I had to laugh, and to my relief Vic was laughing, too.

  “You watch the game last night, Joey?”

  “Some of it,” I said. I wasn’t about to tell him I’d actually gone to the ballpark with Justin’s mother.

  I could hear Vic sigh, the pleasurable sigh of a bone-weary man slipping into a warm bath.

  “That swing,” Vic said, in a dreamy voice I’d never heard from him before. “What a swing that kid has. I tell you the truth, Joey, that is one sweet swing.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  The Seattle Mariners had three more games with the New York Yankees, and Justin hit the hell out of the ball in all of them. In his final turn at bat he crashed a fastball 450 feet into the center-field bleachers.

  I was watching the game at home with Eddie Everything, who went out of his skull over that home run.

  “Jesus, man, what’d this kid do, make a deal with the devil?”

  “He’s just a natural, Eddie. It happens.”

  “Yeah, sure it happens, maybe once every million years. Mariners gonna have to rob Fort Knox to lock this kid up!”

  Justin jogged around the bases with his head down, as if he were ashamed of the way he’d made the pitcher look bad, while the TV commentator ran out of superlatives to describe his performance against the Yankees.

  “Man,” Eddie said, having drained a long-neck bottle of Budweiser in two gulps, “Rose must be so proud of that kid.”

  If he was prompting me to reveal something about Rose, he was wasting his time.

  “Must be,” I agreed.

  “She gonna be sayin’ bye-bye to the Laundromat any day now.”

  To that I had no comment. I hadn’t heard from Rose since our night together at the ballpark. I’d called her once and left a message, asking if she was okay, but never heard back.

  It was a strange time for her. I could appreciate that. Maybe she needed to be left alone for a few days, or for the rest of her life.

  Eddie guzzled another two beers before staggering out into the night. I went to bed soon after he left and was up the next morning even before the chickens. It was a crisp dawn, perfect for a run around the reservoir at Highland Park. I fed the chickens, pulled on my running shoes and shorts and went outside to stretch on my stoop.

  I had my back to the street when I was grabbed from behind by someone who wrapped his arm around my throat, cutting off my air supply as he literally lifted me off my feet. Struggling to breathe, it dimly occurred to me that I’d never expected to get mugged while going out for a run. Who would mug a jogger for the dollar or two he might be carrying in his shorts?

  Suddenly I was released. I pitched forward, throwing my hands out to break my fall on the brick steps, then dared to turn and face my attacker.

  Justin Wilson stood there grinning, wearing shorts and a Seattle Mariners T-shirt that fit his muscular torso like a coat of paint.

  “Okay if I join you?” he asked. The very words he’d spoken the first time we met.

  “Jesus!”

  “Aw, you can just call me Justin.”

  I offered my hand to shake with him, and he stunned me by pulling me into an embrace. He seemed a little bigger than he was before he’d left to play ball, but every pound he’d packed on was pure muscle, and the sparse moustache he’d grown was a reminder that this incredible athlete was still just a kid.

  “We runnin’ or what, Joe?”

  “Let’s do it.”

  We set off at an easy trot on our same old route. The streets were empty at that hour, the shops beneath the elevated train line shuttered and gated. A garbage truck was coming our way, and the driver beeped his horn twice before sticking his head out the window and shouting: “Hey Justin, you rock, man!”

  Justin smiled and waved at the man, who beeped his horn twice more.

  “You know that guy?” I asked.

  “I do now.”

  “I know you get sick of hearing it, Justin, but what you’re doing is amazing.”

  “That ain’t true. I don’t get sick of hearing it.”

  We both laughed. As we circled the Highland Park reservoir he told me that his agent was working with the Mariners to sign him to a long-term deal. He’d come home the night before to talk it over with his mother, and slept in his old room. He had an afternoon plane to catch with the rest of the Mariners back to Seattle, a city he’d come to love.

  “It’s beautiful, man. You been there?”

  “Never.”

  “Nice people, clean streets. Not like this shithole. No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  “Got a real-estate agent lookin’ at houses for me. Gotta get her to come with me.”

  My heart dropped. “Your mother’s moving to Seattle?”

  “Hope so. Wanna get her outta here, Joe.”

  I was suddenly out of breath and slowed to a walk.

  “Hey, man, you okay?”

  “Little cramp,” I lied. We were only a few blocks from Shepherd Avenue and walked the rest of the way.

  “I got a favor to ask you, man. Wanna fly my mom out to see Seattle next week, and she ain’t never been on a plane. Think you could take her to the airport for me, walk her to the gate? ‘Cause I know she’s gonna freak out if she goes alone.”

  I lifted the front of my T-shirt to wipe sweat from my face, and maybe a tear or two.

  “I’d be happy to take her, Justin.”

  “Hey, man, don’t know how I can thank you. And listen, I’m sorry it didn’t work out between you and my mother.”

  I felt my heart drop. “She told you about us?”

  “Yeah. I acted like I didn’t already know.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “Well, when I first asked her to move to Seattle she got all funny about it, sayin’ she was datin’ a nice man here. Of course I knew it was you, and she finally admitted it was you. Then last night she told me it wasn’t workin’ out, so maybe she’d come out west with me after all.”

  He put a supportive hand on my shoulder. “The age thing, right?”

  “Huh?”

  “The age thing. That was the problem with you and my mom.”

  I nodded numbly. “Yeah, Justin. I’m just too old for your mother. We couldn’t overcome that one.”

  * * *

  I was actually quaking when I went inside. The idea of life on Shepherd Avenue without Rose was jarring to me, even though I couldn’t imagine any kind of a future for us together.

  Or could I?

  I waited until I knew Justin was gone before phoning her, expecting to get voice mail, and I was startled when she picked up. I could tell she was at work from the pounding of washers and dryers in the background.

  “Shouldn’t call me when I’m at work, Jo-Jo.”

  “Are you moving to Seattle?”

  “I ain’t movin’ anywhere. I’m gonna visit Seattle, if I can make myself get on that plane.”

  “I know. I’m taking you to the airport.”

  “That’s very nice of you, but you don’t have to bother.”

  “Justin asked me to do it. He’s upset about our breakup.”

  “What?”

  “He told me this morning how sorry he was that it didn’t work out between us.”

  “Oh God! Jo-Jo, this is a mess!”

  “It sure is. I’ve known all along that Justin knew about us. What I didn’t realize was that we’d broken up.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa! You knew he knew and you didn’t tell me?”

  “He made me promise to keep my mouth shut, so I did.”

  “You been holdin’ out on me, Jo-Jo! I don’t like secrets!”

  “I don’t like them either, but I had no choice! And then you go and tell him we broke up!”

  Silence, and when she spoke again she sounded like a scared schoolgirl confessing her si
ns to a priest.

  “Jesus,” she whispered, “my son must think I’m a whore.”

  “Wrong! He thinks you’re a human being, made of flesh and blood. We haven’t been doing anything wrong, have we, Rose?”

  I could hear a Laundromat customer calling to her. She yelled something back, then returned to the phone.

  “Goodbye, Jo-Jo,” she said in a voice like steel. “And I mean forever.”

  The phone went dead. I threw it aside and jumped in the shower, as pissed off as I’d ever been. I was actually shouting at the water as it splashed against my face and accidentally swallowed some, and then a little got into my lungs and I fell to the tiles, choking like a lunatic. BROOKLYN BRIDGE CLIMBER DROWNS SELF IN SHOWER, the Post headline would have read, and while I was still choking the phone rang. I ran to answer it, expecting an apologetic Rose on the other end, but it was a male voice I didn’t recognize.

  “Is this Joe?”

  I fought a coughing fit to ask: “Who’s this?”

  “Kevin. Remember me? Taylor’s friend?”

  It was my daughter’s significant other, sounding extremely distressed.

  “What’s wrong? Is Taylor all right?”

  “Well, actually, no. She’s drunk.” His voice broke. “Do you think you could come over? I don’t know who else to call.”

  When it rains, it fucking pours.

  * * *

  An hour later I was climbing the creaky stairs to a fourth-floor apartment in a weather-beaten brownstone on West Seventy-Eighth Street, my daughter’s home, a place I’d never been. Kevin had buzzed me in and was waiting outside the door up there. His eyes were red from crying but there was a smile on his face, the brave smile of a shy kid about to board the bus to sleepaway camp.

  He shook my hand. “Thank you, Joe.”

  “What happened?”

  “I came home from teaching a spinning class and found her drunk. She must have started early this morning, right after I left. Her office has been calling. I told them she was sick.”

  “Why’d she do this?”

  “I don’t know. Things have been good—I thought they’ve been good.”

  He covered his face with his hands and wept silently. I put my hand on his shoulder.

  “Take me to her.”

  Taylor was sitting at a little table in the kitchen, her eyes at half-mast. She was barefooted and wore a gray sweatshirt with matching sweatpants. The air reeked of vodka, but there was no bottle in sight. The smell came from her breath, which was audible in that silent room—long lungfuls in and out, as if she’d just run a hard race. In her hands she cradled a cup of coffee, which she had not yet sipped. She brought the cup to her lips, took a sip and made a bitter face at the taste.

  “Christ, Kevin, how many spoonfuls did you put in this?”

  Then she saw me standing there. Her eyes momentarily widened and then she shut them, as if I were a bad dream she could wish away.

  “How’d he get in?” she asked, as if I were a clever pet who’d slipped past a barrier intended to keep me off the good furniture.

  “I called him, Taylor.”

  She muffled a belch. “Not the best idea you’ve ever had.”

  “I was out of ideas.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Taylor, he’s here. Talk to him. And drink that coffee.”

  Kevin left the kitchen. Taylor forced herself to sip the coffee, shuddered at the taste and looked at me. “Well, have a seat already, if you’re staying.”

  I sat down. Taylor stared at me with glassy eyes. “If you want coffee, the kettle’s on the stove. All we have is instant, which sucks.”

  “I don’t need coffee.”

  “Suit yourself.” She slumped down a bit in her chair. “So. How’s life in Brooklyn?”

  “Well, my girlfriend just dumped me.”

  “You had a girlfriend?”

  “Yeah, I had a girlfriend.”

  “Why’d she dump you?”

  “Some other time. How drunk are you?”

  “Not drunk enough.”

  “Am I allowed to ask why you did this?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Why did you do this?”

  “To stop it.”

  “Stop what?”

  She hesitated. “The free fall.”

  “Taylor, I don’t understand.”

  “Of course you don’t.”

  “I’d like to.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Taylor. Talk to me. What have you got to lose?”

  She tilted her head back and seemed to be searching the ceiling for answers, as if it were a starry sky. “Ever since my mother died, I have no connection. To anybody. I’m just out there, free-falling.”

  “You’ve got me.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “You’ve got Kevin.”

  “Yeah.” She smiled. “But he’s not blood. I chose him. He chose me. But . . . who am I? What am I connected to? Mom didn’t have any family, so after she died . . .”

  She couldn’t finish the sentence. She sipped more coffee, made another face. “God, this tastes like shit.”

  “You don’t consider me your family?”

  “Do you really expect me to? I was an accident. Nobody wants an accident.”

  “Not true, Taylor. Penicillin was an accident. That one worked out pretty well, don’t you think?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I stand corrected. Me and penicillin. Proof that accidents can be wonderful.”

  I let my head fall, put my hands over my face. “I should have gone to your mother’s funeral.”

  “Oh, this is deeper than that. I know your mother died young, and how hard that hit you, and your father was sort of a lunatic, always running all over the world, but . . .”

  She sighed, weary with it all. “This is stupid, but I guess I wish I’d gotten to know my grandparents. That would have been nice.” She pointed at me, almost accusingly. “Even you had grandparents.”

  “I sure did.”

  It was crazy, but somehow talking it out made Taylor seem younger by the moment, the little girl I’d taken to the playground so long ago.

  Suddenly I had an idea. “Hey. Want to hear a story?”

  She perked up, actually sat up a little straighter. “A story?”

  “Yeah. You loved stories when you were a little kid. This one’s pretty good.”

  Her eyes narrowed. She drained the rest of her coffee and set the cup down. “What’s it about?”

  “Oh, I think you’ll like it. It’s about your grandparents, and the day we went out to buy a Christmas tree.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  My mother loved the holiday season—the lights, the decorations, gift-giving, everything about it.

  Not my father. As a true-blue adman he saw Christmas as an opportunity for all kinds of rascals to make money, and nothing more. If they made a pill that knocked you out on December 20 and kept you unconscious until January 2, my father would have happily swallowed it.

  To his credit he respected my mother’s Christmas wishes, grumbling all the way. One of her annual wishes was for a real Christmas tree, and he always went to get it on Christmas Eve, knowing he could bargain the price way down on merchandise that would be worthless the next day.

  That year he did a weird thing. He turned to me as we were putting our coats on and said, “Don’t you think it’s stupid to bring a dead tree into the house?”

  I was nine years old, a quiet kid, the type of kid who kept his opinions to himself.

  “The tree is dead?” I asked.

  “Of course! It’s been chopped down. It has no roots. How could it be alive?”

  “Sal,” my mother said, “calm down.”

  He kept his gaze on me. “So what do you think of this tradition, Joey?”

  I shrugged apologetically. “I like Christmas trees.”

  My mother kissed my forehead. “That’s my boy!”

  A devilish grin came to my father’s face. “
You both like how the tree smells, right?”

  We nodded uneasily. Something was up, and then from his coat pocket my father whipped out a green aerosol can with a drawing of a Christmas tree on it.

  “Just so happens my agency did the ads for this wonderful product!” he said. “See? Forest In A Can!”

  He held the can high over his head, his finger on the nozzle. “A few spritzes of this stuff all around the house, and we won’t need a tree! Or we can get a fake tree, and soak it with this!”

  He was in his full sarcastic mode, and we’d played right into it. My father always scared me a little when he sounded this way, but my mother remained calm.

  “Sal,” she said softly, “give me the can.”

  She was like a cop, urging a bad guy to drop his weapon. She held out her hand while I stood there, holding my breath.

  “Come on,” she urged, “give it to me.”

  My father’s eyes glowed with false glee. “It’s made with ten percent real pine sap, Elizabeth!”

  “That’s wonderful.” She wiggled her fingers. “Give it to me. Please.”

  Her hand remained outstretched. His hand remained high over his head, out of her reach. Was he going to start spraying that stuff or not? The tension was killing me. After what seemed like years my father at last lowered his hand and gave my mother the can.

  “Ahh, I wasn’t going to use it,” he said.

  “I know,” she said. “You just like to be a bad boy this time of year. Let’s hope Santa Claus was too busy to see what you did.”

  “Funny.”

  “Look, it’s dark already. Better get our tree before it’s too late.”

  He turned to me. “Come with me,” he said. “Someday you’ll be wasting money of your own on a Christmas tree. Might as well see how it’s done.”

  I’d already seen how it was done several times with my old man. For the past few Christmas Eves he’d taken me with him to the Roslyn Christmas tree lot, across the street from the local diner. There was a different tree salesman every year, but they all looked the same. They wore red hunting hats and too many layers of clothing. Drops of mucus quivered from their nostrils from those endless hours in the cold, and their breaths reeked of takeout coffee and whiskey. Cigarettes dangled from their lips, and when they heard my father’s lowball offers their jaws would go slack and the cigarettes would dip straight down.