Return to Shepherd Avenue

by Charlie Carillo

  That’s what he wanted me to find. The bottle. The light. The little bit of hope we all need to get out of bed tomorrow.

  Suddenly, I knew what I wanted to do. For the first time in a long time, I knew exactly what I wanted to do.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  May be it was what I’d been building toward all along, without admitting it to myself. Everything I’d done to the Shepherd Avenue house, especially the basement, pointed toward the crazy thing I was about to do.

  Which was to invite everybody in my life for Thanksgiving, one week away.

  I’d always liked Thanksgiving, the togetherness of it without all the bullshit of Christmas. Not that I’d ever actually had a real Thanksgiving as an adult, or ever even attempted to cook a turkey, but the holiday always looked good to me from the outside. I started working the phone as soon as I got back from Nat’s room.

  Johnny Gallo sounded stunned to hear from me. “Jesus Christ, Long Island, are you serious about this?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Funny thing is, we just found out our son’s going to the Poconos for Thanksgiving with his family. Skiing! You believe that shit? Ain’t this supposed to be a holiday you have at home? Instead, they’d rather slide down a fuckin’ hill with strangers, on man-made snow. What the hell’s goin’ on?”

  “The world’s changing, Johnny.”

  “Yeah, and it always gets worse. We’ll be there. Holy shit, this might even be fun!”

  My old friend Mel was next on my list. I hadn’t spoken with her since our dinner at her Central Park penthouse, and she seemed a little frosty.

  “What’s up, stranger?”

  “You busy Thanksgiving?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Well, Mel, I was just wondering—and I know this is a long shot, what with your kids and your grandkids and all your commitments—but anyway, I was hoping you could come over to my house for Thanksgiving, because I’m cooking the bird for some of our old friends.”

  “Come on!”

  “I’m serious.” I hesitated, then whispered: “Johnny Gallo’s coming. Just got off the phone with him.”

  “Really?” she squealed. The crush she had on Johnny apparently had not dimmed, even after fifty years. “Is he still married?”

  “Yes, he is. She’s coming, too.”

  “Oh.”

  “Look, I realize you have obligations—”

  “Obligations?” She made a snorting sound. “My kids live all over the place. I gotta get on a plane to see any of ‘em, and when I get there my grandchildren don’t even look at me. They sit there and play with their iPods, and the odd one, always singin’ those show tunes on his karaoke . . . the hell with it! I’m comin’ to your house.”

  “You mean it?”

  “I mean it, Joey. This I gotta see. You weren’t bullshitting about Johnny, were you?”

  I called Eddie Everything, who was delighted to be invited and promised to bring dessert.

  “Best fuckin’ flan you’ll ever taste!” he vowed. “Gonna make it with eggs from your chickens, boss!”

  On an impulse I rang Billy Debowski, figuring he’d be all alone on Thanksgiving, especially after his breakup. He literally couldn’t speak for a few moments and when he did, he sounded all choked up.

  “Listen, I don’t want to interfere with your holiday.”

  “Interfere? If you hadn’t interfered with me on the bridge, I might still be up there!”

  “You sure about this?”

  “Just be there, Officer Debowski. Bring a big appetite.”

  Next I called Vic.

  “Shame about Nat the Jew, huh Joey? Unbelievable!”

  “Yeah, yeah, but that’s not why I’m calling, Vic.”

  I told him about my Thanksgiving plan, and he was shocked to hear that Johnny and Mel were coming.

  “I’ll be there on one condition,” he said. “On Sunday afternoon you have to come with me.”

  “Where?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  That stunned me. Vic was not a surprise kind of a guy.

  “You can’t tell me where we’re going?”

  “Sure I could tell you. But I won’t. I’ll pick you up at four.”

  He hung up before I could agree to it. This meant that we had a deal, unless I called him back to tell him to forget it. Which I didn’t, because my next phone call hinged on Vic’s attendance.

  With a quaking hand I dialed Jenny Sutherland’s number. The woman who’d broken my uncle’s heart apparently never answered her phone. I hung up on five calls that went straight to voice mail before deciding to leave a message on my sixth call:

  “Jenny Sutherland, this is Joseph Ambrosio inviting you to Thanksgiving next Thursday at two-oh-seven Shepherd Avenue in Brooklyn. My Uncle Vic will be there, along with a few other people from the old days. Any time after two p.m. I hope you can make it.”

  I didn’t tell Vic what I’d done, and Jenny would have no way of knowing if Vic knew she was being invited. All she could do was show up, and find out for herself.

  I could be a bad boy, especially when I was on a mission.

  My last call was to my daughter at work. Her tone implied that I’d caught her at a busy time.

  “You got a second, Taylor?”

  “I haven’t.”

  “You haven’t got a second?”

  “No, I mean I haven’t had a drink. Not since that day.”

  “Oh, Taylor, that’s wonderful! Good for you.”

  “Checking up on me?”

  “No, I’m inviting you to Thanksgiving at my house.”

  Silence, but I could hear her breathing.

  “Your Uncle Vic will be there, plus some people I knew when I was a boy on Shepherd Avenue.”

  “Sort of a This Is Your Life deal, eh?”

  “No. Just a get-together for some special people. You can stay the night, if you like. Got the upstairs apartment fully furnished now.”

  Seconds passed. They felt like years, until . . .

  “Is Kevin invited?”

  My heart soared. “Of course he is. You have to bring him. He knows the way.”

  “That’s true. Okay, then, we’ll see you on Thanksgiving.”

  I was quaking with joy when I hung up. I had just one more invitation to make, but this one wouldn’t be through a phone call. I found a sheet of paper and started writing.

  Dear Rose,

  I’m having some people over for Thanksgiving and hope you can join us. If Justin is in town, he’s also welcome. Any time next Thursday after two p.m.

  Sincerely,

  Joseph Ambrosio (Jo-Jo)

  I stuck the note in an envelope, ran across the street and put it through the mail slot in her front door.

  Mission accomplished. Now all I had to do was prepare a feast for a crowd, something I’d never done before. No problem.

  But first, I had my final meeting with Dr. Rosensohn. I was actually looking forward to it, no matter what kind of a report card he was going to write up for me.

  * * *

  His face was like the face of a kid on a roller coaster as I began telling him of my adventures since we’d last met: going to Rose’s house with a diamond ring to propose marriage, then changing my mind and ending it with her for good as she prepared to move to Seattle, and the murder of Nat, and the will he left for me, and the ancient green soda bottle I found on his windowsill, glowing green in the morning sun.

  Finally I told him about all the people I was having over for Thanksgiving on Shepherd Avenue. When I was through talking the sudden silence seemed as abrupt as a car crash. There was a glazed look in Rosensohn’s eyes. He shook his head, as if to snap himself out of a daydream.

  “Well. It hasn’t been dull, has it?”

  “No, and the adventures aren’t over yet. I still have to go to Tiffany’s to return that ring.”

  “But I take it you’re keeping Nat’s bottle.”

  “Forever.”

  Ro
sensohn cracked a half-smile. “Was there a message in the bottle?”

  “The bottle is the message.”

  “And the message is?”

  “I don’t know, Doc. I just know it made me feel good. Connected, you know?”

  “To what?”

  I thought about it. “History, I guess. The past. The future, too, in a funny way. I realize I’m not just free-floating in space. I’m a piece of the puzzle. It’s all still a puzzle, this freakin’ life, but at least I’m a piece of it.”

  “Did you finish writing your Sammy Suitcase finale?”

  “No, and I realize it’s because it’s too early for Sammy to stop moving. Got to write up a few more adventures for that kid before he settles down for good.”

  Rosensohn exhaled with what I imagined to be relief, then leaned toward me.

  “One last question: Do you promise never again to climb up the Brooklyn Bridge?”

  I lifted my right hand, like a good Boy Scout. “Absolutely.”

  “All right, then, Mr. Ambrosio. I wish you the very best of luck.”

  He stood up and reached out to shake my hand. I was stunned by the suddenness of the ending, as well as the softness of his hand.

  “I take it I’m not going to prison.”

  “Oh, that was never really an option, as far as I was concerned. We just do that to scare you.”

  “So this is it? I’m cured?”

  “You weren’t sick.”

  “Healed?”

  “You’ve fulfilled a requirement from the City of New York’s Department of Probation.”

  “Not very sexy, is it?”

  “Best I can do. On a personal note, let me say that it wasn’t ever boring.”

  He let go of my hand. I was picking up a vibe. Something was wrong. He wasn’t himself. He seemed depressed. Could it be he was going to miss me?

  “Hey, Doc, are you all right?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re sorry because we won’t be doing this anymore!”

  He took off his glasses and wiped away tears with the backs of his hands. There was a tiny smile on his face, a forced one, the smile of a child trying to be brave after scraping his knee in the playground.

  “Actually,” he said, “my wife just left me.”

  Holy shit. So much for his “strong, nutritious” marriage.

  He put his glasses back on, adjusted them and cleared his throat. “So forgive me if I’ve seemed . . . less than professional today.”

  “Jesus, Doc, I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.”

  “Are your kids okay?”

  “We don’t have children. But thanks for asking.”

  I felt my face flush. The hours and hours I’d spent talking with this man, and I knew nothing about his life. It was all about me! Of course that was the deal in therapy, but suddenly it seemed unfair, especially now that this gentle guy with the butterfat face had been dumped.

  I didn’t know what else to say, and then, suddenly, I did.

  “Hey, Doc. You want to talk about it? Get a cup of coffee or something?”

  He did something he’d never done before in my presence: He laughed out loud, a wonderful booming laugh. Then he looked at his watch and shrugged.

  “What the hell, I’ve got an hour to kill before my next loony shows up. Let’s do it.”

  * * *

  It’s always interesting to see professional people out of their element. I’d only ever known Dr. Rosensohn as a guy at a desk with a diploma behind his head. Strolling beside him on this bright autumn afternoon I saw things I’d never seen before: his waddly walk on short, chubby legs, his thick-soled shoes in need of a shine, his fingernails bitten to the quick. Everything about the man made me think he’d gotten a lot of wedgies back in the schoolyard. He was easily fifteen years younger than me, but when we took a table near the window at a Columbus Avenue diner I felt like I was sitting for a duty lunch with a pathetic old uncle.

  He was broken. He was lost. He’d been so busy shepherding strangers to safety that he’d lost his own way.

  He asked the waitress for coffee and a grilled cheese sandwich, exactly the sort of thing I would have expected him to order. He looked as if he’d been built out of grilled cheese sandwiches.

  I told the waitress to bring me the same. When she went away he fixed his gaze on the pedestrian traffic. I struggled for something to say.

  “I’m guessing you didn’t see it coming.”

  “Actually, I did.”

  “But you couldn’t do anything about it.”

  He turned to me. “Her mind was made up, Joseph.”

  “Are we on a first-name basis now?”

  He chuckled. “Yes, now that the meter’s off, this is how it works.”

  “Wow. Philip or Phil?”

  “Either way.

  “Did you try to talk her out of it, Phil?”

  “You can’t talk to a note.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “A note.” He made a scribbling motion in midair. “I came home from work last Wednesday and all of her things were gone. Books, everything. Not a trace of her, except for a note she’d left for me.”

  “What’d it say?”

  “Would you like to read it?”

  Before I could answer he pulled a folded sheet of paper from his coat pocket and handed it to me.

  “Check it out,” he urged. “Won’t take you long.”

  I unfolded it, expecting a long, tortured rant, but just three words jumped off the page in large, neat print.

  THIS ISN’T WORKING.

  “Holy shit,” I said.

  “That was my precise reaction.”

  Our food arrived. The doc took a hefty bite out of his grilled cheese sandwich. I continued to stare at those cold, hard words.

  “This is amazing,” I said. “This is the kind of note you leave in a hotel, for a maid you’ve never even seen. You tape it to the busted TV set.”

  “Ha! Or the busted husband.”

  “She didn’t even sign it!”

  “No, Evelyn always had a knack for brevity. She’s an advertising copywriter. Twelve years of marriage. One word for every four years.”

  “It could have been worse.”

  He stopped chewing. “Did you just say what I think you said?”

  “What I mean is, maybe there’s hope. Consider the tense.”

  I passed back the note. “She said it isn’t working, not it didn’t work. Maybe she’s just taking a break.”

  He folded the note and stuck it back in his pocket. “You realize, Joseph, that you are a closet optimist.”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “My wife is gone for good. I accept it. My marriage is over. The only question now is whether it ever actually got started in the first place.”

  He gobbled down the rest of his grilled cheese. I hadn’t yet tasted mine. I sipped my coffee, considering my next move. I wasn’t sure it was the right move, but I was no longer as worried about certainty as I once was.

  The doc got to his feet and threw down a ten dollar bill. I shoved it back at him.

  “Lunch is on me, Phil.”

  “Well, thanks. Didn’t mean to wolf it down like that. I eat fast when I’m anxious. You stay, enjoy your food. Good luck to you, Joseph.”

  We shook hands for the second time that day, and when he tried to break the shake I maintained my grip.

  What-the-fuck time had arrived.

  “Hey, Phil. You busy on Thanksgiving?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Thanksgiving. Do you have plans? Like I was telling you, I’m doing the bird for some old friends on Shepherd Avenue and I’d love for you to join us.”

  We were still holding hands. He was truly stunned.

  “Is this a serious offer?”

  “Of course.”

  His eyes narrowed, the way eyes do when prompted by an unpleasant memory. “Normally I spend Thanksgiving in Chappaqua, watching Evelyn�
��s control freak of a mother mock her sexually ambiguous husband’s pathetic attempts to carve the turkey. One year he nearly cut this thumb off. Good times, I tell you.”

  He dropped his gaze to his shoes. “Obviously I won’t be doing that this year, and I’m grateful for your offer, but I’m not sure I’d . . . fit in, Joseph.”

  “Tell you the truth, it’s my friggin’ party, and I’m not sure I’ll fit in.”

  It worked. He looked up at me and once again, he laughed that booming laugh.

  “Come on,” I urged. “You can feed my chickens. Bet you’ve never fed chickens before.”

  “There are a lot of things I’ve never done.”

  “Well, come to my party and lessen that list by one. Bring a date if you like.”

  “Maybe next year, Joseph. This year I’m flying solo.”

  “Does that mean you’re coming?”

  He couldn’t help smiling. “That’s what it means.”

  “Fucking A, that’s great!”

  “Just one thing, Joseph.”

  “Name it, Phil.”

  “Do you think I could have my hand back now? People are starting to stare.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  I had a lot to do. I had more than a dozen people coming over for a Thanksgiving feast and I’d never before fed more than two.

  I took care of the bird first at the Fulton Street butcher shop, ordering a twenty-pound turkey that I could pick up on Thanksgiving morning.

  Then I got all the heavy-duty groceries that wouldn’t wilt before the big day: beer, wine, whiskey, nuts, chips and ice cream.

  I was going to make sweet potatoes and green beans on the day itself, and I was going to attempt a chestnut-stuffing recipe I’d found on the Internet. I bought cloth napkins and wineglasses and something I’d never had before, a decent carving knife.

  There’d be plenty of room for everybody in the basement, at the table and benches Eddie Everything had built.

  The final touch was a long red tablecloth. I actually felt faint when I tossed it over the table and squared the corners.

  And I could have sworn I heard the voice of my grandmother, echoing in that basement where she’d spent so much of her life.