by Dana Donovan
“But it wasn’t,” I said. “Was it?”
His eyes floated back to me, still glazed and unblinking. “No?”
I shook my head. “The movie, To Whom the Bell Tolls, came out in 1943. You said that you and Gypsy were traveling the NEC that year. If baby Anthony was born sometime after that, and you left him on the doorstep of an orphanage five years later, then that would mean you gave him up at least two years after the war ended. So you see why I have a hard time with some of it.”
When I bounced all that off Pops, I figured he might say almost anything to deny his failure as a responsible parent. I thought he might try to whitewash the most traumatic episode of my life and sweep it under the carpet by telling me to go to hell and that it was none of my business. What I did not expect, however, was for him to turn the tables on me completely and make me almost wish I were never born.
“I loved Anthony,” he said. His voice sounded choppy and scratchy. I wanted to think it was all a put-on, perhaps unwilling to believe that he could get choked up about something that happened so many years ago. But as I listened to him speak, it was all I could do not to get choked up myself.
“I don’t know why I told you that story yesterday,” he continued. “I guess I’m still in denial about what I did to that boy. I didn’t want you to think I was a bad father. The truth is, I wasn’t his father at all.”
“What!” I nearly fell out of my chair. “But you said….”
“I know what I said. But things were always a little complicated with Gypsy and me. Hell, things were complicated with Gypsy and anyone else she ever knew, for that matter. I guess I just wanted to simplify it for you.”
“Well, how `bout you give me the complicated version now?”
“It could take some time.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He laughed. “But I am, so I guess I’ll give you the skinny on it as best I can.”
I presented my hand in a sweep. “All right.”
“It all started the day we met Jersey Jake,” he said. “Jake was a hotshot from Trenton. Thought he knew everything. Had it all, too: good looks, street smarts, ambition out the caboose, you name it. But he was green when it came to hopping freights. Gypsy and I met him on a slow run out of Potomac. The fool kid rode in on a loaded flat car. Can you believe it?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
Pops reeled back as if whiffing smelling salt. “Nothin`, if you don’t mind getting killed or maimed. Freight on flatbeds tends to shift on you suddenly when you least expect it. You’re better off riding on tank cars if you have no other choice. For my money, though, and Gypsy was no exception, the only way to ride is in an open boxcar. That’s what the two of us were riding in the day we met Jersey Jake. It was also the day I almost killed myself.” He took a deep breath as if narrowly escaping the fate once again.
“See, Gypsy and I were running what you call a splash-n-dash. That’s when you hop off a train that’s creeping through backyard neighborhoods where the houses are real close to the tracks. If you come upon these houses around daybreak and hit that sweet hour where the homeowners haven’t taken in the milk and eggs yet, well then, it’s breakfast on wheels for everyone.”
“Intriguing,” I said. “How’s it work?”
“A splash-n-dash? Simple. See, as the train slows through the congested parts of a neighborhood, you hop off and load up your bindle with doorstep goodies like milk and cheese and eggs. But ya gotta be quick `cause the train’s rolling and you still have to board again on the fly. Needless to say, old clumsy me, I catch up with the train after filling my sac like a kid on trick-or-treat night, but by then I’m all out of breath. I can’t make the jump up onto the boxcar, so I go the next best route. I try hopping the bumpers between my car and Jake’s flatbed.”
Pops looked at me with the obvious expectation that I would understand the perils of such a decision. When my blank expression exposed my ignorance, he enlightened me, if for no other reason then to sensationalize his story.
“The bumpers,” he said, “are the couplings between the cars. They’re lower and easier to hop, but if you trip while getting on them, you can find yourself under the train, or worse, the wheels.”
“Ooh. Doesn’t sound pretty.”
“It’s not. You’ve heard sailors speak of Davy Jones’ locker?”
“Yes.”
“Well, us riders call the space under a movin` train, Casey Jones’ trunk. Fallin` off the bumpers is akin to walking the plank. I can’t tell you how many guys I’ve met that had to change his moniker to Lefty, Righty, Peg leg, Half boot, Two toes or Lucky.” He dropped his head and shook it slowly. “And lots more that didn’t get to change it at all.”
“Is that what happen to you? Did you fall into Casey Jones’ trunk?”
He looked up at me in a scowl. “Do I look like I fell into the trunk? You’re not listening to me, are you, Spitelli?”
“Yes, I’m listening! But you told me you almost got killed. I thought—”
“I know what you thought, but you apparently missed the word almost. Now shut your crossing gate and let me finish.”
I sat back in my chair and made a zipping motion across my lips. Pops pulled the bed sheet up to his neck and settled his head into a pocket within his pillow.
“So, like I was saying. I got all pooped out running the splash-n-dash and I decided to hop the bumper. Now then, even though I know that you shouldn’t tempt your fate on bumpers, I had done it a hundred times before. Only difference this time was that I tripped and got myself hung up on a step iron. Next thing I know, I’m getting dragged along the tracks between the cars, and the train is beginning to pick up speed again. That’s when Jersey Jake showed up. Out of the blue he came, like one of them flying trapeze artists. He straddled the bumpers, reached down between them and pulled my ass up just when I thought I couldn’t hold on any longer. It was close, I’ll tell you. I thought he was a hero. Gypsy thought he was Errol Flynn and went all gushy over him. He started traveling with us after that. I didn’t care much for the idea, but what could I say? The man saved my life. And truth be known, I did kind of like him. It turns out he was funny, smart and good at hustling free grub at the back doors of the best restaurants you could find.
“Then along about one night, I see Gypsy and Jake arguing `bout somethin`. Figured it must be big, `cause Gypsy seemed particularly angry. Next mornin` we had planned on catching out on a southbound for Atlanta where we might spend the winter, but when we got up, Jake was gone. Nobody in camp saw him leave. Then this fuzz tail with crumbs tells us that Jake caught out in the middle of the night on rattler to Buffalo. I asked Gypsy then what the hell was going on, and that’s when she told me. With tears in her eyes, which I had never seen before with her, she admitted that she was expecting. Man, you could have knocked me over with a feather. But as shocking as that was, I could have accepted it, the worst came when she told me that Jake was the father.”
“No!” I said, and I’m afraid it came out in a gasp. I could not believe my ears. Nearly sixty years prior, I had lost my father in one unexpected moment, and now, after meeting and standing on the threshold of reconnecting with that man, I had lost him once more. “How could that be?”
He arched his brow at me. “How?”
“No, I mean, I know how, but why….”
“Why what? Why didn’t she just lie and tell me that the baby was mine? Who knows? Maybe she figured I would find out one way or another. The point is, I loved Gypsy, and I knew that I would love her baby, no matter who his daddy was. And I told her that. I promised her I would not abandon them. But what did she do?”
I took a stab at it. “She left you with the baby?”
“Bingo! Not two months after Anthony was born, she left us. I was devastated, but already I had come to love the boy as my own. So, I figured I would hang out for a while, give Gypsy time to adjust to things. I told myself that she would come back if I waited. And I did. I waited a coup
le of weeks, which turned into a couple of months, which rolled into a couple of years. All the while, I raised Anthony and taught him right from wrong. He learned his ABCs and 123s and all the other things that kids need to know. Then one day I realized that Gypsy wasn’t coming back, and that I was a homeless father with a child coming of school age. There were no jobs for me. Returning GIs got first dibs on them. Nobody would hire an unskilled bum like me when there were countless war heroes needing to feed their new families and pay their new GI mortgages.
“So, I did the only thing I could do. I left Anthony with an orphanage and I headed out to find Gypsy. I thought that maybe if I could locate her and tell her what a wonderful son she had, that maybe….”
He trailed off with that thought still unfinished. I could see how weak and tired he had become just from those few minutes of talking. For that, and for consideration of my own newly confounded emotions, I decided to call it a day. I hit the call button beside his bed and waited for India to come up. By the time she got there, Pops had fallen asleep. I told India that I had enjoyed my visit, and that I hoped she would welcome me back soon.
“Of course,” she said. “Just so long as Mister Marcella doesn’t mind.”
“No, I don’t believe he will,” I told her, and the thought of me returning seemed to please her.
She walked me to the elevator and escorted me back to the lobby. At the front door, she stopped and clutched my arm lightly. “Are you all right, Mister Spitelli?”
I looked at her, puzzled. “Sure. Why do you ask?”
She reached up and brushed my cheek with the back of her hand. “Because, you look as though you’ve been crying.”
I stopped her hand in mid-stroke and pulled it away. “Don’t be silly,” I said, and I let it go at that.
Eight
I could smell Lilith’s witch’s brew cooking up on the stove even before I came through the door. It smelled like a cross between old shoe leather and scorched electrical wiring. If not for the smiley face on her note the night before, I might have thought she was mixing up her own special blend of exploding rat poison. I called to her from the living room to announce my return, and she answered by inviting me back into the kitchen.
“I need to shower,” I said, heading for the bath. I should have known that would not work.
“No. Come here first. I want you to try something.”
I crept into the kitchen, feeling suddenly very nervous. My police instincts told me to draw my weapon, but of course I didn’t, and not just because I didn’t own a gun anymore…. Well, okay, that is why, but now I’m glad I didn’t. Lilith stood with her back to me, stirring intently as I approached. When I looked over her shoulder into the pot, I saw a swirling pool of black ink and a lumpy mass like river sludge and seaweed. I must have made a retching sound without realizing it, because Lilith jumped back, stepping on my foot, causing me to scream like someone had knifed me in the belly. My scream made her scream, which made her hand jerk in reflex. The wooden spoon she used to stir her brew flipped out of the pot, splashing a wave of black ganja on the wall behind the stove.
“What are you doing?” she barked. “You scared the bjesus out of me.”
I stepped back to gain a healthy distance. “What am I doing? I’m trying to keep you from poisoning me.”
She blinked at me with only half a smirk. “What are you talking about?”
“That!” I said, pointing. “I hope you don’t expect me to drink that.”
I swear, I hate the face she made after that. It’s one of Lilith’s best: the one she flashes whenever I say or do something stupid, which, incidentally, I seem to do a lot around her. “Are you serious?” she said, and she dipped her big wooden spoon into the ink and propped the bulk of the lumpy mass out of the brew. “This?” I leaned in for a closer look. “These are my jeans.”
“Your jeans?”
She let the wad tumble back into the pot. “Yes! I’m dying them black because I got axle grease all over them. What did you think it was?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know, some wacky brew you found on Witchit, maybe.”
That made her laugh. “And you thought I wanted you to drink it?”
“No! I turned and started into the living room. “Forget it. I have to shower. I’m going out with Carlos tonight.”
“Really?” As I passed through the living room and down the hall, Lilith followed. “Going where?”
“On assignment. It’s police business.”
I took a left off the hallway into my bedroom, a place Lilith had never stepped foot in before. “But you’re not a police officer anymore,” she said, crossing the threshold and fulfilling the first step of a multi-part fantasy of mine. As I pulled some socks and underwear from my dresser drawer, she backed her legs up to the foot of the bed and plopped down on top of it—fantasy step two. I knew it would be a cold shower now.
“I’m only going to help Carlos out,” I said. “It’s sort of a recon mission.”
“You going into the jungle?”
I pulled out an old shirt and a pair of jeans from the next drawer down. “Yes. How’d you guess?”
“Well, daah! You don’t have to be a witch to see into that crystal ball.”
“Yeah.” I glanced up into the dresser mirror and saw her looking down her cleavage, brushing away at a spot just above her breasts. It looked like droplets of dye had splattered her blouse, leaving me with visions of little black freckles staining through to her skin in places I had only dreamed of. I shook the image from my mind and gathered up the rest of my things. “I suppose,” I said, and I headed for the bathroom, and once again, Lilith followed.
“So, did you see your father again?”
I set my things down on the toilet seat and drew back the shower curtain. “Yes and no.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I saw Mister Marcella, but it turns out he isn’t my father.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, I guess it’s this guy named, Jake.”
“Jersey Jake?” she said, but I got the feeling she didn’t mean to say it out loud.”
“That’s right. How did you know?”
Her eyes broke contact with mine and fell away. “Just a guess.”
“No, Lilith. Look at me.” She came back, only now she had regrouped, and I knew she would not tell me anything that she did not want me to know. “You don’t just pull a name like Jersey Jake out of thin air. What made you say that?”
Her brows creased tightly. “It wasn’t thin air. We were talking about hobos, and Jersey Jake was a well known hobo in these parts sixty years ago.”
“Maybe in hobo circles,” I said. “But how would you know about him?”
“I was around then.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“It’s the answer you’re getting.”
“Fine.” I started the water in the shower. “I guess we’re done then.”
“I guess we are,” she said, though she did not leave right away.
I peeled off my shirt and shoes and undid the buckle on my belt. When she still would not leave, I asked, “Anything else?”
She smiled and shook her head. “Nope.”
“Then I’m getting in the shower now.”
“Okay.”
I assumed she was only challenging my modesty, and so I called her bluff by dropping my pants and underwear to the floor. I stood there in my convictions, confident in my manhood, waiting for her to blush and retreat. When that did not happen, I realized that I had foolishly subordinated myself to her once again. So, with my chin high, I turned my back, tested the water temperature until I got it right, and then stepped into the tub. As I reached behind me to pull the shower curtain closed, I felt a stinging pinch on my lower right cheek. I should have expected it. I knew she was still there, probably smiling broadly at my glacier-white ass, but I jumped just the same. And to make matters worse, I even squealed like a little girl.
“Lilith!”<
br />
I heard her giggle. “I’m going.”
By the time I finished showering, Lilith had wrung out her jeans and hung them on the line outside to dry. When she came back, I asked her how she managed to get axle grease on the jeans in the first place.
“Axle grease?” she tried giving me that confused look that Carlos often gives me, only with Carlos, it’s usually not an act. “Where did you hear that?”
“From you. You told me that’s why you were dyeing them black.”
“I said that?”
“Yes.”
“Huh. Don’t know why I would have said that.”
“Me neither. Are you sure there isn’t something you want to tell me?”
She pursed her lips and wrinkled her nose in a classic gesture of denial. “No. Hey, do you want some lasagna? I made it myself.”
“I don’t think I…wait. You made lasagna?”
“Yup.”
“You don’t cook.”
“I cook.” She made her way to the oven, removed a gorgeous looking tray of deep-dish lasagna and set it on the table. Then she brought over a plate, a fork and a knife and she shoveled out a piece the size of a brick. “Sit,” she said, leading me to the table by the hand. I knew that the lasagna was her attempt to change the subject away from the jeans question, but I did not much care. With my stomach growling and my resistance worn, I felt reasonably sure that lasagna was about the only thing that Lilith would be putting out anytime soon. She sat across from me and watched as I ate, smiling suspiciously all the while. I had almost begun to believe that her domestic talents were broadening, when I noticed the oven-safe plastic pan the lasagna came in.
“So, you cooked this, did you?” I pointed at the leftovers.
“Yes,” she answered proudly.
“All by yourself?”
“All by myself.”
I nodded, shoveling the last forkful into my mouth. “It came frozen, didn’t it?”
Without hesitation, guilt or remorse, she said, “Ah-huh.”
I knew then that she was not trying to pull anything over on me. Her pride for a job well done came with genuine satisfaction. I even believed to a large degree that my approval or disapproval would shape the tone of our relationship for the foreseeable future. So, after swallowing the last bite, I looked up at her, smiled and said, “Lilith. That was the best damn lasagna I’ve ever tasted.”
