The Boys from Eighth and Carpenter

by Tom Mendicino

  Father Parisi had picture books of Bible stories and, as Mikey grew into a precocious young reader, serious tomes from the rectory library like Lives of the Saints and The Greatest Story Ever Told to keep him occupied while Frankie listened to the priest rehearse his sermon. (Useful training, Frankie later realized, since there was no course in beauty school to teach aspiring stylists how to look fascinated and engaged when they’re bored to distraction, their minds a million miles away from the client droning away in the chair.) Frankie would bring his favorite records, and the priest never complained the volume was too loud or, like Papa, called the Jackson 5 moulinyan who belonged in jail. Frankie, so quiet at mealtimes at home, talked a blue streak at the dinner table, and Father Parisi pretended to be fascinated by the latest plot twists on General Hospital and All My Children. The priest never chastised the brothers when they argued, which was often, Mikey seizing any opportunity to grab his share of attention. There was always chocolate cake for dessert and Michael always asked for a second slice.

  After supper, they watched Archie Bunker and Mary and Rhoda and, if Father Parisi was in a particularly good mood, Frankie could stay up for Carol Burnett. The priest would listen to the boys’ prayers, then tuck them into his double bed. If Frankie and Mikey were too wound up to sleep, Father would come knocking on the door and threaten ever so gently that one of them was going to have to take his blanket and pillow and move to the floor unless they settled down and behaved. And sometime in the middle of the night, awakened by a police siren or a loud drunk voice on the street, Frankie would sit up in bed and take comfort in finding Father Parisi, fully dressed, snoring in the armchair at the foot of the bed, where he’d dozed off watching over them as they slept.

  He woke them early in the morning. The priest insisted they take a bath before dressing for church, both brothers in the tub together so Mikey couldn’t dawdle. He would knock on the bathroom door, hurrying them along, opening the door just wide enough to hand Frankie fresh towels.

  “Make sure his feet are dry, Frankie. I don’t want your father saying I let him catch cold.”

  The two of them would quickly dress in Father’s bedroom. Frankie was charged with making sure his younger brother didn’t miss any buttons and that his shoelaces were tied. Father would always inquire if they were decent before entering the room.

  “Let’s hurry now, you two. We can’t be late for Mass,” he said, holding his Polaroid Land Camera in hand.

  He was only interested in formal portraits, his subjects wearing white shirts and ties, never candid shots. The poses never varied: Frankie and Mikey standing side by side in the rectory living room, facing forward.

  “Look into the camera, boys; be serious, no giggling or smiling.”

  Frankie loved watching the images of the solemn, sad-eyed brothers emerge from the stinky film.

  “Why do you take so many pictures of us?” Frankie asked, knowing they didn’t look any different from week to week.

  “Because you’re such handsome boys,” the priest explained, “and I’m so proud of you I want to show all my friends.”

  MICHAEL, 1972

  The blazing sun was pushing the temperature above ninety as high noon approached. Better than rain, Father Parisi reminded the groaners who had already begun complaining before the step-off. He whistled, corralling the morning’s First Communicants to their honored position behind the brass band at the head of the annual Procession of Saints through the streets of the outdoor market. Michael hovered at the back of the group, intending to sneak off in search of a bathroom, but the priest called his name and ordered him to take his place at the front of the line.

  Most of the boys had stripped off their neckties and freed their shirttails from the waistbands of their pants. Some of them had been allowed to change into Keds for the long march on the broiling asphalt. Mothers had collected the stifling veils of their daughters and any pretense of sacred solemnity had melted with the punishing heat. But such disrespect was unthinkable for any son of Luigi Rocco Gagliano, the strict enforcer of ritual and formality. Michael’s starched dress shirt was damp with sweat and perspiration was dripping from his armpits. His First Communion gift from Papa, the Saint Rocco medal worn by his father and brother and generations of Gagliano men, felt like a chain around his neck. His collar was buttoned at his throat and his white silk tie knotted beneath his chin. His hands were folded in prayer, a model of sincere devotion. The old women admiring his piety would have been shocked by the sweet-faced boy’s thoughts of taking murderous revenge against his tyrannical father.

  The brass band struck its first chords, off-key and shrill, and the procession of plaster idols, liberated one day each year from the dark, shadowed niches of the parish, began its slow, stately shuffle through the adoring crowd. Women and a few men, mostly elderly, many needing assistance, approached with crumpled bills in their fists, seeking the favor of the passing saints. The Blessed Mother. Saint Joseph. Saints Francis of Assisi with his bleeding stigmata and Anthony of Padua, the Holy Infant clinging to his neck. Shy and virginal Saint Lucy, her eyeballs offered to her Savior on a silver platter, and Saint Agatha, her breasts sacrificed for her commitment to purity. Mary Magdalene de Pazzi and Nicholas of Tolentino and Philip Neri, all venerated by Italians for reasons long forgotten. Papa and Miss Eileen brought up the rear, pushing the trolley cart bearing Saint Rocco, the family’s patron saint, the protector from plagues, his faithful dog at heel and his exposed leg revealing pustules of rot and disease. Papa’s loyal comrades, Sal Pinto and Pete Delvecchia, marched at his side, accepting tributes—fives and tens and twenties—to pin to the ribbons draped over Saint Rocco’s shoulders.

  Father Parisi, dressed in full vestments, conceding nothing to the heat, walked behind the saints, sprinkling holy water from his aspergillum to bless the sweating faithful. His trusted aide, the Sacred Heart Boy, an honor awarded Francis Rocco Gagliano three years in a row, marched lockstep at his side, cradling the silver bucket from which the priest refilled his holy wand. The final benediction and hymns from the makeshift stage on Washington Avenue seemed interminable to Michael. The hot and cranky members of the First Communion class jostled and pushed, vying to stand in the stingy corner of shade under the tarpaulin. Michael, though, stood still, his face baking in the sun, knowing Papa was watching from the crowd and feeling his eyes bearing down on him. Father Parisi introduced the May Queen, an almond-eyed ten-year-old beauty, to a round of applause. The Sacred Heart Boy was greeted with a loud ovation, the neighborhood’s own little Fabian, with a face kissed by God and perfect manners demanded by his father.

  After the ceremony, Luigi rolled Saint Rocco up the aisle of the church and safely restored him to the altar in his prominent side chapel behind the baptistery. They could hear the rowdy sounds of the festival on the streets as Luigi gathered his family at the altar rail to lead them in a rosary. The church was hot and stuffy and Michael began to fidget, praying for Papa to go faster, trying to ignore the pressure swelling in his bladder as his father slowly plodded through the Five Glorious Mysteries. He bit down on his tongue, setting his jaw, concentrating his energy on controlling the powerful urge to urinate. He grabbed his crotch and squeezed, sinking into despair as a stream of warm piss flowed down his leg, a puddle forming on the marble beneath his feet.

  Papa’s first instinct, as always, was to strike. But sensing the disapproving gaze of Saint Rocco upon him, he tore a strip of bunting from the trolley cart and thrust it into his son’s hands, pushing him to the floor. Michael fought back tears, making a mess as he took wide, careless swipes. Frankie knelt beside him, Miss Eileen, too, offering assistance, both of them ignoring Papa’s angry insistence that Michael clean it up himself.

  “Either help us or leave us alone, Lou,” his stepmother said in a calm and measured voice. After they finished, she lit a vigil candle and whispered in Michael’s ear that his patron saint would grant him one wish on the day of his First Communion. Please, Saint Rocco, he prayed
with all his might. Make Papa wet his pants so everyone will laugh at him.

  FRANKIE AND MICHAEL, 1973

  No one could remember S. Gagliano and Son, Since 1928, ever closing for business except for the funerals of the proprietor’s parents and first two wives. Someone in the family must have died, they all agreed. Why hadn’t Luigi hung the traditional black wreath on the shop door? The news that he and his third wife were lounging on deck chairs on a cruise ship in the Mediterranean spread through the neighborhood like wildfire. The women of their parish whispered that the painted medigan’ had some kind of unholy power over him. They’d never known Luigi to leave the city limits or allow his boys to stray far from his critical eye. Sal Pinto had seen his closest friend’s sons safely aboard a westbound train traveling across the state. Polly’s husband, smelling of beer and cigarettes, met his young, not entirely welcome, houseguests at the station and loaded their suitcases in the trunk of his car.

  “She’s in a bad mood,” he warned as he dropped them at the front door before returning to the bar. “Don’t piss her off if you know what’s good for you,” he said, laughing as he drove away.

  They found their half sister in the kitchen, her hands submerged in dishwater, a burning cigarette in her mouth. Embraces and kisses would have felt awkward.

  “This isn’t a hotel,” she reminded them as she stacked the dishes. She looked tired and worn, much older than a girl of twenty-three. Her mustache needed bleaching and the dark roots of her hair were showing. “Learn the rules and we’ll get along fine,” she warned as she counted the bills in an envelope, making sure Papa hadn’t shorted her on the negotiated price to provide room and board to his sons for a month. The money was generous and she desperately needed it. Her husband earned good wages as a steelworker, but the mortgage installments and the monthly car payments were high. Most of his paycheck went to supporting their young son and the three stepchildren she inherited when she was knocked up at seventeen under the Atlantic City boardwalk by the handsome thirty-six-year-old widower of an unlucky soul who’d died in a car crash. Whatever remained ended up in the cash register at the neighborhood bar.

  After a few days, Frankie and Michael adjusted to the rhythms of a different household. The chores and responsibilities assigned by their sister were far fewer than the many duties imposed at home by their demanding father. They were expected to pick up after themselves, to weed the vegetable garden, and water the grass. They were conscripted to slap a coat of paint on the front porch. But most days they were left on their own, unsupervised, free to come and go as they pleased as long as they didn’t interrupt Polly during the afternoon hours she devoted to her “stories,” The Guiding Light and One Life to Live.

  Michael fell in with a group of local boys, who, impressed by his strength and speed, recruited him for pickup games of kickball and baseball that lasted the entire afternoon. Frankie was charged with looking after his young half nephew Sonny, who quickly grew attached to him. He spent his free time on a chaise longue in the backyard, flipping through the pages of Tiger Beat and 16. Polly’s stepdaughters, Laurie and Marybeth, had an extensive record collection and an encyclopedic knowledge of the bubblegum scandals of the teen fan magazines. They had lasagna and meatballs, pasta e fagioli and fresh tomatoes, for dinner, not the greasy corned beef and cabbage and heavy stews Miss Eileen put on the table, and Polly’s cakes didn’t come from a box. There was French toast and bacon for breakfast and always a cold pitcher of Kool-Aid in the refrigerator. Polly’s husband was a happy drunk, with change in his pocket to share with any kid willing to rub his shoulders or scratch his back.

  Frankie and Michael might have even enjoyed their rural exile if it hadn’t been for Carl, Polly’s stepson. A tall and hulking Slav, with a broad face and blond brush-cut hair, fully formed at fourteen (a mere nine years younger than his stepmother) with the body of a man, he was loud and rowdy with an unrestrained mean streak. The neighborhood boys excluded him from their games despite his strength, calling him doofus and retard, fearing the fierce tantrums that erupted whenever he didn’t get his way. Too many of them had been left bruised and bleeding in the dirt when they dared to challenge him. Their parents had complained to Polly to no avail, their protests rebutted by her sharp rebuke that she had no sympathy for sissies unable to defend themselves.

  Carl’s greatest pleasure was making Frankie cry, pushing his face into his crotch and laughing, saying he knew Frankie wanted to blow him. His double bed slept two comfortably, but not three. Michael was given a sleeping bag and air mattress on the floor below the creaking coils of the box springs. He hid his face in the pillow and put his fingers in his ears, not wanting to hear the harsh commands Carl whispered to his brother.

  “Just do what I tell you to do if you know what’s good for you. Put your hand on it. Now put it in your mouth.”

  At the breakfast table in the morning, Laurie and Marybeth ignored their brother’s insults as they teased Frankie about his devotion to the blond Brady daughters. The girls loudly scorned his choice of the hangdog Jan as the prettiest over the saucy Marcia or the pig-tailed Cindy.

  “Well, she’s my favorite and I am not changing my mind!” he insisted.

  “Well, she’s my favorite and I am not changing my mind!”

  Carl’s affected high-pitched voice with its ripe, fruity tones was clearly intended to mimic and mock his stepmother’s less masculine half brother.

  “You shut up, Carl,” Laurie insisted.

  “You shut up,” he snarled.

  Polly ignored the rising tension, her back toward the table as she flipped pancakes on the griddle. Frankie flinched as Carl flicked his index finger against his cheek.

  “Well, she’s my favorite and I am not changing my mind!”

  He pinched and twisted Frankie’s ear, making him cringe in his seat.

  “Leave him alone,” Michael said quietly.

  “Shut up, you little snot. Frankie likes it, don’t you, Frankie?”

  “No,” Frankie whimpered. “Please stop.”

  Michael jumped up from his chair and charged, stabbing the tines of his fork into Carl’s fleshy arm. The boy screamed and fell to his knees, a stream of blood dripping from his elbow onto the linoleum floor. Michael braced himself as Polly turned from the stove, standing defiantly to accept his punishment. But, surprisingly, his half sister went for her stepson, yanking the dangling fork from his bicep, then slapping him hard across the face, twice, until he curled up in a ball of the floor, wailing for her to stop.

  “Get up and go wash off that blood and bring me the iodine and a cotton ball. The rest of you finish your breakfast and stay out of my way the rest of the day.”

  She turned toward Frankie, the boy who had adored her only a few short years ago, and spoke with a barely concealed disgust.

  “Shame on you, Frankie, for making your little brother do your fighting for you.”

  FRANKIE, 1974

  He’d turned fourteen that day, old enough for a grown-up celebration, something more than cake and ice cream and party games. Papa gave his sons fresh haircuts for the occasion and insisted they polish their dress shoes. Frankie looked sharp in his dark blue suit and Michael wore a sweater and tie. Miss Eileen looked like a movie star in a stiff green dress that rustled as she walked. A fierce-looking giant with a shaved head and a gold tooth greeted them at the door and led them to a table in the front of the room, next to the dance floor, near the orchestra. Papa ordered the veal and Miss Eileen couldn’t decide between the lamb chop and the stuffed flounder, finally settling on the scampi. Frankie and Michael both had spaghetti and meatballs and glasses of ginger ale with bright red cocktail cherries.

  After the birthday toast, Papa gave his oldest son a twenty-dollar bill and Miss Eileen presented him with a tie clip studded with a diamond chip, which she insisted he wear immediately. Michael gave him the original cast recording of West Side Story, chosen and paid for by Miss Eileen, who’d assured her younger stepson it would b
e his brother’s favorite present. The bald man carried a cake with a single dazzling sparkler to the table as the waiters sang a rousing “Happy Birthday” and urged Frankie to make a wish. He closed his eyes and prayed for Miss Eileen to drop dead at the table, which, of course, she didn’t, the only disappointment on an otherwise perfect birthday. Then the lights went dim and the room grew so quiet he could hear the snapping of cigarette lighters as the audience fired up their Winstons and Camels. The bandleader lifted his baton and led the orchestra through the opening bars of “There’s No Business Like Show Business” as the bald man stepped up to the microphone and asked the ladies and gentlemen to clap their hands and welcome the greatest star on Broadway, the legendary Miss Ethel Merman!

  The audience went wild as she stormed out from the wings, smiling and waving. Planting one hand firmly on her hip, she cocked her head and asked when the hell Philly got so shy, challenging everyone to shout themselves hoarse to let her know how glad they were to see her. Frankie was mesmerized, barely believing that this larger-than-life creature he knew from the Mike Douglas and Merv Griffin shows was close enough to reach out and touch, not that he would ever dare! Her glorious voice tore through the room, rattling the chandeliers as she sang all of her famous songs. She joked and bantered, ribbing the men and teasing the women, and suddenly, unexpectedly, Frankie was staring into a microphone, his heart in his throat, his pulse racing, terrified, unnerved by her simplest questions—what’s your name? where do you live? how old are you?