I motioned with a hand behind my back. I would try to distract him. Sal would grab him and pull him down.
I leaned against the concrete and looked up at the young Chicano.
“What happened, Pepe? Is your baby sister driving you nuts?”
I had helped Dr. Agnelli deliver his little sister a month before.
“Padre Luis, he said it was all right.”
He bowed his head and closed his eyes.
“Now, Sal!”
The strongest kid in the neighborhood grabbed Pepe’s legs and pulled. Both fell backwards onto the sidewalk, with Pepe landing on top. Sal jumped up and the boy lay, spread-eagle, on the ground, an olive-skinned angel crying uncontrollably.
“Why, Pepe?”
We sat down next to him, and a torrent of horror flowed from his lips.
He had been sexually molested by a local pastor who had called the act “God’s will.”
Sal and I had attended the parochial grammar school, so our knuckles had felt the wrath of numerous nuns and their rulers in our earlier years. But we had never experienced anything untoward. And, like Pepe, we had been taught to respect the representatives of God on Earth. They were crusty old men who brooked no nonsense.
That didn’t stop Papa, also crusty, from passing on to me one of his pearls of wisdom: Never take marital advice from a man wearing skirts. It took me a while to understand what he meant.
Then a new pastor arrived at the parish, after the older priest had passed away. By then Sal and I had moved on to high school. Sal, never one for religion, had long since given up on churchgoing. I was now involved with Concepción High School and its own parish. Neither of us had any contact with or knowledge of the new priest.
“Come on, Pepe, I’m taking you home.”
Salvatore pulled the boy to his feet. He looked at me and I understood.
It was late afternoon, when I walked up the steps of the church where I had gotten knee calluses from kneeling. I entered the vestibule and opened the door leading to the church proper. There was an unfamiliar priest rearranging the votive candles in the racks near the altar railing.
I walked slowly up the side aisle.
“Are you Father Luis?”
“Yes. I don’t recognize you. Are you new here?”
“I’m Berto. Do you know Pepe Rodriguez?”
His face started to twitch.
“Father Luis, Pepe just tried to kill himself. Do you want to know why?”
He turned from me and I grabbed his left shoulder and turned him around.
I wasn’t as strong as Sal, but I was angry—angrier than I had ever been before.
“Why, Father?”
He extended his right hand and patted me on the cheek.
I hauled off and cold-cocked him.
“You’re going to Hell for striking a man of God!”
“Padre, if I do, you’ll be waiting for me at the gates.”
I turned and walked out.
Pepe killed himself a week later. Oh, they said it was gang-related, but Pepe had never belonged to any of the gangs and, like Sal and me, he avoided the altercations on Hamilton Street.
Sal and I knew it was suicide by gang fight.
Brad Lester?
He was never the same. Even as he attended the weekly and unnecessary psych sessions, he withdrew into a paranoid state. He became a top-notch computer expert, but his personal life was shot.
The judge?
He was murdered by his own, drug-addicted son. The young man dissected him with a ceremonial sword, because his father had stopped supporting his habit.
Justice?
Maybe my Catechism was right: It’s reserved for the Lord.
In this life, it seems a rare commodity indeed.
Consequences
“Dr. Galen, Dr. Maitland is on line one.”
“Hey, George, what’s up?”
He was the only one left.
The big, ex-Army Air Corps pilot and physician had turned seventy-nine a week earlier. He had been retired from office practice for ten years, when Joe Grasso, the eldest member of The Three, had suffered a series of small strokes that ended his physical and mental ability to practice medicine.
It was one of the most difficult duties that George Maitland and Nelson Bolganich—and I, for that matter—had to undertake: telling a colleague and close friend to hang it up, to stop being a doctor.
I remember the look in Joe’s eyes, conveying a deep sense of loss and betrayal. His remaining mental faculties could barely contain the reality of the situation. Then, a short time later, a bigger stroke took him, and he was gone.
It had hit Nelson the hardest. He broke into tears after Joe’s funeral, repeating over and over that he wanted to die with his boots on, not in little pieces like Joe’s mind.
He got his wish—a massive heart attack hit him at breakfast three years later.
At the time, he could only wear one boot. The other leg had been amputated because of unstoppable diabetic changes in his circulation.
Now it was just George Maitland—and me.
“Bob, I’ve put your name in to replace me on the advisory staff. I’m getting a bit long in the tooth.”
“You sure about this, George?”
He had achieved great success after taking over Joe Grasso’s position. The hospital’s mentoring program for internists was one of the best in the country.
I could hear the hesitation in his voice.
“Bob, it’s not been the same since my Marla…”
His wife of fifty two-years had passed away recently.
I knew how he felt.
“Tell you what, George. I’ll stop by your office about six tonight. How about we discuss it then?”
“Sure. Uh … can I ask one favor?”
“Shoot.”
“We’ve got a sticky situation. I’m supposed to chair a meeting this afternoon. It’s about Crescenzi and Galkis. That damned luddite McKaylic wants them out of the program.”
“What’s his beef with them? You said they were two of the best students you ever had. No one’s complained about them and the nursing staff can’t stop gushing over their work.”
I knew George too well not to pick up on his reluctance.
“Bob, they’re … uh … lovers. McKaylic claims that falls under the moral-turpitude clause.”
“I never saw any objectionable behavior in the hospital.”
“Neither have I. Most of the problems I’ve dealt with involve male students and female nurses or female students and male attendings.”
“So where’s McKaylic coming from?”
“Apparently these two guys share an apartment near his house. He claims he saw them kissing and holding hands early last Sunday on his way to church.”
Liam McKaylic was one of those fussy people whose sole mission in life was to make other people as miserable as he was. If they’d ever remade the movie, People Will Talk, he’d have been a perfect Professor Elwell—no acting required.
“Were they out in public?”
“Here’s the funny part. McKaylic says he was watching them from his bedroom window. The two guys have one of those apartments with a sliding-glass back door, and their yard faces his backyard. Wouldn’t surprise me if he was using binoculars.”
“George, it’s none of his damned business what the kids do outside the hospital, as long as it’s not against the law.”
“Bob, I’m in full agreement. That’s why I want you to chair the meeting. It’ll be you, McKaylic, and I’ve asked Ben Jacoby to be the third on the committee. I know he thinks McKaylic’s a pompous, self-righteous ass. For one thing, McKaylic actually tried to put the make on Jacoby’s wife a while back.”
“Okay, I’ll do it. When’s the meeting?”
“It’s at 4 o’clock.”
“Hold on a sec.”
I yelled out to Barbara. She told me from 3:30 on was clear.
“It’s a go, George. I’ll stop by your office after we
’re done.”
He thanked me and hung up.
I stared at the wall.
I won’t let it happen again.
I closed my eyes.
“Berto, Berto, wait up!”
“Whaddya want, Nicky? I gotta make my rounds?”
The boy was shy. Medium height and pencil thin, his long eyelashes highlighted dark-brown eyes and glistening black hair. He flashed pearly white teeth in a smile, as he caught up with me and patted me on the shoulder.
“Si, Dottore Berto, I know, I know.”
“Well…?”
“Can I go with you?”
The New Jersey tenement where I grew up sat in the middle of an ethnic and religious stewpot of nation-neighborhoods. Like today’s world, each of them established inviolate territorial lines. If you belonged to one group, you didn’t cross over into the neighborhood of another’s, unless you were foolhardy or stupid—or me.
I close my eyes even now and see Nicky’s face, hesitant yet hopeful.
“Okay, but keep your mouth shut and stay next to me. Don’t go wandering off.”
“Mum’s the word, Dottore. I’m here to learn.”
We walked to the east end of our world and crossed an invisible boundary into another, one inhabited by strangers who spoke in heavy, harsh consonants and languages predating the birth of Jesus. As in any war zone, sentries watched the border.
But I was different—they didn’t stop me.
No, it wasn’t because I was the meanest son-of-a-bitch on the block. Other pretenders to that throne had been laid to rest in the town’s cemetery.
Through good fortune and early flashes of wisdom, I chose to be useful to all sides.
I can still see the blood pouring from the groin of the young man lying on Hamilton Street. I was ten and proudly wore the brass belt-buckle proclaiming my name, BERTO. I can still hear myself calling out to my friends.
“Tomas, go get a bottle of your papa’s vino. Angelo, get a needle from your mama’s sewing kit—quick!”
My first patient was a gang member who had suffered a femoral artery puncture from a switchblade. I pressed on that artery then stitched it back together using needle and thread from Angelo’s mom, while he took over the pressure.
It worked.
After that, I attended the war casualties for the five neighborhoods. Whenever a young tough got knifed or zip-gunned, they called me. Nobody stopped me, and no one tried to rough me up. I was protected. I was Dottore Berto.
After George’s call, I couldn’t shake off the flood of memories.
“Hey, Berto, you hangin’ ’round with fags now?”
“Goddam queer!”
“Get the hell outta here, D’Angelo!”
“Lousy feygelah bastard!”
The insults and epithets continued, but we kept walking, unmolested.
“Nicky, what the hell did you do to these guys?”
“I offend them by being alive, Berto.”
I watched as Nicky D’Angelo’s delicate face flushed. Nicky D. wasn’t telling me the whole truth, but I let it drop. I had work to do.
We arrived at the stoop of one of the countless, drab, aging buildings in that part of Newark, and I found my patient lying on the steps.
“Berto, that’s Mutanov!”
Nicky tried to back away, but I grabbed his arm and whispered, “You’ve gotta help me. You run now, you know what’ll happen.”
A crowd of the injured guy’s friends had formed a semicircle around us. I examined the twenty-something gang leader. Someone had slashed his forearm open. I could deal with it, because I had spent a great deal of time at the neighborhood free clinic run by my mentor, Dr. Agnelli. Images of his skilled hands treating patients with similar injuries flashed through my head and guided me, as I tested the nerve and muscle function in the injured tough’s limb.
“Mika, I can clean this and close it, but you’ll need to stop by Agnelli’s place for a tetanus shot. Understand? Don’t worry about the cops. He doesn’t have to report tetanus shots.”
Pitch-black eyes stared up at me and he mumbled a “ya,” accompanied by a nod.
“Nicky, hand me that little bottle with the needle in it then pour some vino over the wound.
“Mika, this is gonna sting.”
D’Angelo followed my directions well, and the repair job went smoothly.
“Don’t forget, Mika, go to Agnelli’s tomorrow and get that shot.”
My errand of mercy completed, we walked away from the crowd of toughs. After a block or so, Nicky patted me on the shoulder. Hesitantly, he blurted out, “Can we stop by …?”
He mentioned a building in the direction we were headed. I didn’t think anything of it, so I agreed.
Different block, same building style: dirty, ugly tenement.
“Wait here, Berto.”
Nicky entered the building, and I cooled my heels for what seemed like forever. When he walked back out, another boy, also about sixteen, accompanied him.
“Berto, this is my friend, Constantin Bierkov.”
The other boy held out his hand, and I shook it.
“Call me Stan,” he said.
“Nicky, we need to get moving. Nice meeting you, ‘Stan.”
I was fourteen then, two years younger than Nicky. The other kids his age didn’t hang out with him. Instead, he often tagged along with me and, somehow, we always finished our rounds at Stan’s place.
What happened next I will carry to my dying day.
“Hey, Berto. Why you let that creep Nicky D. hang around with you?”
I was walking with the emissary from another territory, who had summoned me for help with one of his gang.
“What’s wrong with him, Tiny?”
Tiny stood over six feet tall and weighed close to three-hundred pounds.
“Don’t tell me you don’t know.”
“Know what?”
“He’s an effin’ queer.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah, he’s usin’ you to see his sweetheart—that kid Stan.”
I turned red and, holding my breath, started to tremble. I felt betrayed. I had actually thought Nicky D. wanted to learn to help people. He seemed to pick up on things quickly, and he was a good assistant, but Tiny was right—Nicky had been using me.
I didn’t know how to handle this.
The next time I saw Nicky, I told him he couldn’t accompany me anymore on my rounds.
“Stay away from me, Nicky. Just stay away from me.”
“Please, Berto. Don’t do this to me. Please!”
I watched him burst into tears—and I walked away.
I was too young to understand. Back then everything was black or white. There were no shades of gray. I couldn’t have fathomed how overwhelming love could be. Yet, I felt the need to seek counsel; to understand my own decision.
I had to tell someone, and it couldn’t be one of my friends. I walked past the little shop run by Thomas the Barber. It was closed. I found him a few doors down in Mr. Ruddy’s shoe shop. Two of the three Old Guys were there as well.
“Come on in, kid,” Mr. Ruddy said.
“Ya, you come in, Berto,” Thomas added.
Harold Ruddy, the half-bodied Yoda, studied me. Those piercing blue eyes were never wrong.
“What’s eating you, Berto?”
I hoisted myself up on the counter and shrugged my shoulders.
“Hey, kid,” said Mr. Huff. “You got a monkey on your back as big and ugly as old Thomas here.”
George Huff, still haunted by the ghosts of World War I shellshock, could surprise me with spontaneous humor.
I told them what had happened.
Mr. Ruddy sucked in his breath, and even Thomas muttered a “merde.”
“Berto, don’t do this to Nicky,” Mr. Huff exclaimed.
“But … but … why not?” I stammered. “He was using me. And he’s a …”
Thomas’s massive arms grabbed me and shook me. He had never before spoken an angry
word to me.
“You have signed Nicky’s death warrant.”
“Berto, you know better. Think, boy!”
Mr. Ruddy stared at me. They all did.
Oh, God!
A multitude of feelings assaulted me, right on the coattails of a forcefully suppressed memory. I remembered how I had felt, when my girlfriend Bernice was transferred to another school, because a damned nun hated blacks. That episode had haunted me for decades.
The Old Guys saw the realization in my face, when they confronted me with the meaning of my action towards Nicky.
“Good, you see now, don’t you, boy?” Mr. Ruddy had asked. “Some things should never be forgotten.”
That was my cue. I ran out of the shop. I had to find Nicky.
What I had forgotten was the jungle grapevine, which, like me, respected no boundaries. The neighborhood toughs soon learned that Nicky D’Angelo was no longer under my protection.
“Hey, Nicky, Stan’s hurt. Berto’s with him, but he’s callin’ for ya.”
“Take me to him, Tiny … please!”
The big guy laughed and patted Nicky’s head.
“Sure, sure, kid. I’ll take you.”
They had lured Nicky and Stan to an out-of-the-way alley.
My friend Sal had found me before I could find Nicky.
“Berto, somethin’s goin’ down with Nicky D. and Stan. Tiny’s been going around saying he’s gonna fix things up, and I saw him off territory near Nicky’s street. You better get over there and talk to that big palooka.”
We ran. Sal, as big and strong as he was, would not have ventured into that other world without me.
“Oh, jeez, Berto!”
Sal reached the end of the alley first. He retched at what he saw, and he tried to stop me from going farther.
But I saw them lying there. We had chosen the alley as a shortcut and by sheer chance found Tiny’s handiwork. Nicky and Stan had been stripped and sexually mutilated with knives. They were still alive.
A merciful God would have taken them.
A short time later the ambulance took them away.
A few days afterward, I was hanging out at Dr. Agnelli’s clinic—the only place where I could find solace. Corrado shook his head, when I told him what had happened. His dark eyes couldn’t look at me, and he didn’t say anything.
Dr. Galen's Little Black Bag Page 14