Pins: A Novel

by Jim Provenzano

“Sorry.”

  The Pinto kept up a steady pace. Bennie soon caught up, tailing from about fifty feet behind.

  “Don’t rear-end him.” Hunter laughed, then made an exploding sound.

  They followed the Pinto up the northwest edge of the Reservoir, where it turned on Ridge Road.

  “Where’s he goin’?” Dink asked.

  Hunter said, “I think home.”

  “Naw,” Bennie said. “He’s on the prowl.”

  “This is so dumb,” Dink said. “We don’t even like the guy and we’re following him on New Year’s Eve. If you hadn’t been such an asshole we’d still be at that party–”

  “Patience, brother,” Bennie said.

  “Bullshit,” Dink muttered.

  “What?” Joey mumbled. Why were they following Anthony?

  “He’s gonna pull off.”

  “See?” The Pinto turned right, up the on ramp.

  Bennie sighed, as if bored but determined to follow through, as if he knew what he was doing. He floored the gas, veered away from another car, then up and onto the highway.

  Bennie gunned the motor to catch up, until the Pinto burned white from his headlights.

  “You’re too close!”

  Hunter poked half his body out the window, reaching, lunging for Anthony’s window.

  Anthony once again pulled back, gripping his steering wheel. He braked, but then so did Bennie. The two cars edged close together, then scraped in a moment of metallic ripping that made Joey scream.

  “Shit! My fuckin’ car!”

  “Fuck this. Slow down, Bennie!”

  Joey watched from the tiny rear window as Anthony veered right, getting smaller and smaller, then braking slowly, disappearing behind them.

  Bennie pulled on the brakes.

  Anthony loomed forward again, steering right.

  “What the fuck are you doing!” Dink screamed.

  Bennie’s eyes seethed in the rear view. He pulled right, ending in front of Anthony, who pulled back, then zoomed forward. Hunter twisted back from shotgun, hoisted a bottle. Dink and Joey both jerked their heads back to see beer foam coat Anthony’s windshield.

  That was when the Pinto went off the road.

  For the briefest moment, Dink and Joey looked at each other, frozen, afraid to move, to say anything.

  Hunter blurted, “Holy shit.”

  Anthony’s car weaved over to the gutter.

  Bennie slowed down, pulled over. “Aw fuck him, he’s just gotta wipe it off. Look, he even turned his blinkers on.”

  Bennie did not turn back. He merely glanced at his rear view mirror. Joey saw the red from Anthony’s Pinto flashing on his forehead before Bennie ripped himself out of the driver’s seat. He heard Bennie’s heavy clomping steps as he walked down the road, away.

  Hunter followed, leaving the door ajar.

  Dink kept darting his head back and forth, looking to Joey, along the road. Joey couldn’t move his head. He was afraid of what would happen if he moved. He crept his eyes toward Dink, who peered out the rear window. “Oh, shit, no. Stay here.”

  “Huh?”

  Heat escaped the car. Joey shivered. Was Anthony okay? Were they getting an ambulance? Were the cops there yet? The red light continued to blink. No cars came by. What was happening?

  Joey slowly, carefully peeled himself out of the back seat, trudged down the roadside over gravel.

  Were they doing something with Anthony? Maybe helping him, like the time he passed out at the match in Paterson?

  No.

  They were doing something to Anthony.

  Bennie had him in his car, holding him down. When he saw Joey approach, he said, “C’mon, Neech. Get your punches in.”

  Hunter held Dink back with an armbar that verged on permanent injury. “Get back in the fuckin’ car!” he shouted, but Joey wasn’t listening. Dink couldn’t help.

  Joey leaned against the Pinto, his legs giving way. He had to bend over. Bennie’s feet stuck out of the back seat door. Joey heard sounds, like Anthony gasping.

  Anthony was getting fucked, or killed, or both.

  Joey had to hurl.

  He heard Bennie say, “We’ll fill that little mouth up so it doesn’t talk. A fool’s mouth is his destruction.” He heard the clink, the sound of a belt knocking against the buckle, the sound of a zipper.

  The last part of Anthony that Joey saw alive was his hand. It clutched the tip of the driver’s seat, almost ripping the fabric, his small fingers gripping it like a claw, before it fell out of view.

  Joey leaned against the Pinto’s bumper, coughing, spitting, then falling to all fours. Little pieces of gravel bit into his palms and knees.

  Dink started bawling, yelling, “Stop it! Stop it!” Hunter twisted his arm more until Dink was down to the ground, as low as Joey, whose guts were about to roll out like a carpet.

  A gurgling force swirled around in his belly, punched its way up through his throat, mouth, nose. He lost the beers, dinner, Christmas cookies, lunch, even, it seemed, the last bitter mucousy gasps of breakfast. He kept crawling, backing away as the small lake of steaming barf spread before him. He heard Bennie retreating from the car, Hunter groaning in revulsion.

  Hunter said, “Shit, he’s puking’ and the other one’s havin’ an asthma attack.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Joey felt someone’s arms grabbing him. They were screaming at each other. All Joey heard above Hunter and Dink was Bennie threatening.

  He thought he was next.

  He’d made it a good distance away from the guys, thought he was running, but by the time he figured out which direction was towards the car, the ground fell up to meet his face.

  Some arms held him up. He unraveled inside, coughing, expecting another bucket of acid to jump out of his gut. He tried to snort a burning chunk out of his nose.

  Dink whispered into his ear, “Come on, Neech, we gotta go now,” pushing him down the road, lifting him up and in. Joey tried to hold on, but his jacket got caught on a sharp edge of Bennie’s car door. He didn’t even get to say anything before they dropped him in the back seat, Dink not even holding him up or letting him lay in his lap, just pushing his head down to the floor as he coughed, sputtered. Nothing came out, even though the smell of the dirty floor runners mixed in with the burning in his nose made him want to be sick again. He could only feel relieved. His body quivered. Blood pounded in his head.

  A few inches away he noticed that one of Dink’s shoes was untied.

  Above them, Joey heard Bennie mutter, “We have to meet up again.”

  “In jail, mutherfucker!” Dink shouted.

  “Man, just shut up–” Hunter’s voice above him.

  “No, you shut up!”

  “You faggots narc on me and you are all dead, you hear me?!?” Bennie’s monstrous shout silenced them all. His voice almost made the Mustang itself vibrate. “I don’t care how long it takes, but you narc on me and I will eat you alive!!”

  “Shit, man, what the–”

  Joey tried to say something, but it came out garbled.

  “He’s passed out,” Dink said, as Joey felt his hand pressing down, holding him down.

  No one spoke for miles.

  “We’re gonna meet up,” Bennie said.

  “When? It’s already one. We gotta get him home. I gotta go home.”

  “Tomorrow.” Bennie commanded. “I’ll call everybody. Now just shut the fuck up about it.”

  Joey found his hand had crept down to his stomach, clutching it, holding, but really, his hand wanted to be close to his chest, as if he could push his ribs down to slow his heart from thumping.

  Dink began muttering something familiar to him as breathing. Joey heard Bennie try to catch up. He started to join in while automatically reaching inside his varsity jacket, under his sweatshirt to find, along the thin metal string, his crucifix, “… is with thee. Blessed art thou among women. Blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners
, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

  They dumped him off in front of his house. He told himself he didn’t know what happened. No, he wasn’t considering that. He was considering the distance from the sidewalk through the door, from the door to the downstairs bathroom, if there might be interference.

  He coughed out a ghost of a hurl, washed his face, rinsed off bits of barf and asphalt from his jacket. He found some old mouthwash under the sink, gargled, sat, his shorts around his ankles, on the toilet, when he heard a knock. “Yeah.”

  “Are you okay?” his father whispered.

  “Yeah.” He finished, flushed the toilet. Opening the door, the glare of the bathroom painted his father’s face a ghastly color. He hadn’t been sleeping.

  “Were you drinking?”

  “Yeah.”

  Joey waited. Come on. Hit me. Knock me out. Please.

  “I take it this was your first time being shitfaced?”

  “Ungh. Dad. I’m sorry.”

  “Firing squad at dawn. Happy New Year.”

  His father scowled, padded away, barefoot, bathrobed, back upstairs.

  24

  “Why are they hangin’ the flag at half mast?”

  “That kid what got killed.”

  “I thought he was in a car wreck.”

  “What was his name?”

  “No, he got beat up or mugged.”

  “Lambrusci something.”

  “They hang a flag down for a guy like that? He wasn’t even popular.”

  Dink? Absent.

  Hunter? Unknown.

  Bennie? Mustang not spotted by lunchtime.

  He couldn’t remember where he got that new knuckle scab, but pretending to be fascinated by it helped him dodge the glances around his desk. Kids in class wanted to see him break down, cry. He could almost feel them waiting for it. They knew he knew Anthony, was of the same tribe.

  In the halls, his jacket off, they didn’t know:

  “Did you hear the joke?”

  “What?”

  “Why’d Anthony get stoned the night he died?”

  “Why?”

  “‘Cause he wanted to die a Lambros-co on the rocks!”

  “That’s stupid.”

  While eating, or giving the impression that he was:

  “I heard he was up at the graveyard, ‘cause that’s where all the fags go.”

  “Hey, you know what gay stands for?”

  “Guys, guys, he was on our team. Let’s not–”

  “Oh, come on, Klein, he’s just having some fun.”

  “Did you get on TV?”

  “Naw, they left before I got to say anything. I think I got my face in, though.”

  Over the loudspeakers: “ … that our uh counselors will be coming to homerooms throughout the week to uh talk about this tragedy. Any students who feel they need to talk with them sooner uh can come to the Assistant Principal’s office to uh make an appointment …”

  He grew a headache in second period, stopped into the Nurse’s office, not for “crisis counseling,” but for an aspirin. He saw Hunter down one hallway, dodged him. The guys were starting to ask him about Dink.

  Frozen clumps of mud trimmed the streets outside. He’d spent all Sunday trying to find the nerve to just tell his parents everything, spill it out. But everything held, waiting. He was told to rake leaves in the rain.

  Maybe Anthony was okay. Maybe somebody found him, took him to the hospital.

  When he would have to act surprised, could he act as sorry as he was? Could he do it then? Would that be mistaken for genuine innocent sorrow? If he bawled like people expected, he knew his feelings for Anthony, the real ones, the loving, wish-I’d-been his friend, wish-I’d told-him, wish-I’d-kissed-him feelings would roll out like a flood.

  In the hall, huddled in groups, sharing rumors, he could see some girls crying, or acting as if they were crying. They didn’t even know Anthony.

  But Chrissie Wright did. She huddled next to Kimberly Holbrook, the other Mat Maid. He considering turning around, maybe ducking all the way around the school to avoid them, but he’d been doing that all day, dodging someone he thought was Bennie from fifty yards.

  “Oh, my God, Joe. Isn’t it awful?” Chrissie’s thin arms were around him, her sweet perfume surrounding him, her light combed-out hair in his face. He brought his right arm around her back, clamping his hand down on his raised books. His biceps twitched.

  Almost landing on the strap of her bra under her sweater, he darted his palm down, then tried to release her, but she started crying, his chin parked on her shoulder as if it were a chopping block. Kids passing by stopped, or slowed, some of them, their eyes welling up. It was contagious.

  Behind Chrissie, Kimberly crossed her arms, obviously over the sobbing phase. Kimberly was already medicated. “Yeah, it’s terrible. I can’t even think. Is this sick or what?”

  Chrissie sobbed. “I mean, he was so good, he was just tryin’ his best, but who could have done it?”

  He almost said it, but it got caught on the way out. The flood came up, choking him in the throat. He hugged closer to Chrissie, closing his eyes, letting the drops fall on her shoulder.

  The bell rang.

  “What are we gonna do?”

  He released Chrissie, wiped her tears off with his fingers. “Pray for his soul.” He walked on to class, leaving them both, stuck his finger in his mouth long enough to taste her salt. “Among others.”

  A strip of the list where Anthony’s name was had been was cut off. The piece had been put on the banner wall, in a frame.

  Coach Cleshun stood in the middle of the mat with his arms crossed in a knotted bundle. Assistant Coach Fiasole stood nearby, but never said a word. His eyes were bloodshot. Beside him, Dink stood in street clothes.

  Hunter looked freaked as the others silently entered the practice room. Joey could tell. Their shared glances shot around the room like lasers, silently asking, ‘Where’s Bennie?’

  “Circle,” Coach Cleshun said.

  Colts crouched or kneeled.

  Coach announced, “We will have a talk.”

  Just that one sentence kept them silent. Hunter stood at opposite corners from Joey and Dink, pieces of a broken compass.

  The talk turned out to be few words, all of them Cleshun’s.

  “I know it’s already been going around the school all day, that one of our team members, Anthony Lambros, was found dead yesterday. Despite the rumors and the talk, I want to hear none of that coming from a team member. We will honor and respect Anthony Lambros in memory.”

  Cleshun sort of choked on the last part. “Any of you…who might be having…personal problems …I wish you would …I want you to please talk to me or your parents or anyone you can trust. No matter what you are feeling, no matter what your problems are, nothing is worth…doing something that could hurt yourself or someone else.”

  He kept tripping over his words, but it was understood. A few guys were trying to hide their tears. Fiasole would not even look at him or anyone, but kept his head bowed, hands over his face.

  Coach waited for someone to bring up a topic, to ask a question.

  “There will be no practice today. Go home and think about that.”

  “But we got a match against Montclair tomorrow,” Hunter blurted.

  “GO! NOW!!”

  The team flew apart. Boys ran off toward the lockers, some directly out the door.

  Across what was the circle, Hunter stood apart, on the other side, doing anything not to look at anyone.

  Joey had to tell. He had to tell.

  Guide of Pilgrims, direct my steps in the straight path.

  He hoped one of the men could reassure him, talk to him, but he couldn’t bring it up. Dink signalled with a nod; outside.

  Hunter kept lingering at the door, the potential stranglehold he could apply looming behind his glare. Fiasole had begun pacing, just walking away. Cleshun stood, staring at nothing.

  A few guys puttere
d in the locker room, bouncing their voices off the walls, which were oddly dry, the echoes quiet.

  “Jeez, at least he could have told us not to suit up,” Troy grumbled.

  “That was the point,” Buddha Martinez said.

  It felt as if Hunter had gone. He must have gone.

  But then Hunter appeared behind him. He turned, afraid of anything. Hunter only stared down at him, sang softly in a voice like the guy in Pearl Jam, “Anthony spoke in…cla-a-ass today.”

  He wanted to punch him, scream, but he sat, relacing his new shoes, again.

  Hunter walked away.

  Some lockers slammed. Some guys came by, patted his back.

  Dink whipped around a corner.

  “What did you say?”

  “Hold your mud, Neech. We’re gonna get out of this.”

  “What, are you gonna steal a car now?”

  “No man, we have got to be together on this.” Dink’s hand gripped his shoulder. “We were not even there.”

  “No way.”

  “Are we gonna stick together on this?” Dink asked.

  “Not with those two goons.”

  “No, not them. You and me. We did not do it. You didn’t do anything. I didn’t do anything. You hurled. I got punched.”

  “You fuck! Did you tell? I’m tellin’.”

  “I say you didn’t. You say I didn’t. We’re fifteen. We’ll get off. Believe me. I know.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Just …” Dink released his grip on his shoulder. “No matter what, we gotta stick together.”

  He wanted to hug Dink right there, just grab him.

  “Dink?”

  “Yeah.” He tucked his shirt in, got frustrated, yanked it back out.

  “This is some heavy shit.”

  “You got that. Oh, you gotta come to my house, get some tapes, before they bust me.”

  “What?”

  “Neech, just–”

  “Could you, could you not call me Neech anymore?”

  “Whaddayou talkin’ about?”

  “Dink…Donald.”

  Dink winced.

  “We’re maybe gonna have to keep our mouths shut and go to court and wear suits and ties and then tell everything.”

  “Dude, I am fucked. I got priors.”

  “What?”