Pins: A Novel

by Jim Provenzano

He pulled on some jeans and a St. Augustine’s sweatshirt as if they were old skin.

  In the kitchen he piled his plate with a bit of everything, a Flintstones glass of orange juice, rechecked the listings, got a tape, inserted it in the VCR, then asked to turn on a show. His dad nodded a befuddled, cautious yes.

  Joseph flipped the remote. Commercials, then some stunt show. America’s Most Amazing Explosions. Joseph switched again.

  “–rrific I’m sure, but don’t you think there ought to be random drug tests or locker searches, I mean, getting to the root of it, who sells them things, that is what is going to help.”

  The camera cut to a sportscaster with what Dino called, “some very technologically enhanced hair.”

  Rick Rodden’s Sunday talk show, Sports Beat, usually featured highlights and interviews with millionaire pro ball guys with necks thick as bulls. But this time, it was wrestling. The coaches were from other Jersey teams.

  “We’re discussing violence in sports. In light of the recent events, Coach O’Malley, do you think there’s too much emphasis placed on aggression in high school sports?”

  Joseph sat back, watched his father take notice. It had almost become a bit of a friendly competition, each of them seeing if they could find anything else about it all, “Spin-offs,” as Dino called them, like the week-long special all about steroids, drug abuse in –where else– high schools.

  How could he ever explain the irritating shock of having images of Benjamin Skaal, Joseph’s secret sadistic nightmare, reduced to mere stock footage?

  “Well, I don’t know about wrestling,” the coach said, “but in basketball, the emphasis is placed on team playing, on discipline, but also on enjoying the game. I don’t encourage an atmosphere of aggression, no.”

  Rodden turned to his other guest, a guy from an invitational back in Newark. “Coach Garcia, you’ve had some real champions come out of your tutelage. Some have gone into world class competitions. Do you think there’s an atmosphere of aggression that could lead to the events at Little Falls?”

  “No. First of all, let me say that I think the coaches at Little Falls probably did their very best to keep the team playing in a good friendly atmosphere in the practice and at matches. This area has produced some of the finest athletes in this sport for decades. I understand the boys who were actually charged with these particular crimes had outside problems; alcohol, abusive families…”

  “Gee, the guy really knows me,” Joseph joked. A piece of toast checked him in the shoulder.

  “Secondly, wrestling is the oldest sport in history. It has been refined though the ages and is not at all about violence.”

  Joseph felt better.

  “It’s about helping athletes achieve their very best, especially here in New Jersey, where our programs are doing great, but we still need support. It’s people who associate the more violent, and staged, I might add, versions of wrestling, like the WWF, which is not really wrestling at all, but more of a show, and people don’t…”

  Joseph clapped his hands. “Awright. You tell ‘em!”

  His father sat up by then, his plate set aside on the coffee table.

  Rodden interrupted. “Whoah, we don’t want Andre the Giant coming and showing us a lesson, do we?” Forced laughter.

  They watched the men debate his sport, all the way up to his comments at the end about “bad players that oughtta be kicked out of the game.”

  “It’s not a game, it’s a match, you weasel.”

  “Joe,” his father growled.

  “Sorry, Dad.” They glanced to the kitchen. His mother hadn’t heard it.

  Rodden sure enjoyed covering fights at hockey games, pileups and punch-outs on baseball diamonds. Let it happen in a sport where they didn’t even know the rules, and they were playing judge. Joseph wanted to do something, call them, write a letter, but he just steamed.

  “We have some footage from a recent game. . .”

  “That’s match,” Garcia corrected.

  “Right. A ‘match’ of the Colts team, a kind of opening warm-ups. Can we roll that?”

  Not again.

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  “JOEY!” All the way from the kitchen that time. She was listening.

  This time the video was just the warm ups, the “Down you go.” Joseph actually liked seeing it again, but from a different angle than Cleshun’s or Mr. Khors’ tapes, and he was glad he’d remembered to tape it. He tried not to be scared when they showed his face. It was from far away, and just with the rest of the team. Still, people knew him. This was just a personal rerun.

  Rick Rodent then started talking about the Stone Temple Pilots song, and recited the lyrics like Church Lady: Isn’t that in-teresting.

  “‘Down you go. Sin make me strong?’ Now, you all have these opening kind of things sometimes, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Coach Garcia said. “Not all groups use music, but–”

  “Do you think the coach knew what was in this song?”

  “Well, I really don’t think that it, I mean, kids have music they like, if it helps. I had a coach who liked to have us come out whistling ‘Bridge on the River Kwai,’ and he was a Marine.”

  The men laughed.

  “But we never blew up any bridges!”

  They laughed more. He had ‘em begging for it.

  11

  Miss Pooley had called to say it would be a good idea if he did his best to look good. Accordingly, Marie bought him a new tie. The tie would become a talisman, one not to be worn again. The tie forever after said, You wore me the day you died a coward’s death.

  Because of the “sensitivity” of the case, there were few spectators, just the parents of the accused, parents of the victim, no cameras allowed. They perched outside.

  He had to tell it all again, and listen to the others in the closed courtroom. There were a few members of the press allowed, including that damn Latino guy who was responsible for the Digital Joey look. He recognized the lacquer-haired woman from the other station. She smiled at him, once.

  Miss Pooley provided a legal pad to write down any comments or requests, just so nobody could overhear anything while they watched, but Joseph kept doodling, making hard angular shapes like boxed-up Escher blocks, his pen digging down three or four layers into the pad. Miss Pooley kept taking the pads away. Joseph wondered where they went, if maybe she would sell them at an auction someday. Delinquent Gallery.

  Who would play him in the movie version? Somebody, one of the lawyers had joked about that. Why not? Why not play himself? Naw, too much like that creepy ice skater. She would do that.

  Miss Pooley’s hand lightly touched Joseph’s arm, silently saying, Pay attention. This is your life evaporating under these fluorescent lights.

  After a lot of moving of papers, writing things, his name was called.

  A top-down version of a confession box, the witness stand was larger than he thought. The carpet under the chair had some dust around the edges.

  The microphone was thin as a pencil. There was no echo, like a rock concert mike, so he didn’t know if he was speaking too loud. It was all going into some tape recorder somewhere maybe or into the headphone of the lady who typed into the steno thing. He was just glad the Soto guy couldn’t bring his Robocam inside, and that Court TV had been shut out for the day. He didn’t want to be famous anymore.

  He was distracted from the questioning. Ten feet away in the first row behind Bennie and Hunter’s families and lawyers, in a suit made for funerals, bookended by parents, sat the runty love of his life.

  The defense woman started ruffling her papers.

  After some hemming and hawing during which everybody just sort of forgot everything for a few minutes, debating some stuff, moving papers, the defense lawyer stood up, a thin woman who looked as if she worried a lot, but wasn’t worried now.

  “Before the events of January first, did you consider Benjamin to be a friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “You even
went to see a movie with him, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was the movie?”

  “Uh, Demolition Man.”

  The defense lady turned a moment, fighting a grin, eyed the room to silence. She turned back to Joseph.

  “Did you like it?”

  “Yeah, it was funny.”

  “Who taught you the ankle ride?”

  “Benjamin.”

  “Level changing?”

  “Hunter, and Coach, uh, Coach Cleshun.”

  “Who always helped you with pull-ups?”

  “Benjamin. And Din-Din-Donald. Donald really helped me the most.”

  “So they all helped you become a better athlete, didn’t they?’

  “Yeah, but–”

  “Thank you.”

  “When we weren’t smashing windows.”

  “Thank you.”

  The defense lawyer gave him a look that drained him. She went back to her desk while Joseph contemplated the idea of helping send Bennie to jail. He stole a glance at Bennie, who seemed already straitjacketed into his suit.

  From his table, the prosecuting attorney heaved a long, exhausted sigh.

  Joseph wiped his face of sweat as the defense lady returned.

  “You mentioned, in your testimony, that you were afraid of the defendants. Was there ever a time when any of them said things to you, threats or violent remarks addressed to you?”

  “Well, when they smashed the window or. . .”

  “I mean to you. Did they ever say, I’m going to beat you up, or–”

  “Objection. This is really inappropriate to–“

  “I’ll have to agree.”

  “Tell us when Andrew ever said anything threatening.”

  Hunter sang a Pearl Jam song to me. That would sound stupid. “No. Not ever, really.”

  “Thank you. I’d like to talk about the night of Anthony’s death.”

  Joseph shot a glance at each piece of the posse. The three of them looked around the room, dodging his glance.

  “What did Benjamin say while you drove from the car?”

  “Not much. If he did, I don’t remember or I couldn’t hear.”

  “Why was that?”

  Joseph blushed. “My head…I was on the floor, because I was still sick, and Donald held my head down, just in case.”

  “Was Donald trying to hide you?”

  “I don’t think so. I think he just wanted to keep me down if I got sick again.”

  “Did Donald say anything?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he say?”

  “The Hail Mary.”

  “And how did you respond?”

  “I started saying it, too.”

  “Did Benjamin say anything?”

  “Yes. He was praying, too.”

  “Did Andrew say anything?”

  “No. I don’t think he knew the words.”

  “Why did you say the Hail Mary?”

  “It was, it’s like we were praying for Anthony’s soul, and our own.”

  “So you knew he was dead?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see Anthony before you left?”

  “I was…no.”

  “How did you feel when they took you home?”

  “I was scared. Sick. Thought the cops were gonna pop out any minute. I thought all kinds a sh…stuff. I thought…I thought…they were gonna get me next.”

  “Why did you think that?”

  “Because I knew.”

  “You knew what?”

  “I knew…why…that he did all that, Bennie, Benjamin, and I’m not the kind of guy to…I was gonna tell anyway.”

  “Tell what?”

  “About the other things we done. Did.”

  “Before the…death of Anthony?”

  “Yes.”

  “I understand you were supposed to meet the next day?”

  “Yes. Sunday.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Bennie was going to call, but I don’t think he did. If he had, I wouldn’t have gone out anyway. I was grounded because I came home drunk, so I wouldn’t have gotten the call anyway.”

  “You were grounded?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your parents don’t let you take calls when you’re grounded?”

  “‘Course not.”

  A laugh in the courtroom was cut off by the prosecuting attorney’s remark. “I commend your parents for their strength.” Then he sort of turned toward the other half of the room, where Bennie’s foster parents sat. “If only more parents controlled their children, these sort of things wouldn’t happen.”

  “Counselor.”

  “Sorry, your honor. Now, about your teammates. Did you want to meet with them?”

  “I didn’t’ wanna see these guys. I mean, except Donald. He didn’t, I mean he didn’t do–”

  “We were discussing Benjamin and Andrew?”

  “Yeah. It was them, Bennie and Hunt– Andrew. I thought for sure they were gonna kill me, because I thought they knew I was…that I was…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, like gonna tell. I mean the point is they, and me, but they, they were being that way because Anthony is gay. Was.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Gay.”

  “A homosexual?”

  “Yes.”

  Joseph heard a gasp amid the cluster of parents. It was definitely his mom, because his dad muttered something to quiet her, then glared at Joseph.

  The first time he’d wrestled at St. Augustine’s, he was thirteen. Some kid from Jersey City basically flipped him in a half-assed Greco move, high up in the air and down to the ground in the first five seconds. From the mat, he remembered hearing his mother make the same gasp. She’d sworn off coming to matches after that.

  “Go on.”

  “Um, and that I told everything the night when the police showed up. And I thought if they found out, they might go for me next.”

  Dink bowed his head, brought his hands up, covered his face, shook his head, slowly.

  “Joseph? Joseph?”

  “Yes.”

  “We were talking about Andrew and Benjamin. You were implying that they were intentionally trying to harm Anthony, in your opinion.”

  “I was not implying. I said it.”

  “And you were saying why?”

  “Why they killed him.”

  “Because he was gay.”

  “Yes.”

  “And how do you know this?”

  “Um…”

  “Who told you? How do you know this?”

  Joseph could only see the top of Dink’s lowered head, his father rubbing his shoulder, comforting him.

  The judge said, “Joseph?”

  “How do you know this?”

  Bennie met his gaze, finally, stunned.

  Hunter just smirked.

  “We had an understanding.”

  Papers were pushed back, forth, adjournments until bla bla bla. He sat down again with his parents, five rows behind the buzzcut.

  12

  Musty incense, red velvet, stories of apparitions in tiny towns in the Alps, faces set in stained glass were what he’d grown up believing held the magic of his faith. They gave him a comfort he could smell in the wood. He believed in the goodness of the Church by loving its physical beauty and majesty, the layers of stories, lives, stars of suffering. He needed cool marble to give him gravity for what he had to face.

  Instead, St. Dominic’s felt warm, to be sure. Blond wood in long slats swept along the side walls. Swift in design, large chunks of colored glass blocked light more in the design of a starship than a church. Maybe it was the paneling, or having seen Anthony’s funeral there.

  His confessions were functional but apparently not satisfying. He was invited for a few talks with Father Andrew. They were calming, friendly but a bit remote, usually ending in a sales pitch for activities run by the Sisters. Teen Catholic Jamborees. He went. They got him points
in his case file.

  When his mother made plans to spend the weekend in Newark with Grandmama, he asked to tag along. He needed urban, noisy, gothic.

  Joey thought her visits to Newark were to get away from him. He almost took a twisted joy in coming along, knowing he’d bother her with his presence.

  But he felt her relax, once they were back on familiar turf, or at least the interstate. They talked nonstop about everything, almost.

  Grandmama welcomed him with open frail arms, feeding them immediately. He listened to the women talk, three generations of recipes, rumor, wisdom, with Sophia playing nearby, soaking it in.

  He hadn’t been back since Christmas, and then, St. Augustine’s was filled to overflowing with joy and singing.

  The Saturday afternoon he entered the church, two elderly ladies sat at opposite sides of the main aisle, small lumps in the rows of shiny wooden pews. Joey looked toward his family’s usual place, to the left and near the back, by the daycare room. He walked up the left aisle, passing the flickering electric red plastic candles around the statues of the Virgin and St. Augustine. But what caught his eye, and held it, was his favorite, the Stations of the Cross, the stone relief sculptures high up along the walls. Joey stopped before the station with Jesus being torn of his garments, then through a side door, down a hallway to a tall doorway.

  “Well, Mister Nicci. It’s been too long. How the heck are ya?”

  Father Scanlon stood from behind his large wooden desk, lit up with joy, hand extended. His graying hair only further distinguished him in his black clothing and white divot of a collar. His black eye patch looked as dramatic and foreboding as ever, but beneath the worn face of a man in his sixties shone a constant lightness. He patted Joseph’s shoulder, sat him down in one of the immense red cushioned chairs Joseph had only had the pleasure of sitting on twice; once to discuss his first communion, the second time to discuss why he’d broken Brian Hanrahan’s glasses. He was ten at the time. Even he didn’t know why. He thought back, figured it was just because Brian Hanrahan was so darn cute.

  “I’m glad you could see me, Father.”

  “Of course, Mister Nicci. Always time for one of my favorite students. It was nice of your mother to call.”

  Joseph blushed, smiled. Unlike Brother Michael and a few others from his days there, Father Scanlon never had a bad word to say, at least in class. When Joseph wanted to ask a silly question, he’d be able to ask Father Scanlon, such as, How old are angels? What’s heaven made of?