by Dana Donovan
“Oh, but there is,” said Carlos. “There’s resurgence in freight riding going on in this country. No longer does the stereotype of the old disheveled bum apply to hobos. Today, you’re just as likely to find mixed among them a population of college students seeking adventure, white collar professionals quelling a mid-life crisis and punk kids looking for a rush.”
“Punk kids?”
Lilith chimed in. “They’re called Flintstone kids.”
“Funny.”
“No, she’s right.”
“Come on, you’re putting me on.”
“It’s true,” Spinelli said. “You’d be surprised who’s out there.”
“Out there, maybe,” I said. “But unless those eight represent a disproportionate number for one area, why here?”
“It’s the jamboree,” Carlos offered.
“Come again?”
“This year the annual hobo jamboree takes place right here in New Castle.”
“Okay, now I know you’re joking.” I turned to Lilith, who seemed less dubious. “Do I deserve this? Have I pissed him off that badly?”
“You did and you do,” she said. “But it’s no joke. You should have finished reading that article this morning. You would have known.”
“Thanks.” I gave her a little sneer and she ate it up, pursing her lips and smacking them in a mock kiss. I can’t tell you how I hate when she does that. If only I could collect them all and cash them in for real kisses some day; I could die a happy man. I’m sure she knows it, too.
With the sting of her puckered lips still fresh on my mind, I turned back to Carlos and Spinelli, only to find Carlos grinning like a serpent over my obvious frustrations.
“Did I miss something funny?” I asked.
He wiped his smile clean and squared his back to his seat. “Not at all.”
“Then why don’t we get back to this? So, you have a pilgrimage of hobos flooding into New Castle for their big jamboree. Have you done any research on this? Are there usually spikes in suicides among the flock during one of these events?”
“Yes,” said Spinelli, “I’ve done the research.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“And no, these spikes are not common. What you usually see is a spike in murders.”
“Oh?”
“Sure, but you can almost guess that when you get a high concentration of men together, all drinking and gambling and—”
“And women, too,” Carlos interjected.
“Yes, of course, and women too, but mostly men. What goes on at these jamborees is a lot like Woodstock without the rock bands. You have your campfires; a little harmonica and folk guitar, old timers sharing bottles, Flintstone punks and squatters sharing needles, and then occasionally a knife fight breaks out and ends up with somebody taking an early westbound.”
“A what?”
Lilith leaned over and whispered in my ear, “That’s a euphemism for dying.”
I turned to her. “How do you know these things?”
Spinelli continued. “Although we have witnesses to substantiate some of the suicides, others hint of suspicious circumstances.”
“What do you mean?”
He gave a sort of shrug that told me what he really had was nothing. Then he went on to say that in interviewing other transients, he and Carlos learned that none of the victims seemed at all depressed or suicidal. All were young white males, in good health and spirits and with friends who would swear to their mental competency.
“So, what you’re saying is that they weren’t suicidal and that there are never any suicides when these jamborees assemble?”
“No, I wouldn’t say never. But these folks travel from all over the country to come to one of these things. It’s a big deal for them. Suicides are just not on the itinerary.”
I looked to Carlos, who by now should have come up with a theory similar to the one floating around in my head. After all these years, I hoped I had taught him something. “Well,” I said. “What’s your spin on this?”
“It’s an inside job,” he said. “Transients killing transients.”
“A serial?”
“Looks like it.”
“Any profiles on the type?”
“No, but we have a source that we were told to check out: an old timer from the heydays of freight riding. He goes by the moniker, Pops. Word is, he knows every transient in every jungle from Portland to Miami and as far west as Missouri.”
“What do you mean by jungle?”
“Camping sites,” said Lilith. “You find them in the woods along the outbound tracks closest to the train yards.”
“Seriously?”
“She’s right again,” Spinelli said. He pulled a small map of New Castle from his pocket and circled an area south of Miner’s Point where he and Carlos had interviewed several transients already. I inspected the map closely. It had been a long time, but I recalled vague memories of having played near there as a young boy. I told this to Spinelli. He scoffed, and assured me that these days a young boy would not fare well in such a hostile environment.
“When you see a young boy around there these days,” he said, “he’s usually traveling with an older hobo for protection.”
“The wolf and lamb,” Lilith uttered under her breath. Spinelli agreed.
I pushed the map back to Spinelli and finished my coffee in a single gulp. There were things I wanted to say, suggestions I wanted to make, but I knew those days were gone. How could I pretend to play the role of Detective Marcella, a sixty-four-year-old cop in the body of a twenty-four-year-old man? I reached across the table to shake the men’s hands and wish them well with their case.
“In another world, another age, Gentleman,” I said, “I would love to help you with this one. And I’m sorry we had to meet this way by chance, but—”
“Oh, it wasn’t chance,” Carlos interrupted.
“Excuse me?”
“Us coming here this morning, it wasn’t chance.”
I looked to Lilith. She seemed as perplexed as I. “How do you mean?”
He reached into the pocket of his jacket and removed a picture. “Here. Spinelli snapped this last week.”
I took the picture and stared at it sharply. “That’s Lilith,” I said.
Lilith leaned over my shoulder to steal a peek. “Ah, no, you caught me on a bad hair day. And look. I’m wearing sweats. I never wear sweats outdoors. Not unless I’m—”
“Coming here?” Spinelli finished.
“Yes, you little perv. Have you been stalking me?”
“He wasn’t stalking you,” said Carlos. “He was surveilling you. There’s a difference. He told me how he thought he saw you come here one morning, and so I asked him to get me some proof. I figured if you were still alive, then maybe….”
“Maybe I was, too?” I said.
Carlos nodded, and the shame of it is that I almost think he considered me dead, anyway. I gave the picture back to him and apologized again for the way he found out about us.
“But it doesn’t change anything,” I told him. “I still can’t help you. In a way, the old Tony Marcella is dead, and I’d appreciate it if you let him stay that way. Now, if you’ll excuse us?”
I got up and offered Lilith a hand. She stood and slung her tote bag over her shoulder. As she did, Carlos reached up and grabbed my arm.
“Tony. There’s one more thing you need to know.”
I thought he was going to tell me that he forgave me, or maybe that he loved me. Only I’m sure he would have said the word man after it. It’s the only acceptable way for two guys to express such feelings, especially brothers, which, as far as I was concerned, Carlos and I truly were. Instead, he totally flipped the coin on me and dropped a bomb that I shall never forget.
“Tony, about that old hobo I mentioned earlier, the one they call Pops? I think you should do the interview.”
“Me? Why? Is he some tough guy? Does he hate Cubans?”
“No! It’s nothing like
that. Fact is he’s lying in a hospice care bed across town.”
“He’s dying?”
“Yes.”
“I see. And you don’t want to talk to some old guy that’s wasting away before your eyes. Is that it?”
He shook his head. “It’s not that.”
“Then what?”
“Well…”
“Come on, Carlos. Spit it out.”
“Tony. The old guy at the hospice center, his name is Anthony Marcella.”
“What? He’s using my name?”
He shook his head. “No. You’re Junior, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“This guy goes by Anthony Marcella Senior.”
“You mean….”
He nodded. “I think it’s your dad.”
Three
I accepted a list from Carlos containing the names of all the transients that had committed suicide in the past week and a half. I then turned to Lilith and offered her an invitation to join me.
“Uh-ah, no way,” she said, shaking her head emphatically.
I pulled back, surprised. “Why not? Don’t you want to meet the man responsible for my existence?”
“No.”
“How come?”
“Cause I said so. Now drop it!”
I gave Carlos and Spinelli a look like I had just pissed off a rattlesnake and lived to tell about it. “All right. It’s okay,” I said, though softening that look considerably for Lilith. “You don’t need to explain. If you don’t want to meet him, you don’t have to.”
“Good, because I don’t.”
“Fine.” I turned to the guys again. “Gentlemen?”
The two said their farewells. Spinelli even stood on Lilith’s account. On the way out I told Lilith I was sorry if I upset her. She said she wasn’t upset, but I knew that something was on her mind. I had come to know her better than that. I also knew that when I found her in one of those moods, the best thing I could do was to leave her alone. So with that in mind, I escorted her back to the apartment, said goodbye and headed for the hospice care center to see the man who once left me on a doorstep like a FedEx package and never returned.
The drive over to see my father proved totally surreal. I kept wondering what I might say to him. I knew that because of my appearance, I couldn’t possibly tell him who I really was. Though, even if I could, I imagined he wouldn’t want to know anyway. We hadn’t seen each other in nearly sixty years, not since he dropped me off at an orphanage and told me he’d be right back. I might have been five then. I know I wasn’t in school yet. He rang the bell and ran off like some prankster, only I was the prank. A kindly young lady took me in through the back door where they washed me up and fed me hot soup.
All that first year, I spent my afternoons sitting by a window, waiting for my dad to return. But the sun would set; morning brought new lessons with my new books and my new friends, and then the next afternoon would find me blinking back tears, waiting for dad again. It’s a memory I’ll never forget. And though I never felt bitter for what my father had done to me, I realized that I never forgave him for it either. It’s a scar I’ve carried, but concealed for all my life.
I found the care center on the corner of Lexington and Fillmore, opposite the old age home. Creepy, I know, but I guess it makes sense. Melissa, at the desk, introduced me to India, the staff supervisor. She wasn’t from India, nor did she look it, but she said it was easier to pronounce than her real name. I didn’t ask what that was, but I took her word for it. She seemed a bit young to me, too young to be someone’s supervisor, but what she lacked in age, she more than made up for in gritty confidence. She had a no-nonsense attitude about her, not too harsh, but direct, and I got the feeling that she got things done the way she wanted it, when she wanted it.
I still carried my badge on me, out of habit I guess, so I showed it to India and explained that I needed to talk with Mister Marcella about a case the department was working on.
“Is he a suspect in a crime?” she asked. “Because I can assure you, if he is, your time would be better spent—”
I stopped her there. “No, it’s nothing like that. I wouldn’t dream of causing Mister Marcella any discomfort. I promise. I’d simply like to ask him a few questions.”
She raked her eyes along my body in judgmental degrees. I knew that this woman held soul power over my appointment with destiny. A thumbs-up meant that I might have but one chance to finally meet the man who dramatically changed the course of my life some six decades ago. A thumbs-down and even a court order might not come fast enough to provide the answers I so desperately needed to explain the void he left in my life. I stood rigid, waiting for India’s eyes to return to my face, and when they did, I met them with a smile that even Lilith could not have resisted. It’s hard to say if that’s what did it, or if she recognized the pain in my heart that even my smile couldn’t mask. In any case, she turned on her heels and uttered simply, “Follow me.”
We took the elevator to the second floor and followed the corridor to the end. On the left, I noticed two doors leading to adjacent rooms. The numbers on the doors read eighteen and twenty. Across from those, another door with the number nine stood partially open. I could see clearly where a one had once accompanied the nine on the door, denoting the logical room number nineteen on the odd side of the corridor. But the one had either fallen off or had been removed. I ran my finger along the spot where the digit had discolored the paint. India nodded that she knew, and then rapped on the door to announce our arrival.
“Mister Marcella?” she called. “May we come in?” She pushed the door open the rest of the way. “Mister Marcella?”
I looked across the room to the old man lying in a bed by the window. He made barely a bump in the blanket that covered him from toe-to-chest. We stepped inside and came to his bedside. He looked frail, malnourished; his skin loose and freckled with age. The lines on his face all seemed to turn down, pulled by gravity and stretched like taffy, giving him the look of a sad man on the verge of crying. But his eyes, sunk deep within hooded sockets, seemed bright and full of life. They sparkled with energy when India greeted him, taking his hand in hers and rubbing it softly. I couldn’t reconcile the contradiction how this woman of grit and steel could become so tender and inspiring. She smiled at him gently, and for a moment, with the sunlight warming her face and hair, she seemed angelic in every way.
“Mister Marcella? I brought you some company. Would you like to meet him?”
At once, the old man came alive. He shimmied on his elbows to sit up straighter and forced himself to lean forward as India propped a pillow behind his back. He smiled at her, and then at me, his teeth bent and yellowed, but clearly his own.
“Thank you, sweetie,” he said to her. His voice sounded weak, and whistled some on the ‘wee’ part of sweetie.
“You’re entirely welcome. Mister Marcella, this is…” She turned to me, suddenly perplexed, perhaps even miffed that she had neglected to get my name.
“Spinelli,” I said, wanting to use an alias that would check out if she followed up on it later. “Dominic, but you can call me Dom.”
She nodded, satisfied with that. “It’s Dom Spitelli,” she said to Marcella. I didn’t bother to correct her. “Mister Spitelli is a detective with the NCPD. He’s here to ask you some questions if you don’t mind.”
“Detective?” The old man seemed genuinely concerned. “He’s not here about the Studebaker I borrowed back in ‘57’, is he?”
India looked at me and I shook my head no.
“I’m sure he’s not here about that,” she said.
“Good, because I brought it back, you know.”
“Yes, I’m sure Mister Spitelli knows that. Listen, I’m going to leave you two alone for a while. If you need anything, just press your button. All right?”
“I will. Thank you. You’re a sweetheart, you know that?”
“Yes, and so are you, Mister Marcella. You boys have a nice chat now.”
I watched with butterflies in my stomach as she leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. A small part of me felt as though I were intruding on a private family moment, and yet another, as though I were missing out on one. India came around the foot of the bed and gave me a subtle wink as she passed. I mouthed the words thank you to her, resisting the urge to stop her in her tracks and hug the living daylights right out of her. She crossed the room on a sweep of air, and I watched her walk away until even her shadow disappeared down the corridor outside. When I turned again, I saw the old man looking at me, his face filled with question and wonder, perhaps not unlike mine when last we met.
I came around the bed and pulled up a chair and smiled at him as best I could. He smiled back, and I realized then that nothing in the past mattered any more. The trials of sixty years had wiped our slates clean, and for what little time we had left together, we were both starting over.
“Mister Marcella, good morning,” I said. “How are you?”
He soured his face immediately. “Please, call me Pops. That’s my moniker, you know.”
I smiled at that, mostly for the irony. “Sure. Pops. So, how are you?”
“Oh, can’t complain,” he answered. “Hey, you ain’t got a smoke, `ave ya?”
I patted my pockets. “Sorry.”
He settled into his pillow, a little deflated. “Ah, just as well. Damn lungs can’t take no more anyhow.”
I took a guess. “Cancer?”
“Yup. The big C. It finally caught up with me. Took eighty-nine years, though. Not a bad run if you ask me.”
“Indeed,” I said, “I should be so lucky.” But then I though how insensitive that must have sounded. I tried taking it back by somehow spinning it in a different light, but that only made it worse. I tried again. “What I mean to say is—”
“Skip it, son,” he said, waving it off. “I know what you meant. `Taint no big deal. So, tell me. If you ain’t busting me for borrow`n that Studebaker, what `re ya here for?”
Good question, I thought. I guess I could have told him I was there to ask why the hell he abandoned me as a child. Why did he say he’d be right back when he knew damn well that he’d never see another one of my birthdays for as long as he lived? Why did he leave me in the company of strangers when he could have sought help from friends or family if things had gotten so bad?