“In all my experience, surprisingly, people do exactly that. They stick with where they’re comfortable, despite the odds. Sometimes they figure it’s the last place people will look. Let’s give it a little more time.”
“How could he be sitting in there in the dark?”
“He probably has the windows blacked out. He’ll screw up sooner or later. Then at least we’ll know where he is, and we can keep an eye on him until he tries to leave.”
Tommy was determined to wait for that one mistake. His stubbornness prevailed over his sympathy for his sick friend.
Moses shifted uncomfortably. “Before my old man died, he told me he saw stuff when he was working in that church that made him uncomfortable.” He began another round of coughing, and then opened the passenger door and leaned out to vomit. When the attack had finally passed, he closed the door gently and wiped his mouth with his coat sleeve.
Tough bastard. I have to get him out of here, Tommy thought. He noticed the slightest flicker of light in one of the rectory windows. “Mos...look.”
The side entrance opened, and a dark figure carrying a bag slid out. The person moved quickly to a nearby dumpster and raised the lid. He deposited the bag and closed the lid gently, and in a moment was back inside the building.
“Damn,” Moses said. “Busted because he couldn’t stand the smell of his trash anymore.”
“You got it, brother. Now you’re getting good at this. We have to figure out how to get that trash bag and go through it to see what we can learn. It’s too risky to go over there.”
“I got this. This one I know how to handle. Let me do it and then let’s get the hell out of here.” Moses opened the passenger door again. This time he ducked out and ran in a crouch to the supermarket on their side of the street. He paused next to the building, pulled the hood of his jacket up over his head, and tied it under his chin. He loosened his belt, so his pants hung down low, and then pulled his shirt tail out, so it hung sloppily over them.
Next, he pulled a shopping cart from the rack and wheeled it over to the supermarket’s dumpster. He began picking out cans and bottles, depositing them in the cart. He wheeled the cart down the street on their side for a block, and then crossed and walked back toward the church. He stopped at public wastebaskets and sifted through the contents for more recyclables, slowly working his way down the street. When he reached the church parking lot, he opened the dumpster, removed the bag of trash and put it in his cart.
Tommy watched in amazement. Son of a gun, he’s good. Why didn’t I think of that?
Moses continued his routine past the church. He turned and signaled Tommy to go down the street to rendezvous. Tommy started the car, pulled around the block away from the church, and moved down the street to where Moses was heading.
Moses approached the car and grabbed the trash bag from the cart. He pulled the rear passenger door open and heaved the bag in, then jumped into the front. As they moved down the road and the car’s heater kicked in, the stench of their cargo became more apparent. “God damn, what the hell’s that man been eating?” Moses exclaimed.
Tommy pulled the car over. “Jesus. Put that shit in the trunk, will you Mos?” He pulled the trunk release lever, and Moses jumped out to take care of the problem.
Tommy heard the trunk slam, and a police cruiser pulled up behind them and activated its light bar. An officer climbed out and shouted to Moses, “Hold right there, sir.” Moses placed his hands on the trunk and assumed a spread-eagled position.
Tommy emerged from the driver’s side. The officer recognized him immediately. “Borata, what the hell are you doing out here? What’s this, are you guys Nick Nolte and Eddie Murphy in 48 Hours?”
Tommy approached and gripped the officer’s hand. He did his best to deflect, hoping the cop hadn’t seen too much. “Rogers, shouldn’t you be back there in the coffee shop eating donuts? What’re you doing out here?”
“I’m on patrol. You know the deal. There’s been a lot of death threats on the priest in that church back there. If he’s in there. I’m sure you heard what’s going on with that son of a bitch. Still, we have to keep an eye on the place, so it’s not vandalized or whatever. Maybe not too closely, if you know what I mean.”
They shared a laugh, and Tommy responded, “Yeah, I hear you. No lower scum than scum like that. I’m sure you guys will do your job, and he’ll get what he has coming when he goes to meet his maker.”
“Uh, hello,” Moses said, still spread-eagled against the car.
“Stand down, sir,” Rogers said. He looked back at Tommy. “So, ah, back to my question, Borata. What’s up?”
“This is my buddy, Moses.” The two shook hands. “He’s a fellow cancer patient, and we do treatment together, along with some other poor bastards.” He considered whether Rogers had seen the shopping-cart drill. “He’s down on his luck. I’m giving him a lift.”
Rogers looked skeptical and was about to continue his line of questioning, but Tommy jumped in before he could. “Hey, Rogers. I’m running late getting home and need to run Mos to his place. The old lady gets cranky when I’m out late, starts thinking I’m playing the field. Can you imagine that?”
Rogers laughed. “No, not you. You’re the only straight arrow I know, Borata, even though you do your share of window-shopping. Alright. I do need a cup of joe, and it isn’t getting any warmer out here. Drive safely. Nice meeting you, Moses.”
Moses and Tommy got into the car and drove off. Moses broke the silence. “That shit scares me. I don’t need anyone putting two and two together, Tommy.”
“Relax, Mos. We’re good. You heard the man. He didn’t see shit. Besides, cops aren’t going to be too quick to think hard about going after anyone who takes out a piece of shit like that.”
“My damn heart is going a mile a minute. I’m gonna have a stroke hanging out with you before this cancer finishes me off.”
“Well, you aren’t sitting home sick and bored,” Tommy laughed. He pulled up in front of Moses’ apartment building. “I’m going to find somewhere to go through this trash real quick. I’ll let you know what I find tomorrow.”
“I think you’re going to find some damn smelly trash. Hold your nose. Alright. Sweet dreams, whitey.” Moses exited the car, climbing up his stoop and into the complex.
When Tommy arrived home, he pulled into the garage and quickly went through the garbage. He stashed a few items of interest away to check out later and put the rest of it into the trash can. He entered the house, changed and cleaned up in the bathroom, and tried to get into bed with Margie as stealthily as possible.
She stirred and asked, “How was your card game, honey?”
“It was fine, Margie. Big winner tonight. Let’s get some sleep and talk in the morning. I love you.”
“You smell like garbage.”
“Thanks, honey.”
14 Cemetery
While he waited for Moses to arrive, Tommy read the words on the speckled gray headstone aloud. “Paul Edward Campagna.” The small chips of quartz in the granite reflected the sunlight. Paulie, my mentor. Paulie, my pseudo-big brother. Always one year older, one year wiser, one step ahead.
Tommy squatted, trying to reconcile the contents of the earth beneath him with the friend who had shared most of his life. Memories flashed through his mind, one after another, like choppy 8mm home-movie clips: Paulie, his hero, scoring on the football field. Paulie, his hero, making out with the girls he could only fantasize about. Paulie, his hero, always there with big-brother advice and encouragement. Paulie, his hero, picture splashed across the front page of the newspaper under the headline: ‘Cop Slain in Bodega Heist.’
He looked across the cemetery. The sun had retreated behind an ominous cloud. The stark gray trees blended with the dull man-made colors of the grave markers, gravel roadway, and iron cemetery fence. He looked back to his friend’s name on the headstone.
“How you doing, pal?” Tommy asked the silent monument. Tommy imagined what h
e would’ve said. While he composed his friend’s response, he picked at the tip of a rock embedded in the ground.
I’m doing okay, Tommy. Don’t worry about me; worry about yourself. I am where I am, and you’re still in the world. Take care of yourself.
He pushed at the tip of the rock again with his finger.
“I know you’re watching, maybe watching over me. I’m troubled, big buddy. I’m sick. Sick inside, sick of people, sick of the state of this society. It’s worse since you left, getting worse all the time.
“I guess I got a bit of a pass with the Big C. They say I’m stabilized. For now, at least.”
He tried to move the tip of the rock back and forth, but it wouldn’t budge. His finger was starting to bleed, but he kept at it. The rock didn’t belong there. It was the only part of the gray ugliness he felt he could control.
“I got a plan with this other guy—black fella, can you believe that? Good guy. We kind of thought this plan up on account of us both dying from cancer; maybe we’ll clean this world up a bit before we check out, do some good. Something you would’ve loved, right out of the movies. But now I’m getting better, and he’s getting worse. I’m worried about getting him in trouble. There’s this priest—he’s a bad guy, real bad. He needs to be dealt with. Hurt some kids. I don’t know now...maybe it’s not such a good idea. I’m conflicted, Paulie.”
Do what sets you free, Tommy. Do what your heart tells you. You’re good, you were always the good one. Soon we’ll be together again. Everything is temporary, except here in the hereafter. Make me proud. You always made me proud.
A nearby disturbance caught his attention. Several young men were walking past the cemetery, outside the tall spike-tipped fence: white, black, mixed race, and Latino. At least the kids are all getting along better these days, race-wise.
He watched their cocky, arrogant swaggering. They wore their pants pulled down in the back, buttocks in boxer briefs proudly displayed, with long silver chains dangling from their belts. How the hell do those pants stay up?
The young men traded profane rap lyrics without regard for others in the area and playfully jostled one another. Like young predatory animals, preparing for real combat later in their lives.
They spotted Tommy squatting by the headstone. The leader of the group walked up to the fence to address him. “You picking out your new crib, old man?” The others laughed and pushed at one another, then stopped to wait for Tommy’s response.
Tommy rose to his feet, cursing the effort it took these days, and cursing the punks for making him do it. “Keep moving and mind your own business.”
The rest of them crowded up to the fence, holding onto the thin iron bars and pushing their faces through the space between them. “Don’t make us come in there, motherfucker. You be moving in for good before you know it, grandpa,” one of them said.
Animals in the zoo. But I’m the one in the cage. “Move along.” Tommy pulled back his jacket to expose the concealed-carry weapon in his underarm holster.
The leader took a step back from the fence and pulled up his sweatshirt to expose an even larger firearm jutting from his waistband. Several of his companions did the same.
Fuck. Tommy took his gun out and assumed a firing stance, taking aim at the body mass of the leader. “You pull that out,” Tommy said, “and you better know how to use it. Or you’ll be the one moving into this house. I’ll take you all down before you can blink. Try running from me in those baggy pants, you little bastards.”
The leader held his ground. “Why we need to be running? You saying we’re bad because we’re nasty? Back in your day, old man, you all had your jeans so damn tight you couldn’t sit down without busting your ass out, right?” His entourage laughed. “We all got our thing, Pops. Don’t hate.”
The youths shouted insults and threats to him. He tried to keep his focus, but his arms were getting tired, and his legs were beginning to ache. He inched toward a large monument to use it for cover and could hear them discussing whether to surround and rob him. This would be a good time to have a cell phone to call 911 if I wasn’t so stubborn about using the damn things...
MOSES RELUCTANTLY ROSE from the couch and shuffled to the thermostat on the wall of his apartment. He twisted the dial just slightly, calculating the effect of additional comfort on his monthly gas bill. Cold. I’m always so cold now.
As was his habit, he moved a few steps sideways to stand before a cluster of pictures on his wall. His eyes moved to his favorite, one of him and Angie standing together on their wedding day. The picture was as faded as his memory of it.
Summer day. The happiest day of our lives. Everything before us. Young and naïve. We didn’t have much; didn’t want much. We just wanted to be together every day. We took those words to heart that most people blindly recite—‘for richer or poorer, sickness or health.’
He thought about how little they had, yet how happy they always seemed to be. How they took pleasure from the simple things they shared together: the morning coffee that started their day, how they walked together to her bus stop as she headed off to work and he continued the two miles to his factory job.
They each looked forward so much to the end of the day: having dinner together then lying in their simple bed talking about the day and their future, the radio playing softly. Eventually, they would fall asleep curled together, exhausted. When she was alive, and they were so much in love, he looked forward to each of those simple repetitions, and now that he was alone he felt enslaved by them.
It seemed to him that those years had gone too swiftly, although they’d cherished every day within them, truly in love. Not the short-lived love that most couples had, but enduring, lasting, forever love. They saved money where they could, went without simple pleasures, kept the heat low and dressed in layers, just so that someday they could realize their postponed dream of a honeymoon in Hawaii—a dream that never came to pass.
While his eyes stayed focused on the picture, his mind replayed scenes from the years and events that followed, further down the road for them, after the period of non-eventful bliss.
One night they’d been making love, and in his passion he gripped her firm breasts while she sat above him, grinding herself into him in ecstasy, and felt something different—something that didn’t belong there.
He knew there was no way he could interrupt their passion to discuss it, nor would he interrupt the period of blissful peace that followed their lovemaking, as their sweat dissipated and their breathing returned to normal, and they held each other in silence. That was sacred, and he could not broach the topic to violate it.
Nor did he want to bring it up the following morning, because the ritual they followed was also sacred to them and should never be tarnished. He did not want to send her off to her day in the sewing shop alarmed and stressed. It could wait until dinner.
He then convinced himself that perhaps he was wrong, perhaps it was simply her rib, and rather than upset her, he would wait to check again and be more sure of his conclusion before sending her off to the doctor. He knew it would take convincing, as it always did with her, to get her to spend the money on herself for a doctor visit.
After a time, he pretended it didn’t happen, forgot about it, and selfishly allowed their happy status quo to continue until the night she came out of the shower, naked and holding her breast, eyes wide in fear, saying “Moses, what do you think this is? Do you feel something here?”
And then the guilt that followed as she went down the path to the inevitable ending that they both knew was coming. He cursed himself at each of the appointments he accompanied her to. At each of the treatments, then at each of the hospital visits, then finally every day and every night as she lay in their bed, the one where he’d committed his only sin against her, moaning in agony until finally, she was silent.
Bringing himself back to the present, he moved to the kitchen and took his battery of prescriptions. I’m coming, honey. It’s all going to be alright. We’l
l be together, and the promised land will be our honeymoon, forever and ever. Just like we talked about.
He looked up at the kitchen clock and saw that it was time to leave to meet Tommy. He pulled his coat from a hook and headed down the stairs, closing the door on the tomb of memories behind him.
Outside, he stopped to talk to Lukas and a few of the Black Eagles who were hanging around the stoop. “You best start getting these bikes ready for winter, boys. Talk to old Joe and ask him if you can store them up in the warehouse till spring,” Moses said.
Lukas responded, “Not us, Uncle. We been talking. We’re gonna try to ride right on through, except for the snow days. That’s what real men do. It’s damn cold, but sure beats walking.”
“Suit yourself. I’m out of here, I got to meet Tommy over at the cemetery. I’ll be back in a while. You fuckers stay outta trouble, you hear?” he asked.
“You know us, Uncle Mos. We’re the good guys. No bullshit for us, just a ‘lil weed for the head to stay steady, and we don’t go looking for no trouble.”
He started down the street, imagining her hand in his, heading to the bus stop, as he always did when walking this route. He imagined the way he would often stop and twirl her as if dancing, and how she always acted surprised and giggled as if it had happened for the very first time.
He reached the bus stop and paused. This was where they always kissed goodbye, long enough to draw attention and teasing from the neighbors who would cat-call and whistle at them and teasingly call him an owned man after she’d left. He thought about how he wore it with pride.
He remembered the day she told him she was pregnant and the joyful planning that followed. The long list of names they could never make shorter or come to agreement on.
He thought about the day he received an emergency call at his job. It was from her employer, telling him she’d had an ‘accident’ and was in the hospital, and he went there and cried with her over losing the child.
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