by F. P. Lione
“What’s a bas?” Stevie asked again.
“It’s something people say when they’re mad, it’s not a nice word. Okay?” I said to Stevie, rubbing his head.
Stevie nodded and gave my father an intimidating look. My father didn’t scare him at all, he was something.
The table got real quiet.
“I’m sorry,” Michele said, looking nervous. “I didn’t realize you had to deal with the protestors when you got back.”
“Yeah, well the job was different back then. We had a lot to deal with. And some of us didn’t spend our entire careers on patrol,” he said pointedly.
“Who are you kidding? I’ve been in more riots than you have!” I said, my voice rising. “You got something to say about me being on patrol? You would have been on patrol if you didn’t have a hook!” A hook is getting somewhere by knowing someone, not getting there because you deserve it.
“I didn’t have a hook, you had a hook! I just lucked out!” he shouted. “I tried to help you! You would have had your shield by now, but you screwed up!”
“I didn’t screw up!” I roared, vaguely aware that Michele was pulling Stevie off my lap. This was an old bone of contention between us.
When I had less than two years on, my father worked with someone at the 5th Precinct who used to be partners with the captain of my command. My father had his friend make a call to my captain to have me put into Anti-Crime, a plainclothes unit usually made up of veteran cops. You usually need seven to ten years on patrol to get in. It was a step toward getting your detective’s shield. You go to Anti-Crime for a while, then up to RIP, or robbery in progress, where you work with the PDU, precinct detective unit. In RIP you have your silver shield for eighteen months, and then you get your gold detective shield.
About six months before my father made his friend call my captain, there were a lot of cops in an uproar about four guys who were transferred into Crime. They had bounced four veteran cops who rightfully deserved the spots. Two of them were hooks, one was the son of a chief with only two years on, and the other was the nephew of an Inspector with only three years on.
The other two were patrol cops with foot posts up on 8th Avenue between 42nd and 45th Street. What they did was, instead of writing the required twenty to twenty-five summonses a month, they were writing twenty in a tour, making the rest of us look bad. Most of us do about twenty-two in a month and no more. If you give them twenty in one day, they’re going to want twenty the next day. The department loves summonses because they make money for the city.
They were also making all these trivial collars, crack stems with a rock in it, urinating in public, open container of alcohol—arrests that are all misdemeanors.
The arrests took the cops off the Street, leaving it unpatrolled. They did this for like six months, giving the commanding officer big numbers for the precinct.
These two were picking up these rinky-dink arrests, which isn’t bad if it deters problems for your post. But now they were off post for an open bottle of booze, while robberies and grand larcenies were happening. This makes it difficult for the next tour walking the foot post, now stuck with a couple of blocks worth of garbage because no one was patrolling earlier. If there is no police presence on the street to move the crowds along, larger crowds gather, making it more difficult to keep order on the block.
When these two made Crime, they bumped two guys who had ten years on and had been waiting a couple of years to go into Crime. Because they didn’t have the same numbers as the foot posts, they didn’t get in. They had better-quality arrests, felonies versus the rookies’ misdemeanor quality-of-life stuff. They also had more experience testifying in court than the two rookies.
So here I was, two years on, shooting my mouth off about the injustice of it all, and my old man wants to do the same for me. I had a chance to beat the system like the other rookies did.
When the captain called me into his office, Lieutenant Farrell was there, smoking his pipe, watching me shrewdly. The captain’s name was Horn, an older guy, late fifties I guess. He was clean-cut, in good shape for an old-timer. The captain asked me, “What can I do for you, Tony?”
“I was told to come in and talk to you about going into Anti-Crime,” I said.
He knew without mentioning names exactly what I was talking about. He said something like, “Most of the guys who go into Anti-Crime have more time on, more experience.”
“Well, basically, I don’t think it would be right if I go into Crime with less than two years on.” He didn’t say anything, just nodded for me to go on. “I know there’s guys with ten years on who have the experience that I don’t. I think I need more time on before I go into a unit like that.”
He seemed relieved, like I took him off the burner. Lieutenant Farrell didn’t say anything, but I think I earned his respect that day. It was right after that he started drinking with me.
Part of the reason I didn’t take it was because I didn’t want anything from my father. I’d rather do it myself. When my father found out I didn’t take the spot in Anti-Crime, he was livid. I still remember the conversation to this day.
“Did you talk to the captain?” he asked me at Grandma’s one day.
“Yeah, I turned it down. Let someone with more time on take it,” I said. “It’s not right, I’m not ready to go there.”
“Are you kidding me? What is wrong with you?” His face twisted in rage. “Don’t you think that someone else who has a hook isn’t gonna take that spot?”
“That still doesn’t make it right,” I said.
“You embarrassed me. I called in a favor for that. I’ll never help you again,” he said with contempt.
Which was exactly the way I wanted it, I didn’t want to owe him anything.
4
This was starting to get really heated, and Michele said quietly, “Tony, maybe I should go.”
“Don’t go,” I said. “Let him leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” my father said arrogantly.
“Ignore him, Vince,” Marie ordered in her Brooklyn nasal tone.
“It’s okay,” Grandma said. “It’s good to clear the air.” She looked at Michele. “I told you, we don’t like to talk about this stuff.”
Michele stared at her for a second and said she needed to take Stevie to use the bathroom before they left. I didn’t want to argue with Michele about leaving in front of them, so I got up to help clean off the table. My father, Marie, Vinny, and Christie stayed at the table while Denise and I brought the dirty dishes into the kitchen. I heard the mumble of a conversation at the table between Christie and Marie, ending with both of them laughing. For a second I thought that Marie and Christie were talking about us, but I didn’t think Christie would do that.
Michele opened the bathroom door, which you can see from the kitchen, and gave me a small smile as Stevie washed his hands.
“No, don’t touch that!” Grandma half shouted as she went down the hall toward the bathroom. I followed after her, thinking he was touching something that would hurt him. He stood there with his hands stalled by the towel rack. “Those are just for show,” she said of the black dress towels with the gold roses pinned to them. “Here, use this.” She pulled a small washcloth from the linen closet next to the bathroom.
“What’s he doing now?” Marie said, loud enough for me to hear.
I bit the inside of my cheek to calm myself down. I wasn’t sure how to handle this. I expect this kind of thing from Marie, but I didn’t know where this was coming from with my grandmother.
“I’m sorry, there wasn’t any other towel in here,” Michele said. I could see she was humiliated and wanted to get out of there as much as I did.
“I think I should get going,” Michele said again.
“We didn’t have cake yet, and Stevie has to open his presents,” my grandmother said.
“I have a long ride home,” Michele said lamely.
“It won’t take long, I already put the coffee on.”
Grandma smiled at her. “Go sit down.”
I looked at Michele. Whatever she wanted was fine with me. We stared at each other for a couple of seconds, and I could see how uncomfortable she was.
“We’ll go after the coffee,” Michele said, resigned.
I saw Marie and Christie taking Christmas presents and putting them in piles on the couch. Grandma had cleaned off the table and was putting the coffee cups and cake plates out. There was a platter of pastry, cannoli, Napoleans, sfogliatelle, which we also call clams because of their shape, tiramisu, fruit tarts, and eclairs. There was another tray of Italian bakery cookies, still wrapped in the colored paper.
My father had gone into the living room and was flipping through the TV channels with the remote control. Michele stood next to the table, not knowing what to do next.
Grandma said to Michele and me in a conspiring voice, “Don’t bring up the war anymore, it upsets your father.”
“Grandma, we didn’t say anything wrong,” I said.
“Then why is your father so upset?”
“He’s always upset,” I said.
“Who’s always upset?” Denise said loud enough to wake the dead.
“I said I don’t want any more talk about the war, Denise. It upsets your father,” Grandma scolded.
“Sorry, Grandma, the Vietnam War is a fact of life. If you think we’re going to pretend it didn’t happen so Dad won’t get mad, then you’re in worse denial than you were when you thought he was in Hawaii,” Denise said.
“Your kids have no respect, Vince,” Marie said. “Well, Vinny does.” She grabbed his cheeks. “He’s the best one.”
“You’ll have to talk to their mother about that, she’s the one who brought them up that way,” my father said as everyone gathered around the table again.
“Well, they’re old enough to know respect,” Marie said in disgust.
“What do you know about respect, Marie?” Denise said. “Do you really think you deserve my respect?”
“You’re just like your mother,” Marie said. “And you’ll wind up just like her too, alone and a drunk.”
“Their mother was always a lousy drunk,” my father said. “Nothing was ever good enough for her.”
Denise looked stunned and clenched her fist like she was getting ready to swing, then she caught sight of Stevie out of the corner of her eye. She ran her hands over her face and sighed deeply.
Michele didn’t sit. She stood with her hands on the back of her chair, looking down. She took a deep breath and said, “Mr. Cavalucci, I’m sorry I brought up Vietnam. It must have been terrible to be there and see all the things you did. I understand your anger toward the protestors after having served this country. The saddest thing is that we lost so many men and lost the war anyway.”
“We didn’t lose the war,” my father said angrily.
Everyone but Grandma looked at him, even Marie. No one said anything, but of course Denise had to have the last word.
“We lost, Dad. Or am I the only one who saw that famous rooftop scene at the American Embassy in Saigon? In fact, it’s no longer Saigon, it’s now Ho Chi Min City, clear proof that the North Vietnamese took it over when they stormed the city,” she said loudly.
He got enraged and shouted, “The North Vietnamese fought an aggressive war, we couldn’t hold them—but we didn’t lose. That’s it!” He sat down at the table, putting milk and sugar in his coffee.
“Sit down!” he ordered.
“No,” Denise said stubbornly. “I won’t sit down. We couldn’t hold them means we lost.”
“We didn’t lose.”
I wondered if they would regress to “did not,” “did too.” “Leave it alone, Denise,” I warned.
“No! Are you telling me I should pretend we won the war in Vietnam so Dad doesn’t get upset?” She was yelling now, anger blazing in her eyes.
“I’m telling you to shut your mouth,” I said.
She shook her head, flipping her hair back in anger. “No wonder I need therapy.”
“You need therapy because you’re a spoiled little girl who has to be the center of attention all the time,” Marie said.
Stevie was inspecting the tray of pastry, lifting up one of the fruit tarts to examine it when Grandma said, “Oh no, don’t touch that!” She took the tray away from him. “Don’t put your hands on other people’s food.”
Marie let out a long-suffering sigh and shook her head. “You’ve got your hands full with him,” she said to Michele.
Michele picked Stevie up and brought him into my grandmother’s room. I followed her and said nothing while she put his jacket on. He didn’t pay any attention to her as she zipped his jacket; he was too engrossed in staring at the artwork on my grandmother’s wall. There were two lighted pictures that hung on either side of the crucifix over the bed.
“What’s that? Jesus is bleeding!” he said of the picture of the Sacred Heart with the crown and the thorns around the bleeding heart.
“That’s an angel!” He pointed to the picture of an angel hovering over two children crossing a broken bridge. The pictures were spooky. When I used to sleep here as a kid, Grandma used them as night-lights. The eyes of the Sacred Heart picture follow you wherever you are in the room. The kids with the angel aren’t any better. They used to give me nightmares.
Michele didn’t answer him, just put his hat and scarf on in quick, jerky motions. She put her black wool coat on, not bothering to button it, and grabbed her keys and pocketbook. I picked Stevie up and followed her back out to the dining room, which is right next to the foyer.
“Merry Christmas,” she said quickly, not looking at anyone in the room. “Thanks for dinner.” She turned and took Stevie from me and tried to open the door. She had to undo the chain and the deadbolt, so she moved Stevie to her hip as she opened it.
I followed her out, neither of us saying anything as we walked down the hallway. Our footsteps were muted from the gray carpet, making a dull thud as we walked out to the lobby.
“Wait,” I said. “Let me get my jacket and the Christmas presents.”
“No, I’m not going back in there.” I’d never seen her angry before, and I wasn’t sure how to handle it. “Well, let me get my jacket, and we can go back to my house.”
“I’m going home,” she said with decisiveness. “I really don’t want to see you right now.”
“So you’re gonna leave me here? How am I supposed to get home?” I asked.
“If you want me to drive you home, go get your jacket, but I don’t want any of their Christmas presents and I don’t want to talk to you—I’m too angry right now,” she said.
“What about tomorrow morning? I want to be there when Stevie opens his presents,” I said.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said.
“What?” My voice rose.
“Keep your voice down, Tony, he’s heard enough of that tonight,” she whispered angrily.
“Are you telling me I can’t spend Christmas morning with you?” I could feel anger rise up in me.
She had started her car and strapped Stevie into his booster seat. He was smiling and waving at me from the backseat, and I waved back, giving him a small smile.
“Don’t do this,” I said as she opened her car door and got in, driving away without another word.
I was ripping when I went back inside to get my jacket. I was gonna call a cab, but when I went back in, Denise was duking it out with all of them.
They were sitting around the table. Denise was putting the gifts she got for Stevie in a shopping bag, her face flush with anger.
“Stevie forgot his presents,” Denise said, handing me the shopping bag. I put the bag next to the front door and went inside for my black leather jacket. I heard Marie say, “That was rude—I thought she’s supposed to be so religious.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked her, coming out from the bedroom.
“It means if she’s supposed to be so religious, why d
id she storm out of here like that?” Marie said.
“She didn’t storm out, she said Merry Christmas and she thanked you for dinner,” I said.
“Well, if she’s supposed to be so religious, why does she have a kid and she’s not married?” my father asked contemptuously. I could see the empty shot glass next to his espresso and the bottle of Romana Sambuca on the table.
“That’s none of your business,” I said, raising my voice.
“In my day, if a girl got in trouble they didn’t parade themselves around like that, having a baby out of wedlock,” my grandmother spat. “I see it all the time, these young girls acting like it’s nothing to have two and three children and they’re not even married! Some of them have different fathers!” Her voice rose in indignation.
“At least back then they had the decency of being ashamed of themselves,” my father threw in.
“Dad, my mother was pregnant when you got married,” I pointed out.
“Yeah, but I married her,” he said.
“And what if you didn’t? That wouldn’t have been Mom’s fault.”
“No, but your mother would have had the decency to be ashamed of herself.”
I didn’t understand his logic.
“Why weren’t you ashamed of yourself?” Denise yelled. “You cheated on your wife! You left your family! Why is that okay?”
“We were in love,” Marie spat. “Your father was miserable with all of you.” She turned to Vinny. “Not you, you were just a kid.” She turned back to Denise and me. “All you care about is yourself, Denise. You don’t care that your father was unhappy, that he had to support your mother because she was too lazy to get a job. You don’t care that he was stuck in a marriage because he couldn’t leave you kids alone with your mother.”
“I hate you,” Denise said quietly to my father. He turned sharply to look at her, but before he could answer, she added, “I hope you die, and I’ll dance on your grave in a red dress.”
“Don’t you talk to your father like that!” Grandma was horrified; death and red dresses were a no-no with Italians.
“Why not? I don’t care anymore. I never want to see you again,” she said. She never said that before, and I guess it got his attention. “You know, it’s so ironic.” She let out a strangled laugh. “I used to adore you. You were everything to me. I was so sad when you and Mom started having problems. Did you think it didn’t matter that you left? Every day after school the first thing I did was check and see if you left. I used to run up the stairs into your room and make sure your clothes were still there, and I’d be okay when I’d realize you hadn’t left.” He was silent now, watching her. “For the longest time after you left, I’d dream I was running up those stairs, but I could never make it to the top.”