The Crossroads

by F. P. Lione

  “Touching story, Denise,” Marie said with derision, and rolled her eyes. If she hadn’t looked away and rolled her eyes, she would have seen Denise’s car keys before they connected with her head.

  My father stood up to go after Denise, but I got in front of him. I was shaking with rage, but I couldn’t figure out who it was directed at.

  I had a flashback to the last time we squared off like this. I was about sixteen years old. He wanted me to do some yard work for him. He did that a lot. He’d fight with my mother and take it out on us, making us do all kinds of work around the house. I was on the gymnastics team in high school, and we had a meet that day. He told me I couldn’t go, and I said I had to. I had gotten to the edge of my front yard when he came up and punched me in the head, full force. It stunned me for a minute, and then I saw red. I remember letting out a roar as I took him by the shirt and pants when he was walking away. I lifted him up over my head while he flailed like a fish out of water. I let him squirm a little while he threatened to kill me. “I don’t think so,” I said as I set him down on his feet. I didn’t throw him like I wanted to, and I picked up my gym bag and started walking away.

  “You think you’re stronger than me?” he screamed. I didn’t even look back at him, just kept walking. “I’ll take a friggin’ bat to your head when you’re not looking,” he yelled after me. I turned to look at him, shocked that he would say that to me. We stared each other down; we each had that same look in our eyes now.

  I blocked him while Denise picked up her keys and got her coat out of the bedroom. Our eyes were still locked while Marie held her head, calling Denise every name in the book. For all her bravado, I could see Marie was embarrassed. My grandmother handed me a shopping bag, I guessed with leftovers in it. I kissed her cheek but didn’t say anything. I waited until Denise got out of the door before I followed her, making sure no one tried to chase us.

  I had Denise drive me home, neither of us saying anything on the ride from Clove Road. I sat up watching TV and smoking cigarettes until about 1:00 in the morning. I went to bed, tossing and turning most of the night.

  Christmas morning I woke to a cold, overcast day. The phone rang at 9:00, and I snatched it up.

  “Hello.”

  “It’s me,” Michele said.

  “You get home okay?” I asked.

  “Yes, it was fine.” She didn’t sound fine, she sounded mad.

  “Listen, I’m sorry about last night. Denise doesn’t know when to—”

  “Don’t apologize for her, you should apologize to her,” she cut me off.

  “For what?” I asked.

  She was silent for a minute, and I thought she hung up. “You there?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “But I’m furious, and I don’t want Stevie to hear me yelling.”

  About what? The woman never yelled.

  “Tony, in the few times I’ve met your family, Denise has been the only one to go out of her way to make sure Stevie and I know she likes and accepts us.”

  I guess that was true. “And?” I asked.

  “Each time that I’ve seen your family, your father and his wife have ridiculed Denise and put her down while you, your grandmother, and your weasel of a brother and his rubber-stamp girlfriend say nothing.” I was surprised at the anger in her voice. Weasel of a brother?

  “Denise was wrong last—” I tried to say, but she cut me off.

  “She was right! In everything she said. I could feel her frustration. She’s so isolated because the rest of you are incapable of standing up to your father and his horrible wife because you’re so afraid of him.”

  “I am not afraid of him,” I said flatly. “I just won’t fight with them all the time like Denise. She knows how my family is, but she can’t leave things alone.”

  “Why should she?” Michele said, her voice rising in anger. “They degrade her every chance they get, yet treat the woman who broke up your family like a queen.”

  “No they don’t,” I said. “I don’t.” Did they?“Oh please, Vinny and Christie are always sucking up to her. And your grandmother’s no better.”

  “I’m sorry for the way my grandmother acted last night’ I’ve never seen her do that before. I think the family gets to her,” I said.

  “Don’t make excuses for her, Tony. It’s very obvious that she doesn’t approve of me, and because the rest of the family agree with her, she felt she could treat us that way,” she said. “Your father was so rude to us, he didn’t even try to hide that he didn’t like us.”

  “The rest of the family doesn’t feel that way,” I insisted.

  “Sure they do. With the exception of Denise, whose opinion doesn’t matter to them anyway, they all agree with your father.”

  “Vinny didn’t say anything,” I said.

  “And he won’t. He’s not man enough to have his own opinion; he goes with whatever your father says. That’s why your father likes him so much,” she said.

  I thought about that for a minute. I always thought that Vinny was the peacemaker, wanting to make nice all the time, but maybe Michele was right. He never disagreed with my father, while Denise and I always did.

  “As for you, I was disappointed that you let everyone treat your sister that way.”

  When I didn’t answer, she sighed and said, “I need some time, Tony.”

  “Time for what?” I asked, dreading the answer.

  “Time to figure out if being involved with you is going to be good for Stevie. If it was just me, it would be a different story. You spend a lot of time with your family, and I don’t think that’s a good atmosphere for him to be in. I don’t like that you were raised to have a low opinion of your mother and sister and were taught to respect your father’s mistress, even if she happens to be his wife now. Your father and Marie always criticize your mother. Every time I’ve seen them, they’ve said mean things about your mother, and none of you have defended her.”

  “Everything they say about my mother is true!” I didn’t want to toss my mother into the pot here. “My mother’s a drunk, Michele. End of story.”

  “I’m not so sure about that. Even if that was true, she’s still your mother. Why is it that no one saw your mother for Christmas? Did she spend it alone?”

  “She was with my aunt, and I sent her money for Christmas,” I said. “What does my mother have to do with any of this?”

  “It sends a confusing message to Stevie. He knows you have a mother, more from what he hears your father and Marie say than from you. If she really has alcohol issues, I can understand you not wanting us to meet her, but I don’t think that’s why.”

  I didn’t answer her; I didn’t want to talk about my mother.

  “So when you say you need time, that means time away from me?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Why stay away from me? We just won’t see them all that much,” I said. “I really only see my father and Marie on holidays.”

  “Staying away from them won’t mean anything if you don’t think there’s anything wrong with the way they act. Their behavior is a result of their mind-set. If you allow them to treat your mother and sister that way, why wouldn’t you allow them to treat Stevie and me that way?” she said softly. “And if I’m anywhere near you, I can’t think clearly. I’ll just be thinking how great it is to be with you, and all this stuff won’t seem so important. But it is, it will matter later on.”

  “You know what, I don’t want to hear all this psychobabble about behavior and mindsets. They’re friggin’ nuts, okay? I never said they weren’t. The bottom line is can you deal with that? We won’t go there every Sunday for macaroni; we’ll see them when we have to. Or are you asking me not to see them at all?” I asked angrily.

  “I didn’t say that, Tony,” she said.

  “Then what are you saying?”

  “I don’t know,” she said miserably.

  “Why don’t you give me a call when you figure it out,” I said and hung up.

&nb
sp; I didn’t want to sit alone in a basement apartment on Christmas Day. There was no one else I could call. I wasn’t about to go see my grandmother after the night before. Vinny lived with my Dad and Marie, and I definitely wasn’t going there.

  Denise called me about 11:00, but I didn’t feel like seeing her either.

  “What are you doing home?” Denise snapped when I picked up the phone.

  “Why are you calling me if you didn’t think I was home?” I snapped back.

  “I was leaving you a message,” she said.

  “What’s the message?”

  “Remember you asked me about Bobby Egan, the detective who works with Marie?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, he’s a friend of Sal’s—”

  “What happened with Sal?” I cut her off. “Did he really go back with that psycho?”

  “Yup,” she said sadly. “But about Marie, I think she’s fooling around on Dad with this detective. Sal went to the precinct one day to visit Bobby, and they told him Bobby went to lunch. Sal said he almost fainted when Bobby came walking in with Marie. Remember Sal met her Fourth of July? He said Marie was real cozy until she realized who Sal was. He said when he asked Bobby what the deal was with Marie, Bobby said she was someone he was seeing.”

  “She’s such a snake,” I said.

  “I know, but Bobby called Sal later that day to say he hoped Sal didn’t misunderstand, that they weren’t involved in any way, just good friends,” Denise said. “I went up to the precinct and watched them. I saw them leave together around lunchtime, but I didn’t want to chance following them. I’ve been thinking about hiring a private investigator like Marie’s ex-husband did. In fact, I think I’m gonna call her ex-husband and find out the guy’s name.”

  “Stay out of it, Denise,” I warned. “You already hit her last night. If you start stalking her, she’ll lock you up.”

  “I know she would—that’s why I want to hire someone,” she said.

  “Do you have any idea how expensive that is?” I asked. “Yeah, that’s why I want you to chip in with me,” she said. “Let me think about it,” I said. Normally I wouldn’t, but it might be a good idea to find out what Marie was up to.

  “I can’t believe Sal,” I said, getting back to him and his man-killer wife.

  “Can’t believe what? That once again I picked an emotionally unavailable man,” she said sarcastically.

  “No, I can’t believe that Sal went back with his wife. Why?” I asked. Sal’s wife was nasty, both in looks and personality. Other than her cup size, I don’t know what he ever saw in her.

  “Supposedly she got sick. I think she just couldn’t stand that he was seeing me and that we were happy. She doesn’t want him, but she doesn’t want anyone else to have him either. It started out that she was having tests done and she needed him to babysit. He was so desperate to see his kids that he’d do anything to see them. Then when his wife found out I was with him, she said it was too emotionally damaging for the kids to see him with another woman.” She sighed. “Then she had to have some surgery, and she asked him to stay in the house while she was in the hospital. Then when she got out, he stayed to help her, and he’s been there ever since.”

  “I’m sorry, Denise,” I said, meaning it. I was disappointed. He and Denise were good together. “I hate to say this, but it’s better you found out now,” I said.

  “That’s what I keep telling myself. I don’t want to talk about Sal. What time are you going to Long Island?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure.” I said. I didn’t want to tell her about Michele.

  “I don’t know what to do with myself today. Maybe I’ll go to Dave’s later,” she said, talking about Dave’s Tavern, the old neighborhood bar where we spent most of our misbegotten youth.

  “Don’t you have any friends?” I asked, annoyed. I didn’t want to think about Denise alone in some bar because she had nowhere else to go. It was ironic, because that’s exactly where I wound up.

  5

  I was showered and shaved before noon. I lounged around in sweats and tried to read my Bible, but I couldn’t get into it. I sat on the couch, flipping through the channels on the TV. The classics were on, It’s A Wonderful Life, March of the Wooden Soldiers, and all those other stupid Christmas movies that I can’t stand. I fell asleep about 3:00 and woke up at 5:30.

  It was dark outside, and I was feeling groggy from too much sleep. I rummaged through the fridge, pulling out some of the leftovers my grandmother managed to toss at me before we left last night. I put eggplant and spaghetti on a dish and popped it in the microwave. I poured a soda and took my dinner back to the couch.

  By 8:30 I was bored out of my mind and told myself that a drive would clear my head. I put on jeans, work boots, and a sweater, grabbing my leather jacket on my way out. I drove around the deserted streets; I guess everyone was already wherever they were celebrating. Except for the occasional convenience stores, all the stores and restaurants were closed. I felt that old loneliness seep in, wondering why I always seem to end up alone.

  I turned up Midland Avenue and headed back toward the beach, intending to turn down my block and go home. I saw the bar up ahead on my right, the lighted beer signs beckoned from inside a dive that didn’t even have a name.

  I parked out front, feeling the chill through my leather jacket as I walked the few steps from the street. The front was cement painted cream, with brown wood shutters on the front glass window. The brown painted door squeaked when I opened it, revealing a dimly lit interior.

  It was a dump, an old man’s bar with Frank Sinatra blaring from the juke box, singing “Strangers In The Night.” The smell of cigarette smoke, stale beer, and hopelessness permeated the room. It was a one-room bar, no pool table, just a dart board on the back wall with a chalk scoreboard. The bar was along the wall on the right, with red-cushioned bar stools. There was a row of booths on the left with the same red cushions and brown formica tables.

  Three old men sat at the bar, separately. None of them were talking except the guy at the end. He was doing a playful come-on with an old hag with a bad bleach job. I saw her eyes catch me, and she smiled seductively, revealing a set of yellow, crooked teeth. Yeah, that’ll happen, I thought. No matter how drunk I got, I’d be leaving without her. I ignored the voice of my conscience warning me that alcohol raised the libido but lowered the standards.

  I tried to remember the last time I’d been with a woman. I was feeling sorry for myself because I’d been such a Boy Scout all these months—no booze, no sex, and where did it get me? Nowhere, alone on Christmas at some old man’s bar where the only woman was a shriveled-up skank.

  I took a seat at the end of the bar near the front door. I signaled the bartender for a beer. He was an old man, probably in his seventies. He walked slowly toward me with a hint of a limp. He was balding and overweight, with tired blue eyes and a gravelly voice.

  “What can I get ya?” he asked.

  “Give me a Bud,” I said.

  “Bottle or tap?” he asked, not caring.

  “Bottle,” I said. He nodded and gave me an ice-cold longneck.

  The first sip was just like I remembered it. Cool, crisp, the taste of a thousand other beers that I’ve drunk, and it went down nice and smooth. I wanted it to remind me of summertime and youth, of days when I could drink without thinking and never go home alone. Instead, it reminded me that I’d broken my record of not drinking for almost six months.

  I finished the first beer and ordered a second, watching the others in the bar for entertainment. The one guy and the blonde were getting loud. He was talking about the old days when he was a ballplayer. How he was the best shortstop in the Colonial leagues. I tuned him out and looked at the other two. One was so old he looked like someone pulled him out of a coffin and sat him at the bar. He wasn’t moving at first, and I thought for a second that he was dead. Then he picked up his tap beer and took a drag from the cigarette that was burning in the ashtray
as he stared at the mirror behind the bar.

  The third guy was a little younger, maybe fifty. He was doing some serious drinking, shots of Jack Daniels alternating with beer. He was sitting closest to me, so I could see what he was wearing. Blue polyester pants, black dress shoes, and a cream-colored sweater stretched out of shape. His dark hair was in need of a haircut and was greasy. I could see flecks of dandruff in it, or maybe it was lice. He was watching the blonde with a detached look on his face.

  The blonde kept looking my way, trying to make eye contact with me. I could see her staring at me in my peripheral vision, but I wouldn’t look at her. Her date got off his stool, unsteady as he walked, and stumbled as he headed toward the men’s room. I could hear her cackle as she cracked up when he fell. He steadied himself, holding onto the wall until he made it to the bathroom.

  I felt the old familiar buzz when I finished my second beer and ordered a third. The bartender turned a shot glass upside down and told me the next one was on the house as he walked away.

  The juke box had switched to “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree,” and I saw the blonde start to do a little dance. I played with the neck of my beer bottle and looked around the room at them. They were so pathetic. I didn’t want that to be me in thirty years. The question came to me from deep inside, Do I get smashed or walk away while I still can? I knew God didn’t want this for me. I mulled it over for a few minutes. I finished my beer, guzzling it in three gulps. I took my money off the bar, leaving a ten-dollar tip, and walked back out into the cold.