For the Sins of My Father

by Demeo, Albert

  As the summer wore on, my father sank further and further into depression. For the first time in my life, we didn't even go through the motions of a Fourth of July celebration. My father lay in bed in the dark all that day, and my sisters went over to a friend's house. When the sun set over the water that evening, Tommy and I sat on the dock and halfheartedly set off a few small rockets. There would be no barbecue, no neighbors coming to celebrate. The only sound came from the distant celebration of other families across the water.

  I knew my father was deeply depressed. I attributed his sadness to his decision to go into permanent hiding, leaving the family behind forever. So often that last summer, we went out on the ocean together. I had my own speedboat, a gift for my sixteenth birthday, but we usually took my father's small yacht. Sometimes we went alone; other times Tommy or Nick went with us. While I drove, my father would sit in a deck chair near the stern, staring silently out into the distance. When we finally dropped anchor, I would fish or dive into the chilly Atlantic for a swim. My father would just sit there, often for hours, unmoving and unspeaking, gazing at the horizon. I wanted to believe that he was at peace in those moments, but I knew he wasn't. As the sun sank lower on the horizon, I would sit down next to him, the only sound the gentle lapping of the waves and the cry of gulls overhead. Finally, as the sky changed from blue to gold, I would turn the boat around and head back to Massapequa and the world he would soon leave behind permanently.

  That fall I returned for my junior year of high school. Despite the chaos in my personal life, my grades remained good, and I tried to go through the motions of being a typical teenage boy. I had a steady girlfriend at last, a beautiful young girl with glossy black hair and a stunning smile, the prettiest girl in my class. She was kind, sweet, the sort of girl every high school boy dreams about, and she really cared about me. With all the rumors in the neighborhood, she must have known what my father did for a living, but she never alluded to it directly. One day she asked me why I was so sad sometimes. She wanted to understand, she said. I asked her if she had ever seen The Godfather. She said yes, though she didn't remember it that well. I told her she should read the book, read about the son, about Michael Corleone. That was the closest she could come to understanding my life.

  My father was gone more than ever as fall darkened to winter, and when he did come home, he isolated himself. I developed the habit of picking up copies of the New York papers every day after school and bringing them home to my father. He would sit in his office for hours, scanning the obituaries, reading and rereading the articles. The federal task force was closing in on the New York crime families with a vengeance. Each day brought news of a new arrest or of someone else turning informant. The crime pages and the obituaries were filled with names my father recognized. His friends were dying faster than his enemies. As I'd done as a young boy, I read the papers in private, too. Only this time, I reacted not with terror but with resolve. We'd pull this off, my father and I. We'd get him out of there before anything happened to him. I was just waiting for his signal.

  I watched as our million-dollar mansion gradually became my father's prison. He was increasingly afraid to leave it, increasingly afraid that if he did, he would never return. The man who had once seemed invulnerable to me now lived in continual fear. I thought often of how meaningless our wealth had become. “Vanity of vanities,” said the prophet from my Sunday school lessons, “vanity of vanities.” We had everything money could buy—marble floors and yachts and expensive jewelry—and we could enjoy none of it. I wonder if he thought sometimes of that first house in Massapequa, where I'd learned to ride my bike and Jim the policeman dropped by for barbecues. I would have given anything to go back to that place and time.

  Sensing the end would come soon, my father seemed intent on passing along every bit of knowledge he could think of. Some of it was advice: Be aware of your surroundings, sniff out the betrayer, always keep your cool, let others do the talking. Other times it was information. So-and-so was the person to go to if I needed a particular thing. He made sure I recognized the faces of anyone I might need to deal with, and that they recognized mine. He went over the bank accounts with me, the mortgage papers, the life insurance policies. I knew the names and numbers of our attorneys, our banker, our broker. I could manage the family's finances by myself if I had to. And he was always testing me, putting me in high-stress situations that required me to rely on my own skills and wit.

  That winter a neighbor of ours had a long talk with my father. Years later, the neighbor told me about that conversation. The man was a stockbroker—a very successful one—and though law-abiding himself, he liked my father and considered him a friend. It no longer took much guesswork for the neighbors to realize how deeply my father was in trouble, and the friend was worried. He knew how gifted my father was in managing and developing his legitimate assets. Our neighbor broached the forbidden topic with a courage I admired. “Why don't you quit this career you've made for yourself and come work with me? You're a natural for the financial markets. This life of yours is no good, for you or Gina or the children. You need to put it behind you.”

  “There is no way out for me. There hasn't been for a long time. I made my choices, and I have to live by them. Please just promise me one thing. Don't let Al follow in my footsteps. Get him a job on Wall Street when he's old enough. I'm not going to be around much longer. If you'd keep an eye on Gina and the kids, help them out every now and then, it'd mean everything to me.”

  The neighbor promised and returned home sober and reflective. He kept his promise to my father. He gave me a job on Wall Street the following summer, and every summer after that until I graduated from college and became a broker on my own. I will always wonder what my father's life would have been like if the interested neighbor down the block from him when he was a teenager had been a stockbroker instead of Joseph Profaci's brother.

  Holidays had always been a major event at our house, but that winter, we seemed to be a house in mourning. My mother did her best with food and presents, but we were just going through the motions. Grandma and Uncle Joe came for Christmas as always, and even Cousin Joe returned from hiding to join us for Christmas dinner. That year, though, my father didn't even come down to eat. As we opened presents and pretended to have a good time, he remained locked upstairs in his study. Christmas came and went, but he never emerged.

  A week later, New Year's of 1983, he still hadn't come out. The darkness in our home was palpable. As the days crept by, I told myself he was planning his escape. The weather was very cold, the roads icy, but no snow had fallen. It had not been a white Christmas. The next day was Debra's twenty-second birthday. Debra had graduated from high school and was attending art school in the city, but she still lived at home. My mother was already busy cooking for the celebration. Delicious aromas wafted through the house.

  My final conversation with my father took place on the evening of January 9, 1983. That evening I went into my father's office to talk to him after dinner. I shut the door quietly behind me and took my accustomed place on the leather couch that faced his desk. My father sat in his chair behind the desk, looking out the window at the slate- gray canal. A single lamp glowed in the half-light of the office. For some reason my senses were heightened that evening. I noticed the intricate carving on the familiar wooden desk, the feel of the leather through the wool fabric under my thighs. It was very quiet. I watched my father in silence, memorizing his face as I had every night since the long ago evening I had first discovered what my father really did for a living. He looked tired, his skin sallow from fatigue or ill health, but he also seemed more relaxed than he had in weeks. He had made a decision.

  After a few moments' silence, he turned to look at me and said flatly, “Al, I'm not going to be around much longer.”

  I said, “I know, Dad.” All the plans, the years of rehearsing his escape flashed through my mind. “I'm ready. I know what to do.”

  He sighed, laid his hands flat
on the desk, and leaned forward to look directly into my eyes. “Al, what are you going to do if I get killed?”

  I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. “I don't know, Dad. Well, I mean, I'll find out who did it, and I'll kill them. I just don't know exactly how.”

  Coming around the desk, my father grabbed me and pulled me to my feet. It was the first time in my life he had touched me in anger. “You will do no such thing. You will put me in a garbage bag and throw me away and pretend it never happened. And you will go to college, and you will have a good life. Do you understand me?”

  My heart flooded with foreboding, but I nodded my head and said, “Sure, Dad, sure, whatever you want. But that's not going to happen. You're going away. Everything will be all right.”

  Abruptly, my father pulled me into his arms and hugged me as tight as he could, crushing my head against his chest. His voice was choked with emotion as he spoke. “Al, this is the life I chose, and this is just part of that life. I can't be a rat, and if I stay, they'll ruin all your lives. I'm going on my own terms. It's the only thing I can still do for you.” He must have held me for five minutes before he finally released me. Then he said, “Take care of your mother and sisters for me” and turned away.

  I told myself he was going to the Bahamas again, and this time he wasn't coming back. I almost believed it.

  As I turned to go, I said the words I always said to him at parting. “I love you, Dad.” And I left the room. A few minutes later I heard him get into the car and drive away. I never saw him alive again.

  That night I lay in my bed as I had for years, staring at my bedroom window, waiting to see the headlights of my father's car as he turned into the driveway. Our conversation played and replayed continuously in my mind. My father would escape, I kept telling myself. He would get away. They would never find him; he was too clever, we had planned everything too well. They wouldn't kill him because they'd never find him. He'd come home tonight or the next night or the night after that. And if he didn't, one of the pay phones would ring, and I would be there to get it. I ran the route through my mind, repeating the times and places like a litany. I wouldn't let him down.

  The next evening a beautiful dinner was laid out for my sister's birthday, the presents wrapped and ready for her to open, but still my father didn't come. My mother called around, but no one had seen him. This wasn't like my father; he never missed one of our birthdays. Finally I told my mother we should go ahead and eat, that Daddy had some business to take care of. An hour later, my sister blew out twenty-two candles. Afterward she went out to celebrate with her friends.

  My father didn't come home that night, or the night after that. Hoping to get rid of the stone in the pit of my stomach, I called Uncle Nino. Nino was brusque. No one had seen him. My mother sensed my anxiety and asked if we should call the police to report him missing. I told her no, I was sure Dad was all right. She should wait a while longer, I told her. Five days after he disappeared, I told my mother to go to the police station and file a missing person report. I went with her. It was part of the plan my father had taught me; if he disappeared without telling me and didn't come home in five days, I should have my mother file a report. It would seem suspicious if she didn't and make his disappearing act seem less authentic.

  I kept telling myself that everything was fine, that he had just executed one of our long-rehearsed plans, but inside I was filled with dread. I had stopped eating and sleeping, counting the hours until I could go to the designated phone booth and wait for a message. The plan for his sudden disappearance was for me to go to the phone across from the Massapequa diner at 8:00 P.M. one week after he left, to wait for his call. By the time the day came, I was frantic. The diner was only a few miles from our house, an easy twenty-minute bike ride, but I left long before it was time. I was so afraid of being followed that I wound through the streets for hours, indifferent to the cold winter air. When I finally reached the pay phone, I was shaking with nerves. For three hours I stood staring at that phone, sick with fear, waiting for a ring that never came. It was the longest night of my life.

  The next day, more than a week after my father had told me good-bye, I went into his office to get some cash out of his desk for my mother to go grocery shopping. When I slid open the top drawer to take out the bills, I froze. There, lined up neatly in a perfect row, were all my father's personal possessions: his pinky ring, his diamond watch, his wallet with the pictures of us children, his wedding ring—and his gun. Lying next to the gun was a small pamphlet. I picked it up. It was from the local Catholic church. My father had gone to confession. Every pore in my body went numb, and my vision began to blur. My father would never leave the house without those things, unless . . . and it came to me. “If I stay, I'll ruin your lives, Al,” he had told me. I thought he had meant stay in New York. He had meant stay. Period. He had known what was being planned. And he had put his gun in the drawer and driven himself to his own death. It was his final act of atonement, the only gift he could still give his family.

  I took out the cash and shut the drawer. Then I went back in the kitchen and gave it to my mother. My eyes were dry and tearless, my hands steady. I had promised my father I would do whatever was needed. I intended to keep that promise. Then I walked upstairs, sat on the edge of my bed, and stared unseeing out my bedroom window. I would not see my father's headlights as he pulled into the driveway that night. The nightmare that had haunted me since I was seven years old had finally come true.

  The next few days were almost unendurable. I kept my silence, and I waited. My mother was convinced that my father had gone into hiding once again, and I said nothing to change her mind. During the day I went to school; at night I paced the hallways, gun at the ready, checking and rechecking every door and window. I was the man of the house now. I could neither eat nor sleep. A sword was suspended over all of our heads, and I was waiting for it to descend. I steeled myself for the blow.

  It came on the night of January 18—my seventeenth birthday. My mother had baked a cake, and I was at the table with her and my sisters, trying to act as if nothing were wrong. Just as I blew out the candles, the doorbell rang. I went to answer it. My mother followed a short distance behind.

  A crowd of police officers stood on the porch. There were at least a dozen of them; it seemed more like twenty, streaming across the porch and down the steps behind. Bracing myself, I asked them what they wanted. They said they had some news about my father and asked if my mother was home. Catching sight of her behind me, they shoved me aside and pushed through the door before I realized what was happening. Six of them streamed through the door with the icy January wind, fanning out through the foyer and into the living room and dining room before I was able to block the entrance. The lead detective's face was impassive, but the others glanced at each other as they took in the marble and crystal of the entryway, their faces masks of contempt. The mobster's house. It was like being invaded by enemy troops. This wasn't a standard unit; this was a small army. I tried to get closer to my mother, longing to protect her, but two officers stepped between us, blocking my way.

  “Roy's dead, Gina,” one of the detectives said. I flinched at the familiarity with which they spoke to my mother. “We found his body in the trunk of his car.” There was no attempt to soften the blow. I had the sense they were hitting as hard as they could in hopes of shocking my mother into revealing something.

  The lead detective herded her to the nearest chair, encircling her so that I could not get close. My mother sat there, pale and silent, her eyes straight ahead as they began reeling off the facts of the case.

  “Your husband's maroon Cadillac was found abandoned on a street in Brooklyn. We received a complaint from a local businessman who said it had been parked there for days. After running the plates, we towed the car to our impound lot and dusted for prints. Afterward one of our officers popped the trunk. Your husband's body was inside.” He paused for a reaction, and when he didn't get one, he continued.


  “Your husband was shot seven times in the face and hands. The freezing weather kept his body from decomposing, or we might have located it sooner. We're waiting for the body to thaw before removing him from the trunk, but somebody from the family will have to come down to the morgue tomorrow to give us a positive ID. We're certain it's your husband; several of our officers recognized him. But we need a family ID to make it official.” Handing her a piece of paper, “This is the address of the morgue. You'll need to have someone there early tomorrow. Also, do you know anything about a crystal chandelier? We found one on top of the body.”

  The room had gone slightly blurry as I listened to this rendition. All I could think about was getting to my mother, but the officers wouldn't let me. The men on either side of me watched my face the entire time. One of them was smiling. Everything seemed to have gone into slow motion, and I couldn't get it to resume normal speed. Somewhere in the background, far away, I heard Debra scream.

  The sound of my sister's cry galvanized my mother into action. Looking defiantly into the detective's eyes, she rose to her feet and began backing him toward the front door, her four-foot-nine-inch frame pulled to its full height. “Get out of my house!”

  “You have any idea who did this, Gina?” the detective asked as my mother continued backing him toward the door.

  “You gotta have some ideas,” another officer interrupted. He watched her eagerly, avariciously, like a circling vulture, his contempt for my father palpable. I had moved next to my mother when she rose, and the two of us herded them back out the door.