Corrupted Memory

by Ray Daniel

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said.

  “Did you get this from that son of a bitch Miller? Does the FBI have this picture?”

  “How should I know? I got it. I assume they could get it.”

  The photo glowed on my Droid. It was from happier times, a wedding celebration. Four men, each with a cigar in one hand. Oscar Sagese wore a tuxedo. His arm draped across Hugh Graxton’s shoulder. Hugh held a similar cigar, his arm around Sal. Sal wore a big smile, held a cigar, and used his other arm to sideways hug a smaller man into the frame. The smaller man was Teardrop, the guy who had beaten me in the toilet.

  I said, “You lied to me, Sal. You said you never met this guy. Looks like you’re best buds.”

  Sal said, “You know what, Tucker? Fuck you.” He turned to Jael. “This guy ignores his fucking family all his life, then when the shit goes down, he wants me to trust him.”

  Sal’s words stung. I dug back through my memory. He’d chosen his word well. Ignore. Actually, I had done worse than ignore my mother’s family, I had rejected them and their worldview—a worldview that ended at Cross Street.

  My mother never escaped the North End. Her mind remained trapped in the area bordered by Prince, Hanover, and Commercial Streets. My father, on the other hand, had been a citizen of the world. He read The New Yorker, listened to NPR, talked to overseas friends. He had been an engineer, a man of science who built weapons. My mother had been a housewife, a woman of cooking who boiled pasta.

  Over the breakfast table, my mother would gossip about what Auntie Rosa had said about Auntie Contessa; my father would speculate about the Iran-Contra affair. My mother gabbed about Nonna’s bunions; my father extolled the MX missile. My mother talked about people; my father talked about ideas. At the age of thirteen, presented with a choice between Battery Street and the world, I had chosen the world. I was the guy George Bailey would have been if he had escaped Bedford Falls.

  I didn’t have anything against my relatives. They simply didn’t interest me, just as they didn’t interest my father. When he was home he’d let himself get dragged down to Boston for the endless string of birthdays, christenings, weddings, funerals, holidays, and feasts. He never looked comfortable. He sat next to my mother, smiled when required, and spoke when questioned.

  For their part, the North Enders never warmed to my dad. The dinner table served people named Gianelli, Testa, Rizzo, and some guy named Tucker. The only name that didn’t end in a vowel. They viewed my father as some sort of strange Englishman from a foreign country called Minnesota.

  Still, while my father had given me a worldview, he hadn’t given me a family. He was an only child and there were no other Tuckers. I was alone in the world except for my mother and her family, and I had turned my back on them. Sal was right not to trust me.

  We were silent.

  Sal said, “I need to know where you got that picture.”

  I slumped in my chair. “I’m so tired of this shit.”

  “What?”

  “You say I ignored my family, and maybe I did, but I was better off alone.”

  “That’s fucking stupid,” said Sal. “You don’t even know how to be in a family. I never see you at holidays. You never come around. You never say hello. It’s a fucking sin that this is the first time you’ve had a drink with me. You blow off all the good stuff, then show up, dig into everyone’s shit, and bitch about how it stinks.”

  “Hmmph.”

  “This is a fucking good family, Tucker. You turned your back

  on us.”

  I pointed at my stitches. “Yeah. This is what my good family gave me.”

  “Hey! I had nothing to do with that,” said Sal.

  I was silent, not wanting to enrage him again.

  “I swear on my father’s soul,” said Sal. “I don’t know how that happened.”

  “Fine,” I said. “I believe you.”

  “You gotta tell me where you got that picture. If the FBI ever gets that picture, they’ll make you testify about where you found it. You want to be on a witness list?”

  “You’re threatening me now? After your little family speech?”

  “You are so fucking stupid. There are four guys in that picture who don’t want to go to jail. You gonna be the one to put them there? I need to know where you got that, Tucker. I need the negative.”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ, Sal!”

  “Hey. Watch your mouth.”

  I said. “There is no negative. I got this off the Internet. There could be a million copies. We’d never know.”

  “The Internet? Some asshole posted this on the Internet? Anyone can see it?”

  “Not exactly. It was on Facebook,” I ducked my head. “I hacked Oscar Sagese’s account.”

  “What? Hugh’s guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You hacked his account?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know, you got a lot of fucking nerve to come in here and judge me.”

  “I didn’t hurt anyone.”

  “No. You just hack a guy’s account and steal a picture that could get him killed. Then you parade it in front of me. You’re an asshole.”

  “I needed information.”

  “Get the fuck out of my face.”

  “I can’t. I need your help.”

  “You need my help?” Sal crossed his arms across his chest. “Why should I help you?”

  “Because if you don’t, I’ll tell your mother. I’ll go tell Auntie Rosa that you won’t help her sister.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Lieutenant Lee from the Boston Police wants to search my mother’s house. He wants to know how my father got the money to buy that house in Pittsfield.”

  “So? Let him search.”

  “Sal, you know my mother’s a hoarder. She can’t have police moving her stuff. She’ll freak out. She could even kill herself.”

  Sal said, “I told you, I don’t know where your father got the money for that house.” He turned to Jael. “This guy never listens.”

  Jael said, “Perhaps your mother has information.”

  Sal said, “My mother, huh?”

  My Droid said, “Droid.” I pulled it out and looked at the number. It came from a 413 area code—Pittsfield. I said to Sal, “I gotta take this.”

  The voice at the other end said, “Tucker? This is Dave Patterson. We need to talk.”

  I said, “So. Talk.”

  “Not like this. I need to meet you. There’s a spot on the Pike. If I send you a map link, will you meet me there at ten tonight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good.”

  The line went dead.

  Sal asked, “Important call?”

  I asked Sal, “You ever hear of a guy named Dave Patterson?”

  “No. Go ahead. Ask me if I’m lying. I’ll punch you right in the mouth.”

  “Okay. I won’t ask.”

  Sal stood. “Look. I gotta go. But I remembered something my mother told me. She said that Auntie Angelina had saved all the stuff from your dad’s office.”

  Jael and I stood to leave with Sal. “That figures. She saved everything.”

  “Yeah, but there was something weird about the way she saved it. My mother didn’t tell me anything else, wanted to keep it hush hush, so I didn’t dig.”

  We walked out of the cafe onto Hanover Street and started to go our separate ways when Sal called out, “Hey, cousin!”

  I turned. “Yeah?”

  “Watch your fucking back.”

  Thirty-Eight

  Bobby, Jael, and I were crammed into Bobby’s tiny office, staring at Google Maps on Bobby’s computer. Bobby sat behind his desk, working the mouse. I sat next to him, peering at the map. Jael stood behind us, supervising the operation.

  Dave P
atterson had emailed me a link, and I had emailed it to Bobby. Bobby clicked on the link and Google Maps presented us with a graphical blue flag marking a spot somewhere between nothing and nowhere.

  “It’s on the Pike,” said Bobby.

  “Not exactly,” I said. “Zoom in.”

  Bobby zoomed in. The mark was not on the Pike. It was off to the side. Bobby zoomed in further, and Google Maps switched to its street view. We were standing on the Mass Pike, looking west. Bobby rotated the view and the blue flag came into view. It was in the middle of a clearing, bounded by trees on one side and a small river on the other side. Google Maps said the clearing was in Warren, Massachusetts, sixty miles west of Boston, halfway across the state.

  I leaned in close, trying to pull details out of the picture. “He wants to meet in a clearing?”

  Bobby said, “Yeah. I guess he wants to stop his car, run from the road, say what he wants to say, and run back.”

  Jael said, “It provides a perfect ambush. A sniper could easily hide in the trees.”

  I asked, “You think he wants to kill me?”

  “The point is that he could kill you. We cannot allow him the chance.”

  Bobby clicked the mouse a few times trying, and failing, to zoom in. “What the hell is that?”

  There was a white smudge in the middle of the screen.

  Jael said, “Switch to an overhead view.”

  Bobby zoomed out and switched from map to satellite. The picture was from the summer. The clearing was a bright green, and the trees next to it hid the ground.

  “We must set up in these trees. It will be dark, so I will bring my night scope.”

  Bobby said, “Your night scope? For what?”

  “My sniper rifle.”

  “Your sniper rifle? You can’t go walking through those woods with a sniper rifle.”

  “Of course I can,” said Jael. “There is no fence. How else would I keep Tucker safe?”

  “He’ll be plenty safe,” said Bobby. “Patterson is a little dweeb.”

  I realized that I was a step behind these two. “Safe? Safe from what? What am I doing?”

  Bobby said, “Well, obviously, Patterson wants to talk to you, not me. So you go out there and talk to him.”

  “Talk to him about what? I don’t even know what’s going on.”

  “Yeah. And it’s gonna stay that way unless you talk to him. Just find out what he has to say.”

  Jael said, “I cannot allow Tucker to endanger himself. I must be in the woods with the sniper rifle.”

  Bobby said, “What if I say no?”

  I said, “Then I’m not going. Either Jael has her rifle or I take Lucy to the movies.”

  “That’s fucking stupid,” said Bobby.

  I said, “C’mon, Jael. Let’s get out of here. Let Bobby go talk to Patterson.”

  We stood and made for the door. Bobby rattled his mouse at the computer and then pounded the desk with his fist. “Fuck me!”

  “Does that mean yes to the sniper rifle?”

  “Fucking yes, okay? But I have one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  Thirty-Nine

  I still had the problem of keeping Lieutenant Lee from ripping my mother’s house apart. I needed to get those notebooks. They had to be in the house somewhere, but I didn’t know where to look. I had one shot left. I called Uncle Walt and he agreed to meet me at a coffee shop in Sudbury.

  Jael said, “I will drive you.”

  “You think Uncle Walt is dangerous?”

  “Anyone can be dangerous.”

  Sudbury Coffee Works sported a large brass teapot hanging from its brick facade. I love places like this—independent coffee shops whose local owners roast their own beans and have committed their livelihood to the creation of a good cup of coffee. The coffee shop had a long, low serving counter, with the roaster sitting out where you could watch it work.

  The décor represented the taste of the owner rather than the committee-conceived, focus group–judged, and executive-­approved decor of Starbucks. Lively blue and green tables sported artwork secured under clear polyurethane surfaces. Jael sat across from me drinking a cup of tea, while I had opted for a mug of coffee—the 1776 blend, a nod to Sudbury’s revolutionary history and its victory in grabbing the 01776 zip code.

  Uncle Walt walked into the coffee shop, waved hello, bought a cup of coffee in a disposable cup, and settled down at our table. He pointed at my stitches. “Jesus Christ, Tucker. What happened to you?”

  “A bald guy with a teardrop tattoo beat me up in Quincy Market.”

  Walt’s eyes flashed recognition.

  Jael asked, “Do you know the man who beat Tucker?”

  Walt held out his hand. “Hi. I’m Walt.”

  Jael shook Walt’s hand and said, “I am Jael Navas. I am Tucker’s friend.”

  “Well, good for Tucker! The boy has good taste.”

  Walt hadn’t answered Jael’s question, but I didn’t want to press. That answer didn’t interest me. I assumed that Walt would know Teardrop if he owed Graxton money, and I didn’t want to alienate him.

  I said, “Uncle Walt, I need your help. It’s my mother.”

  “What about her?”

  “The Boston Police are going to search her house. They’re going to dig through her crap to find out how my father paid for that house in Pittsfield. They’re looking for my dad’s notebooks.”

  Walt drank his coffee. “His notebooks? They’ve got to be in her house somewhere. I haven’t seen that woman in almost ten years, and she had piles of shit even then.”

  “The piles are bigger now, believe me. Do you have any of his notebooks?”

  “Hell no. He never shared those with me. I’m surprised he never put the little locks on them with the little girlie keys to keep everyone out. He was a secretive bastard.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Walt raised his hand. “Don’t judge him, son. It’s what he did for a living. People forget, we lived through some bad times. We were sure the whole world was going to get blown up, and he was doing his part to keep that from happening. Keeping secrets was part of his job.”

  “Even from you?”

  “Even from me? Tucker, I’m a glorified janitor. Your dad dealt with things on a need-to-know basis, and I didn’t need to know shit to sweep the floors. So, yeah, he even kept secrets from me.”

  “Keeping secrets was one thing; raising me in a lie was another. He stole my brother from me.”

  Walt grimaced. “Come on, Tucker. He couldn’t tell anyone about Pittsfield. Your mother would have divorced him, Sal’s family would probably have killed him, and you would have grown up in a broken home. You sure as shit wouldn’t have been able to afford MIT.”

  “MIT wasn’t worth being raised by a liar.”

  “Don’t be a baby. You think things are bad between you and your mother? Imagine how it was for him, married to a friggin’ devout Catholic who didn’t want any kids after she had you. Said that you were too much work and she didn’t want another one.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “You know how a devout Catholic practices birth control?”

  “I thought they didn’t practice birth control.”

  “Oh, they practice it—with abstinence. Your mother cut your father off the day you were born. He was going to divorce her sorry ass as soon as you were out of college, but he didn’t want your college fund getting caught up in some bullshit Massachusetts divorce court.”

  “Abstinence?”

  “Yeah. So maybe he was screwing the babysitter and maybe he knocked her up. But he did okay by her, bought her a house, was a father to her child. God knows what that cost him.”

  I crossed my arms and looked out the window. “Whatever.”


  Walt stood. “Suck it up, son. So you didn’t meet your brother. Boo hoo. Go make some friends.” He stalked out of the coffee shop.

  “Sorry you had to see that,” I said to Jael.

  Jael said, “Family issues are always difficult.”

  “You know what I have to do now,” I said. I pulled out my Droid and dialed.

  “Hi, Ma. I’m in Sudbury. How about if I come over for dinner?”

  Forty

  Jael slowed to a stop in front of my mother’s house. If she noticed the mess, she was polite about it. A hoarder’s yard is always a mess; once the hoard fills the house, junk spills outside. My mother’s yard was no different. Cardboard boxes of paper rested against the side of the house. Paper had escaped the boxes and gotten caught in the long lawn. A row of full recycling bins sat in front of her garage, their contents soggy from repeated rainstorm drenchings. Though recycling bins are uniquely suited to dispose of the papers they hold, these bins hadn’t made it to the curb. And they never would.

  I climbed out of Jael’s car. “Thanks for the lift.”

  “I’ll be back in two hours,” said Jael. She drove off to access her armory and load up for tonight’s rendezvous with Dave Patterson.

  My sneakers crunched on the stone walkway as I approached the door and rang the bell.

  My mother called out, “Just a minute.” Stacks of paper thumped on the other side of the door.

  The door opened halfway and my mother smiled out at me.

  This was new.

  I stepped through the door and she gave me her cheek. I kissed it.

  “I’m glad you called,” she said. “You’re lucky. I had gravy cooking on the stove when you called. It’s good not to eat it alone.”

  That explained the smile. A good Italian marinara sauce simmers for two hours. After all that time, it tastes better when shared.

  Still, I couldn’t imagine my mother cooking in this space. I looked around at the stacks of paper and asked, “Is cooking safe?”

  The smile disappeared. “Of course it’s safe! Do you think I’m an idiot?”

  We wound our way through the goat path in the living room. The path forked in what was once the dining area. We took the kitchen branch instead of the bedroom branch.