A Friend Is a Gift You Give Yourself

by William Boyle

  “All your dad and I did to get this party together and you’re just gonna sulk?” Rena said.

  “This is such bullshit,” Adrienne said.

  Rena, pushing harder, said: “Go talk to your cousins. They want to spend time with you. They came from upstate just to see you.”

  “Rockland County’s not upstate,” Adrienne said.

  “Come on, A. Get it together.” The gentle touch. A teenager, hormonal, Rena trying to understand.

  “Fuck you,” Adrienne said, staring daggers.

  Rena wasn’t about to cause a scene, so she walked outside and got some air. To avoid her cousins who were smoking on the corner by the bus stop shelter, she headed up the block and leaned against a fence post and cried. She felt like she’d been punched in the chest. Something collapsed that day. Or maybe it’d been a string of small collapses that she just hadn’t noticed.

  Adrienne strayed. The rest of high school was a whirlwind of missed curfews and broken promises. Things had gotten going with Richie around then, she found out much later. Rena never tried to understand her, she supposes now. She knew that Adrienne knew about Vic. Hard not to. She wondered how much, but she never asked. They never talked about Vic’s work, the things he must’ve seen and done on a daily basis. Rena knew that was tough for Adrienne, but other kids they’d known lived with it and turned out fine. Chazz Caruso’s son became a lawyer. Ralphie Baruncelli’s daughter was a ballet dancer. Rena wasn’t sure why Adrienne got wrecked by it or absorbed by it or whatever it was that happened. Not easy, she knew, but you come from where you come from.

  Now she’s thinking of Adrienne at six, jumping rope in the yard. Her smile. Little pearly teeth. That rainbow shirt she always wore. The fine down on her arms. Her sneakers thudding against the concrete. The weeds growing up between the cracks in the concrete: green, vivid. Her yard once their yard.

  “Lost in thought?” Wolfstein says.

  “A little, I guess,” Rena says. “I don’t know what to say to Adrienne.”

  “Say, ‘Have you no heart, you ungrateful shit?’” Wolfstein grins big.

  “I don’t know,” Rena says. “Maybe that’s the right approach. Be a tough guy.”

  “I’ve got a little Ruger purse gun, you want it. No bullets. Just wave it around.”

  Rena knows this is a joke, but she doesn’t like guns. Vic had a drawer full of them. Little Sal wiped the one he’d shot Vic with clean and threw it in the yard next to her basil. Richie Schiavano used it on Little Sal two days later, shooting him in the face as he got his head shaved at a barbershop near Most Precious Blood. That report came down to her from the top and was confirmed quickly in the newspapers, though Richie was never fingered by the Six-Two. Palms were greased.

  “I think I’ll pass on that,” Rena says. “But maybe I need to be more assertive. Maybe that’s always been my problem. Too soft. Too nice. I let Adrienne walk all over me.”

  “Different situation with my mother,” Wolfstein says. “She was the rotten apple. Came crawling back years later. People said forgive her, you can’t get closure until you forgive her. I was scared. Scared of her because she deserted me. But I tried. I was in AA at the time, and I was trying to do the right thing. Turns out she just wanted to take advantage of me. Thought I had dough, didn’t know I’d blown it all. I cut her loose. She just wasn’t any good.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Some people just aren’t good, you know? No matter what you do or don’t do. It’s not your fault, is what I’m saying.”

  Rena nods. “I’m hoping Adrienne and I can work it out.”

  “You need that purse gun, you let me know.”

  They come to a little park called the Green Grass that looks out at the Throgs Neck Bridge and the Whitestone Bridge, the Manhattan skyline off in the distance. A small 9/11 memorial has little American flags planted all around it. NEVER FORGET is etched into the stone.

  “A lot of firefighters from the neighborhood,” Wolfstein says. “First responders. I’m not gonna give you the whole spiel. I was in Florida when it happened. People came here and watched the smoke trail.”

  “Terrible,” Rena says.

  “Truly,” Wolfstein says. “But everybody’s got a story. The people, the ones that lost loved ones, that’s their story. Their lives are ruined. They don’t want to talk about it. Everyone else wants to fucking yap about it. ‘I knew a guy who knew a guy.’ No one can let a tragedy be a tragedy anymore without claiming some part of it.”

  “That’s true.”

  “I’m glad for all the firefighters around here, I’ll tell you that. I fucking hate fires. Joint I lived in, in Laurel Canyon back in ’78, went up in flames while I was passed out half-sauced. Still have nightmares about it. I keep an escape ladder tucked under my bed. I smell smoke, I’m out my bedroom window in less than ten seconds. The trick is not drinking too much. You drink too much, you don’t wake up until the fire’s right on top of you. My friend Georgina, she was in that fire with me. Zonked on dope. I had to pull her out. Almost got us both killed.”

  “I remember the church burning down in my neighborhood,” Rena says. “This was around the time I was finishing up at Brooklyn College. St. Mary’s, my church my whole life. I was just there this morning, matter of fact. The pastor back then, Father Reilly, he was a good guy. I remember I was walking home from getting pizza with my friend Ginny, we see the smoke coming up over the train tracks. We went over and stood there, watched the place just crumble. This is the church I was baptized in, my parents were married there, you know? Father Reilly’s leaning against the wall of the bank on the corner, saying, ‘We’ll rebuild, we’ll rebuild.’ The place isn’t even gone yet, he’s talking about rebuilding. It wasn’t that different from 9/11. For me, you know? Heartbreaking.

  “They did rebuild, though. Took three years of going to Mass in the school auditorium, but they got it done. Vic and I got hitched in the new church not long after. I think about that fire all the time. I’m just sitting there in a pew, rosary beads in my hand, I’m thinking, ‘The church that was here burned down.’”

  “Terrorist attacks and fires, what a world,” Wolfstein says, shaking her head. “You ready to go give it another shot with Adrienne?”

  “I am, I think,” Rena says.

  Rena stares up at the sky, too bright, too blue, making her feel as if she’s set to fail. A murderous stillness in the air. The world seeming slack, unpretty. Wolfstein is at her side. She’s about to raise her hand to knock when the door swings open.

  Adrienne’s standing there. “You’re back?” she says. Still with that savage look. The dream of the girl she was. If she looked like Vic, as people had always said, it was the Vic Rena hadn’t seen much of, the one who broke arms and smashed heads for a living.

  “Of course,” Rena says. “I’m not giving up on you and Lucia. Never.”

  Adrienne twists her feet on the threshold, avoids Rena’s gaze, looking at the Impala. “Is that Enzio from the corner’s car?”

  “He let me borrow it.”

  “He’s your boyfriend?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend, no.” Pause, deep breath. “Can I see Lucia?”

  Adrienne looks at Wolfstein. “The fuck are you doing with my mom?”

  “I’m her muscle,” Wolfstein says.

  “Her muscle. That’s good.” Adrienne half-smiles.

  A thundering of feet on the stairs in the house. Lucia comes rushing up behind Adrienne and tries to force her way past her. Rena on the verge of surprise-crying, somewhere between sadness and joy. Her girls. That blood feeling. Vic’s face flashing in Lucia’s. Lucia has something of him in her eyes, her nose, even that soft chin. Young Vic in the Catskills on their honeymoon, that same tenderness. Rena looking at her own thin, bony hands now, shaky with the possibility that the moment will end.

  “Get back inside,” Adrienne says.

  Lucia lights up. “Grandma Rena!”

  Rena thrusts out her arms, wanting so badly to
wrap Lucia up in a hug. “Oh, my sweetie.”

  “Adrienne’s trying to make us leave.” Lucia’s voice is harried, anxious. “Her and Richie. They’re taking me away. I don’t know where. Can I come with you?”

  “Shut up and get back inside,” Adrienne says. “And don’t call me Adrienne. Call me Mommy, huh?”

  “Don’t talk to my granddaughter like that.” Rena reaches out for Lucia.

  “Or what?” Adrienne says.

  “Maybe I’ll step in,” Wolfstein says.

  Adrienne laughs. Lucia is still trying to get past her, so Adrienne pushes her back into the house, and she lands hard on her bottom. “Stay the fuck out of our lives,” Adrienne says to Rena, slamming the door shut in their faces.

  They go back to Wolfstein’s house to regroup, Rena shaken up, Wolfstein trying to comfort her. When Wolfstein pushes the door in, they’re stopped in their tracks by the lanky old man sitting at the counter in the kitchen. He’s got carrot-colored skin. Hair dyed coal black. Floppy, long-lobed ears. He’s wearing a cheap Hawaiian shirt with parrots on it, and there’s a hard-shelled eyeglass case protruding from the gaping breast pocket. He’s got a cigarette going, lodged between his lips, and he’s blowing smoke at the ceiling. He looks like an actor—Rena can’t remember the guy’s name. The one who was in the movie she likes with that redhead—what’s it called? She’s upset about Adrienne. She’s not thinking clearly. She’s not thinking it’s the guy who called. And then she turns to Wolfstein, who looks more taken aback than frightened.

  Wolfstein screws up her face, throws the house keys on the table, and says, “Hey there, Bobby.” Playing it cool.

  “Lacey,” Bobby says, drawing deep on the cigarette. Thick Bronx accent, he’s got. “Who’s your friend?”

  “This is Rena.”

  Rena waves.

  “That your Impala out there?” Bobby asks.

  “Sort of,” Rena says.

  Bobby stubs out the cigarette on the counter. “Sounds like there’s an interesting story behind that sort of.” He reaches into his pants pocket and takes out a small gun.

  Rena’s chest clenches up.

  “Dug around a little and found your piece,” Bobby says. He tries to spin it on his finger and fumbles it onto the counter.

  “I don’t have any bullets for that,” Wolfstein says.

  He picks it up, aims it at his head, and pulls the trigger on an empty chamber. “Well, shit,” he says, and tosses the purse gun in the general direction of the garbage can, missing wide. He reaches back into his pocket and takes out an envelope. “Also found this on top of the fridge,” he says, pulling a folded piece of paper out of the envelope. “Letter from a pal of yours named Mo where she talks about your marks down in Florida. ‘That one, Bobby,’ she writes, ‘he was a sad case, and I almost feel sorry for him.’ I mean, I came to know all of that elsewhere, but it still hurts to see it laid out like this, Lacey.” He stuffs the letter back in the envelope and tosses it on the counter.

  “Bobby, get it together,” Wolfstein says.

  Now Bobby’s leaning over on his stool, digging around down near his ankle. Rena sees that he’s wearing an ankle holster and he’s unfastening another palm-size gun, this one pearl-handled. He brings it up and presses it to his temple. “Guess I’ll have to use this instead of yours.”

  “Come on,” Wolfstein says, hands raised. “Don’t do this. Don’t be dumb.”

  “You broke my heart,” Bobby says, and he starts bawling.

  “Bobby, stop. I’ll give you your money back. That’s what this is really about, right?”

  “It’s not just about the money!” Bobby says. And then he takes the gun away from his head and aims it at Wolfstein.

  RICHIE

  BACK IN BENSONHURST

  Caccio’s Social Club is on Eighteenth Avenue and Seventy-Eighth Street. Richie walks in. It’s been a while since he’s been here, but it was a regular haunt in his days with Vic. Since Sonny got bumped up and spends so much of his time hulking at a table in the far corner, Richie comes less often. Kaplan is behind the bar, working the gleaming espresso machine. The same tattered tinsel shimmers on the walls. A framed and signed picture of Joe DiMaggio is propped over the register. Five card tables are set up with folding chairs. Richie’s left the MAC-10 he got off Freddie Touch in Williamsburg in the trunk of his Caddy, the silencer on it made special by Wheelchair Jim Strazella. Richie’s thought through this plan. He can see how it all might backfire, but he’s not prepared for it to. He just wishes Crea was set to be here.

  Ice House Johnny and Nick Minervino are sitting at a table in the corner, a sleek black briefcase on the floor between their feet. No sign of Sonny in the joint.

  Richie greets Kaplan.

  “Been a while,” Kaplan says.

  Kaplan: the guy’s gotta be forty-five, but he looks sixty-five. Richie trusts him. Whatever happens here, Richie knows Kaplan will keep it close to his vest. He’s fireproof. Vic always used to say, “Kaplan’s got his priorities straight.” Richie likes that he’s not making a big scene, that he’s acting like it’s still routine for Richie to be there, knowing likely that the air is cold between him and Sonny. He’s heard the rumblings all these years, Sonny and Crea with everything to gain from Little Sal’s move on Vic.

  “Do me a favor,” Richie says, picking up a toothpick from the dispenser on the bar and playing it between his fingers.

  “Anything,” Kaplan says.

  Richie leans in. “Leave the back door open for me in a bit.”

  Kaplan nods. He seems to know what this means.

  Richie goes over to the table. Johnny stands first. Richie kisses him. Nick’s next. As soon as he pulls back, Nick says, “Fuck you doing here, Richie?”

  “Been a while, that’s how you greet me?” Richie says.

  “Nice day, huh?” Nick smiles. “Good weather. You see the new Vietnamese joint they put in where DiBella’s Bakery was?”

  “How’s Crea?” Richie asks.

  “Crea’s Crea. You know Sonny’s on his way, I take it?”

  “I know everything.”

  “And you’re feeling, what, excluded?”

  Kaplan brings over three espressos with lemon for the rim and sugar cubes. That’s what they have. You don’t like it, you fuck off. One time, Richie was in here with Jackie Epifanio’s son, and the fucking guy orders decaf and asks for cream. You would’ve thought the guy sniffed someone’s daughter’s underpants, the shit they gave him. They threw him out in the rain like garbage. Jackie was there, too. He was all for it. “Little sissy with his decaf,” Richie remembers Jackie saying. “I’m sorry for that, fellas. Kid’s gotta learn. Thank you.” He thanked them. Unbelievable.

  Richie rubs the rim of his cup with lemon and gives Kaplan a high sign.

  “You looking to make waves here?” Nick asks him.

  Richie settles back onto his chair, puffs out his cheeks, looks up at the wood plank ceiling. “What am I looking for? That’s a good question.”

  “Just tell me if I’m gonna have trouble or not. I’m not feeling very enthusiastic about life today, you know? My daughter’s got mono, you believe that? All the shit I do for her, she goes and gets mono. That’s from kissing, right? I mean, who the fuck is she kissing so much, that’s what I’d like to know.”

  Ice House Johnny interjects: “I don’t know, Nick. Tragic.”

  “Mono’s not tragic, you chooch,” Nick says to Johnny. “Take it easy. I just want to know if she’s whoring around. Thirteen years old, she is. I thought I had a little more time. I just got her a new bike last year. You go that fast from bikes to making time?”

  “Thirteen’s not that young nowadays,” Johnny says.

  “Listen to fucking Yogi Berra over here.” Nick laughs, sips his espresso. “I can always count on Johnny to cheer me up. That’s one of the powers of someone with limited capacities.”

  “You’re making fun of me,” Johnny says.

  “He’s making fun of you,
” Richie says.

  “It occurs to me, Richie,” Nick says, “that maybe you’re the wrong person to talk to about this. Didn’t you start up with Adrienne when she was, like, in eighth grade? Vic, God bless him, I’m glad he never knew. How is she? You still see her?”

  “Don’t talk to me about Adrienne, okay?” Richie says.

  “Touched a nerve, I’m sorry.” Nick’s fingers curl up like a goddamn limey as he tilts back the espresso cup again.

  Sonny Brancaccio enters the club. Three hundred pounds. Short getting shorter, it seems. Sweating. His oversize suit jacket is draped halfway down his thigh, yellow tie undone around his neck. Wiping his bald head with a handkerchief. Big rings on his fat fingers. The peppery splatter of moles on his neck. Knotty lump of scar tissue on his earlobe where Mad Dog Rizzo took a bite out of him back in ’88. Ralphie Baruncelli and Chazz Caruso are at Sonny’s side, both lumbering oafs.

  Kaplan gets Sonny’s special red chair and pulls it up to the table next to Richie. Nick and Johnny stand and kiss him. Richie kisses him. Ralphie and Chazz get kisses, too. Everyone settles down after all the kissing.

  “Richie, now why the fuck are you here?” Sonny asks. “I didn’t say for you to be here. I didn’t say squat to you about this meeting, far as I remember.”

  “You didn’t, no,” Richie says.

  “To what do we owe the honor of your presence, then?”

  “I’m tired, Sonny.”

  “You’re tired, go take a nap, huh?”

  Everyone erupts into laughter.

  “This guy’s tired,” Sonny says, taking out his wallet and holding up a hundred-dollar bill. “Ralphie, Chazz, go across the street to the dollar store and buy Richie a pillow and one of them little sleep masks, how about that? Then we’ll set him up on a pallet in the back, so he can get some beauty sleep.”

  More laughter.

  Sonny withdraws the hundred and stuffs it into his jacket pocket.