Before My Life Began

by Jay Neugeboren

  I looked up again. Two blocks away birds swirled lazily, drifting downwards on warm currents of air, settling into the tower of Holy Cross Church, into the dark vaulted space next to the clock. Twenty past four.

  Gail’s hand was on my shoulder. I controlled the impulse to shrug it off. “I’ll be okay,” I said. “Don’t worry about me so much, all right? And don’t tell me again that I’m not my father.”

  “Do you want to hear the craziest thing, though?” my mother said. “The craziest thing is this call I had from Mr. Rothenberg the other day, inviting me to come out and have tea with him on his estate one day. So what do you make of it?”

  “I make nothing of it,” Lillian said. She had a small mirror propped up on the edge of the roof and was putting on makeup, painting her eyelids silver-blue. “In fact, I’d make believe it never happened because all he is, if you ask me, is an old man with most of his marbles gone. Including the ones in his pants. I hear they got him in a wheelchair with a big black guy who does everything for him. And I mean everything.”

  “What I said to Sam, see, was that if the only thing I cared about in this life was money, then all I’d have to do was to be nice to Mr. Rothenberg the way a woman still knows how. But I told Sam that I just happen to be the kind of girl who’s not like that. Only listen, Davey. He told me he’d been dreaming about snow. Can you believe it? He talked about how his dreams were full of clean snow and in the middle of the snow was my mother in a black sable coat. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever known, he said, and—get this—before he died, since he couldn’t see her face again and since he had no pictures, he wondered if I could visit him. He said he remembered how much we resembled one another. So what should I do?”

  The roof door swung open. Lillian put a finger to her lips, in warning. Sheila tried to kiss Vincent, to put her arms around his neck. Vincent pushed her aside, grinned, came toward me, his hand extended. Light flashed from a dark tiger’s-eye pinky ring. “Hey Davey, how you been? How’s tricks? I just saw you up on the roof, did you know that?” He laughed, told Sheila that it was too hot for smooching. He wore canary yellow slacks, a navy-blue sport shirt open at the neck, a gold medallion hanging there on a heavy chain. He was about five-foot-six, Sheila’s height—stocky and broad, with a football player’s build, perfect for what coaches called a watch-charm guard. He stopped a few feet from me, feet spread, saw that I was not going to shake his hand. “I hear good things about you, Davey. I hear you and your beautiful wife is expecting.” He turned to the others, moved his hand to his head. He was balding. I figured him to be eight to ten years older than me, pushing thirty. “Gonna make one beautiful kid, two good-looking parents like this, don’t you think, ladies? All that dark hair, right?”

  He put an arm around Lillian, asked if she could talk her husband into coming to the wedding, then laughed when Lillian and Sheila started arguing with each other about whether or not it was a free country, about who would have to live with Abe afterwards.

  “Hey hey hey,” Vincent said, one arm around each of them. “Calm down—just calm down, ladies. Let’s not get all excited for nothing. Piano piano, right Davey?”

  I stared right through him. Vincent D’Agostino owed Abe over twelve thousand dollars in gambling debts. Vincent D’Agostino was a punk, a born loser, an Italian butterfly—even his own kind didn’t want him, Abe said. Still, we had to be wary. If Vincent got too deep in debt, or—worse still—if he got so deep in debt that he had nothing left to lose, he would do whatever he had to in order to stay alive. Abe did not believe for a second that Vincent was making a move on Sheila merely so that Abe would erase his debts. Things were rarely that simple. Abe believed that they were trying to set him up. Why had Vincent come to us with his bets in the first place? Why had Benny taken the bets when Vincent was not in our territory? Our family life should have taught us that, at least, Abe said to me—that sometimes when people agreed to marriage, what they really wanted was war and death.

  Vincent put a hand on my arm.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  “Ah come on, Davey—don’t be so goddamned sensitive. What do you think I am, some kind of faggot?” He laughed. “Hey listen, ladies, speaking of faggots, did you hear the one about the guy who gets in bed with his wife on their wedding night and just before they’re about to you-know-what, he says to her that he got this confession to make, see, that he used to be a homo when he was younger.” He paused, for effect. “So the poor girl, see, she didn’t know which way to turn—” Sheila laughed. Vincent followed me, whispered: “Did it ever hurt a guy to listen? You got nothing to lose, believe me.” He turned to the others. “Hey—I got a terrific idea. How about we all go out to eat at the Chink’s. My treat.”

  “With whose money?” I asked.

  “Ah come on, Davey,” he said, and I was angry at once for having spoken. “I told Little Benny this morning—I’m gonna take care of all that in the next ten days. Cross my heart.”

  Gail touched my hand. “I don’t feel well,” she said. “Can we go? I’d like to lie down.”

  Before I knew it, my mother was helping Gail across the roof, telling me to get the umbrella and ice chest. Vincent pulled the umbrella from its socket, pressed down on the struts. I bent over, picked up the ice chest. The women were gone.

  “Look—I know what’s on your mind, Davey,” Vincent said. “Only think of it this way: if I married your cousin and if Abe gave his blessing it would be like in the olden days, right? The way kings and queens used to make deals with their countries by marrying their children off to each other. It stopped a lot of wars that didn’t have to be.”

  “Save it.”

  “You want me to spell it out for you? Okay then, I’ll spell it out for you. You want me to say what we both know anyway, but without words? Okay. I’ll do that too.” His voice was hard in a way that surprised me. “Listen hey—you think I like being in the middle of all this? Not on your life. All I know is what they tell me, and what they tell me is that they got nothing against you. Absolutely nothing and you should know that. They don’t really got nothing against your uncle either. All they want is peace, do you follow? All they want is for him to listen to reason. Only, like you know, your uncle can be a very stubborn guy. Him and Rothenberg.”

  I watched the words pouring from his mouth and tried to do what Abe had taught me to do, to imagine him as he’d been when he was a kid. Vincent talked about his debt, about being on the level with Sheila, about territory and borders. Everything could be straightened out easily enough if only people were willing to sit down and talk things out reasonably. That was the message. They wanted to be generous to my uncle. They liked the fact that there had been peace between our organizations for so many years now. They wanted to keep that peace. They respected my uncle. They wanted his goodwill. He was a good businessman, a fine organizer.

  Vincent was jiggling coins from hand to hand. I thought of the metal slugs Tony and I had used, the change that poured from the vending machines. Vincent slipped the coins into his side pocket, told me that all they wanted was to keep things clean and legitimate—maybe to consolidate a bit—but that if my uncle wouldn’t talk with them, they would be very interested in talking with me because they figured that I was his heir, right?

  I had him against the wall before he could take his hand from his pocket, my knee wedged hard against his crotch to keep him from moving, my fist at his throat, yanking up on his gold chain. His eyes rolled. I smelled whiskey and after-shave lotion. I pulled him toward me as if to smash him backwards, to crack his head against the bricks that housed the staircase. He was whimpering, begging me not to hurt him, and I was seeing a small, fat, dark-haired boy sitting at a kitchen table, picking his nose. His older brothers were laughing at him. His mother served him soup, rapped him on the side of the head with the ladle, warned him that the next time she caught him with his finger in his nose she’d break his head.

  Vincent kept begging me not to hurt him. If
I spoke I knew that the only sound that would come from my mouth would be air, like the sound from a leaking tire. I shoved him against the wall again, then let go. He bent over, his face in his hands, tried to catch his breath. He looked up at me slowly and smiled. He had stopped whimpering. His eyes showed no fear. Why not? I stared at the hole in his face—at his mouth—and I remembered Little Benny sitting on my uncle’s desk, telling the guys about someone who had once tried to welch on a bet, who had asked if Benny wanted him to suck his cock. Benny had shoved the barrel of his gun into the guy’s mouth. “This is my cock,” he said, and he’d pulled the trigger.

  Had he been bragging? Was he trying to impress me? To scare me? Vincent brushed the back of his hair down with his hand.

  “But I delivered the message, right? You’re my witness. You got the message.”

  Sheila was screaming at Vincent to hurry. I moved toward him, but he held up a hand, cautioned me to come no closer. “Here. I want to show you something first, okay? Let me show you something else.”

  He reached down, lifted his cuff as if to straighten his socks, and then a small black pistol was in his hand, aimed at my chest. “You’d be surprised at my speed,” he said, and before I could react, the gun was gone, and he was holding the beach umbrella in his hand. He walked toward the staircase, opened the roof door, turned back to me. “No kidding, Davey—like I said, I got nothing against you. In fact, I been trying to talk Mr. Fasalino into waiting on things till after your kid comes. I mean, you know how we Wops are—what suckers we are for women and kids.” I said nothing. “You ask your old pal Tony. A smart guy like you ain’t cut out for this kind of stuff, which is why you should take my advice and go have a talk with them, private, or you should talk your uncle into one. Believe me, they ain’t playing potsie.” He started down the stairs.

  I didn’t move. I wanted to tear his tongue from his mouth, to jam it onto an iron stake.

  “I could have done something real bad to you, kid, like I hope you realize, but I figure you’re under a lot of stress, right? I mean with your uncle’s troubles and the baby coming, and who likes the fucking city in August? I’ll tell you something else though—with me and Sheila, it’s the real thing, just like with you and Gail.”

  “Vin-cent!” Sheila screamed.

  “Times are changing, Davey.” He mopped his forehead and neck with a handkerchief. “Who needs this lousy heat, but maybe the sun is better for some people than others. Your uncle, he should consider going someplace like California or Arizona, where he can have sunshine all year round. That’s what you’re supposed to tell him. He should come and talk with my family and then he should take a long voyage and live a happy life.”

  “Vincent!”

  “I’m coming, I’m coming,” he called. He winked at me. “Women! Who ain’t a sucker for a beautiful face, right?” He picked up the umbrella and the towels. “But she got a good heart, Sheila. When we’re alone, just the two of us—I mean, you’d be surprised….” He gave me a quick glance, his eyes watering. “No hard feelings, okay, Davey?”

  Gail was asleep on the living room couch, her hands straight at her sides, an electric fan set on a chair, directed at her face. The room was dark, the Venetian blinds drawn. My mother took my hand, led me toward my bedroom, told me that she loved Gail as if Gail were her own daughter. She put a finger to her lips.

  “Shh. Come. You come with me first, so you can see the surprise I got waiting for you in your old room. And Davey?”

  “Yes.”

  “I been scared to do this and all I ask is that you promise me first not to tell Abe, okay?” She held her hand in front of her. “See how I’m shaking, an old woman like me? Would you promise me that—that you’ll let me tell Abe when I’m ready?”

  “I promise.”

  She opened the door and the cold air rushed at me, as if a wall of it had given way. “Sam got it for me because of the heat wave.”

  I entered the room. At the far end, between the two windows, a man was sitting in a wooden chair, his back to us, his head tilted so that the air conditioner blew on his face. The door closed. Nothing was the same. Everything, except for the mirror, had been rearranged. Where were my books and magazines? My desk? My mother spoke into the man’s ear.

  “Poppa, listen—it’s me, Evie. I got Davey here. He wants to see you. Come—”

  She helped him to turn so that I could see his face. I stayed where I was, watched motes of dust spin around in the late afternoon sunlight, drift down upon him. Despite the soft white light, his face was all sharp angles. How long had it been since I’d seen him—three years? Four? There were purple crescents under his eyes, like raised scars. There were patches of dark stubble along his cheek and neck and chin. I stared at the shape of his skull, the gray skin stretched over it, stained here and there with brown liver spots, the dome of his head veined with pale-blue threads.

  “He’s been here since last weekend. Nobody knows except Beau Jack, who helped me get Poppa here from New York.” She stopped, as if she wanted to cry. “Tell me I did the right thing, Davey, please? I mean, he’s my own flesh and blood just like you and Abe—”

  Her father looked up. “What?” he asked. “What did you say?”

  She kissed the top of his head, cupped his narrow chin in her hand and lifted his face, pointed him toward me. “I said that Davey is here, Poppa. He came to visit you. You remember Davey, don’t you?”

  He spoke, but I couldn’t understand him. The words gurgled from him as if from a hole in his throat.

  “He thinks I understand Russian.” My mother laughed, nervously. “Sometimes he even thinks I’m Momma. But who knows what we’ll be like when we get to his age, yeah? I mean, think of where he started, of all he’s seen, of the whole life he had that we don’t know nothing about.”

  Her father looked at me and his eyes cleared, his neck straightened. “Davey’s a good boy. I always said so.” He took my hand, pressed a quarter into it. His fingers were cold and bony. “Here. This is from me to you. Now show me your wife.”

  “She’s sleeping, Poppa,” my mother said. “Remember how I told you she’s going to have a baby—her and Davey—so she needs to sleep.”

  “I want to see your wife. Why is she hiding from me? What did I do to her?”

  His eyelids dropped and his chin fell to his chest. Mouth open, he began wheezing.

  “Sometimes he does that. In the middle of anything, he just falls asleep.”

  “Can we eat soon? We promised Gail’s parents we would stop by later.”

  “Listen. I got some nice cold chicken salad I made before you got here, but I wanted you to know that Sam already agreed it’s okay by him if Poppa comes to live with us. Are you surprised? Did I do the right thing? I mean, like you see, he ain’t no trouble really, and I got the extra room now….” She pressed my arm, at the elbow. “You won’t tell Abe? He’ll never come visit me if he finds out, but I got this crazy dream, see—you know me—that maybe if I arrange things right—if I hope enough!—that maybe they can still forgive one another, that maybe they can still remember that they’re a father and a son.”

  “Where are all my things?”

  “Your things?”

  In the mirror I saw the door open. Gail stepped into the room. She closed her eyes, drew the cold air in through her nostrils. “Wonderful!” she said. “Oh my God, but that feels wonderful!”

  “I would have let you in here before, to lie down,” my mother said, “but I felt it was only right to show Davey first.” Gail looked at me, puzzled. “It’s my father. I brought him here to live with me now that you and Davey got your own place.”

  My grandfather lifted his head, put out his hand. “Hello,” he said. “You must be Davey’s wife. Da. Come closer so I can look at you. My eyes aren’t so good anymore.”

  Gail moved to him, let him take her hands.

  “Good,” he said. “Listen. I’m glad you married our Davey. He’s a good boy. You should be happy together f
or many years. I give you my blessing.”

  “Oh Poppa—!”

  “She’s a beautiful woman. I know a beautiful woman when I see one. You’re a lucky boy. Would you give me a kiss?”

  Gail kissed him on the forehead.

  “No.” He took her hand, pointed to his mouth. “The right way. Here.”

  Gail kissed him on the mouth.

  “I’m not sick,” he said. “I’m just old, but I know what’s happening. You’ll come visit me, you and Davey? Good. Don’t be strangers. Family is family.” He took my mother’s hand, kissed it. “This is my best daughter.”

  “You have another daughter?” Gail asked.

  “No.” He smiled. “But she’s my best.”

  His head sagged, his mouth fell open.

  We left. In the kitchen, my mother said that she had taken my things to the bin in the cellar, that I could pick them up when I wanted. I heard footsteps. The bathroom door opened and closed. My mother was telling Gail that if she ever needed to take a water stain out of wood—if somebody left a wet glass on furniture—she should mix ashes with mayonnaise and rub it in, but not in hot weather. She asked if Gail’s friends or family were going to make her a baby shower. Had Gail’s parents mentioned providing her with a layette? She said she had picked up some beautiful hand-knit sweaters at the Muscular Dystrophy Rummage Shop on Nostrand Avenue.

  She left us, came back a few minutes later with a stack of clothing, soft layers of pink and blue and white. She showed us each item, asked what we thought. Did we realize how much these things would cost if she’d bought them new? She banged an ice tray on the kitchen counter. She told us she wasn’t looking for thanks. Abe was right about that. Did I remember what he used to tell people? That if what you wanted in life was gratitude, you should get a dog.

  My grandfather came into the kitchen dressed in a double-breasted blue jacket, a clean white shirt, a maroon tie. He had shaved and there were small pieces of toilet paper stuck to his neck and cheeks. My mother told him how handsome he looked. He sat and told Gail that she looked beautiful. Women always did when they were pregnant, he said. The eyes looked inward, drew men toward them. He spoke in Russian, then translated: If a woman had something in the oven—he patted his stomach—you could know it by the radiant fire in her cheeks, by the silver smoke in her eyes.