Raising Jake

by Charlie Carillo

  He’s not even breathing hard. “All right,” he says. “Tide’s coming in anyway. Another ten minutes and it’ll all be underwater. That’s the last one for you, Jake. Wait for us up there.”

  “Okay, Danny.” Jake takes the driftwood stick and quickly scrapes the stone clean, then hoists it and makes his way toward the hill.

  My father watches him go. “That kid of yours is all right, you know.”

  “I’ve always thought so.”

  “He’s not afraid of work. People either want to work, or they don’t. That’s what it’s all about, in case I never mentioned it to you.”

  “I don’t think you ever did, but better late than never.”

  “What the hell are you gonna do about a job?”

  “I’ll think of something. I’m not afraid of work, either.”

  My father hesitates. “If you need a few bucks—”

  “Dad. That’s not why we came out here today.”

  “I know, but remember I offered.”

  “You’ve been reading my stories, huh?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You mentioned that you read my article yesterday.”

  He swallows. “Yeah, I read the Star. Maybe it’s not the greatest paper in the world, but you made it better than it would have been.”

  I’m shocked by the compliment, or whatever it was he just gave me. It’s the first time he’s ever said anything about my work.

  His face is pink as he turns to go back to the muck. “Two more stones—one for you and one for me, all right?”

  “Sure, Dad. No sense going up there empty-handed.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.” He stops and turns to me. “You know, maybe some o’ me got into you after all.”

  He lugs two more cobblestones to the beach. We clean them and hoist them, and then together we carry them to the car. He struggles to balance the rock against his belly as he works his way up the hill. “Christ, this isn’t easy, is it?”

  “No, Dad, it’s a bitch. Aren’t you glad Jake and I dropped by today?”

  “You have no idea.”

  When we get to the top we see that Jake is leaning against the car, chatting to a big uniformed man in a forest ranger–type hat. Everything he’s wearing, including the hat, is the same shade of shit brown. Jake seems as if he might be concerned, but he doesn’t look frightened. In two days he’s gone from honor student to dropout to juvenile delinquent. Tomorrow being Sunday, maybe I’ll take him to church to rob the poor box.

  “Oh, fuck me upside down,” my father startles me by saying, “what in the hell have we got here?”

  “Calm down, Dad.”

  “All right. I’m calm. But you listen to me. First thing we do is load these stones into the car. They belong to us. This moron doesn’t even exist until all the stones are loaded. Then we’ll talk to him.”

  “Dudley Do-Right might not like being ignored.”

  My father’s nostrils widen like those of a balky horse as he exhales with contempt. “I’m not interested in what he likes,” he says, squaring his shoulders for the final approach to whatever the hell is going to happen next.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  My father sticks to his plan. He breezes right past the man in the hat, pulls the car door open and loads his cobblestone onto the backseat pile. I blindly follow, clacking my cobblestone down next to his. My father turns to the guy as if he’s noticing him for the first time.

  “Well, good afternoon, there!” he booms. He pulls off his muck-soaked gloves, and for a moment it looks as if he’s going to shake hands with the guy. But he doesn’t. He tosses his gloves into the car, pushes back his hair, puts his hands on his hips and faces the guy, almost defiantly. “Something we can do for you?”

  “Are you the owner of this vehicle?” the guy asks, in the maddeningly calm, almost bored tone of someone who knows he’s got the weight of the government behind him. This guy’s got a big, pigeon-shaped body, a butterfat face, and half-dead eyes. He might be thirty, he could be forty, and if he’s got a wife the chances are excellent that she’s thinking of somebody else when he’s on top of her. Then again, he’s probably still living with his parents. If there’s a textbook face for the Mama’s Boy, I’m looking at it.

  His name tag says ORVIETO, and I know right away that we are in a bit of trouble. He’s clearly an Italian who didn’t have the brains for the police department or the balls for the Mafia, so he’s wound up with this ridiculous Parks Department job. He probably patrols the forgotten Queens coastline day after day in search of some violation, any violation, and at last his pathetic prayers have been answered. He’s finally got himself some action. He’s snagged a trio of cobblestone pirates.

  But he’s taking it by the book, a step at a time, beginning with this question about vehicular ownership. My father proudly pats the hood of his station wagon.

  “I am indeed the owner,” he says. “A hundred and eighty thousand miles of faithful service, she’s given me.”

  “There’s no parking allowed here, sir.”

  “I’m sorry. I was not aware of that.”

  “The signs are posted all along the road.”

  “My eyes are not what they used to be.”

  Orvieto hunches down a little to peer inside the car. The mucky, barnacle-encrusted cobblestones make for a bizarre sight. “What are you transporting inside your car, sir?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “At the moment, I’m not transporting anything. I’m standing still, and so is my vehicle.”

  The Irish are known for their love of wordplay, and my father is no exception, but he is picking a terrible time to break balls. Jake purses his lips to keep from laughing out loud, and all I can do is stand there as my father proceeds to make a bad situation even worse.

  Orvieto stands up straight, forces a grin. “All right, I’ll rephrase the question. What have you got inside your car?”

  “That’s better! Cobblestones.”

  “Cobblestones?” Orvieto asks, genuinely surprised.

  “Yes,” my father says. “Some people know them as Belgian blocks.”

  “Where did they come from?”

  “Bounty of the sea!” my father exclaims, pointing toward the beach the way Moses might have pointed toward the Promised Land. “They’ve been buried in the muck and mire of this bay for God only knows how long. I couldn’t bear the waste of it, so I decided to salvage them.”

  “Salvage?”

  “Yes. It means, ‘to save from being wasted,’ or words to that effect.”

  Orvieto stares at my father through cop-narrow eyes. “I know what ‘salvage’ means,” he says evenly. “But what you’re doing isn’t salvaging. What you’re doing is stealing.”

  Now everything’s out on the table. Jake crosses his arms and stares at his feet. My heart is hammering away, but my father has managed to make himself look genuinely aggrieved.

  “Stealing! In all my life, I’ve never stolen so much as a stick of chewing gum!”

  “Well,” says Orvieto, “there’s always a first time.”

  “Exactly who have I stolen from?”

  “The City of New York, sir.”

  My father turns to look at me, as if daring me to tell him I’d told him so, but I say nothing. This is his show, and for now, his son and grandson are merely passengers on this rapid ride to hell.

  “Officer,” my father says to Orvieto, “let’s face it. The city of New York had no earthly idea that these stones were out there, buried at the bottom of an old forgotten pier. The only reason I knew about it is because I’m a lonely old man who prowls these beaches, thinking back to my youthful days in the navy. I served my country, you know. Two hitches in Dubya Dubya Two, and believe me, I was in the thick of it. A Jap submarine sank my ship. Seven hours I bobbed around in that cold, cold sea, staring at the stars, praying the rescue ship’d get there faster than the sharks. Were you in the service, Officer?”

  Orvieto s
ighs, shakes his head. “No, I wasn’t.”

  “Well, it was a different time. People believed in things. And all these years later, I can tell you with my hand over my heart that I still believe.”

  He sweeps his hand toward Flushing Bay, an almost blissful smile on his face. “Know what I believe? I believe the sea was tryin’ to give something back to me. She nearly took my life in the war, so now, all these years later, she’s makin’ it right with the gift of these stones. What do you think?”

  Clearly bored by it all, Orvieto pulls a pad and a pen from his jacket pocket and steps right up to my father. He’s easily half a foot taller, not including the hat. “I think you’re full of shit, old man.”

  My father looks up at Orvieto’s calm, chubby face, which now wears a cruel little smile, a smile that becomes the target for the punch.

  It’s a textbook roundhouse from my old man, and it lands with a shocking crunch on the mouth of Parks Department Officer Orvieto, who collapses as if all his bones have suddenly turned to jelly.

  “Jesus!” Jake exclaims, his eyes as big as baseballs.

  My father stands there, fists poised defensively, as if he expects his opponent to retaliate. But Orvieto does not respond. He is out cold.

  “Call me an old man, will you?” my father murmurs, more to himself than the unconscious man he’s just clocked.

  Orvieto has slid straight down into a seated position, his back against the side of the car. He looks as if he could be taking a yoga class. Amazingly, his hat is still on his head, though now it’s a little crooked.

  He’s absolutely still, and it dawns on me that my father might have killed him, and I’m trying to figure out the potential consequences: a manslaughter rap for my father, five to fifteen, which at his age could be a life sentence, and what about Jake and me? Would we be considered accomplices, just for being there? Or would the jury believe that we were sucked into this cobblestone caper, when all we meant to do was drop in on my dad one Saturday afternoon for the first time since Jake was born?

  It would all depend on how good a lawyer I could hire, and without a job I couldn’t afford the worst Queens Boulevard lawyer in the Yellow Pages, and just as these calamitous thoughts are racing through my mind Orvieto’s eyelids begin to flutter and my heart soars with hope.

  “He’s all right,” my father says, his fists still clenched. “Lucky for him I pulled that punch.”

  I turn to my father and Jake, who stand side by side. I put one hand on my father’s shoulder and the other on Jake’s. It’s like a touch football huddle, and the time has come for me to call the next play. “Dad, please, calm down. Jake, are you all right?”

  “I’m better than that cop,” Jake says.

  My father sneers. “He’s no cop. He’s some bullshit Parks Department flunky whose uncle got him his pathetic ball-breaking job.”

  “Dad, listen to me. When this guy comes around, I’m doing the talking, okay?”

  “Look at him!” my father exclaims. “Some tough guy! No gun! No handcuffs! What’s he gonna do, poke me with his pen?”

  “He’s got a walkie-talkie, Dad, and if he calls for help we’re dead. Okay? So I’m begging you—let me take it from here. Trust me, all right?”

  My father looks me in the eye and hesitates before reaching out and patting my cheek. It’s the first time he’s touched me today, and the first time he’s ever touched me in such a gentle way. When I was growing up we shook hands on birthdays and Christmas, and that was pretty much the extent of our physical contact. Funny that my first-ever portion of paternal affection should come in the midst of a felonious assault that could put my father behind bars. It’s also kind of funny that I’ve got tears in my eyes.

  “All right, kid,” he says softly. “It’s your game now. Get us out of this mess.”

  I take a moment to blink away the tears and focus before turning to squat and face Officer Orvieto, who’s making little groaning noises. He opens his eyes, coughs, clears his throat, and spits a gob of red mucus on the pavement. His lip is swollen, but I don’t think my father broke any bones or loosened any teeth.

  “Are you all right, Officer?”

  He stares at me but says nothing, his tongue probing his wounded lip.

  I reach out and straighten his hat. “Are you aware of everything that’s happened?”

  “I was assaulted.”

  “Okay, good. You remember. That’s a sign that you haven’t been badly hurt.”

  He makes a woozy gesture with his hand. “You’ll all have to come with me, the three o’ youse.”

  “Well, I’d like to talk to you about that. Do you ever read the Star? The New York Star newspaper?”

  He’s puzzled by the question, but he nods. I pull my press card from my back pocket and hold it to his face. “I’m a reporter with the Star. Been there a long time. And believe me, this is the kind of story we really love to tell.”

  Orvieto manages to sit up a little straighter. “What story?”

  “The story of how an eighty-year-old man got into trouble for taking something that nobody even knew was there. A cranky, eccentric old man—a war hero, mind you—picking through the muck at low tide, minding his own business, when suddenly some cop decided to give him a hard time.”

  Orvieto points past me at my father. “He is in the wrong here.”

  “I’m sure he is, if we’re going strictly by the book. That’s why it’s such a good story for my newspaper. It gives the readers a little something to talk about, argue about. Because let’s face it, Officer Orvieto—who in their right mind would think my father has done anything wrong with this little scavenging expedition? Gathering up rocks that nobody even knew were there, rocks that would have stayed buried in the muck until the end of time?”

  Orvieto opens his mouth to speak, but lets it close without saying anything.

  “It wouldn’t be just one story,” I continue. “I could turn this thing into a crusade, especially if you arrest me and my son along with my father. Three generations of one family, disgraced over a bunch of slimy old rocks. And let’s not forget the tale of the tape.”

  Orvieto hesitates before asking, “What the hell is that?”

  “You know, like they do the day before a prize fight. Pictures of you and my dad, side by side. Heights and weights, and all the other vital statistics. You’re what, six-two, maybe two-twenty? My father goes maybe five-seven, one-fifty.”

  “One forty-seven,” my father corrects me. “I’m still a welterweight, same as I was in the navy.”

  “There you go,” I say, not breaking my gaze from Orvieto’s eyes. “You’ve got seven inches and seventy pounds on the guy, not to mention he’s fifty years older than you.” I lean in a little closer before adding, “And he dropped you with one punch.”

  At last, Orvieto gets the picture. His face flushes and he takes a deep breath.

  “See, people love reading about the little guy who triumphs against the odds. What we’ve got here is your classic David and Goliath story, with a lot of funky elements thrown in—a crazy old man and an overzealous cop, waging war over a bunch of rocks from the bottom of a polluted bay.”

  This isn’t like the hustle I pulled on Headmaster Peter Plymouth about the story I was threatening to write. Everything I’m telling this asshole is true. This is a good story, and I’d be delighted to write it up, if I still had a job at the paper.

  I can’t help laughing. “Shit, I haven’t even mentioned what the TV news would do with a story like this. Ever had a TV crew show up at your house, unannounced? They start filming before you even know what the hell’s going on. That’s why almost everybody looks ridiculous on television. Jesus Christ, we could all wind up on Letterman! He could do a Top Ten list about the Cobblestone Caper!”

  I hear Jake and my father chuckle over that, but Orvieto does not. He’s gathered himself sufficiently to rise slowly to his feet, and even allows me to help him up by the elbow.

  “The cobblestone caper,” he
murmurs, shrugging his way out of my grasp. “Very funny.”

  “Well, you know how they like to make fun. My point is that if this story gets out, only one person really gets hurt, and that person is you. So ask yourself—is it worth it?”

  Orvieto stands there returning my stare, volt for volt. He’s a little taller than me, so I’m looking up at him, but I’m really rolling now, and I’m not intimidated. I look left and right and even dare to put a hand on his shoulder before speaking again.

  “Level with me—this is just a temporary job for you, isn’t it?” I say. “I’ll bet you’re trying to join the police department, aren’t you?”

  Bingo. I’ve hit the bull’s-eye. Orvieto swallows. “I’m on the waiting list.”

  “Okay, fair enough. No shame in that. But do you honestly think that New York’s Finest are ever going to call up the guy who was at the heart of the famous Cobblestone Caper?”

  I’ve just played my trump card. Either it’ll work or it won’t. Orvieto pulls on the brim of his hat, dusts the dirt off his ass, and struts slowly all the way around the car, peering inside at the cobblestones. He stops in front of my father, as if considering whether or not to throw a punch, but then I see that his hands are clasped tightly behind his back, as if they’ve been cuffed.

  “What do you have to say to me, old man?”

  Those words again! If my father throws another punch, it’s all over. But he manages to restrain himself. He gazes down at his muddy boots, takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry I lost my temper, Officer.”

  “Look at me when you say it.”

  My father lifts his head and looks right at him, with the eyes of an abandoned puppy. “I’m sorry I lost my temper.”

  “Officer Orvieto.”

  “Officer Or-vi-eto. You’re Italian, aren’t you? I like Italian people. They have a true passion for living. My wife was Italian, rest her sacred soul.”

  Orvieto stares at him for a moment before moving to Jake and eyeing him from feet to face. Then he comes back to me and nudges me aside, so he can reach inside the car.

  He takes out a cobblestone. His hands are so big he can actually clasp it in one hand. He looks at the stone and he looks at my father, and I wonder if Orvieto plans to bash my father’s skull in. But instead, he goes to the busted fence and spitefully shot-puts the cobblestone down the hill, where we dumped all those cement chunks.