Gravesend

by Boyle, William

  No way.

  Eugene had seen movies. He knew you did what you had to do to avoid that kind of shit. Took up with skinheads. Whatever. He knew if you were strong enough you could steer clear of trouble.

  It had to be something else.

  He lifted the weights and then threw them down, not getting the bounce he’d hoped for. They sparked against the cement, seeming almost like they’d bust through to dirt. He was happy his Uncle Ray Boy was home.

  Five

  Alessandra was buzzing, anxious to do something, anything, that didn’t involve just sitting in the living room with her old man. They were smoking together. The barrier down now. Just smoking out the house with nothing else to do, the walls already getting that yellowy look. Alessandra was stressed, really feeling the smallness of the neighborhood after running into Conway at church, almost feeling like she conjured him with the visit to Duncan’s grave.

  “What’re your plans for the day?” her father said, picking a piece of tobacco from the corner of his mouth.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Tomorrow I’m for sure going to the city.” Thought about it. “I always hated Sundays. That Sunday feeling, you know.”

  “Hated Sundays?”

  “Just bleak or something.”

  “The Lord’s Day.”

  Alessandra didn’t want to talk to her father about God. She didn’t want to tell him what she really believed about the whole magic show, so she changed the subject. “Aunt Cecilia coming over?”

  “Maybe,” her father said. “She’s got a confirmation.”

  Alessandra wasn’t sure where to go next with the conversation, what else to talk about with her old man. The tank was empty. Weather, stories from the Daily News, the Yanks—the reserves used up.

  They sat in silence for about twenty minutes, Alessandra clicking her nails against the can she was ashing in.

  “Time is it?” she finally said, wondering if it was too early to go to the bar.

  Her old man looked at his watch. It was like he was trying to make sense of the hands and numbers. Like he’d never looked at the thing before. Never been asked the time.

  Alessandra thought, Fuck it, I’m going to the bar.

  She stood up, putting her cigarette out in the can on the coffee table, ashes sloshing around in flat soda, letting off a sharp, sour stink.

  “It’s a little after three,” her father said.

  “Thanks, Daddy, I’m going out for a little while. Couple of hours at the most.” Dreaming of a Tom Collins, an Old-Fashioned, a gimlet. Remembering all the great cocktail bars in L.A. and what she’d get there. Best she could hope for at The Wrong Number was a Bloody Mary with well vodka, probably made with some shitballs mix.

  Back at the vanity upstairs, she went into doll-up mode. She was hoping to make an impression. She wanted to hear, Alessandra Biagini, the actress?

  She rang up dorky Stephanie, who was as good as it got. The girl was a sweetheart anyway. She was excited to go out again. Alessandra said she’d meet her on the corner. She didn’t want to deal with Mrs. Dirello in her kill-me-please housecoat and slippers again.

  After hanging up, she just stared at herself, feeling like she’d run her life far off the rails and wondering if she should just wallow in the mess at the bottom of things. Drink every day at The Wrong Number. Say to hell with work. Become one of these neighborhood ghosts, old alkies in wrinkled black clothes that just skeleton around on feet like broken shopping cart wheels. When it got real bad, she could just dig in trash bins for bottles like the old Chinese, haul them down to Waldbaum’s for drinking money, live in this house until her father died and they took it away from her and then she could go to a home, the one over on Cropsey, where she’d wear Salvation Army clothes and lose her hair and teeth in the sink. An actress? Forget it. Once maybe, in another city, another time. Just wispy bones and yellowing skin now. The old boozer that kids throw rocks at for kicks.

  Stephanie was waiting on the corner, an embarrassing rainbow shoulder bag—probably got it up on Eighty-Sixth Street at Deal$—slung over her back. Lipstick on her teeth. “It’s early for a drink, huh?” she said.

  “Sunday,” Alessandra said. “Standard rules don’t apply.”

  “Well, it’s good to see you again.” Stephanie went in for an awkward hug.

  Alessandra pulled away and patted her on the back. “Okay, sweetie.”

  “Maybe we can go to a movie one day?”

  “Maybe, sure.”

  They walked to The Wrong Number, the weather cold but not brutal for September, and Stephanie stayed close to Alessandra, almost tripping her up once.

  Teemo was tending bar again. Disgusting. Greased up. Shiny little diamond earrings punched into both lobes. Wearing a skintight Nautica T-shirt, a gold medal on a thick gold chain hanging out across his chest.

  Alessandra stood at the bar and ordered a Bloody Mary.

  Teemo flexed his pecs under his shirt, made them dance a little. “Bloody Mary, what’s that?” he said.

  “You don’t know what a Bloody Mary is?” Alessandra said.

  “Maybe you know too much, hon.”

  Hon. She shook her head. “You’ve been tending bar how long?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Give me a gin-and-tonic.” She turned to Stephanie. “Ginger ale?”

  “I’ll get the same as you,” Stephanie said. “Live dangerously.”

  Alessandra smiled. “Two,” she said, and she watched Teemo make the drinks. He poured the gin with a weak hand and went too heavy on the tonic. He forgot to put limes in.

  He set them on coasters in front of Alessandra and took way too long to calculate a total. “Six bucks,” he said.

  Alessandra paid for it with a ten. Didn’t tip when she got the change. “Could we please please get some limes?” she said.

  He pawed out a couple of lime wedges from the tray over the sink and handed them to Alessandra on a cocktail napkin. “Anything else, princess?”

  Alessandra took the limes and drinks and ignored Teemo. She led Stephanie to the same table they’d been at the night before. Sitting down, she said, “Can’t believe they let him serve here. Doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing.”

  “I know,” Stephanie said, leaning close.

  “We’ve got to find another bar.”

  “Exactly.” She paused and looked around. “So, how was day two?”

  “Dull. I don’t know. It’s hard. I feel sorry for my father, but it’s really hard.”

  Stephanie nodded.

  “Your mom knows you’re out?” Alessandra said.

  A laugh caught in Stephanie’s throat. She lifted the gin-and-tonic and took a baby sip. “Kind of,” she said. “I lied. She didn’t want me to go out with you.”

  “How old are you?”

  “No, I know. It’s embarrassing. But it’s the way it is.”

  “You need to get out from under that, Steph. You can’t live your whole life that way.”

  Something about Alessandra calling Stephanie “Steph” made her face light up. “No, I know, it’s crazy, fucking crazy,” like she’d never said the word, “but it’s so good to have you here, you know. I’ve never really had to think about this stuff. Life’s pretty quiet. I go to work, I go home, my mother doesn’t say boo.”

  “I’m just saying. Don’t let it get out of hand. Her controlling you. Trying. That’s bad shit.”

  “I know. It’s over. Maybe I’ll get my own place.” She stopped. “Hey, maybe we can—”

  Alessandra realized what light bulb had just gone off in Stephanie’s mind and wanted to put a kibosh on it fast. “No, well, I . . . I don’t think, I’m just not sure.”

  “I’m saying maybe we can be roomies. Find our own place. In the neighborhood. Wherever. We could get cable, a futon, have little dinner parties.”

  Alessandra said, “Maybe. We’ll see.”

  “It’d be so fun. I’m gonna start looking.”

  “I’m not sure
, Steph. I was thinking Manhattan. A studio.”

  “Manhattan’s so expensive. Maybe Williamsburg? Everyone lives in Williamsburg now. It’ll be fun. We’ll live near a market. I’ll make dinner every night. Broccoli rabe and chicken cutlets. Pasta with my mom’s gravy. I’m a good cook, you’ll see.” Stephanie put out her drink to cheers Alessandra.

  Alessandra realized what she was hooking herself into but said fuck it. The gin was taking hold a little and Stephanie was sweet. She was Alessandra’s only friend at home. Whatever. She tapped her glass against Stephanie’s. Anything was better than being cooped up with her old man.

  Alessandra, Steph, Teemo, and a couple of old barflies back by the pinball machine were the only people in the bar, so when the door got pushed open they all looked up. Five guys came in. Four of them were dressed like Teemo. The other one looked ragged in old jeans and a torn hoodie.

  Teemo came out from behind the bar and just stood in front of the guy who wasn’t dressed like him. “Holy shit,” Teemo said.

  Stephanie leaned across the table and said, “You know who that is, right?”

  Alessandra looked again. She saw something in his face she remembered, but the guy was muscled up and looked half-homeless in those ratty clothes. “Can’t be,” she said.

  The guy wasn’t smiling. Just standing there in front of Teemo.

  “Ray Boy Calabrese,” Stephanie said. “In the flesh. The guy next to him, with the goatee, that’s Andy Tighe.” Stephanie wagged her finger on the sly. “And that’s Bruno Amonte, Iggy Lavignani, and Ernie DiPaola.”

  Teemo looked like he was about to melt down. He bear hugged Ray Boy. “Fucking dude,” he said. “It’s good to see you.”

  Ray Boy wasn’t hugging back.

  The guy Stephanie had pointed out as Andy Tighe stepped into a three-way hug with Ray Boy and Teemo. Alessandra remembered Andy now. How could she forget with those thin sideburns and that sculpted goatee. Fatter now. Puckery nipples visible through his pink Nike shirt. Love handles that pressed against the tightness of the shirt. But he still had those watery blue eyes and that tiny mouth.

  “This fuck didn’t want to come out,” Andy Tighe said to Teemo. “I hear from his aunt he’s home, I’m like what the fuck, you kidding me? This guy’s home, home, back in the neighborhood, and we ain’t his first call? I went over there and dragged him out.” He put a hand on Ray Boy’s shoulder and Ray Boy seemed to shrink at his touch.

  “I’m not back for good,” Ray Boy said. “Just a few days.”

  “Still,” Andy Tighe said.

  Teemo let go and Ray Boy backed out of the hug. “It’s good to see you, man,” Teemo said. “It’s really good.”

  Ray Boy nodded.

  “What do you want to drink?”

  “Nothing, thanks.”

  “Off the sauce, huh?”

  “Long time without it.”

  “Then take a seat.”

  Ray Boy sat at the bar. Every move he made said he didn’t want to be there. Andy, Bruno, Iggy, and Ernie pulled up on stools next to him. Teemo went back behind the bar and started pouring screwdrivers. These guys, this crew, drinking screwdrivers like a bunch of old bags at brunch. Not proper cocktails, not even beer. Alessandra was floored.

  Alessandra and Stephanie just kept staring. The Ray Boy Alessandra remembered was in there somewhere. But he was hardened. Older. He was dressed like a bum but his body hadn’t gone to shit like the other guys. No Sunday dinners in jail, she figured. Probably nothing to do but pump weights and play hoops, dream of fresh mozzarella and warm semolina bread.

  She remembered one time, in high school, just staring at him as he sat on the hood of his car outside Kearney in his mechanic’s jacket, talking to Mary Parente and Jenny Hughes. He was playing with them. Grabbing at them and untucking their blouses. She wanted to be somebody he wanted the way he wanted Mary and Jenny and the rest of the hot juniors and seniors. What she remembered most about Ray Boy was his confidence, the way he sat on the hood of his car like nothing could take him down. He was one of those guys that just exuded don’t-fuck-with-me charm. The world bowed down to him. Mothers cooked for him. Girls spread their legs. His car never broke down. He always had a perfect haircut, smokes, guido cologne that somehow wasn’t too overpowering. Looked something like a young Ray Liotta with a dash of DeNiro mixed in.

  Teemo, Andy Tighe, and the other guys huddled around Ray Boy and caught up. They were talking loud, about jail mostly. Ray Boy wasn’t doing any of the talking. Teemo said if that little fag hadn’t run out into traffic they would have had their twenties to go wild. Ray Boy seemed to tense up. He said, “Shut up about that.”

  “You’re gonna say that homo didn’t ruin our lives?” Teemo said.

  Ray Boy stood up and walked out of the bar.

  Alessandra sucked down the rest of her drink. “Let’s go,” she said. “Now.” She tugged Stephanie out of the booth and they headed for the door. Alessandra heard Teemo grumbling under his breath about Ray Boy but didn’t really understand what he was saying.

  Outside, she looked around for Ray Boy and saw him walking away up the block, his hoodie pulled over his head.

  “What’re we doing?” Stephanie said.

  “I don’t know,” Alessandra said. She took out a cigarette her father had rolled for her and lit it. What was that they’d witnessed? Regret? He was so different than his old crew. “Shit, I don’t know.”

  Back home, after dropping off Stephanie at the corner by her house, Alessandra was in bed in the dark. She thought about Ray Boy in high school, just the way he looked, and slipped her hand into the waistband of her underwear. But then the thought creeped her out. Duncan’s face popped up. Then the phrase hate crime. That killed the buzz between her legs.

  She got up and went downstairs. It wasn’t even six yet. She turned on the TV. News. Nothing.

  Her old man was in the kitchen. He was smoking and playing solitaire. Nipping at the wine that was left. “I’m going for a walk,” Alessandra said. “Mind if I bum some smokes?”

  He withdrew four already-rolled cigarettes from his pouch and handed them to her. “Be careful,” he said. “Lot of crazies out there.”

  She patted him on the shoulder.

  She took a scarf out of the cubby by the front door, one that must’ve belonged to her mother, and put on her warmer coat, vintage taupe with brown piping and great seaming detail. She’d gotten it on Etsy from some seller in Pasadena before heading home. This was perfect weather to wear it.

  The house where Ray Boy grew up was only a few blocks away. Alessandra thought there was no harm in passing by.

  She walked under the El to get there and then cut across the street as she got closer, recognizing the green two-family frame house. Pine tree in the yard. Rotting front porch. Hadn’t changed all that much. No sign of Ray Boy. She half-hoped to see him sitting out on the front porch, smoking. The porch was empty, full of overturned chairs and dead plants.

  Figuring she’d check out his sister’s house next, just a block over, Alessandra turned the corner. The Laundromat she remembered being there was closed down, turned into some kind of sketchy-looking bargain bakery.

  Ray Boy’s sister’s house was an ugly place with a big concrete lion at the foot of the driveway and a tacky fountain in the front yard next to a Mary statue with a chipped-off nose. Alessandra scanned the windows for some sign of him.

  Maybe he was just out walking like her.

  It was dark out, and Alessandra wasn’t used to just walking around anymore. She never did shit like that in L.A.

  She took a right on Bath Avenue, thinking she’d go down to the water. She used to watch her old man fish down there, casting out into the bay with a bucket of bait at his side, drinking cans of Schlitz. On the promenade that ran from Ceasar’s Bay Bazaar to the Sixty-Ninth Street Pier under the Verrazano they’d stake out different spots and she’d sit on graffitied benches and watch him. She’d also count rats. Sometimes she’d look over the rai
ling at the rocks and see dead rats. She wouldn’t count those but she’d be fascinated by their guts and their squashed eyes. She’d watch boats pass under the Verrazano, afraid they wouldn’t fit.

  She passed the tennis courts where she took lessons as a girl. Not really lessons. It was a summer tennis camp, and she never really learned how to play. Wound up drinking forties and smoking cigarettes with the instructors instead. She hooked up with a boy, Dominic D’Amato, at that camp. And she came to the conclusion that tennis was for Southerners and Europeans.

  Walking in the dark didn’t seem safe. She passed a Wendy’s with some kids huddled outside and thought this was the scene in the movie where the stupid lonely girl gets jumped, knifed across the throat. God forbid. What was she trying to catch up with Ray Boy for anyway? Guy made her sick on so many levels. But he still had those sharp good looks despite the sorry clothes and she kept thinking there was something about the way he was back there at The Wrong Number. She ran into him, what was she going to say? You rehabilitated? Wanna come back to my place?

  All that was really going on here was she needed to get laid. It’d been too long. Three months since Mindy. Four since Minor. If she could just let loose, maybe she could settle down for a few days. But Ray Boy Calabrese?

  When she saw Ray Boy sitting on a bench at the far end of the tennis courts, smoking, she couldn’t believe it. Just her luck to actually find him. Now she had to decide whether or not she was really going to talk to this ex-con, this murderer, this homophobe.

  She passed in front of Ray Boy and looked at him, huddled, hood still up, drawing in deep on his cigarette. He noticed her. Didn’t say anything.

  “You’re Ray Boy?” she said.

  Still didn’t say anything. Just sat there, smoking his cigarette down to the filter and then tossing it off in the direction of the courts. Tired. Broken.

  “I’m Alessandra,” she said. She was nervous like she was back in the Kearney days, trying to say something to too-cool-for-her Ray Boy, back before she had a body, anything, back when she sweated Mary Parente. The way Mary wore her tights, her skirts, buttons open on her blouse, the way she talked, chewed gum, smoked cigs, hummed against Ray Boy’s neck with her tongue—Alessandra wanted to be her. Feeling like that kid again, even for a second, made her want to puke. “Forget it, I’m sorry.”