Johnny

by Rachel Dunning

  “Oh, Mr. Ramsey—”

  My dad put up a finger. “Let me finish. No sex. There will be no drinking, no drugs, nothing. If her grades slip, the relationship is over. You won’t see each other, talk to each other, nothing! You understand me?”

  Dad was pointing at Johnny’s eyes, his finger aimed at him like a smoking gun.

  Johnny nodded.

  “And none of that other stuff as well. You know what I’m referring to, right?” Dad’s eyes stayed glued to Johnny’s. For a moment Johnny looked away, just a brief moment, then his eyes met dad’s again. Is there more being said here than I know about?

  “Y—yes, sir.”

  We would break the no sex rule a year later. And my grades would be slipping for much longer than that.

  But by then, the rules had changed. Everything had changed.

  It had nothing to do with Johnny. The grades would have slipped anyway.

  But dad never saw it that way.

  Dad wasn’t seeing much of anything in those final days.

  But that would only be a year from now.

  -2-

  Pat (I had since started calling Johnny’s dad “Pat”) went over to the docks twice a week or so. There are four “container terminals” in the Port of New York and New Jersey. A Container Terminal is a dock where they load those big-ass containers with all your made-in-China TVs and stuff in them; and New York / New Jersey has four of them. There are also Cruise Harbors, but those don’t handle containers.

  Pat ran the planning and executive side of the business all from home, but he had guys who dealt with on-the-ground logistics and head-bashing at the actual docks, one for each terminal (Red Hook in Brooklyn, Howland Hook Marine Terminal in Staten Island, and two more in Jersey). He had one main guy (I guess you could call him the VP?) who ran all these other guys under him. The VP stayed in Red Hook, but traveled to all four docks every day.

  “He is single,” Pat told me as he drove me and Johnny down to Red Hook today. “So he can afford to spend his days driving around a traffic-congested city. Me, I like to spend time with my family. Besides, I pay him well to do it.”

  Johnny was in the back seat. I was up front. It was Saturday, and it was the first time I would get a first-hand look at how Johnny spent some of his weekends. His dad had been grooving him into the business ever since Johnny was thirteen.

  Pat was a millionaire several times over, self-made.

  “Why did you move to Long Island, Mr. Abreu—”

  “Pat, Catty.” He smiled warmly at me, his bushy mustache looking exactly like it did when I’d first laid eyes on him ten years earlier.

  “Pat—why Long Island? Why not...the city or...heck...Jersey? Then you’d be able to go to these places without such a long commute.”

  He chuckled, and the whole car seemed to quiver along with his belly. “And not see my family? And spend hours every day looking at Bills of Lading and verifying freight and making sure a hundred men do their jobs? No, I am in charge of one person, he is in charge of four, and each of those four is in charge of anything between five and twenty other men. Those others—we are talking ship captains now—are in charge of the men below them, and so it goes. If something goes wrong, I blame only one guy. If something goes wrong below him, he only has to look at one of four men.”

  “What my dad’s trying to tell you, Cat, is that he doesn’t ‘micro-manage.’” Johnny sounded bored. He’d obviously heard this all before.

  Pat chuckled that Santa chuckle of his. “I suppose you could call it that. But it is only good business sense. Now, as to your question about Long Island, two reasons: Low crime rate. I wanted my family to be safe. And, secondly, I chose there because it takes me an hour to get to the first dock! And one-and-a-half to get to the next one! I wanted it to be difficult for me to go on-the-ground. Anything can go wrong on a ship, loading, unloading, things missing, lots of confusion, lots of noise. It’s easy to...” He looked in the rearview mirror at Johnny.

  “...micro-manage,” Johnny reminded him.

  “Yes, it’s easy to do that. But men need to be given responsibilities. And they need to feel they control some sphere, and that that sphere is theirs. This brings pride in them, and makes them better workers. If I were there all the time, telling them how to do their jobs, telling them how it could be done more smoothly, they would never own their jobs. They would be simply ‘employees.’ I want every man under me to be almost a ‘mini-manager.’ Even the longshoremen. I want them to feel proud of what they do, and I want them to know I respect their decisions. At the end of the day, I just want to know that the ship got in on time, and that the goods were all there and accounted for and undamaged. If ten fights broke out in the meantime, it’s not my business—and it doesn’t affect business.”

  At the end of his explanation, I said, “Wow.”

  “My dad is very philosophical about this stuff, Cat.”

  I blinked a few times. This was pretty deep shit.

  At the docks, the Santa Maria freighter ship had just come in. Burly men with faded tattoos and hairy arms walked around with newsboy caps and cigarettes in their mouths. It reminded me of some of those old photos of shiploads of immigrants landing in New York. I noticed the glint of both respect and fear as some of the men’s eyes landed on Pat. It was as if each man was suddenly galvanized into action at the big boss’s approach.

  A container was coming in on a huge crane and men were shouting as it got positioned. All were dark-skinned—either from sunburn or from heredity.

  Shouts filled the air, along with sounds of moaning cranes and metal skidding across concrete as each container was pushed into place.

  A guy in a light-blue dress shirt and with thick black hair, carrying a clipboard, came over to Pat. He had on no newsboy cap, but a smoke dangled from his lips like all the others. He must have been in his thirties, well-built, professional. He and Pat shook hands and started talking fast Portuguese. The guy looked stressed. Pat was all business now, his eyes flicking from the clipboard to the men unloading goods.

  I struggled to understand the Portuguese. I could speak quite a bit of it by now, all those years at the Abreus’ place had given me a bit more than a pidgin understanding of it. But this guy with the clipboard I couldn’t fathom even in the slightest.

  Johnny stood next to me, his arm around my shoulders. Warm ocean wind flicked at my hair while the slightly unpleasant stench of stale fish accosted my nose. Welcome to Red Hook.

  When Pat and who I assumed was his VP were done, Pat turned to face me and Johnny. He put his arm around the man in the dress shirt and brought him closer.

  “Claudio,” Pat said, “esta é a namorada do meu filho, a Cattehreen.” Pat spoke slowly, so I could understand. He introduced me to this “Claudio” as Johnny’s girlfriend, and then told him my name (“Cattehreen”).

  The only thing is, Portuguese has no actual word for “girlfriend.” And the only other possible words are “friend”...or “lover.”

  Nobody in Portugal ever says “friend.”

  “Prazer,” Claudio said. A pleasure. And he kissed me on both cheeks.

  He then shook Johnny’s hand, and started speaking in that fast manner that I didn’t understand. What I did understand was when Claudio slapped Johnny on the back of the head, and then Johnny laughed and quickly pulled away! Claudio grabbed Johnny’s shirt and I thought Claudio was gonna hit him with his clipboard! For a second, my heart stuck in my throat and I wondered how Pat could let him do this, until Johnny spun around, and kicked Claudio on the calf and then sprinted away! Claudio bent down with a grimace of pain and grabbed his calf. “Ai, foda-se!”

  I knew what that word meant!

  Claudio limped to Pat who watched Johnny running away. Two other men started to chase him now, and Johnny ducked and weaved and—

  “They’re teaching him how to fight,” Pat said to me. “They think being in America makes him soft.”

  After a few seconds (and a few hits on J
ohnny’s torso!), Claudio piped up and shouted out at the men, “Hey, get back to work!”

  One guy smacked Johnny on the head when he wasn’t looking and then ran, laughing. Johnny turned to run after him but Pat called him. “João, chega! Vem cá!” Johnny, enough! Come here!

  Johnny’s face was red, his chest heaving deeply, his hair ruffled.

  He put his arm around me again. “So this is what you learn here on Saturdays? I thought you were learning to run a multi-national shipping business so you could buy me a fancy car when we get older.”

  “He is,” Pat said. “And part of it is learning how to kick people’s ass!”

  It was the first time I’d heard Pat “swear.”

  He smiled at me. Pat made me feel like an equal.

  -3-

  Pat sat at a table in the sun with Claudio while they went over some papers. A few of the men had moved away from the unloading area and brought over a soccer ball to a section of grass near the docks. Johnny started playing with them. I’d played plenty of soccer with Johnny before, and knew a few things. But suddenly I felt like everyone here was a clone of Cristiano Ronaldo! I never kept the ball for even a second! And trying to steal it away was futile.

  Finally, I just sat down on the grass and watched. They played for an hour, and by the end of it, sweat poured down in rivulets from Johnny’s temples.

  But it didn’t end there. When they were done, sitting on the grass, Johnny trying to catch his breath, two men jumped Johnny and started hitting him in the chest!

  I bit my nail, and wondered if they were really playing...

  Johnny grunted and groaned and shouted.

  “Foda-se! Cabrão!” (That was Johnny cursing colorfully.)

  Eventually he got out from under them and hurried away, shirt untucked, stumbling. He had a drop of blood on his lip and anger flashed in his eyes.

  I was nervous.

  Meekly, I said, “Johnny, you OK?” He was about thirty feet from me, so I don’t think he heard me.

  “Chega!” Johnny cried. Enough!

  One of the men who’d been fighting him stood up straight. The grin on his face disappeared. The two others jumped in Johnny’s direction but the first one held them back. “No, wait, enough,” the first man said in Portuguese. “Johnny, come here.” Being around them all day had attuned my ear to the language and the accents. I was understanding everyone more clearly now.

  Johnny hobbled over, angry, chest heaving. He held his stomach and limped, a small amount of blood falling from his nose as well.

  The first man put his hand on Johnny’s neck, brought Johnny’s forehead to his own. Johnny was much taller than all of them.

  He was tense, but listening. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. One of the other two men lit up a cigarette, looked down at the docks.

  I saw Johnny nodding, then again. Then nodding one more time. The first man’s grip tightened, and then he gave Johnny a light slap on the cheek, one of those manly slaps that I guess equates to a hug amongst girls.

  Johnny stepped back. The first man gestured something at the other two guys and they left. I heard only bits and pieces of what the first man was saying to Johnny now. He and Johnny started sparring.

  “... you see my right arm going this way ... duck ... but you’re doing this ... try it ... no ... again ... look, the things you need to do ... right ... foda-se, that hurt! ... good, Johnny ... now again ... good man ... if you keep doing that I’ll ... no, the groin, the groin!”

  I left the boys to their games and pulled out a book to read, comforted by their sounds.

  The next thing I knew, the book I’d been reading was being pulled off my face and I was wiping bleary eyes. Johnny’s flushed and sweating face was staring down at me. The light was low, and the edges of his black hair were golden red with diffused light from the setting sun.

  When he kissed me, I tasted salt. His hands were wet, his forehead was wet. His lips were wet.

  “Johnny, you stink!”

  But he didn’t. He didn’t stink at all. He smelled better than ever. He smelled like work, like strength. Male.

  Desire thrilled through me.

  I knew I wouldn’t sleep with him when I was sixteen (although my birthday was only three months away). But I doubted I could wait until eighteen.

  Doubted it very much.

  Johnny’s tongue found mine, caressed it deeply, and the doubt turned to an unshakeable certainty.

  -4-

  Pat bought beers and a few bottles of wine for the crew, and we all went inside the ship to drink them. Johnny and I drank root beer. The crew made fun of him for that, but I wasn’t sure if my parents would be OK with me drinking beer so Johnny forewent his own to make me feel comfortable.

  Pat also didn’t drink. He had only soda because he was driving. No one made fun of him, though!

  We were in the ship’s dining room. It was a sterile place with only a few round tables and white walls. I expected something from an old pirate ship, but it actually looked more like the cafeteria at school, only with better chairs.

  The men downed Heinekens and red wine and sang and spoke so quickly that I didn’t understand most of what was being said. The more they drank, the louder they became. Some of them addressed sentences and phrases to me, but these phrases mostly went over my head.

  Johnny had his arm around my shoulder, and I was leaning back on him, still feeling tired from the slightly too much sun from having fallen asleep outside earlier.

  About an hour or so later, Pat stood up. My eyes were closing, even though it was only nine PM. Pat shook every man’s hand, and the smiles he received (showing more than a few missing teeth) gave me the idea that, for many of these sailors, this was probably the zenith of happiness for them, the highest point of accomplishment—a job well done. Many of them were single, I was sure. Certainly none of them were wealthy. They shook my hand effusively, and “congratulated” Johnny on “catching” me.

  Johnny tried to act cool, but soon his cheeks were red.

  One of the men actually hugged Pat, slapped him on the shoulder, and then rubbed his eye. “Obrigado, chefe. Obrigado.” Thank you, boss. Thank you.

  “De nada, amigo. Bom trabalho.” It’s nothing, friend. Good job.

  On the way to the car, the May wind was the only sound we heard.

  Pat’s dad said, “And then, after you learn to kick their ass, you’d better learn to appreciate them. The lessons are backwards, actually. Because appreciation is far more important than discipline. Far more important. A man who knows you truly appreciate him never needs discipline.”

  And here I thought Johnny had only been playing soccer and learning to fight all day.

  It seems he did get his business lesson after all.

  -5-

  “The answer is No.”

  “Dad, c’mon!”

  “No!” Dad wrung his hands angrily in the dining room.

  “But it makes no sense! His parents will be there and we’ll be in separate rooms—”

  “Oh, goddamnit, this boy is all you think about!” Dad got up and went to the kitchen. Mom sat quietly, saying nothing. He came back with a beer and downed half of it with a single swig.

  I felt a sudden anxiety.

  Still standing, he smacked his lips and looked at me. “Cathy, you’re not going to Portugal for the summer, and that’s final! If you’d like, we can maybe..maybe...plan a family vacation to Europe when you’re older. But you won’t go alone. You’re only sixteen, damnit!”

  “Almost seventeen!”

  And then it happened.

  The change.

  It was so sudden that I only realized afterwards that it had occurred, when my heart was racing like a Formula One engine and my bottom lip was trembling like a leaf in a hurricane.

  Dad had thwacked the table with his flat hand. Beer spilled out from the open Heineken bottle. “DON’T YOU DARE RAISE YOUR VOICE TO ME, YOUNG LADY! I AM STILL YOUR FATHER!”

  He guzzled
the rest of the beer down and cursed as he left the room.

  My bladder felt weak. I could feel the looseness of my legs.

  And then came the tears. My mom came closer to me, hugged me. I cried onto her dress while she stroked my hair. “I hate him. I HATE HIM!”

  “Shhh, baby. Shhh. He’s just...under a lot of stress at the moment.”

  “Stress? Stress! He’s fucking drinking all the time and he’s angry and he’s—”

  A thick hand curled around my sweater and yanked!

  It ripped me from my mother’s arms!

  When I turned, I saw the hand, large and menacing, swinging up, open palm—

  And it’s coming down. Oh, God, it’s coming down—

  THWACK!

  My jaw went numb.

  My neck split open with pain.

  I didn’t realize my father’s hand had struck me until I hit the ground, my cheek swelling already, and I felt a stinging burn so hot on my face that it seemed I’d just been run over by a truck.

  And then I was hovering again! Floating in the middle of the air!

  Two hands had grabbed me and lifted me from the ground—

  The next few moments are a blur. But I remember swinging across the room and hitting the wall, untethered, flung there by monstrously powerful arms.

  My hip slammed into the sideboard. My shoulder cracked against the wall. Particles of plaster floated down like snow. And I floated down with them.

  The room spun.

  The flavor of copper seeped into my mouth from where I’d bit my tongue.

  My eyes rolled back.

  The last thing I remember was my mom screaming, “LEAVE HER ALONE! LEAVE HER—”

  And then all went white.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ~ Separation ~

  -1-

  Dad moved out the next day, and made plans to get himself sober. Not AA, because he didn’t like the religious stuff, but some type of support group or therapy or something.

  My parents were now officially “separated.”