by James Lepore
7.
The day after his drink with Joseph at the Peninsula, Chris borrowed Joseph’s car, a Saab convertible leased for him by Marsha, and drove to Joe Black and Rose’s house in Jersey. Earlier in the week, he had rented a small truck and moved the things that had sentimental value to a storage facility he rented just off the Garden State Parkway in Clifton. These included photo albums, a leather-bound set of the Harvard Classics, a few pieces of solid old world furniture and a collection of curio-sized dragons – in ceramic, blown-glass, bronze and various semi-precious stones, that had surrounded Rose on Carmine Street and then in the small house in Bloomfield. The rest of his parents’ things, including all of their clothes and the remaining furniture, he gave to the Salvation Army. On Friday, he went to clean the place up in anticipation of the closing that was to be held the following week. The evening before, he had called Teresa to see if the kids were willing to help, but Tess had promised to tutor a friend for a math exam, and Matt had been invited to help inaugurate a new pool on the grounds of a mini-mansion owned by one of his friend’s parents. It seemed, incredibly, that his bat-wielding son had escaped all punishment for his conduct on the prior weekend, an outcome that Chris chose not to discuss with his ex-wife on the phone but that nevertheless brought his blood to a boil. The mindless work at his parents’ house was a welcome diversion.
Primarily in the living room, but also scattered in the rooms throughout the now empty house, there were groups of cardboard boxes containing things that Chris was too busy to make decisions about prior to the Salvation Army truck’s arrival earlier in the week. His work today was to go through these boxes, sort out the few things of value, and put the rest at the curb. There was a garage that needed to be looked at, but he saved that for last. In two hours, he had about twenty boxes of various sizes neatly stacked out front. The few things worth saving, including his parents’ immigration and citizenship papers, their marriage license, Rose’s recipe books and a bundle of aging greeting cards tied in a faded red ribbon, he put in a small box, which he placed in the back seat of the Saab.
The house needed to be swept clean, but he decided to first attend to the garage. There he found a neatly organized workbench and much more in the way of tools, including the typical power tools found in men’s workshops all over America, than he expected. On Carmine Street, there was a hammer, a couple of screwdrivers and a pliers in a kitchen drawer, and that was it. Joe Black had apparently needed something to do in his retirement. Chris took a hammer from a hook on a peg board. The weight of it in his hand pulled at his heart.
After the gunning down of Ed Dolan, Sr., Chris put the professional Joe Black outside the pale, and, thereafter, never fully admitted the father Joe Black into his life. He survived by suppressing both his love and his hatred for the man whose blood flowed in his veins. The hammer reminded him of the father he never knew. He decided to box up and keep all the tools, and while doing this, he came across an old cake tin with something heavy in it. Inside, he found a 44. Ruger in an oiled pouch, a box of full clips, and an envelope with fifty-five hundred dollars in cash in it.
Joe Black did not speak about what he did for a living. He had dinner with his family most nights, took them occasionally to Coney Island or Jones Beach, and even went to Chris’ track meets. On the days he killed people, he acted no different than on the days he didn’t. Hefting the Lugar, Chris thought of Jimmy Barsonetti, a man who, if there ever was one, deserved to die. He knew in his bones not only that he deserved to die, but that the truest justice comes at the hand of the victim, or his family. Had this been Joe Black’s code? On the one chance he had had to ask that question, Chris had been too young, and too paralyzed by the weight of Joe Black’s persona to speak up. He “followed orders” his father had said, but what happened when the orders he received were evil? What did Joe Black do then? That was the question Chris had never asked, afraid of what the answer would be. He had never given his father the benefit of the doubt, and now he wished he had. He might be looking for that benefit himself soon from his own children. He replaced the gun and carried the tin out to the Saab, where he put it under the front seat. As he was doing this, he heard a car pull up. Turning, he saw Teresa in the driver’s seat of her Mercedes SUV, which she had double-parked next to the Saab. Tess was in the passenger seat next to her.
“Hi,” Chris said, looking into the car through the passenger window, acknowledging first his daughter and then his ex-wife. “What’s up?”
“She wanted to help you,” Teresa answered.
Tess got out, approached Chris and kissed him on the cheek, then turned to say goodbye to her mom.
“What about dinner?” Teresa asked.
“We’ll go out someplace after we finish here,” Chris replied.
“Not too late. It’s a school night.”
Chris and Tess watched as Teresa pulled into the driveway, then backed out and drove off.
“What happened to your tutoring?” Chris asked when she was gone.
“I cut it short.”
“Who was it with?”
“Rory Peterson.”
“Was that a good idea?”
“All she wanted to do was talk about boys anyway.”
“I guess there’s no chance she’ll be tested on that subject.”
“At my high school, you never know.”
They worked for the next two hours, Tess sweeping down the entire house and cleaning the kitchen and both bathrooms, while Chris finished in the garage, and then cleaned out the basement. He was finished before Tess, and decided to go out for pizza, stopping on the way back to pick up a bottle of red wine. The tiny Cape Cod-style house had a wide and handsome front porch – its best feature – and there they sat cross-legged to eat their dinner, drinking the wine out of paper cups.
Tess had tied her long hair back to work and scrubbed down in the kitchen sink while Chris went out for the food. She rarely wore makeup, and now, her face glowing from the hard work, she looked lovely as she sat facing Chris in the slanting late afternoon sunlight. Watching her eat and sip her wine, Chris saw both the child and the woman in her, and felt the mix of loss and pride that is familiar to all parents who watch their children become young adults before their eyes. He knew that he was the star of his daughter’s life, and had thanked God many times that he had remained so despite all of his troubles.
“Speaking of boys,” he said, “what’s going on with you and Phil Martell?”
“We broke up.”
“Oh? What happened?”
“The summer’s coming. He’s going to California to see his dad.”
“That didn’t last long.”
“No, a few months.”
“But you liked him.”
“I thought he was really cool at first.”
“Any residuals?”
“You mean am I heartbroken?”
“Yes.”
“No. He was pretty happy when I ended it, which was annoying, but I’m fine.” Tess smiled as she said this and now there was more woman in her face than girl.
“Speaking of relationships,” she said, “what’s going on with you and mom?”
“Why?” Chris asked. “Did she say something?”
“No, but she’s acting weird. Is it Matt?”
“It must be. I’ve told her I want him to live with me in New York.”
“Oh. Well...”
“I know. She’ll never agree to it.”
“Never in a million years. Matt’s replaced you in a way.”
This statement took Chris by surprise. There was too much insight in it, too poignant a reminder that his own mother had replaced her husband with her youngest son, and the havoc that had wrought. He had seen the parallel between Joseph and Matt, but not until now the one between him and Tess. He did not respond.
“Tell me about Grampa Joe,” Tess said. “You never talk about him.”
“Joseph talks about him enough for both of us.”
“He makes
him sound like a cartoon character. I want to hear it from you.”
“Why?”
“Did you love him?”
“Yes.”
“Matt says he was a hit man.”
Chris stared hard at his sixteen-year-old daughter, but she did not flinch or look away. At the same time, he was thinking about the rapid yes he had given in response to her last question.
“I hated him, too,” he said.
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you what. We’re finished here. Let’s go down to that Applegate Farm place and get some ice cream. I have lots of memories of your grandfather, good and bad. I’ll tell you a story or two, but I can’t promise more than that.”
“Are you worried I won’t be able to handle it?” Tess said. She had, Chris realized, seen the introspection in his eyes. “Because I can.”
“No,” he replied. “I believe you can. I wouldn’t be telling you otherwise.” It’s not you I’m worried about, he thought, and then, rising, he held out his hand and helped her to her feet and they headed to the car.
8.
Chris tracked the winter of 1977 daily through the window in his room at St. Vincent’s Hospital. Cold and gray, and occasionally stormy, it reflected perfectly the state of his heart. For four weeks, with his right leg hanging from a counterweighted pulley, there was nothing to do but look out at Seventh Avenue and contend with the numbing reality that he would never run competitively again. Occasionally, a storm of anger would rise and howl in his head and then abate, matching the winter storms outside that blew snow and grit sometimes horizontally across his window, temporary distractions from the bleakness. Toward the end, his cast was shortened and he was allowed to hobble around his room using a walker. His left leg had been set and casted as well, but it could bear some weight. He had been told that the cast on the left leg would come off in a few weeks, but that the one on the right leg, where a steel plate and screws had been used to bring his shattered tibia together, would have to stay on until the spring or early summer. One or both of his parents came every day to see him. He was bitterly angry at his father, but out of a misguided sense of fairness, he did his best to shun them both.
It was snowing on the day of his discharge. Joe Black, his face red and his dark overcoat and fedora still wet, appeared early in Chris’ room to take him home. His roommate of the last few days, a basketball player at NYU who had had knee surgery, had gone home the day before and his bed had not been filled. Chris, pushing his breakfast aside, had spent the fifteen minutes before his father arrived practicing with the walker, dragging himself from door to window and back again until he broke into a sweat and had to stop. He had just settled back into bed when Joe Black entered the room with his usual quiet step.
“You have some color,” the senior Massi said, after drawing a chair near the bed and seating himself. “Your face looks good.” Chris’ broken nose, resulting when his face bounced off of the windshield on impact, had healed on its own, and the bruises around his eyes had subsided and disappeared after a couple of weeks.
“You’re early,” Chris replied. “They told me nine sharp.”
“I know. I wanted to talk.”
Chris did not answer. In his moments of high fury over the past four weeks, he had assembled a series of diatribes against his father, some cold and deliberate, some hot and emotionally-charged, all meant to deliver stinging blows. But now that the moment of truth had come, these searing indictments faded from his head.
“Talk?”
“Yes, talk.”
“About what?”
“About me.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Yes, but the time has come.”
“What about me,” Chris said, suddenly finding his voice. “Why can’t we talk about me? I’m the one who’s crippled.”
“You’re not crippled. Your legs will mend.”
“Go ahead, then, talk.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t come to your track meet. I could have taken you home.”
“You were working.”
“Yes.”
Eying his father across the short distance between them, Chris knew with the instinctive certainty of the young, but nevertheless with a mix of despair and apprehension in his heart, that the revelations made by father and son this day would in all likelihood have to suffice for a lifetime.
“You have heard that I killed your friend’s father,” Joe Black said, and then, gesturing toward his son’s legs, “you think that’s what’s brought this on your head.”
“No, I don’t. It’s just bad fucking luck.”
“You weren’t meant to run.”
“I guess not.”
“You were meant for other things.”
“That’s for sure.”
“Do you know what I do, Chris?”
“No.”
“Do you want to know?”
Chris had been hoping for a month for a collision with his father, but not on this very issue. You asked for this, he said to himself. If he could, he would have run from the room, run from Joe Black’s soft voice and calm, implacable manner, run from the precipice beyond which gaped the rest of his life.
“No,” he answered.
“I will tell you. I kill people.”
Chris gazed at Joe Black now as if seeing him for the first time in his life, and for a second, he thought he saw in his father’s coal-black eyes what it was that made him a killer. What he saw wasn’t frightening or repulsive. It was a coldness. He could kill. He had crossed a boundary that most people never come close to.
“Why?”
“If I told you of my life, Chris,” Joe Black said, “I would feel that I was begging for your approval. I will tell you this much. I first killed when I was seventeen, in order to eat. When I came to this country, I made a contract for life to follow the orders of don Velardo, which I have done and will continue to do.”
“What happened with Ed’s father?”
“He attacked me without cause.”
“Did he have a gun?”
“No, but Logan did, and I could not take the chance that together they would kill me. I am sorry you have lost your friend.”
“He hates my guts.”
“Openly?”
“Yes.”
“Then you are forewarned.”
“Of what?”
“If he is like his father, he will brood, and not forget.”
“I’m not afraid of Ed Dolan.”
“That’s good,” the senior Massi said, “because, one day, you will be tested, by him or someone like him. When that day comes, remember what I said here today. Do not beg for any man’s approval, even if he is your son, or your father. And once you give your word, you must keep it, or die trying.” Joe paused to look at Chris, then said, “If you have a last question, I will try to answer. Otherwise, I will help you to dress, and pack your things.”
Chris turned from his father, and looked out the window, where he saw the snow swirling on the wind. The fear and anger that had welled up in him when Joe Black walked into the room, saying he wanted to talk, had subsided. He would never run track again. His father was a hitman for the Mafia. His mother was pummeling his father with his five-year-old brother. There was enough to contend with in these simple facts. More than enough. Turning back to Joe Black, he shook his head. “No,” he said. “I can’t think of anything.”
“Good,” Joe replied. “Then let’s get you home.”
9.
On the day after cleaning out Rose and Joe Black’s house – a Saturday – Chris headed back to Jersey to pick up Matt and Tess for an outing in New York. They lived in the same house in North Caldwell that Junior Boy had bought Chris and Teresa as a wedding present in 1985. As he was parking in front, he had a glimpse of Matt washing Teresa’s car at the bottom of their long driveway. Tess was sitting on the front steps talking on her cell phone. Chris bent over and kissed her on the top of her head, then rang the bell. Teresa, her dark, natu
rally wavy hair long, like Tess,’ was wearing cream-colored linen slacks and a pale blue short-sleeved cashmere sweater. Her face was made up and she was wearing understated but very good jewelry.
“Come in,” she said, motioning him through the wide entrance foyer into her spacious kitchen. “I don’t have anything to offer you. I’m going out.”
“That’s okay. I’m fine,” Chris’ said.
“We have to talk,” Teresa said.
“What’s up?”
“First, my father wants to know what time you’re bringing the kids back. They’re coming over for dinner and he wants to stay and talk to you.”
Chris did not answer immediately. Junior Boy could have used any number of intermediaries to arrange a meeting. Doing it through Teresa meant that he wanted her to know about his new relationship with Chris.
“Tell him around nine o’clock. What else?”
They were standing in the kitchen, Chris leaning against a counter near the refrigerator and Teresa opposite him near the open doorway, through which they could both see Tess still chatting on her cell phone. It was obvious to Chris that his ex-wife’s dark eyes were glittering with something much more than curiosity over his meeting with Junior Boy, however unusual that might be.
“He mentioned Matt going to LaSalle in the fall.”
“Good.”
“Good? What’s going on Chris? Did you make some kind of a deal with him behind my back?”
“Is washing your car your idea of punishing Matt for what he did?”
“What did he do? He got into a fight. Didn’t you get into fights when you were his age?”
“I never broke anybody’s arm and ribs with a baseball bat. What he did was ugly. If he does it a few more times he’ll be an ugly human being. Doesn’t that bother you, Teresa?”
“Are you going to work for my father, Chris? Because if you are, you’ll really be a hypocrite. I don’t know what you’re cooking up, but whatever it is, don’t think you’re getting Matt from me. I’ll fight you both.”
Chris knew this to be a hollow threat. Junior Boy’s power over his daughter was complete. It extended to all areas of her life. The fact that it was rarely exercised made it more effective, not less. Teresa had traded her independence if not her soul for the high and safe and very comfortable ground on which her father kept all those whom he loved. Chris could take no satisfaction from this knowledge, however. He was about to make a similar bargain with the don. The only difference he could see was that while he would keep his independence, he would lose his soul. The more Teresa clung to Matt, though, the more Chris was convinced that he was doing the right thing in taking him from her for a few years. A few very important years. Looking now at his ex-wife, he could see fear and something close to hatred in her eyes. But he did not care. He would return Matt to her a man, not a thug or a mama’s boy like Joseph or, what seemed more likely, a Caligula in the making. That’s all he cared about. Teresa could get in line with the others who had turned on him: his former law partners, the bar association, Paulie Raimo, Ed Dolan. One more adversary wouldn’t matter.