Pee-Shy

by Frank Spinelli

  My mother was the first to notice. To get me to bond with my new cousin, my mother had me hold him one day. She explained that he was very fragile and needed extra-special care during the first few months of his life. To prove this, she removed his baby blue knitted cap and showed me a pulsating area in the back of his head where the soft swirls of his hair converged like a fingerprint. “See that?” she said. “That’s the soft spot where the bones haven’t come together yet. You must be careful never to touch that area because it could cause permanent brain damage.” To this day, I still don’t know why she felt the need to share this information with her jealous son.

  On the day of Alex’s christening, my aunt and uncle threw a party in their apartment. Once Alex had been fed, my aunt Olivia carried him into her bedroom and placed him in the center of their bed for a nap. Later, while everyone was enjoying coffee and cake, I slipped inside the bedroom unnoticed and tiptoed toward the bed. When I got close enough, I removed his baptism cap and watched the pulsating soft spot my mother warned me about. I stood there, staring at it, wanting only to know what it felt like and nothing more.

  Leaning in closer, so that my head was eye level with his scalp, I reached out my hand. For a brief second, the pulp of my finger met Alex’s velvety skin. I felt his pulse, smelled the baby powder, and then heard the shriek of my mother standing in the doorway. The events that followed were a blur. I recall being hit repeatedly. Alex cried. Then later that night, I woke up in the backseat of our car. We were home, and my father’s refusal to carry me inside was the worst punishment of all.

  Years later, when Alex got older, he’d rush down the stairs as soon as we arrived. Grinning from ear to ear, he’d wait by the door for me to give the word so that we could go up to his room and play. That consisted of watching television and playing with his toys. Even though he was just five years old at the time, we were very close. Some of my fondest childhood memories were the Sunday afternoons we played in his bedroom while his mother served us vanilla ice cream with Bosco chocolate syrup.

  Yet our innocent playtime deteriorated. I began torturing Alex—locking him in the closet and hiding his toys—until he cried. Initially, it felt good to see his tears streaming down his cheeks. I was a god in my cousin’s world. Then later, when my father drove us back home, I’d lie in the backseat with my head pressed up against the cushion, promising myself I would never make Alex cry again.

  Yet on each Sunday I returned, Alex would be waiting there for me with the same wide-eyed, eager enthusiasm he displayed the week before. And before long, he would be in tears again. That’s when I realized my worst fear was now a reality: I had become exactly like Bill. I had become a monster. Driving home one night, I prayed to God to make it stop. I pleaded for Bill to go away.

  CHAPTER 21

  Sleaze Torso

  APRIL 6, 1980: BILL AND HIS PARTNER WERE CALLED TO INVESTIGATE A BURGLARY. They received word from dispatch at 4 A.M. about a robbery in progress on Twelfth Avenue in Brooklyn involving a suspicious white Buick. Without lights or sirens, they turned onto the street and found a white car parked down the block. Bill got out of the police car and went around to the passenger side. His partner, Nick, approached the driver. Two Caucasian boys in their teens were sitting in the front seat.

  “License and registration,” asked Nick.

  “Did I do something wrong, officer?” responded the driver.

  Watching their transaction cautiously, Bill saw a subtle movement of the driver’s hand down toward his ankle and a flash of metal reflecting off his partner’s flashlight.

  “He’s got a weapon!” Bill cried.

  The teen in the passenger seat lunged forward and grabbed Bill’s arms. The driver shifted the car into gear; tires squealed. Nick hit the ground and the car charged forward. Bill’s arm was trapped in the passenger-side window like a vise.

  In his book, Bill stated the first thing he heard was his hip bone shatter as the car sped away. Then he tasted blood as it filled his mouth. He survived only because he was able to retrieve his gun and shoot several rounds at the tires. The car veered into a series of parked cars before it came to a halt. Bill was unconscious when they found him at the scene.

  I was at a Boy Scout meeting that night when I heard a commotion in the vestibule by the entrance. Mrs. Duran burst into tears. An ominous silence fell over the entire troop. Then Mr. Castro stepped forward and called everyone to attention. “Please,” he said. “I have some terrible news. Bill was badly hurt this morning, and he’s in the hospital.”

  “He’s in a goddamned coma,” I heard Mrs. Duran say before her husband escorted her outside. She was trembling.

  “Bill’s in the intensive care unit,” Mr. Castro continued. “I want you all to join me now and pray for his speedy recovery. Our Father, who art in heaven . . .”

  I was too shocked to recite the words. I kept telling myself that it couldn’t be as bad as Mr. Castro was making it out to be. I wanted to believe that Bill was fine or that he had just broken a few bones. I couldn’t allow myself to think that he might be hurt so badly that he could possibly die. Had God misunderstood my prayers? I just wanted Bill to leave me alone. I never intended for anything more than that, and now it appeared as though I might have contributed to his death.

  BOY SCOUT MEETINGS CONTINUED AS USUAL, with Mr. Castro acting as Scoutmaster. I liked meetings during those weeks when Bill was recovering in the hospital. With all the boys seated around him in a circle on the gymnasium floor, Mr. Castro often led interesting discussions on first aid and camping. Best of all, he didn’t tolerate bullying, particularly from the senior Scouts, and that marked another significant change, because Spivey, Mendola, and Metheny stopped attending meetings.

  Around the same time, Jonathan and I began work on our science fair project. The topic was telepathy. Jonathan came up with the idea himself. Initially, I refused to take part in it, not because it didn’t intrigue me, but simply because I didn’t want Seth Connelly and his gang to make fun of us. In the end, Mrs. Giordano convinced me to join Jonathan’s project when I failed to come up with an idea of my own.

  The experiment involved keeping a detailed journal for two weeks. Each afternoon, we were to allocate ourselves to a quiet, undisclosed place where we were to meditate for fifteen minutes. After that, we were to write down or draw the thoughts or images that came to mind. Then at the end of the two weeks, Jonathan and I had to compare our journals to see whether there were any correlations. To prove our theory, we had to show that there were striking similarities.

  The week before the science fair, we were in Jonathan’s basement mapping out our journals on poster board. I thought it would be a good idea to illustrate certain entries alongside excerpts from our actual diaries. Overall, our project was a failure: we couldn’t prove that, over time, our telepathic powers improved. Looking over our results, I noted a strong theme of alien abduction in Jonathan’s journal while mine often took place in the forest where I was being chased by wild animals.

  Upstairs I could hear Mrs. Duran singing along to the radio. “Your mom has a terrible voice,” I said.

  “You don’t have to tell me.”

  A little while later, Mrs. Duran came downstairs holding a plate of brownies in one hand and a cigarette in the other. “Break time. How’s it going, boys?” She came up behind Jonathan and gave him a hug. He shrugged her off. “Be nice to your mother. I bet Frankie wouldn’t treat his mom like that.” Then she looked over at me and winked.

  “Mom, we’re busy,” said Jonathan.

  “Okay, okay,” she said, setting the plate of brownies on the table next to us. “You can be such an ungrateful little shit sometimes, Jonathan.”

  Shocked, I looked up in time to see her wink at me again before she went upstairs. “Your mom is so cool,” I said. “She’s nothing like my mom.” Jonathan didn’t say anything. He seemed distracted that afternoon. “Is everything okay?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

&nbs
p; “Put down that crayon.” I insisted. “You’ve been coloring the same spot for over ten minutes.”

  Jonathan looked up at me. “Can I tell you a secret?”

  “Yes.”

  “For the past few weeks, Tommy Scalici has been making me deliver his newspaper route every morning before school.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  He nodded and wiped a tear from beneath his glasses. “I feel so stupid. I haven’t told anyone. One afternoon I was walking through Emerson Hill on my way home from school. I ran into Tommy Scalici and Seth Connelly smoking pot in the woods. When they saw me, I ran, but they were fast. Seth threatened to kill me if I told anyone. Then they made me get on my hands and knees and promise. The next morning, Tommy was waiting for me outside my house with his newspaper bag. He threw it at me and told me to deliver each one as he followed behind me on his bicycle. I’ve been doing it ever since then.”

  I could not contain my outrage. “You have to tell someone! Your parents, Mrs. Giordano, anyone! You can’t just keep delivering his newspapers every day. That’s not right, and if you won’t tell, then I will.”

  “No, please,” he begged. “Tommy said he’d kill me if I told anyone.”

  “What are you going to do? Just keep delivering his stupid newspapers?”

  Jonathan was weeping now. The lenses of his glasses steamed up, and he had to take them off to clean them. When he looked up at me, his squinty brown eyes reminded me of a gerbil’s. It hurt me to see him cry. “There has to be someone we can tell,” I said. Then it came to me. “We can talk to Mr. Castro! He’ll help.”

  Jonathan shook his head. “No, he’ll tell my dad. They’re good friends, and if my dad knows, then my mom will definitely find out.”

  I considered his argument. Mrs. Duran would be furious if she knew her son was being bullied into delivering newspapers for Tommy. Once Mrs. Duran found out, she wouldn’t be able to keep quiet. She’d probably go straight over to Tommy Scalici’s house herself and scream at him right in front of his parents. That would only make Jonathan’s situation worse; we both knew the only thing more hated than a sissy was a momma’s boy. If that got back to everyone at school, Jonathan wouldn’t be able to walk down the hall without being ridiculed.

  “You’re right,” I said.

  Jonathan sank his head down on the table. I wanted to help him so badly, but I couldn’t think of anyone else we could go to. Watching him convulse with tears, I tried to imagine how difficult it must have been for him to keep this secret all this time. Not once during the past two weeks when we were working together did he indicate that something was wrong. If our science project hadn’t proved we weren’t telepathic, then his revelation certainly did.

  I paced the basement floor. “There has to be someone who could scare Tommy off?”

  “I’m doomed. At least there are only two more months left until summer.”

  “Stop crying. You’re getting our science project all wet.”

  Jonathan’s face was so flushed it startled me. I felt his pain, knowing that our reputations at school had always been a source of distress for both of us. In the corridors, on the playground, and even in the streets, threats of humiliation and violence hovered in the margins of our lives.

  Then like a bolt of electricity, I thought of the only person I knew who could actually help. Without hesitation, I picked up the phone and dialed Information.

  “Who are you calling?” asked Jonathan.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  When the operator answered, I asked for the general number to the hospital where Bill was staying.

  “You’re going to call Bill?”

  “Yes,” I said as I dialed. Within seconds, I was connected to his room. “Bill?”

  “Yeah, who’s this?” There was a painful tone in his voice, a startling reminder that he had almost died.

  “Bill, this is Frank.”

  “Frank who?”

  “Frank Spinelli. I’m one of your Boy Scouts.” There was a long pause followed by several deep breaths. I had an uneasy feeling that he wasn’t going to remember me. “Frank Spinelli,” I repeated. “You know me.” Jonathan watched with a confused expression. I covered the receiver with my hand. “He doesn’t remember me, Jonathan.”

  “Maybe he’s on painkillers? My mom said he’s been in a lot of pain.”

  “Frank,” said Bill with a hint of recognition. “What’s up, buddy?”

  “How are you, Bill?” Hearing his voice, even though he sounded weak, filled me with relief. If Jonathan hadn’t been standing there next to me, I might have started to tear up. “I’m here with Jonathan. We just wanted to call and see how you were doing.”

  “Oh, that was nice of you guys.” He paused between words to catch his breath. “I’m doing okay.”

  “Bill, it sounds like you’re in a lot of pain. Maybe I should let you go?”

  “No, no,” he insisted. “I miss you, buddy.”

  I clenched the receiver with my hand so that Jonathan couldn’t hear. There were so many things I wanted to say, but not with him standing there next to me. The burden of carrying on this secret relationship suddenly manifested itself again, and that pain below my rib cage began to throb.

  Bill struggled to continue. “I’ve been thinking about you.”

  I froze and thought how lucky I was that Jonathan and I weren’t telepathically linked, because if he knew what was going on he would have died from the shock.

  “Are you there?” Bill asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t have to answer now, but when I get out of here, I want to take you up to my cabin. Just the two of us. You and me, buddy. Would you like that?”

  I couldn’t speak.

  Jonathan looked on, perplexed. “What is he saying?”

  “Just say yes,” whispered Bill. “Then I’ll know, and once I get out of here we can go away to my cabin. We’ll spend a whole weekend together, alone. Will you come with me?”

  Seconds ticked by. I dreamed of what that weekend would be like: Bill and me alone, in a cabin out in the woods, waking up to the smell of bacon and eggs, taking walks and fishing in a stream. It would be so magical, like a vacation without my parents, and no one would think it was strange, because he was my Scoutmaster. That was when I realized that this accident was a second chance for us both. Bill was the old person I remembered, not the scary new one he’d become.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “That makes me so happy.”

  “SO YOU’RE THE FAMOUS FRANK I’VE BEEN HEARING SO MUCH ABOUT,” said Uncle Vito, leaning up against the door with his hand slung over it like a monkey clinging to a branch.

  The Saturday after the science fair, Jonathan invited me on the Day Line—a boat tour up the Hudson—with his entire family, including his uncle Vito. Since the boat departed from Manhattan, the Durans thought it would be easier if we all slept over at Uncle Vito’s apartment in the West Village. Jonathan’s uncle was not exactly what I expected. When he opened the door, I took a step back. He was wearing a black tank top and tight blue jeans and sported a thick mustache and dark, curly hair. Yet, the longer I stared, the more I could see the Duran resemblance: the bushy eyebrows, the soft, milky brown eyes, and the sinewy torso. Uncle Vito looked like Jonathan’s father but sounded more like his mother.

  “Come in,” he urged. “You must be exhausted.” He swung open the door and motioned me into the apartment as if he was a model on The Price Is Right.

  His apartment was small compared to my house (not that I’d ever been in a New York apartment before). The layout was simple: the first room beyond the entrance was the kitchen, with dark wood cabinets and eggplant-colored walls. To my right, I could see the sunken living room, which was painted red. There was a large black leather couch against the far wall, a zebra-skin rug in the center of the room, and huge pieces of art—what looked like a knight’s coat of arms on red velvet—hanging on all four walls. Big leafy plants in large, round ceram
ic pots sprouted in almost every corner of the living room. In the far corner was a dining area with a large, rectangular table and six high-back chairs fit for a medieval king. I stood at the entrance taking it all in.

  “Don’t be bashful now,” said Uncle Vito. “I won’t bite.”

  From the kitchen, I heard Mrs. Duran laugh. When I entered, she was choking on a thick plume of smoke. Setting down her cigarette, she bent over the sink and spit out an olive.

  “Careful, Sharon,” sang Uncle Vito. “We got the whole day ahead of us tomorrow.” He looked over his shoulder and winked at me. “Come on in, kid. Don’t mind the Dragon Lady over there. Do you want a drink?”

  “Vito!” screamed Mrs. Duran. “He’s just a child!”

  “I meant a glass of soda, Sharon,” he clarified. “What do you take me for?”

  “Sorry, I thought you meant—”

  “You thought I was going to corrupt a minor with a cocktail?” he interrupted with both hands resting on his hips. “Not tonight, Sharon. Mama needs her rest. Speaking of—Jonathan, why don’t you show your friend where you’ll both be sleeping?”

  “You’re out to kill me tonight,” continued Mrs. Duran as she grabbed her martini off the counter. “Kids, ignore Uncle Vito. As usual he’s hell-bent on giving me a coronary because I’m making him come with us tomorrow.”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Uncle Vito, clutching at his neck. “There is nowhere I’d rather be than with my two nephews, on a boat for three hours traveling up the scenic Hudson River. Maybe if we’re lucky, we’ll see a body or two floating around in the water.”

  Mrs. Duran looked at her husband. “See, I told you it was a bad idea to invite him.”

  Uncle Vito picked up a lit cigarette from a marble ashtray and flared his eyes at Mrs. Duran. “You ungrateful sister-in-law,” he hissed. Whipping his head back, he noticed Jonathan and me still standing there. “Jonathan, your friend is going to grow roots if you don’t show him the bedroom. Now, go! Scoot! Then, when you’re done, come back here and I’ll make my famous ice cream sundaes.”