Shepherd Avenue

by Charlie Carillo

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The story of Vic's new home swept up and down Shepherd Avenue like fumes from a broken bottle of ammonia. Grace came over with Connie's groceries, offering her sympathy and at the last second slipping in a stinger about Vic's abandoning the delicatessen at the worst possible time, in the midst of their war against the hamburger joint.

  "Get some other sucker to help you peddle that crap," Connie snapped. Speechless with rage, Grace left the house and didn't return for days.

  But Deacon Sullivan did.

  "Mr. and Mrs. Ambrosio, what can I say?" He held those white hands out, palms up. It was as if he were grieving over someone's death.

  "Hey, wait a second," I said. "Vic's happy, he's with a nice lady. How come everybody's so upset?"

  Connie looked at me as if I'd just told her I enjoyed murdering kittens. Her fingers squeezed and rolled a ball of dough she'd picked out of a roll. She was careless about her diet in every way but this, believing that the soft dough from bread caused heart attacks by "plugging up your veins." She wouldn't say more about it, and after meals there were always dough marbles near her dish.

  "Children," she sighed. Her appetite had dimmed since seeing Vic in Greenwich Village and though her bulk was still great she'd lost weight in her face. The skin was tight over her cheek­bones. Her beauty surprised me. "Get the scotch," she told me.

  "No, no," Sullivan said, sounding astonished. Does a man drink whiskey at a wake? "Please, just some coffee."

  Sullivan faced me at the table, Connie and Angie at either end. The coffee was scalding hot, so he couldn't even sip it.

  "Ah, well," Connie finally sighed, "the other one made me suffer, why should this one be different?"

  "Shut up already," Angie said into his wineglass.

  "Please, now," Sullivan said, "this is the time for strength."

  He leaned forward so that his chin nearly touched the table and spread his long arms as if they were condor wings. He grasped Connie and Angie by their wrists and closed his eyes as he squeezed.

  "The main thing is for you to be strong," he said, almost hissing.

  They tolerated his touch the way little kids do their mothers' grip when they cross the street. Sullivan clung as if he were a copper wire carrying a current between positive and negative electrodes.

  "Whatever you do, Ambrosios, this mustn't tear you apart."

  His face was contorted, seemingly in pain. The sleeves of his black jacket had yanked almost to his elbows, revealing thin wrists with knobby, coat-button like bones on their outer edges. He let go suddenly, said a hasty good-bye, and was gone.

  Angie rubbed his wrist. "He's goin' nuts, I swear to God."

  Connie shuddered. "The way it felt when he grabbed me. Gave me goosebumps."

  "Now you know how I felt," I said, familiar with that grip. "See why I hate him?"

  Connie gave me a don't-go-hating-priests look as I left to go out and look for bottles. By now they were all grimy again.

  Wednesday night. Vic and Jenny were due any minute.

  Connie set down the slightly chipped rosebud-pattern bowls and plates we used every night. The upstairs dining room hadn't even been considered for this occasion.

  She glanced at the clock over the refrigerator — ten minutes to six. Suddenly she walked around the table, clacking bowls on top of each other into a stack. I followed her, picking up the plates. Angie had a smile. Connie put them away and laid out the good dishes, sun yellow with blue bands around the rims.

  "For my son," she emphasized. "The best for my son, not that girl."

  "I didn't say nothing," Angie said.

  "Yeah, but you were gonna."

  I heard the back door open, and moments later Jenny poked her honey head into the room. There was an enormous glass jar in her hands and a smile on her face just as big.

  "Hi!" she said, breathily but not out of breath. "Fantastic peppers hanging back there."

  Angie laughed. "You know peppers?"

  "Sure, only I buy mine crushed in jars. I'd love to dry them the way you folks do."

  "Folks," Connie murmured. It was a foreign word from the world beyond Brooklyn. She was certain to repeat it to Grace Rothstein, once they were talking to each other again.

  Vic entered timidly, as if he were the visitor. He nodded to Angie and hugged Connie, who didn't seem to want to let go. Jenny presented the jar to Connie, a mix of dried fruits, soy­beans, and nuts. She modestly admitted it was her own blend.

  I raced to my rolltop desk and brought back my present for Jenny.

  "This is for you," I blurted, handing over a rolled-up, rubber-banded sheet. "It . . . I did it."

  Jenny gasped with delight when she finally got my portrait of her unrolled.

  "Is this me?" she squealed. I could only nod. "Oh, baby!" She hugged me and kissed me on the neck. "Vic, look, it's me! My lord, if I could have painted like this when I was ten … honey, look!" She had to hold it open by the edges, like a pirate's treasure map.

  "Kid's got talent," Vic said, rubbing my hair.

  "This goes up in our house," Jenny said. "But first I'm buying a decent frame for it."

  I was dizzy with delight. "You don't have to frame it," I said.

  "You'd better believe I'm going to frame it," Jenny said, kissing me again. "Show me what else you've done."

  I brought her to my desk and showed her the paintings I'd stacked like baseball cards. With the exception of my mother's portrait, they were all down here. Jenny studied them as if they were the undiscovered works of Vincent van Gogh. Everyone stood behind her, awaiting a verdict.

  "If this boy doesn't go to art school, the world will lose out," she announced.

  "My brother almost went to art school when he was a kid," Vic said. "His father."

  "All right, all right, don't get into that, we gotta eat," Connie said, eager to get off that subject.

  I got to sit at Jenny's left. As usual the food was good, featuring all of Vic's favorites from the days when his appetite rivaled a buffalo's: spaghetti with peanuts in the sauce, sausages, gravy meats.

  Vic said very little, looking from parent to parent in search of some kind of wordless approval. His face was flushed with nervousness, the way it had been moments before he went up to accept his last baseball trophy on graduation day.

  But Jenny was incredibly relaxed - what poise, what guts! She spoke freely of her life, her move to Manhattan from Kansas at the age of sixteen, her job at the supermarket ("until my own thing clicks"), the way she'd met Vic (she'd been visiting a chum from her art classes who lived in East New York and stopped by Rudy's deli for a bottle of mineral water).

  Whatever came to her mind she blurted, apparently unedited. Her knowledge of food earned even Connie's grudging admiration, as she correctly identified every ingredient rolled into the bracioles.

  I was madly in love with her. She shifted on the bench after a bout of laughter and our knees bumped. She permitted them to stay together, touching. I felt an erection growing and was grateful for the tablecloth that hid my lap.

  When we were through eating Jenny jumped to help with the dishes, and Vic got up a second later.

  "What are you doing?" asked Angie, who'd never washed a dish in his life, but Vic ignored him and reached for the loose end of Connie's dish towel. She stared at him dumbfounded and they began tug-of-warring with the towel.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Give me the rag, Ma."

  "What - "

  "For Christ's sake all I want to do is help. Come on, let go, I do this all the time when I'm home."

  Connie's back arched, as if she'd received a mild electric shock - "home" was someplace else. She let go of her end.

  While Jenny and Vic did the dishes Connie stretched Saran Wrap over the leftovers. Feeling left out, I got up and swept the floor. Angie stayed put, watching the scene with a dazed look on his face.

  "You should all open a restaurant someplace," he said sourly. Minutes later the work
was all done.

  "Well, that didn't take long," Connie said, easing herself into her chair. Angie went to the wine cellar and got his bottle of brandy. To my delight, he set out five small glasses - I was going to get a thumbnail's worth.

  Vic turned to Jenny and said, "Babe, let's have some of that stuff we brought, it'll go good with the brandy." Like an old married man.

  While Jenny opened the jar, Vic told Angie about the new job he was taking in a bookstore. Jenny set the jar on the table near Vic. Without even a change in the tone of his voice he reached for her waist, pulled her down into his lap, and wrapped his arms loosely over her shoulders, folding his hands together at her stomach. After a short shriek of surprised delight Jenny allowed herself to flop into Vic's lap like a Raggedy Ann doll. Vic pushed aside the hair that hung down the side of her face and kissed the skin where Jenny's neck met her shoulder.

  Burrowing his nose into her neck, he gently bit her earlobe, holding it in his teeth and wagging his head as if he meant to tear it off.

  Jenny giggled all the while. Vic took his mouth off her ear, trailing a string of saliva down his beard. He bear-hugged her. "Uhh," she said.

  Connie was speechless. Angie forced a chuckle. "Vic, you could hurt her, grabbing her like that."

  Vic laughed. "I do it all the time, she's used to it."

  "That's the truth," Jenny giggled.

  Connie squeezed her brandy glass without sipping from it. Angie gulped his brandy and poured himself more. The envy in his eyes was easy to read.

  My own heart was breaking because I knew I'd never get that girl away from Vic, no matter what I tried.

  We all moved upstairs to the parlor. Vic, it turned out, still had a faint interest in the game that had failed him, so he and Angie watched the Yankees while Connie and Jenny tolerated it. Vic clapped when Roger Maris smashed a home run.

  "He'll break Babe Ruth's record," he said.

  "He'll fold," Angie predicted.

  "Want to put a buck on it?"

  "You're on."

  What happens to dreams? Vic lay sprawled on the parlor couch, hairy and unshaven, rooting for a team he'd all but promised to beat in the World Series that autumn. The skinny man who was still my uncle probably didn't even remember making that cocky prediction the day before he left for West Virginia.

  I felt a cruel impulse to remind him of it but the sight of Jenny earnestly trying to follow the ball game stopped me. She noticed me looking at her, winked and shrugged. My insides turned to caramel. She turned her attention back to the game, and when I could find my legs I got up and tapped her wrist

  "Yes, baby?"

  "Can you come downstairs with me for a sec? I want to show you something."

  "She already saw your pictures," Connie said. "Let her sit." She wasn't through scrutinizing Jenny.

  "Oh, I don't mind," Jenny said breezily, delighted to get away from the ball game. "I could look at his work all day long." She held out her hand. "Lead the way, Joey."

  I held her hand as gently as if it were a baby bird that had fallen from a nest, but she squeezed mine on the way down the dark cellar steps.

  "Can you see where you're going, baby?"

  "I been down these steps a million times," I bragged. "I don't have to see."

  "My life is in your hands."

  "Don't worry, Jenny, I won't letcha get hurt."

  I felt feverish as I led her to my desk. "Goody," she said, "more pictures."

  But that wasn't what I had to show her. I waited a few mo­ments to be sure no one had followed us, then I got on my knees and took my jar of coins out from its hiding place. I put it in Jenny's hands and she jounced with the weight.

  "Wow," she said. "Wow!"

  "That's thirty dollars in there," I stammered. Actually it was slightly more than twenty-eight but I didn't feel bad about my little lie. I kept looking at her small hands around the bottom of the jar. If I'd looked at her face I don't think I would have been able to talk.

  "I was thinking I could . . . like, move in with you guys." I wiped sweat off my forehead and looked at her face. It was the first time I'd ever seen her not smiling. Her cheekbones seemed even sharper when she was serious. She looked older.

  "Oh, baby," she sighed.

  I plunged ahead, my body temperature climbing. My T-shirt stuck to my skin. "I made all this money from bottles, see? I bring back empty bottles and this guy pays me for them. That time we came to your house, I saw a lot of bottles all over the street. I could make a lot of money. I mean . ." I swallowed. "I wouldn't cost you anything."

  Jenny's eyes filled up as she put the jar on my desktop. My wildest thoughts became spoken words.

  "I got this friend, she lives on Long Island now, she could move in too. We could both find bottles. She doesn't like it where she lives, either."

  Jenny wiped her eyes and puffed out her cheeks as she sat on the wooden stump.

  "So I was thinkin', if we can make a lot of money from bottles and give it to you and Vic, maybe you guys could sort of … you know . . ."

  "Adopt you?"

  "That's it. Yeah. And you know those windows in your house? Well I could wash those windows. I know how to do it good. You use a newspaper instead of a rag. Connie let me help her do it once."

  At last Jenny's smile retumed, if only faintly. "We've been meaning to wash those windows." She ran her finger over the grape pattern on the jar. "You don't like it here, huh?"

  "Not much. Angie's okay but Connie doesn't like me. They wouldn't care if I left."

  "Oh, baby, they would, they would."

  "You wanna bet?"

  "No, I don't want to bet." She beckoned for me, arms out­stretched. I expected a hug but she grabbed my shoulders and squeezed them at arms' length. "Now listen, Joey. In the first place you're not an orphan. Your Daddy's still alive."

  "Fuck him."

  Her hands tightened. "In the second place," she began qui­etly, "why" - she giggled and cried at the same time - "why, I'm not even old enough to be your mother! Do you know that? I just turned eighteen!"

  "That doesn't matter."

  "Oh, it matters, it matters. In a lot of ways I'm just a child myself. See?"

  "No. Let go of me."

  She let her hands drop. "You're mad. I can understand that, but please try and understand me, too. Will you?" She reached for my face with both hands and held my cheeks. "My God, you're hot as a fire." She rubbed my cheeks and my neck, smiling and blinking back tears. "My friend. My very special friend." At last she hugged me but I could feel a strain across her chest, a strain I'd never detected in my mother when she used to hug me. We used to sort of melt into each other.

  I pushed lightly at Jenny's hips. She let me go.

  "Are you and Vic gonna get married?"

  "It's way too soon to know, Joey. Way too soon."

  "Vic used to be a great baseball player but now he stinks."

  "I know all about it. That doesn't matter to me. Listen, Joey." She took my right hand and shook it conventionally. "I got an idea. I can be your big sister. How about that? We can be friends and you can come visit me whenever you like. Would that be good?"

  "Sure." I half meant it and half didn't give a damn. She startled me by grabbing my cheeks again and planting a loud kiss on my forehead. "Salty. You're sweating." She cranked her smile up all the way. "Should we go upstairs now, brother?"

  "I'll come up in a second. I gotta put my money away. I never showed my money jar to anybody, you know. Not even Vic. You're the only one who knows about it."

  "I'm very honored."

  "You are not."

  "Go on, be mad awhile, get it out of your system. I'll turn around while you hide it and then you can guide me back up those scary stairs."

  "Nahh. You don't have to wait. I'll put the light on for you." I went to the bottom of the stairs and flicked a switch I never bothered using when I was alone.

  "Co on up, Jenny, I'll meet ya there."

  With a stricken look on her
face she climbed the stairs while I put my jar away.

  Fuck her. Fuck Vic. Fuck the world. Why was it taking so long for me to fill up that jar? Had Connie discovered it and begun skimming off the top? A quarter here, half a buck there —who would notice? I took it out again and made a mark on the outside of it with a red grease pencil. If the cash level fell any lower than that, I would know there was a thief in the house.

  I joined them in the parlor and pouted through the rest of the ball game, sitting on the floor yoga-style. Inning by inning Jenny moved closer to me, until at last she was beside me. She put her hand on top of mine and we looked each other in the eye.

  "I'm your big sister, okay?" she whispered.

  "Okay, Jenny." It was impossible to stay mad at her. Roger Maris hit another home run. Vic whooped.

  "That buck is in the bag."

  When the game ended we walked them to the vestibule. Jenny shook hands with Connie and Angie, then took me in an embrace that nearly knocked the wind out of me. I was just starting to get that melting feeling I used to have with my mother when Connie ruined it with her inimitable timing.

  "Go home already before the sun sets and the colored come out with their knives."

  The two of them were out the door and running, not trotting, toward the elevated train. I watched them go, rubbing my hands up and down my torso to keep that feeling alive, but it was no use. It went away with a tingling sensation, like when your foot falls asleep and blood is just starting to flow again.

  "Thanks a lot, Connie," I said angrily, but she didn't even look at me. She just kept watching Jenny and Vic until they turned the corner.

  "It's my fault they met," she said to Angie. "I got him the job at Rudy's, she walked in and grabbed him."

  Angie made a croaky sound in his throat. "Maybe they grabbed each other." He went away.

  "I was married when I was her age," she said. "Married a year. Did I know what I was doin'? Eh, eh, eh." She pulled the door shut and walked past me to the parlor. She hadn't been speaking to me. She'd barely been speaking to herself.

  In all the excitement we'd forgotten to feed the chickens. While I threw food at them Angie watered the tomatoes, which were big and green.