Shepherd Avenue

by Charlie Carillo

  Vic let go of his fingers. "And that's the whole story. You guys split from the house and never came back. Because of a damn bowl of soup. And you want to know why I'm splitting."

  He was out of breath but he lit a cigarette. "Fucking mad­house," he kept murmuring. "Fucking madhouse."

  He bent over to rummage through a drawer. His tight T-shirt clung to his ribs, which stuck out like ladder rungs. I stood on his rough mattress, horsehair crinkling under my feet, and then I sailed through the air and landed on his back. Upon impact I wrapped my arms around his hard torso. Vic plunged forward and cracked his forehead against the dresser mirror, but it didn't break. He only lost his balance momentarily.

  "What the f – "

  "Asshole, asshole, asshole!" I hissed. I made a fist and punched at his head. I hit his ear, his cheek, his mouth. I felt a stab of pain shoot through my middle knuckle as I caught a tooth.

  Vic backpedaled to his bed and shook me off. The fall seemed to take forever, and when I landed I felt the wind get knocked from my lungs.

  He pinned me down by my wrists. I tried to kick his balls but he crossed his lower leg over my knees to hold me in place. His bare teeth were clenched.

  "You're getting mad at the wrong guy, Joe. I'm just feeding you the truth."

  I spat at him. He hadn't expected that, and put a hand to his wet eye. I made a fist and caught him on the chin with a punch. He drew his fist back behind his head. His eyes were wild with rage, but suddenly he loosened his fist and let his arm drop.

  "What am I, crazy?" he asked himself. "God, as if you haven't been through enough."

  And suddenly my fury was gone, too, as if I'd been injected with a calming drug. Vic released my other wrist and took his leg off me. He moved his chin from side to side, checking for busted bones. "We Ambrosios," he said. "We should each live alone on a mountaintop, I think."

  I lay limp on the bed, not answering him.

  "You got some punch," he commented. "I'm tastin' blood here."

  "I'm leaving too, Vic."

  "Not with me you aren't."

  "I don't wanna go with you. I got my own money and every­thing. I'm going in a few days."

  "Lotsa luck, Joe. Drive carefully."

  Right to the end he didn't believe me. Good, good — it was just as well. He'd find out I hadn't been kidding the first time he got in touch with Connie and Angie. If he ever intended to get in touch with them.

  "Angie'll miss you," I said.

  Vic nodded and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "I'll miss him, too. I got nothing against my old man, or you."

  I blinked bleary eyes at him. "Sorry I spit at you."

  "It wipes right off. . . . Christ, is that smoke I smell?"

  He yanked the dresser away from the wall. The whole house seemed to shudder with the wood-scraping sound. "My fucking cig went down there when you jumped me!" He knelt and pounded the floor with his palm, then mashed the butt out in an ashtray.

  "That woulda been some going-away present, to burn the house down. Mighta done some good, in this crazy place."

  He pushed the dresser back in place, wincing at the noise it made. It was incredible how Connie and Angie could sleep through all the ruckus.

  "You seen my leather jacket?"

  "You left it in the basement."

  He went to get it. I went to Angie's room and shook him awake.

  "You sick?"

  "No. Listen, Angie, in a coupla minutes come to our room."

  "What's goin' on?"

  "Just come. Pretend you got up to get a glass of water."

  I made it back to my cot before Vic returned with the jacket, my entire body drumskin-tight. Angie arrived slit-eyed, rubbing his crotch. Slightly overacted, I thought.

  "Hey, what's goin' on?"

  Vic froze, shot a stare at me. I peered back at him and feigned wide-eyed innocence. He zipped his jacket.

  "I'm going to Boston, Pop."

  Angie's shoulders sagged inside his loose undershirt. He didn't seem too surprised. "You shaved that beard. Did the hair go down my drain?"

  "Nah, I did it over the wastebasket."

  Vic let Angie touch his face. "Soft as a baby's. Your mother would pay a million bucks to see it again. Wait till morning."

  "Forget it."

  "Come on. She ain't a monster."

  "I don't want to see her and that's it."

  Angie shrugged. There didn't seem to be any fight left in him. He plopped onto the edge of Vic's bed, making the springs squeak. Vic stuck his head out the door and looked in the direction of Connie's room, but she was still snoring.

  "Don't try to wake her up like that, Pop, that's sneaky."

  "It was an accident. . . . You're a grown man. You wanna go, go."

  Vic nodded, closed his suitcase and wet his lips. "I lied, Pop. I never hated baseball. It kills me that I couldn't cut it." He put his face in his hands. "Whenever I struck out down there it was like I could hear God laughing at me."

  Angie stood and patted Vic's shoulder. "So? He's laughin' at all of us. Why do you think he put us here? For kicks, that's why."

  Vic seemed startled. "You believe that?"

  Angie pushed his hair back. "After this summer I don't know what I believe. But what I said before still sticks — you leave now, that's it. Visit all you want, call all you want. But you can't call this place home no more."

  "It's a deal."

  Vic told Angie about the job waiting for him in Boston. Angie didn't even seem to be listening, and then he said, "At least leave her a note, a short letter. Takes five minutes to write."

  "No."

  "Victor. Don't you think you owe your mother a good-bye?"

  The whites in Vic's eyes gleamed. "Did she say good-bye when I left for West Virginia? Huh? How the hell was I supposed to concentrate on baseball when I didn't even have my mother behind me? You got any idea what it's like when your favorite person in the world . . ."

  A sob that was almost feminine bubbled from Vic. He swal­lowed it and opened his eyes wide again. "Where was she?" he asked. "Where was she when the rest of Shepherd Avenue was out in front of the house the day I left? Am I supposed to forget that?"

  "Nobody in this house ever forgot anything," Angie hissed. "We got memories like elephants. Come on, Victor, be differ­ent."

  But Vic shook his head. "I'm no pioneer, Pop. Just let me go." He wiped his eyes and took a long breath. "I'm sorry I lied about hating baseball."

  They embraced, Vic's leather jacket crinkling.

  "Do one thing for me," Angie said over Vic's shoulder. "Don't hate her. Love her. Can you promise me that?"

  "Sure."

  "No, no, you answered too quick. When you're gone think of the good stuff, then call her up. Okay?"

  Vic nodded, too willingly to be convincing, but by that time Angie was eager to believe anything. They pulled away from each other.

  "Go," Angie said. "I'd walk you to the door but I don't know when I'll see you again, and I don't want to miss you too much. I ain't a kid, I don't handle it good anymore."

  His feet shuffled on the carpet on the way to his room.

  "I'll mail Johnny a wedding present," Vic said, but I don't think Angie heard him. Vic leaned over and kissed my fore­head — how soft his skin was!

  "So long, Joseph." He made a show of taking the Jenny Sutherland painting off the desk and tucking it under his arm. I listened for the sound of the front door closing. Connie con­tinued to snore. He'd made it.

  A minute later Angie appeared in my doorway. "You crying?" he asked.

  "A little."

  "We're both gonna catch it from her, you know. Pretty smart of you, waking me up so we could share the blame."

  I wiped my eyes, thinking how Angie and Connie would blame each other when I took off.

  Connie shocked us with her reaction to the news of Vic's departure.

  "Thought I heard the door slam last night," she said, con­tinuing to spoon coffee into the pot.


  Angie and I looked at each other as if we'd just watched a fuse burn to the nub of a dud firecracker.

  "That's all you got to say?" Angie asked.

  She shrugged. "Whaddya want me to do, cry?"

  The next afternoon it was as if the weather were making up for Connie's tranquility with a rattling hailstorm. Angie put on a floppy yellow raincoat and ran to the backyard, ordering me to stay behind. Through the window I could see that the hail­stones were the size of mothballs and bounced like marbles.

  Five minutes later Angie came back inside with a small basket filled with muddy green tomatoes. At the sight of them I started to cry.

  "You killed them!" I screamed. "We worried all summer about the chickens killing them and then you did it!"

  He wrestled his way out of the raincoat. "If I hadn't done it they woulda gotten smashed."

  "Damn it!" I hollered, pounding my fists on the table. He wrapped his arms around me.

  "Hey, calm down!"

  "I hate this place," I sobbed, wondering if I could stand to stick around those few days before Mel's birthday. The strength ebbed from Angie's grip.

  "You don't mean that," he said hopefully.

  "Lemme go!" I kicked at his legs, squirmed my head, wriggled like a fish. Angie recovered his strength, lifted me, carried me to the couch, and tossed me down on my belly. He pressed one hand between my shoulder blades and the other against the back of my head.

  What strength, even greater than Vic's! My face was flattened so hard against the cushion that stemless yellow flowers bloomed on the insides of my eyelids. I felt as helpless as those pegged lobsters I'd seen that day at the Fulton Fish Market. Angie relaxed the pressure long enough for me to turn my head aside to breathe.

  "You calmed down?"

  "Yeah," I gasped.

  "Pretty strong for an old man, huh?" he said, recalling my remark during the drive to Roslyn. "Am I hurting you?"

  "Can't move."

  "That's the idea, but am I hurting you?"

  "No."

  "All right." He leaned down and put his mouth against my ear. "Your father's coming back, I swear he's coming back, may I be struck dead this instant if he doesn't."

  He paused, I guess to give God a chance to throw down a bolt of lightning. Hailstones clattered but that was all.

  My muscles relaxed. He let me go. "He's already back and he doesn't want me."

  "Ayyyy . . . follow me. Bring the basket." He picked up the Journal-American on our way to the wine cellar.

  Without wiping off the mud he took each tomato and wrapped it in a generous sheet of newspaper, passing them to me as he finished each one. "Lay them back in the basket," he instructed.

  I obeyed. That dirt-floored comer of the basement had a deep, earthy smell that seemed to eat into my lungs.

  "How come you hate my house?"

  "I didn't mean that, Angie."

  "Didn't think so. Be careful what you say. It's not so pretty but she's a good house." He wiped mud off the end of his nose. "When you're mad about somethin', scream about what's both­erin' you, not somethin' else."

  He took the basket and set it behind some empty green gallon jugs that had once contained Freddie Gallo's wine.

  "We'll come back soon," he said. "They'll be red like blood."

  I didn't have much time to wait. "How soon?"

  "Soon."

  "C'mon, Angie, how come they'll turn red?"

  "Magic." He reached for the string overhead and clicked off the light.

  Days later classes started at nearby P.S. 108. They didn't register me, believing my father would be back any day now, so Connie warned me to stay off the street in case the truant officer came around.

  But I wanted to make one last bottle hunt, figuring Mel and I would need every cent we could scrape together. As I searched I kept looking over my shoulder for the truant officer, not even knowing what he looked like.

  It was a big load, around thirty bottles. The glass felt cold in my hand, as if to herald the changing of seasons my skin couldn't yet detect.

  I told Nat he wouldn't be seeing me anymore and he wanted to know why.

  "My father's coming back to get me," I said. "We're moving back to our old house in Roslyn."

  Nat's brow knotted. "I thought you told me he sold that house."

  I swallowed. "Yeah, but he bought it again 'cause I told him I wanted to go back." A jingling noise; the coins were shaking in my loose hand.

  He believed me, his face loosening into a smile. "That's wonderful, Joseph! I knew you weren't really happy around here. That sad little face coming through my door . . . see how everything worked out?"

  We shook hands. "My God, that's quite a grip," he said. "The first time we shook it was like a dead fish."

  "I was just a kid then."

  He shocked me by tipping me two dollars — paper bills, no less. I'd always thought Nat dealt strictly in coins, carrying buckets of change around to pay bills.

  Nat patted my cheek. "You buy your father a nice present. After-shave lotion, something nice."

  He walked me to the door, something he'd never done before. He had skin the color of bean sprouts grown in darkness. He tilted his face to the sun and shook his head, as if in wonderment of all those people who lay on beaches to soak up its poisonous rays. His eyes were wet, but not from the sun.

  "Your father's coming home. Dear Cod in heaven, what I wouldn't give to see my daddy again." He looked at me. "Come see me when you visit. Don't tell Zip I tipped you, he'll have five heart attacks."

  I stopped painting. Mostly I just hung around the chickens, biding time. I liked the idea of having to be on the lam from the truant officer. Good practice for my escape, when they'd all be hunting for me.

  Angie and I took away the fence separating the birds from the tomato plants, now that there was no fruit to protect. They attacked the plants so savagely it was scary. Those birds had doubled in size since coming to Shepherd Avenue.

  Connie came out with a newspaper wadded full of garbage. She had me dump it in the middle of the yard and instantly the chickens were upon it - tomato and bell pepper seeds and stems, orange rinds, potato peels.

  They made a ragged circle around it, bobbing and clucking, occasionally pecking one another. I kicked a clump of food toward the one that would come with me to Patchogue.

  "Always hungry." Connie's voice was dreamy, far away. It was strange to hear that tone from her. "You feed 'em and feed 'em and you can't fill 'em."

  I heard water running inside, striking a tinny surface. Angie was taking a shower. Dusk: the purple-hued night-lights went on over at the hamburger joint, making it glow like a spaceship.

  "Angie says they'd never run away, even if we took the gate down."

  Connie snorted, unimpressed. "Why should they? They got it good here and they know it."

  She opened the gate and entered the yard, something she rarely did. She crouched, groaning against her bulk, and put a hand to a white bird's tail. The bird jumped forward and lifted her wings but didn't stop eating.

  "How come you stay, hmm?" Connie crooned. She touched its tail again. "Hmm?"

  "They don't like to be touched when they're eating, Connie." "Too bad. It's my food, I'll touch 'em if I want."

  "Connie . . ."

  She ignored me. The shower was still running. "How come you birds hang around, when I got two sons that ran away, one of them twice?"

  With a snakelike thrust Connie's hand was under the bird like a pancake spatula. Her fingers gripped the yellow feet. She held the squawking, flopping bird bouquet at arms' length as she stood.

  "Put her down, Connie!" She shook it. "You're hurting her!" Connie studied the bird's face, pinched its food-gorged crop. It tried to peck her. She slapped its head.

  "It's sick," she said. "This chicken has the fever."

  "What fever? She's fine," I said scornfully.

  "Oh, no, no, no. Look at the eyes." She grabbed its beak between thumb and forefinger and held the head
close to my eyes. "See how black the eyes are?"

  "They're always like that, Connie. Put her down."

  "I bet they all have the fever. Only one thing to do."

  Her left hand found the bird's neck, then the right. Yellow feet clawed the air, and with a horrible muffled crunch Connie twisted its neck.

  The bird let out a high, thin squeal and dumped a load of white dung down Connie's dress before its wings and neck finally sagged in death.

  "That's one."

  My screams rang off the buildings surrounding the yard. Before turning to run inside I saw Connie toss the dead bird aside and crouch to reach for another. None of the survivors had stopped eating, even for an instant.

  I pounded on the bathroom door, screaming Angie's name. "Use the toilet downstairs!" he yelled.

  I shoved the door open. Soaking wet, Angie was hitching a towel around his hips.

  "What the hell -"

  "Connie's killing the birds, make her stop oh God God God - "

  "Jesus Christ on the cross . . ."

  He was in and out of his room in seconds, tugging on pants over wet legs, the towel draped around his neck. I ran behind him. The smell of his after-shave lotion made everything seem even more urgent.

  Salt and Pepper was in her hands when we got to the yard.

  It was as if she'd been waiting for us to appear before dealing the final death blow.

  "Don't," Angie breathed.

  When she was through twisting its neck Connie tossed my favorite bird onto the feathery pile, then spanked her hands together before turning to leave the yard. The front of her dress was streaked with dung. It looked like a modern art drip painting.

  "Sick, every one of them," she said to Angie in the tone of a doctor. "Nobody wants sick chickens."

  He gripped her shoulders. "Are you crazy, woman? Just tell me that, are you nuts?"

  She wriggled out of his grasp. "Don't touch me."

  "What made you - "

  "I told you. They were sick. Get rid of them. Leave me alone." Sentences like telegrams. She went in and the screen door slammed shut.