Clear Blue Sky

by F. P. Lione

  “Y’alright, Ton?” she asked.

  “Yeah, Denise, I’m fine,” I said sarcastically. “What about you, Nick, what’s the damage?” I took a look at his face.

  “I’m gonna kill your brother,” he said matter-of-factly. “He sucker punched me while your cousin was holding my arms. He’ll pay for that.” His eye and nose were swollen. There was dried blood around his nose. He had a bloody towel filled with ice next to him.

  “You kicked him with a nice shot,” Denise said, kissing his cheek. “I know he’s rotten, but he’s still my brother. Plus, he was drunk, so don’t hurt him too much when you kill him.”

  “Your family has issues,” Romano said. “Makes my family look normal.”

  “We make everyone’s family look normal,” Denise said.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Nick,” I said.

  “You think Dad’s gonna get rid of Marie?” Denise asked me.

  “I don’t know,” I said with a shrug. “I can’t see him staying with her if she’s pregnant with Bobby Egan’s kid.”

  “She’s such a putana,” Denise said. “But Dad’s an idiot too. How could he not tell her he had a vasectomy?”

  “She probably wanted kids,” Romano said. “So he probably figured he’d keep her busy trying to have them and let her think there was something wrong with her, right? I mean, he already had three kids, so she’d probably think it was her that couldn’t have them.”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care,” I said. “I got my own problems now that Paulie made Michele think I’m a pervert.”

  “You’re not a pervert, Tony. Was she really that mad?” Denise asked. “She has no right to be. You’re not doing anything like that when you get married, and she can’t hold anything against you for things you did before you met her.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. So, Nick, you want to get going?” asked, changing the subject.

  “It’s only nine o’clock. I thought we were leaving at eleven?”

  “I know, but I gotta get outta here, Nick. I’m taking a shower. Did you bring clothes to change into?”

  “Yeah, and I borrowed a set of rubber boots and some rain gear; it’s in my car.”

  I showered and changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt and a pair of old sneakers. I packed shorts and a cut-off T-shirt and another set of dry clothes for the ride back home. My jaw was still sore from when Vinny hit me, but at least it wasn’t throbbing anymore.

  When we left, we had to walk through the crowd, which was bopping to some rap song with their glow-in-the-dark necklaces that the DJ gave out. Romano carried my bag, while I shouldered the cooler. He grabbed his clothes out of his car and put them in my truck, which was still parked up on Greely Avenue.

  Romano stayed with Denise practically until we drove away. I tried Michele at home and on her cell phone, but she didn’t pick up. Romano was leaning against my truck, glued to Denise.

  “Get a room or get in the car, Nick,” I finally had to yell at him when they stopped to make out in the street.

  “Have fun, Tony.” Denise leaned in and kissed my cheek. “When are you going back to work?”

  “Late tomorrow night,” I said.

  “Wanna have lunch Monday? I’m off,” she said.

  “Sure, call me Monday.”

  Her and Romano were blowing kisses and waving as we drove away.

  “Oh, gimme a break,” I said.

  We left the windows open on the ride out. The air was clear and warm, probably about 70 degrees. The roads were clear now that the summer was over and everybody’s lease ended on their houses down the Jersey Shore.

  “So how serious is this thing with you and my sister?” I asked Romano.

  He shrugged. “Why, you afraid you’re gonna be related to me?”

  “No, but you got a firsthand look at what you’re getting yourself into. I don’t mind if you don’t.”

  “Your father didn’t like me to begin with. Now he really hates me.”

  “He doesn’t even like Denise,” I said. “They fight constantly.”

  “If I marry Denise there’s no way I’m going to your grandmother’s every Sunday for macaroni. Besides, we probably won’t see them at all once you move out to Long Island. You’re only there for holidays now, and Denise only goes for you,” Nick said.

  “Really?” I don’t know why that surprised me. I guess I never looked at it that way.

  I slammed on my brakes when a private sanitation truck came flying through the red light on Sand Lane and cutting across two lanes, almost hitting us.

  “Look at this moron,” I said.

  “Hey!” Nick yelled, giving the driver the Italian salute and calling him a couple of choice names. “Go after him, Tony, he almost hit us.”

  “No, Nick,” I said. “I don’t need any more problems tonight.”

  There was a time I would have chased him down and tried to run him off the road, flipping him the bird and mouthing obscenities. I realized I hadn’t felt the urge to do that in a long time. I’d like to think it’s because I’ve changed enough over the past year and my fuse is much longer. Plus, Fiore used to drill into me “Better a patient man than a warrior, a man who controls his temper than one who takes a city,” which I translated into “You’re always sorry when you shoot your mouth off and converse with your fists.”

  Traffic was clear through the Belt Parkway and slowed down a little in Queens as we approached Kennedy Airport, but we still made it out to Fiore’s by 11:40.

  Donna was still up, packing sandwiches into a cooler. She was kissing Joe, telling him to be careful and have fun.

  Joe offered to drive, but he always drives the speed limit, which drives me nuts. This is why I always drive when he’s in the car. Even if we’re in a thirty-five mile an hour zone, he won’t go over the limit, and I wind up grinding my teeth the whole time.

  “So, Nick, it looks like things are getting serious with Denise,” Joe said.

  “Yeah, pretty much,” Romano said. “I think this might be it for me.”

  “Good,” Joe said, “I like Denise. She’s good for you, and you look happy.”

  “I am,” he said.

  I was eyeing Romano in the rearview mirror and caught him looking at me.

  “What?” he asked me.

  “Nothing,” I said, laughing. “I’m glad. I like you, Nick.”

  “I like you too, Tony.”

  “But if you mess with my sister, I’ll kill you.”

  “Oh, here we go.” He threw his hands up. “I knew you were gonna say that.”

  “Just so you know.”

  I took 27 out east toward Montauk. Both Romano and Joe fell asleep, leaving me to replay everything that happened over and over from the block party. I was thinking about Michele and Stevie, remembering Stevie crying when he left and how scared he looked. I didn’t see any real options here. I couldn’t expect Michele and Stevie to have to put up with all my family’s crap every time we saw them. I thought about what Joe told me about how family disputes escalate until they get violent. Things got ugly last Christmas, but I never thought of us as violent. The truth is, it’s exactly that kind of thing that cops get called for, drunk people beating the crap out of each other. Granted, this was the first time Vinny ever put his hands on me. Probably because he’s younger, we never fought that way. But still, it never came to blows before.

  I rolled the window down and lit a cigarette. Between being out in the sun all day and the crash from the adrenaline from the fight, I was exhausted. I put the radio on, but I was out of range for the city radio stations. Driving was different out here. There were no street lights and not a lot of traffic lights. The few cars I did see had their brights on, and every time a car passed I got blinded with the high beams. Even if I flicked my brights at them, they didn’t dim theirs.

  Fiore woke up as I was entering Montauk. He had directions printed off the computer, so he watched the road, telling me where to turn.

  I could s
mell the ocean before we got to the marina, that mix of salt and fish that I’d recognize anywhere. It’s like the smell of fresh-cut grass on the Little League field or my grandmother’s meatballs frying. It could make you homesick and happy at the same time. Nostalgic, I guess, is what you’d call it.

  Rooney, Galotti, and O’Brien were already at the dock when we got there. Rooney and O’Brien had beers in their hands and a cooler at their feet. I could tell Rooney was already lit. He started singing, “Hey, mambo, mambo Italiano. No, no, no, no more mozzarella,” as soon as he saw us.

  I just shook my head at him. He never heard the song until he went to my engagement party, so technically it’s my fault he won’t stop singing it. He didn’t know all the words to the song and changed them around to sing, “All the Cavaluccis do the mambo like a crazy.”

  Joe went onto the boat to say hello to the captain. He’d gone out with him before, and the captain knew his father.

  “Romano the rookie probee,” Rooney said, grabbing Romano in a bear hug and rubbing his knuckle into his scalp. “Good to see you, buddy. How do you like cleaning them toilets at the firehouse?”

  “I love it, Mike,” Romano said.

  “What happened to your face?” Rooney stepped back to get a look at it. Romano was already getting a black eye.

  “Ah, nothin’,” Romano said. “You should see the other guy.”

  I was glad Romano didn’t tell him, it shows loyalty. Plus, he knows not to air your dirty laundry to someone like Rooney.

  “The mate’s a fireman,” Rooney said, nodding toward the boat.

  “Really?” Romano asked. “What house?”

  “He’s from out here,” Rooney said. “You know, real firemen who love to fight fires so much they do it for free.”

  Outside the city all the fire departments are volunteers. I mean, I’m sure there’s a lot of perks to it, but they don’t get paid like FD.

  “Hey, I would’ve volunteered before I went on,” Romano said.

  “Yeah, I know, kid. You love being a fireman.” Rooney rubbed his head again and added, “You still wearing those pajamas with the fire trucks on them?”

  “Mike, how do you know what kind of pajamas Romano wears?” O’Brien threw in.

  “He bought them for me,” Romano said.

  The captain, who’s name was Rich, came out to introduce himself and the mate, who was his son-in-law.

  “You guys been out before?” he asked, shaking our hands.

  “I’ve gone out twice for tuna,” I said.

  “Just once for me,” Nick said.

  “I think Bruno’s the only one that’s never been out before,” Joe said. “Right, Bruno?”

  “No, I’ve never even been on a boat before,” Bruno said. “Unless you count the Staten Island Ferry.”

  “Just the boat that brought him to America,” Rooney said.

  “Once we’re out, we’re not coming back in,” Captain Rich said. “So make sure you want to do this.”

  It’s true. The first time I went out for tuna, Mike Ellis was sick as a dog and they wouldn’t turn back. He was also wasted and spent the entire trip puking and passing out down on one of the beds.

  “I think I’ll be alright,” Bruno said. “I took Dramamine.”

  Rooney was already getting obnoxious with the captain.

  “Rich, come here,” he said like they’d been friends for years.

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re Irish, right?”

  “Yeah,” he said, skeptical.

  “Look at the shirt he’s wearing.” He pointed at Romano’s shirt.

  “What’s it mean?”

  Romano had on a T-shirt from the San Gennaro feast. It was faded enough to be a couple of years old, and it had a picture of the American flag and the Italian flag and said, “America. We discovered it. We built it. We feed it.”

  “You’re an Irishman, tell them who discovered America.”

  The captain looked exactly like you’d think he would: tan, weathered face, sturdy and stocky, with a beard. He was wearing an old baseball hat, beige work pants, and a sweatshirt. He had no idea what Rooney was talking about, and he threw out, “Christopher Columbus?”

  “No!” Rooney said. “If you were a real Irishman, you’d know this.”

  “As far as I know it was Christopher Columbus.”

  “You never heard about Saint Brendan the Abbot? He discovered America in the sixth century.”

  We all looked at him like he lost his mind.

  “No, I’m serious. Back in the seventies someone even made the trip to prove it could be done. They made the same kind of boat, a curragh, just like the one he would have used and sailed to Canada.”

  “Mike, it’s too early for this,” I said.

  Rooney is always telling us all this useless stuff about the Irish. He swears Hell’s Kitchen got its name from Davy Crockett, something about the Irish in the old Lower East Side slums were too mean to swab hell’s kitchen. How could that be true? I mean, why would Davy Crockett the wilderness guy name Hell’s Kitchen? Another favorite of Rooney’s is that West Side Story is about the Irish and Puerto Ricans in Hell’s Kitchen. I guess that could be true, but Rooney says it like it has something to do with him.

  The captain and the mate exchanged a look, probably wondering if Rooney was gonna get out of hand. I saw Joe give him a “He’s alright” nod and say, “He’ll pass out on the ride out, it’ll give him time to sleep it off.”

  We were going out to the Hudson Canyon, which is about an eighty-mile run that would take between four and five hours. We would go out to water between seven hundred and three thousand feet, to the edge of the canyon where the Atlantic abyss, which is about five thousand feet, is. I didn’t know all this off the top of my head, just bits and pieces of what Lou Fiore told me.

  We left the marina at exactly 2:00, idling until we got past the jetty and the captain let it go. The wind picked up and a light spray hit us, making me cold enough to grab my sweatshirt. The night was clear, with a quarter moon.

  When we were out far enough and you couldn’t see land, it was hard to distinguish where the water ended and the sky started. It was so dark, and there were a million stars out. It was a little scary out on the water with everything looking the same in every direction. I was thinking we could get lost out here, but I guess with technology the way it is with the GPS, the radio, and the cell phones, somebody would find us.

  It was a weird feeling, the water and the sky were so huge. It reminded me of the movie Titanic when they already hit the iceberg and were sending up flares. The ship seemed so huge throughout the whole movie, but then the camera pulled back and you saw the flares shooting up into the air over the massive ocean. The flares looked like fireworks overhead, and the ship looked so insignificant compared to the vastness of the ocean.

  Denise loves that movie, and I’ll admit I watched it with her a couple of times. Personally, I think the reason the ship sank was because of the knucklehead that said, “God himself couldn’t sink this ship.” Rule of thumb, you say something like that to God, you better duck.

  At one point I actually saw a shooting star. I’d only seen that once before, when I was a kid, and I stood there staring at the sky, looking for it to happen again.

  Rooney, O’Brien, and Romano fell asleep. Bruno was freezing in a T-shirt. Since this was his first time out fishing, he didn’t realized it would get chilly. I gave him my sweatshirt and got a kick out of him trying not to get too close to the edge of the boat while he looked over the side.

  I was waking up now from the cool, salty air. I started talking to the mate about TWA flight 800, which went down somewhere in these waters and is still a big thing to most of the people who live out this way.

  Flight 800 was the Paris-bound plane that went down five years ago off Long Island, eleven minutes after taking off out of Kennedy Airport. Captain Rich and the mate were volunteers who went out of the Moriches Inlet to do rescue. Since there were no surv
ivors, it was a recovery effort, and we started talking about it.

  “That had to be horrendous,” I said. “Did you find a lot of bodies?”

  “There were some bodies floating,” he said. “But it was mostly body parts that we put into those medical waste containers and loaded on the deck of the boat. I remember Texas Instruments overnighted those FLIRs, the forward looking infrared that we used with the search. We picked up everything, luggage, clothes, sneakers.”

  “So what do you think happened?” I asked. “Are you buying the center fuel tank explosion theory?” There was a lot of controversy over the whole thing, and since he was there, I thought maybe he’d know something.

  “I honestly don’t know,” he said. “There was a massive investigation. The place was swarming with feds, and they talked to anyone who saw anything. They interviewed me at my house, writing down everything I said, asking me if I had any pictures or video. The people that did the independent investigation were retired Navy and Air Force; some had retired from TWA.” He shrugged. “I mean, they had credibility. They felt the plane was shot down by shoulder-fired missiles. They said the government rigged the lab tests and lied in their reports. There were also a lot of witnesses out that night, and they all said they saw something hit that plane. One guy had been a pilot in Vietnam. He saw the crash that night, and he said something definitely shot the aircraft down.”

  “I heard they thought maybe it was friendly fire.”

  There were a lot of witnesses who saw what happened that night. Later on they took out an ad in the Washington Times, demanding to be heard. Most of the witnesses reported seeing a flare, others said roman candles or other fireworks, some said shooting stars, and others said a meteor flare. They may have varied on whether it was a firework or a flare, but all of them saw something streak toward the plane and then it exploded. Some felt it was a heat-seeking missile because they saw it change course.

  Most witnesses reported seeing an initial small explosion, followed by a larger one. Most said it looked like something was launched from the ground, probably off a boat. It was a clear night, probably a lot like it was tonight, and there was nothing to hinder visibility. I know that most of the plane was retrieved from the water and reconstructed somewhere out in Calverton. But it was the kind of thing where there’s almost too much information and no straight answers. I think the thing that flagged me was the Navy stepping in and tossing out the divers who had jurisdiction in the area.