I paid him on the spot, cash as always, four crisp fifties. He smiled at the money, sniffing the bills as if they were a bouquet of roses.
“You’re goin’ to a lot of trouble to plant a few flowers, man.”
“I don’t want flowers.”
“Vegetables?”
“No. Well, maybe a few tomato plants, but that’s not the main thing.”
“The main thing. Oh boy. Let’s hear it.”
“Well, we had chickens here when I was a kid.”
“Here we go.”
“They laid eggs and everything.”
“Eggs are cheap, Mr. A. You hear what I’m sayin’? Don’t need no damn barnyard if you want a few eggs.”
“I’ll bet you know where to get live chickens.”
“Yeah, and I’ll bet you know it’s against the law in Brooklyn.”
“Eddie, I’m going to do this thing. I’m not worried about getting a ticket. The question is, are you going to help me?”
He clapped cement dust off his hands, slowly and dramatically. I was getting to know him pretty well, and suspected I was in for a screwing.
“It’s gonna cost you,” he said in a singsong voice. “The risk goes up, the price goes up.”
“I want half-a-dozen hens, no roosters. Last thing I need is neighbors bitching about the crowing.”
“I hear you.”
“Can you handle it?”
He pursed his lips. “Do I get to build the coop and the fence?”
Stupidly, I hadn’t thought of that. “Have you ever built a chicken coop?”
“No, but what’s the big deal? It’s a condo for chickens. They ain’t fussy, long as they’re out o’ the rain. The fence is more important. Don’t want no chickens runnin’ down Atlantic Avenue. Four feet high, all the way around the yard. That oughta do it. Fuckers can’t fly, right?”
“How much, Eddie?”
A deep, long sigh. Eddie liked you to believe that your expense was as painful to him as it was to you.
“Fence and the coop? Let’s say two-fifty, not including materials. That’ll be another hundred and fifty, probably.”
Four hundred bucks. I nodded. “And the birds?”
Now he inhaled through clenched teeth, the way a man does when he cuts himself shaving. “Another two hundred.”
I laughed out loud. “Eddie. Come on!”
“Hey, I’m breakin’ the law doin’ this! You wasn’t listenin’ to my little speech about risk? I get caught, it’s my ass!”
“Six chickens for two hundred bucks? Know what that comes to per pound?”
“Yeah, well, it’s different when they’re alive. You want six Perdue oven-stuffer roasters, gimme fifty bucks.”
He smiled. He knew he had me. I reached into my pocket, took out a wad of bills and peeled off six Benjamin Franklins. Eddie’s eyes were as big as baseballs.
“Jesus, man, you always walk around with that kinda money?”
“I do when I’m dealing with you.” I slapped the bills in his hand. “That covers everything, right?”
“You are a trusting soul, you know that, Mr. A?”
“How soon can you get going on this?”
“I’m already on it, man. Gonna get what I need for the coop and the fence right now.”
“I want this done soon, Eddie. And don’t tell anybody what we’ve got going on.”
He pocketed the bills and saluted me. “Name, rank and serial number. That’s all they ever get outta me.”
Eddie took off. I went to the backyard and used the pick to loosen the soil, plowing away like a farmer. I liked the way the yard looked with the soil loosened, as if awaiting seed. A few hours later Eddie returned with lumber and chicken wire, which I helped him carry to the yard.
“How’d you find chicken wire in Brooklyn?”
“Wasn’t easy.”
It was late, too late for Eddie to start building. He promised to return first thing in the morning. I went inside, tired and sore. A long, hot bath left me even more tired, and I collapsed on my bed for an early-evening nap, from which I was jolted by a knock on the door.
It was dark. I’d been asleep for hours. I went to answer the door, stupid with sleep, and there stood Rose, carrying a six-pack of Budweiser.
“You want company, Jo-Jo?”
I let her in and she quickly closed the door behind her, as if to elude anyone who might have been following.
“I woke you, huh?”
“What time is it?”
“Little after ten. Justin’s back from Arizona. He fell asleep five minutes ago. Come on, let’s go, I can’t stay long.”
And before I could respond her mouth was on mine, and she was pushing me backwards to the bedroom with one hand while clutching that six-pack of Bud with the other.
* * *
An hour later she rested naked in my arms, but did not sleep, sipping slowly on her third beer.
“Why you got all that wood out there in your yard?”
“Special project.”
“You ain’t gonna tell me what it is?”
“Not just yet.”
“I saw you outside the Laundromat, you know.”
That shocked me. “Oh.”
“What was you doin,’ spyin’ on me?”
I hoped it was too dark for her to see my red face. “Just wanted to . . . see where you work.”
“Oh yeah. ‘Cause it’s just so interesting to work in a Laundromat, huh?”
She giggled and playfully punched my chest. Suddenly, like a fireman at the sound of the alarm, she jumped out of bed and began pulling on her clothes.
“What’s going on, Rose?”
“It’s late, I gotta go.”
“Why?”
“In case he gets up.”
“Rose. It’s one in the morning!”
“Yeah, well, he might get thirsty, get up for a glass o’ water, and what if I ain’t there?”
“He gets up for a glass of water?”
She pointed at me. “Hey, that’s your fault. All that runnin’ you make him do, he gets thirsty!”
“What’s the deal with Arizona State? Is he going there?”
“He ain’t sure yet. That’s another thing. Colleges, agents, sportswriters, they call the house all the time, don’t matter what time it is. Phone could wake him up.”
She finished tying her sneakers and was ready to go, kissing my forehead before bounding out of my bedroom. I hopped along after her, nearly tripping as I struggled to get my underpants on.
“I’ll walk you home, Rose.”
“No, you will not.”
“Don’t worry, I don’t want to come inside.”
A sly smile. “Didn’t you just do that, coupla times?”
“Oh, man . . .”
She giggled, nuzzled my neck and kissed me. “Be a good boy, Jo-Jo. I’ll see you soon.”
She reached for the doorknob but I leaned my weight against the door, keeping it closed. She didn’t like that.
“Come on, Jo-Jo,” she said in a grave voice, “I ain’t gonna be nobody’s prisoner.”
I took my weight off the door. “Just please talk to me, Rose.”
“About what?”
“About this. What we’re doing, here.”
She shrugged. “We’re havin’ some fun, that’s all. No strings, all right? You cool with that?”
I shook my head. “Those have been my lines for forty years. Funny to hear somebody else saying them.”
“Well, good. Means we understand each other, right?”
“I guess.”
“Don’t be lookin’ at me like a little boy just dropped his ice cream!” She took my face in her hands. “You’re havin’ a good time, right?”
“Yes, if it doesn’t kill me.”
“You don’t wanna get married again, do you?”
“I’ve never been married.”
She seemed surprised. “Ain’t you got a daughter?”
“Daughter, yes. Ex-wife, no.”
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“Okay, so it ain’t like you wanna walk down the aisle, an old man like you, right?”
“Watch yourself, I’ll hit you with my cane.”
She laughed out loud. “I like you, Jo-Jo. Let’s not go nuts over this, all right?”
“Okay.”
She turned the doorknob. I caught her by the elbow, ever so gently.
“Thing is, every time you go, I feel like it might be the last time I’ll ever see you.”
She eeled her way out of my grasp, pinched my cheek and opened the door.
“Makes it more exciting, right?”
Before I could answer she was out the door and down my stoop, walking briskly as she crossed the street on silent feet, as if she’d just pulled a bank heist and didn’t want to attract attention by running. I watched the last few steps of her journey, up the steps to her house and through the door, which she was careful not to slam.
She was so close: the distance of one of her son’s throws from deep in the hole at shortstop to first base, that close. But really, she was a million miles away.
It bothered me. It bothered me that we were carrying on like a couple of thieves in the night. It bothered me that I was old enough to be her father. It bothered me that she was calling the shots in whatever it was we were doing.
It bothered me that I was falling for her.
Chapter Fourteen
“So,” said Nat, “nu?”
I loved that economical Yiddish way of asking a person what was happening, without using a verb. Sitting beside him on Atlantic Avenue, I told him about Justin Wilson and his baseball future, to which Nat could only shrug. He didn’t care about sports. I wasn’t ready to tell him about Justin’s mother and me—that was a dangerous bit of gossip, something I could barely admit to myself.
Nat raised his eyebrows at my plan to raise chickens in the yard, and when I told him I’d seen Johnny Gallo he all but cackled with glee.
“I remember that kid! Good-lookin’! Had a lotta trouble keeping it in his pants, didn’t he?”
I had to laugh, hoping I’d sound something like this if I ever got to be ninety-eight years old. “He was a swordsman, all right.”
“Got some girl pregnant, didn’t he?”
“She’s his wife.”
“Still?”
“Amazing, isn’t it?”
Nat sighed and watched the traffic for a silent minute. Then he hesitated before saying, “Wasn’t your mother pregnant with you when your father married her?”
“That’s the rumor. Never confirmed. Caused a big rift in the family between my mother and my grandmother, though.”
“Ahhh, it doesn’t matter.” He waved a bony hand. “Your mother loved your father. He loved her. They were happy. That’s what matters. Not like that grandmother of yours. A bitter, bitter woman.”
“Well, she didn’t have it easy. Trying to raise a family during the Great Depression—”
“Wrong, wrong! That’s not why she was like that! It’s because she was second choice!”
I was baffled as well as startled by Nat’s outburst. “Whose second choice?”
“Angie’s! You didn’t know that? Your grandfather was keepin’ company with Connie’s sister, Josephine. Josephine met another guy and dumped him, so he turned around and went for Connie.”
I swallowed. “Just to spite Josephine?”
Nat shrugged. “Who knows? Angie was a nice guy. But even nice guys get mad once in a while.”
“I never even knew Connie had a sister.”
“She died young. But she was Angie’s first choice and Connie knew it. That’ll stay with a woman, know what I mean, Joey? They all wanna be the queen.”
“You know a lot about women for a guy who never got married, Nat.”
“I never got married because I know too much.” He sighed and stared at the sky, as if in search of the key to an unsolvable mystery. “Sometimes I think I woulda been a lot happier if I were a little stupider. Know what I mean? I think too much, Joey.”
“So stop thinking, find yourself the wrong woman and settle down, already.”
“Yeah, you wish. We’ll have my funeral right after the wedding. You can be my best man and my undertaker.”
“I’ll write a toast and bring a shovel.”
Nat cackled. “You’re all right, you know that, kid? You weren’t here long, but these streets sure rubbed off on you.”
I sank back in the folding chair. “My grandmother had a sister. Who knew?”
“Funny thing is, Connie was a lot prettier than Josephine. Nicer, too.”
I had to chuckle. “Never heard anyone use the word nice to describe my grandmother.”
Nat blinked watery eyes and blew his nose with a trembling hand.
“She wasn’t very nice to your chickens, was she?”
My scalp tingled. “No, Nat, she wasn’t.”
The chickens. Oh boy. I was surprised Nat knew about it, but then again, what happened to my chickens in 1961 was the stuff of neighborhood legends, and legends die hard.
* * *
It was the most horrifying thing I’d ever witnessed. My grandfather had bought a bunch of chickens to keep in the backyard, young pullets that quickly grew into full-grown egg-layers. I fed the birds and collected the eggs, tasks I was happy to perform, but it all came to an end one sunny afternoon when my grandmother caught and strangled the birds, one by one, claiming they were sick.
That was bullshit. She’d had a meltdown because my father was AWOL and so was Vic, hitting the road after his baseball career crashed without even saying good-bye to her. That crazy summer had worn the old lady down, and she lashed out against the chickens.
In the midst of the slaughter I ran to the house to get my grandfather, but by the time we returned Connie was twisting the neck of the last bird, which evacuated horribly all over the front of her dress before she dropped it.
And of course this was the story that dominated my next session with Dr. Rosensohn, after telling him that I was going to raise chickens in my backyard.
“Wow.”
“You can say that again, Doc.”
“What was it like for you, seeing your grandmother kill those chickens?”
“Unpleasant.”
“I’m going to need more than that, Mr. Ambrosio.”
“Come on, man! I’m ten years old, feeding my birds, and the old lady suddenly picks one up and twists its fucking neck! It shits all over her, and she doesn’t even seem to notice! I think it’s fair to say I was traumatized!”
“What were the other birds doing?”
“Jesus, I don’t know. They were running around. I remember a lot of squawking. Then Connie caught another one and did the exact same thing.”
“So she killed two birds in front of you, and then you ran to get your grandfather.”
“Right.”
He scrawled something on his notepad, or maybe it was just a doodle. “I’m just wondering . . .”
“Stop wondering and ask me.”
“Well, by the time your grandfather got there, all the birds were dead, is that right?”
“Actually, she was just killing the last one. That bird let out some shriek, I can tell you that.”
Rosensohn hesitated before asking: “Instead of running to get your grandfather, why didn’t you try to stop her yourself?”
I laughed out loud, for the first time ever in his office. “Doc, please. This was not a woman to be stopped, especially not by a little kid. Even if Angie had gotten there, I’m not sure he could have stopped her. Connie was a hurricane. You got out of her way, or you got flattened.”
Rosensohn was looking right into my eyes, with breakthrough written all over his chubby face.
“You’ve never been married, have you, Mr. Ambrosio?”
“Oh, are we done with the chickens, now?”
“Because it occurs to me that after your mother died, Connie became your major model for what a woman is.”
“Hmm.”
> “And it sounds to me like she was one fearsome model.”
“Are you married, Doc?”
The question jolted him. “I am,” he said after a moment.
“How’s it going?”
“We aren’t here to discuss my marriage.”
“If a guy’s going to say that my fucked-up history with women is all because of my chicken-murdering grandmother, I’m going to want to know a little about that guy.”
He took off his glasses and slowly wiped the lenses with his handkerchief.
“My wife and I are well-suited.”
“What the hell does that mean? It sounds like you both go to the same tailor.”
“It’s a strong, vital marriage.”
“Well, good. Obviously nobody in your family had homicidal tendencies toward poultry.”
“Mr. Ambrosio—”
“Why’d you take your glasses off when I asked you about your marriage?”
His face flushed. He looked at his watch and said, “Time’s up.”
“Ooh, and just when I was getting in a few good shots.”
I got up, went to the door and turned to face him. “You know, I think you’re right about the lasting effects of what my grandmother did.”
“You do?”
“Oh, yeah. When it came to marriage, or any kind of serious commitment, I always . . . chickened out.”
He rolled his eyes. “See you next time. By the way, it’s illegal to raise chickens within city limits.”
“Are you going to report me?”
He shook his head. “I’ll leave that to your neighbors.”
Once again, I laughed out loud.
“My neighbors are probably staging cockfights in their cellars,” I said. “I doubt they’ll be calling the cops over my chickens.”
Chapter Fifteen
A rhythm of life: I was actually falling into a rhythm of life on Shepherd Avenue. A morning run, shower and a shave, and then a stroll on the streets—these were my stations of the cross, performed with pleasure. I waved to my wary neighbors if they happened to be sitting on their porches, and eventually one or two actually waved back.
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