Stony took out his bankbook: 638 dollars and 41 cents.
Amster, Amster, doity woid
Amster, Amster, doity woid.
Two-thirty in the morning. Stony picked up the suitcase and headed down the foyer.
"Stony..." Marie stood behind him like a ghost in the dark. She turned on the hall light, blinding them both. She wore a white nightgown. A bloody brown piece of cotton hung from one nostril. A half-moon of dull red under her left eye. She grabbed Stony's hand. "Stony, I just want you to know, that whatever you do, I'll always love you." She pouted, ready to cry. "I'll always forgive you."
Stony was dumbstruck. "Ma?" He tightened his grip on the suitcase. "You're a fuckin' hoowah." He pulled the plug of cotton from her nose. She winced, letting go of his hand, and he was gone.
***
"I couldn't do it, Butler. Last night I got down to Kennedy, first thing I realize, you can't pay for a plane ticket wit' a bankbook, so I come all the way back up to the Bronx, hang around till the bank opens an' take out all my money. I was gonna take a cab back out to Kennedy, I think, at least lemme say goodby to Albert, so I go to Jacobi instead. I walk into his room there an' he's sleepin' like a baby. The doctor says he gonna be O.K., he just needs to rest for a couple a days. The doctor wants to start puttin' him on tranks, see a shrink for a while, that scares the shit out of me. You know, seein' a shrink. The kid's eight years old."
Butler and Stony aimlessly tossed around a basketball on a concrete court. Stony took a one-handed jumper from twenty feet out, missing the basket and backboard completely. The ball clanked noisily into the chain link fence separating the court from the sidewalk. The noon sun was hot. Made them slow.
"Anyways, so I just sit there in his room with my suitcase watchin' him sleep. That kid never sleeps at home. Lays in bed late at night until two and he's up at dawn. I never really seen him sleep an' he's always having nightmares. He told me this dream once about Mrs. Halzer, his teacher, makin' him drink this big glass of milk that turns to blood when he's halfway finished."
Underhand Butler tossed the ball from the foul line, hitting the pole. "I remember this dream once I had. My old man is tryin' to screw me up the ass. What's with this fuckin' ball? Next mornin' I find out he had to go to Jacobi with a blocked prostate. Served 'im right, the bastard."
Stony tried to drop-kick the basketball into the hoop, almost booting it over the fence. "I was just sittin' there watchin' him sleep. I figure, shit, I'll leave next week when he comes home, make sure he's O.K., you know?"
"You got a passport?"
"A what?" Stony blinked. "Aw, for chrissakes!" He kicked the basketball into the fence again.
"So get one."
"Ah, fuck it." Stony blew down the front of his shirt to cool off, sitting on a low concrete ledge behind the pole. "Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it." Grimacing, scratching his head.
"Albert'll be O.K." Butler took a cigarette from his shirt pocket and sat down next to Stony.
"It ain't just that, it's, I dunno, you can't just ... I dunno, I kept doing these weird numbers in my head all last night. I kept runnin' down all these ... memories. I keep thinkin' about all these crazy things. Like this one time when I had ringworm on my scalp when I was a kid. My mother took me to a skin guy who was gonna use ultraviolet rays on my head, but he said if I moved a half inch or so my brains would turn to Cream of Wheat, so she said no dice, and I had to do this other treatment where they shaved my head. Can you imagine that? I was bald at six. And it was a real motherfucker too. I wore this stocking hat and all the kids called me Baldy. I would come home cryin' everyday. Fistfights, the whole shtick. But the real bitch was when the mothers found out I was bein' treated for ringworm and told their kids they couldn't play with me. I remember comin' upstairs after my best friend, Mitchell, told me his mother said I have a disease in my head and he couldn't go near me. I came home and I was laughing my ass off. I just bopped into the house and said, 'Mitchell's mother says I got a disease in my head'; laughin', laughin' and all of a sudden I just break into tears like I thought I was gonna choke.
"My mother got so damn mad she calls up this kid's mother an' that was the first time I ever heard an adult curse. She was screamin' and wavin' her arms. She called her a no-good lousy pig, told her to drop dead an' get fucked an' God knows what else. When my old man heard about it, he took me right down to this toy store an' he says, 'You don't need those other kids,' an' he bought me forty bucks' worth a cowboy stuff. I mean not just a goddamn gun an' holster either. I mean spurs, chaps, leather cuffs, a shirt with pearl buttons, goddamn bandileers even."
"These foolish things, remind me uh-huh yooo," Butler crooned.
Stony laughed. "That ain't all. My father got me this big cowboy hat. It was a little too big so no one could tell I was bald. I used to wear it everywhere, even when my hair grew back, but about a week after he got me all the cowboy stuff, my family went out with Chubby and Phyllis to Nino's, this Italian restaurant in Monticello. I was all dressed up with all the stuff, the hat, the guns, the whole shtick. We're all sittin' there an' some mook puts 'High Noon' on the juke. You know, Frankie Laine? 'Do not forsake me, oh my dar-ling.' So all the grown-ups are talkin'. I start stalkin' aroun' the restaurant like Gary Cooper with my hands by my guns, right? Everybody in the whole place starts laughin'. I was so fuckin' cute. This waiter comes out with this tray an' when he sees me, he puts down the tray an' starts walkin' towards me like he got two guns an' we square off about twenny feet apart. Everybody's goin' berserk, Frankie Laine is singin' in the background and I'm serious as hell an' we're slowly gettin' closer an' closer. All of a sudden I pull out my two guns, they're loaded with caps, an' I shoot him. The fuckin' guy falls on the floor grabbin' his heart like he's dead. Everybody stands up and starts cheerin' and clappin'. I jus' blow the smoke from my guns. put 'em back in my holster and go sit down. Chubby was laughin' so hard he had to have two glasses a water to stop gaggin'. My mother had tears on her face from laughin'. Later, Nino himself came out and gave me an ice cream sundae for dessert. I didn't see what was so funny. I thought everybody was laughin' because they knew I was bald under my cowboy hat." Stony wiped the sweat from the side of his face with his shoulder. "That's how I got my nickname."
"Stony?"
"Yeah. When Nino came over to the table with the ice cream, he slapped my father on the back an' said, 'Your kid got real stones.'" Stony examined his nails, then squinted at the sun. "You know somethin', Butler? I knew I wasn't goin' to Amsterdam las' night. I think I jus' went out there to see what it would feel like."
"Like what would feel like?"
"Leavin' home."
9
ALBERT'S DOCTOR was Ralph Harris, ne Hochman, a thirty-five-year-old heavy, bearded, pediatric resident who spent two of the first five years of his life in a concentration camp. He was saved from the gas chamber by a sympathetic guard who smuggled him out of the camp in a truck loaded with corpses. In 1955, at fifteen, Ralph Hochman migrated to America from Poland, where he had been living with relatives of the guard who saved him. The guard himself was executed in 1949 on atrocity charges. It had been his job to keep the children orderly on their way to the gas chambers. He had developed a whole repertoire of hand and shadow games to keep them amused and distracted while they waited for the chambers to be cleared of previous tenants.
In 1969 he graduated medical school. He also received his black belt in karate. He did two years' internship at Harlem ‹ Hospital, one year on the emergency ward and one year in the children's ward.
After graduation he had his tattoo removed by a plastic surgeon and changed his name to Harris. In 1971 he became a resident at Jacobi on the children's ward. His ultimate goal was to become a child psychiatrist. His special interest was the battered child syndrome. In all his years at Harlem Hospital and at Jacobi, he had seen maybe three or four kids more terrified than Albert De Coco.
On Thursday, when Doctor Harris looked in on Albert he was watching cartoons on
a portable TV and sipping apricot juice through a straw. The inside of his elbow was blotched yellow-brown from the two days of intravenous feeding.
"Hiya, Albert." Albert smiled but didn't say anything. The doctor sat down on the bed. "How we feeling tonight?"
"O.K."
"You mind if I turn off the TV for a few minutes?" He reached over and shut it off. "I have some good news, kiddo, tomorrow you're going home!"
Albert's face tightened. A fleeting look of pure terror. "Can I take these comics?" he asked, motioning to a stack of Supermans a volunteer aide had given him.
"I don't see why not." Harris smiled. He felt troubled by Albert's reaction. "You still don't remember what happened Monday?"
Albert stared at him blankly, tucking his blanket closer around his body.
"Did you have any bad dreams last night?"
"Uh-uh." Albert looked over the doctor's shoulder. From Albert's dreams, Harris knew whatever had happened that day involved Marie. He didn't buy the bullshit about Albert waking up screaming. He watched Albert's response to his mother when she visited him. That cowering expression gave him the chills. He was sure that bitch did something and he was sure Albert was lying when he denied remembering what happened. He knew all the crap about the cyclical nature of brutality and you had to have been brutalized as a kid to be brutal as an adult and all that, but the buck had to stop somewhere and he also knew a stone psychopath when he saw one, and that was Marie. When he discussed Albert with her, he knew she was lying through her teeth, but he had to be nice, he couldn't scare her or corner her because that kid's only hope, short of leaving home, was analysis with a good child psychologist, and he knew from experience if parents felt too threatened by what the therapy might reveal, they would never grant permission. He didn't want to send Albert home, and he knew Albert didn't want to go, but there was no medical or legal excuse to keep him. He checked about keeping Albert for treatment of his anorexia, but it wasn't severe enough. Besides, how much longer could they keep him, even for that? Eventually, Albert would have to go home. So instead Harris had to smile, eat Marie's shit and hope she would give permission for Albert to sign in at the psychiatric clinic as an outpatient. The father was no help—it was clear he didn't give a shit either way. He would agree to whatever his wife decided. It was too bad that the older son had no say. That kid was the only thing keeping Albert alive.
Albert stared at the brown rubber of the doctor's stethoscope. Once Doctor Harris let him use it. He listened to his own heart, then the doctor put the metal piece on his chest and Albert listened to Doctor Harris' heart. It beat much slower and louder, and it scared him. He thought about going home. He liked the hospital except for the needles. He could watch TV all day and play sick. The nurses were pretty and nobody yelled at him to eat. He liked Doctor Harris except when Doctor Harris looked worried. He was afraid that meant Doctor Harris was getting angry because Albert didn't eat all his food. Doctor Harris had a beard. Stony had a beard once, but Daddy made him shave it off. Doctor Harris was fat too. Not as fat as Uncle Chubby, but fatter than Daddy. He didn't want to go home. He wanted to stay in bed here and watch cartoons and read Superman and have Stony visit him with presents every day and play checkers with the ladies in striped dresses.
Harris had been hung up on that dream Albert told him three days ago in which the kid's teacher made him drink a glass of milk which turned to blood. Albert had said the dream was recurrent. There was something in that, some connection to what must have happened on Monday, but he couldn't piece it together without more information. Albert couldn't remember any of the events on any of the days preceding any of the nightmares. Or so he said. Jerry Rosenberg was coming back from vacation next week. He would love to have Jerry talk to Albert. But Albert would be gone by then. Maybe Jerry could see him as a clinic patient.
Harris smiled at Albert, tousled his hair and said he'd be back later.
"Doctor Harris?" Harris wheeled around. "Could you please turn on the TV?"
***
"No. Uh-uh. No way, no day." Marie had been shaking her head in the negative since Doctor Harris started talking.
"Will you please explain to me why not?" Doctor Harris was trying to control himself, but he held his Bic pen like a dagger, shaking it in front of her face.
Marie regarded him through half-closed eyes. "O.K., O.K., you wanna know why not?" She puffed on a cigarette as she talked.
"Last year, when Albert was in second grade, his teacher thought he should see a psychiatrist, the school had one." She blew a cloud of smoke around them both in the hospital corridor. "She, Mrs. Becker"—she sneered—"called me in one day at lunchtime to tell me. She said Albert was too nervous, didn't get on with the other kids, was starting to stutter, the whole thing, whatever, she said that the shrink the school had maybe it would be a good idea to talk ... you know. I said, 'Maybe, but ah, don't you think the other kids would tease Albert? You know how vicious kids can get.' " She looked to Harris for agreement. None was forthcoming. "Anyways, she said, 'Oh no, oh no, Mrs. De Coco. I promise you nobody will know about it but me, you, Doctor Huzinga and Albert' ... Huzinga yet. I had no reason to doubt her word, so I said O.K. I mean it wasn't like he was getting shock treatment." She raised her eyebrows at Doctor Harris as she took a long drag from her cigarette. "Two days later, he comes home from school laughing, laughing, laughing. 'O.K., what's so funny?' 'I went to the nut doctor today, Mommy.'" Marie glared at Harris. Harris frowned. "I said, 'What?' He said Mrs. Becker told him, 'I was excused from math because Doctor Huzinga wanted to talk to me, and William Temple heard her and told everybody that I was gonna see the nut doctor and the whole class was saying I was gonna see the nut doctor, but that's O.K. because it's funny an' I don't care anyway,' an' then that poor kid bursts into tears. That baby was so humiliated. I felt my heart break into a million pieces."
Doctor Harris stood with his arms folded across his chest. Marie dropped her cigarette on the floor and snuffed it with her heel. She looked at him, smoke still furling from her nostrils. She spoke through clenched teeth, her lips drawn back so Harris could see her gums and discolored teeth. "The next day I just marched into that class with Albert and dressed down that bitch so bad in front of her whole class that it's gonna be years before she even thinks of sending another kid to Doctor Who-zing-a."
"Mrs. De Coco." Harris sighed. "That was a regret—"
"Oh, cut the shit with me. Doctor Harris." Her voice was so loud people in the hall turned to look. "You wanna know what's regrettable? You wanna know what's really sick? An eight-year-old normal kid seein' a shrink." Marie stalked down the corridor, her clicking heels sounding like the opening of a long row of switchblades.
Tommy had taken Albert to the car while Marie stayed behind to talk to Doctor Harris. They sat silently in the front seat. About every six months Tommy would take a good long look at Albert, and it would hit him like a long-forgotten dream, jolting in its sudden remembrance, that this kid was his. Tommy studied Albert out of the corner of his eye. He had put on a couple of pounds while he was in the hospital, but he still looked like something from a UNICEF poster.
"How's it goin'?" Tommy ran his hand around the rim of the steering wheel and forced a smile. He wished Marie would hurry the fuck up. Of all the goddamn days for Stony to have a dentist appointment.
"What?" Albert smiled, tickled that Tommy said anything to him.
"I'm kinda tired, you wanna drive home?" Tommy affected a yawn.
"Daddy," Albert giggled. "I can't drive." His voice half-whine, half-delight.
"No sweat, c'mere." Tommy lifted Albert onto his lap. He was as light as a shopping bag filled with dry leaves. Tommy realized that Albert had never sat on his lap. For some reason this thought made him dizzy. He reached around Albert and started the engine. Albert squealed. Scared shit and beside himself with excitement. Keeping the car in park, Tommy placed Albert's hands on the wheel. "Move 'em out!"
Albert pulled back his hands as if the s
teering wheel were red hot. He twisted around in Tommy's lap, throwing his arms around his father's neck. "Daddy, I'm scared!"
Tommy strained slightly against the embrace. Didn't know what to do with his hands. Patted his kid halfheartedly. Albert held on for dear life. Giggling and tipsy with neediness. Finally, Tommy gently disengaged himself and lifted Albert back to the passenger's side. "Hey, how ya gonna be a truck driver if ya get scared so easy?"
Albert leaned toward Tommy like a sex-starved date. He couldn't think of anything to say. Just quivered in his seat like a 100-yard dasher at the starting block.
"Hey!" Tommy smiled. "Let's go get a hamburger!"
"Yeah!" Albert almost yelled. "But what about Mommy?"
Tommy winked conspiratorially. "This is for men only."
Albert clapped his hands. He felt himself starting to tear, but he didn't understand why. He was happy.
"Move 'em out!" Tommy chuckled as he briefly thought about spending more time with his younger son. Just as he was about to pull out of the space, he noticed Marie across the street impatiently waiting for traffic to clear. Albert saw her too. He stopped tearing, feeling cool water pouring inside, then in a last-ditch blurt, "Hurry!"
Tommy was startled. "Nah, we'll do it some other time." Albert started to whine, but his heart wasn't in it. As Marie made her way to the car, Albert moved closer to his father to give her room, then scrambled over the seat into the rear.
Marie cursed as she slid in and slammed the door. "Sonofabitch!" she fumed. "You know what that bastard doctor wanted to do?" She plunged her hand into her pocketbook for a cigarette. "You know what that sick freak wanted to do?" Tommy pulled out into traffic. "He wanted to put the kid in a psycho ward! Yeah! Howdya like that?" She tossed the match out the window, then twisted around to face her son. "Albert, how would you like to be in a nut house?"
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