Father Divine's Bikes

by Steve Bassett

  It was months ago that he first saw the guy from the window of his bedroom over the garage. It was about eleven at night. Billy saw the uniform, and with all those stripes he had to be at least a full commander. He automatically thought he was a friend of his father.

  He changed out of his pajamas and ran to the house just as the drapes of his mother’s bedroom were being drawn. When he entered the house, all the downstairs lights were off.

  There were voices from his mother’s bedroom. Billy took off his shoes and crept up the stairs.

  “Jesus, you’re beautiful,” the man cooed.

  “Come here and look at all of me.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  There were giggles, then some muffled man and woman sounds.

  Billy went all the way to the stairway landing. He saw that the bedroom door was ajar, but he couldn’t get himself to go any farther. He thought of the stag movies at the Krameir Mansion. He didn’t want to see his mom like that.

  Margaret Spratlin had been awakened by hands caressing her breasts. A warm glow was already beginning. It was getting light outside. They had slept longer than usual, it must be close to six.

  The man beside her had already attached an electric vibrating massager to the back of his right hand. He was leaning across her body to a jar of Vaseline on the night table. He dipped a finger in, turned on the massager and then went to work between her legs.

  “God. How I love you.”

  The man said nothing. His breathing became labored and he grunted as he pushed the sheet to the bottom of the bed with his feet. Margaret spread her legs even more, hooking one over the side of the bed, the other around her lover’s waist.

  “Be rough! Goddamnit, hurt me!”

  The man rolled her over on her stomach, completed his busy work with the electric machine, and then mounted her from behind.

  “Oh yes, do it. It hurts. Oh yes, it hurts. Keep fucking me that way. Keep it up. Do it! Do it!”

  Afterward they dozed off. Margaret was awakened by sounds from downstairs in the kitchen. The refrigerator opening and closing. Billy flipping on the toaster, stumbling around for a juice glass.

  She was glad they weren’t fucking when Billy came over from his room above the garage in the back. It was a big, old house with great acoustics. Sound really carried and in all directions.

  The man beside her was still asleep, breathing slow and easy. She propped herself on her elbow and looked about. The bed looked and smelled of sexual combat. This was the first time he had stayed past four o’clock, and the first glitch in Margaret’s finely tuned trysting routine. That evening was one of two each month that her mother-in-law stayed over in New York after sharing dinner with family and friends. Two other nights each month she was never home before midnight after taking in a Broadway show with her college roommate. Four sexual trysts a month hardly made her a slut, Margaret reasoned.

  Margaret laid her head on the man’s shoulder and waited for her son to leave. He had been serving the six-thirty Mass this week, and it wouldn’t be long before he left. She wondered if Billy knew.

  He did.

  It was last spring when Billy first spotted the gray Pontiac, a staff car from the Port Newark Navy Shipyard. He tried the driver’s door, and to his surprise found it unlocked. He peeked inside, back and front, and saw in the middle of the dashboard a metal plate that looked like an oversized dog tag. The raised letters read:

  USN Vehicle 46390

  For priority use by

  Cmdr Jacob Feinberg

  A Jew, a god damn Jew, Billy thought, his temples pounding. And while my dad is still out there in the Pacific, this Jew is pushing papers around at the Navy base and sleeping with my mom.

  Until now, he had nothing against Jews. Couldn’t remember if he had even met one. What little thought he had ever given them was force fed by his grandmother. Sylvia Spratlin never felt it necessary to explain to Billy her distaste for Jews, only to say, “They’re not like us, the less you have to do with them the better. As you get older, you will see why I’m telling you this.”

  The thought of Commander Jacob Feinberg in bed with his mother erased any doubts that his grandmother might be full of baloney.

  And this morning as usual, Feinberg’s Pontiac was parked halfway down the cul-de-sac. He instinctively looked for the car while walking across the backyard to the kitchen door. Billy’s grandmother was staying with friends in New York. His mother had been alone last night.

  This morning he would make it easier for them. Making all the noise he could so they’d know he was there. Billy rinsed out his juice glass in the sink, grabbed an apple from a bowl on the kitchen table, and made sure to slam the door on his way out.

  Margaret stood naked at her bedroom window as she watched her son turn off the front path onto the sidewalk. Her naked lover came up behind her. Feinberg put his hand around her waist.

  “I love you, ya know.”

  “Sure you do, stud. Sure you do.”

  She pushed his hands down to her groin.

  “Isn’t that what you wanted to hear?”

  “Yeah. But over there. In bed I love everybody.”

  She took his hand and led him back to the sack. They were giggling as they disappeared under the sheet.

  Billy had felt their eyes on him, but didn’t turn around. Then everybody would know. He would never be able to face his mother if she knew that he knew.

  Colonel Walter Spratlin was confident he would be coming home soon. His last letter said perhaps as early as late October. He had been heading up the Army Engineer contingent converting war-ravaged Okinawa into a huge military base. His job was just about over and his replacement was on his way.

  Billy wondered what it would be like when his dad came home. How his mother would act. How things would never be the same between him and his mom. These thoughts of his mother and that man were forever haunting him. These images kept him occupied as he headed to St. Mark’s.

  Midway there, he paused for a moment, and stared intently at the front door of the synagogue his grandmother hated so much.

  There’s gotta be a way to get back at him. There has to be payback, Billy agonized. Pausing in front of the synagogue, an idea took shape. Newsreel images from Europe since VE Day provided the solution. He studied the double doors at the top of the steps confident he could pull it off.

  Heading down High Street, Billy began to run, hoping this would crowd out the questions with no answers. All these secrets. It will never be the same. When Dad comes home, we got to keep our mouths shut. I never kept anything secret from Dad, and I know he never kept anything secret from me. And what about mom? I’ll have to keep all of this buttoned up forever, but will she? Where do I fit in? We’d be lying to Dad by keeping our mouths shut. God damn it! Now I’m crying, and I never cry. What the hell is happening to me?

  Billy slowed to a trot as he neared William Street, and the crying stopped as suddenly as it had begun, with two deep, gurgling sobs that forced snot from his nose. He pulled a hanky from his rear pocket, wiped his upper lip clean and dried his eyes. He stepped off the curb and walked across the street to St. Mark’s, knowing he would find no answers inside.

  The following Tuesday, Billy rummaged through his father’s work shop in the garage below his room. He found what he was looking for, an unopened pint can of Dutch Boy red enamel, a large screwdriver to pop the lid, and a half-inch paintbrush. He waited until he was sure his mother and grandmother were asleep in the main house before crossing the driveway and heading down Court Place to High.

  He walked past the synagogue to the next corner to be sure the street was empty, and retraced his steps to the Jewish temple. Certain there was no one around, he set the paint can down on the top step, popped it open, and dipped in his paintbrush. It took less than five minutes for him to assuage his anger. Bookending the words with four inch tall crosses, Billy spread his message across both doors:

  + KILROY WAS HERE +

  The out
rage remained on the doors for more than a month. People came to look at it; it got write-ups and pictures in the papers. Even the gang at Milt’s took a gander. Father Schneider and Father Nolan used the church pulpit, and Sister Mary Margaret addressed St. Mark’s school assembly to excoriate Billy’s handiwork. Billy was both confused and oddly surprised by all the commotion.

  Ever since the watermelon caper and his acceptance by the gang, there had been only one time Billy went out on a limb. As a result, he was slapped down and laughed at. And it was because of Marvin, a black kid he hardly knew and would probably never understand.

  That spring he’d watched Marvin and Richie hand the Wysnoskis their first stoop ball defeat ever, and with Marvin taking it in the neck to make it happen. Marvin was tall and fast, and word was out that he played a damn good first base for Morton Street Elementary.

  Later that spring plans fell through to keep the St. Mark’s baseball team intact for the coming PFAL season. The Wysnoskis had moved on to the American Legion, leaving shortstop and first base open. Freddy Urbanik took over at short, that left first base up for grabs.

  “How about Marvin?” Billy suggested during a gab session at Milt’s. “We saw what he could do against Bob and Stan. He’s around, so why the hell not.”

  “Shit, what da we need him for?” asked Urbanik. “We can always pick somebody up. Besides, ya know what’ll happen.”

  “No, wise guy, what’ll happen?” asked Billy, suddenly defensive.

  “Look, shit head, you barely made the team yourself,” Urbanik said. “You even miss half the games when, la-di-da, your mother takes you on vacation. So who are you to put your two cents in.”

  To Billy’s surprise, Joey jumped to his defense.

  “What gives with that ‘la-di-da’ bullshit?” Joey said. “How about you? Why the hell are you here, won’t the rich fruits at St. Jude’s let you play with ’em?” Joey hated Urbanik, and his words showed it. “Why the hell you go there anyway?”

  “You know why. The same reason my folks are lookin’ to get the hell out of the neighborhood,” Urbanik said. “Niggers. Christ o’mighty, look at Morton Street. Three years ago there wasn’t any on our block. Now look—twenty, thirty families mebbe. My old man sez the fifteen bucks a month and car fare for St. Jude’s is worth every cent.”

  “What the hell’s all this bullshit got to do with the team?” Billy said.

  “Let one of them on the team, and there’s no stoppin’ ’em. My old man sez it’s just like pourin’ black axle grease in yer hand. Make a fist and it squeezes out between the fingers. Let the coon play and all his Morton Street buddies will be shufflin’ over.”

  “Shove yer old man and his black axle grease,” said Billy. He knew he was defeated. Marvin didn’t stand a chance.

  “Shit, Billy, there ain’t no way I can see myself throwin’ to a jigaboo at first base,” said Joey, the team’s second baseman. “It just ain’t natural. When Wysnoski screwed up, ya could call him a fuckin’ Polak or anything, and he just laughed.”

  “It ain’t natural,” said Carl Schroder, a bench warmer who had been eyeballing first base for himself. “What d’ya say to the coon? Damn, he’s ready to fight if ya even look at him cross-eyed.”

  Joey affected an effeminate pose, a limp-wristed right hand in front of him, his left hand on his buttock. “Oh, you neegrow, you. If y’all didn’t notice, y’all dropped the ball.”

  Everyone, Billy included, laughed. The matter was dropped. Carl became the first baseman.

  Billy’s immediate reaction was regret for having made a rare unselfish gesture on behalf of a black kid he barely knew. And from that day on, he sized up Joey a lot differently for backing him up. He and Joey seemed to bump into each other a lot more than usual, even went over to Branch Brook Park a couple of times to hit fungoes.

  As the weeks went by, Billy found it impossible to shake the memory of that night when he silently climbed the stairs and overheard the sounds of his mother’s betrayal. Were the carnal images pulled from the basement of the Krameir Mansion any different from what was happening behind that bedroom door? He thought not. It didn’t help that four times a month a gray Pontiac with U.S. Navy license plates was parked on Court Place.

  And it didn’t help that all of the gang’s bull sessions sooner or later got around to sex. They laughed like hell when describing their trips to the confessional at St. Mark’s. How they tried to disguise their voices while confessing their jerk-off sessions to Father Schneider and Father Nolan.

  “Damn, you should have heard me mumble,” Richie said. “Don’t know if it did any good. I still think Father Schneider recognized my voice.”

  “You, too,” Billy quipped. “How about you Joey? Were we all trying to mumble like Eight-Ten?”

  “The same here,” Joey said, “all except I left out ‘aheh, aheh, aheh, aheh.”

  “We shouldn’t have to hide what comes natural,” Carl Schroeder added. “None of us believe anymore that we’ll go blind if we keep it up.”

  “I ain’t giving it up,” Joey said. His avowal getting nods of approval from the others.

  It wasn’t long before they were tipped off by Jackie Conn and Mike Suchi that the Polak parish, St. Stanislaus, offered a safety net.

  “So you’ll have to walk a few blocks,” Jackie said. “It’ll be worth it. Hey, we all went through it. At St. Stan’s, the priests barely speak English. Even if you raped a nun or murdered a priest, you’ll still skate through with ‘ten Our Father’s, ten Hail Mary’s, and a good act of contrition.’”

  “Look at us, you don’t see any hair on our palms do you?” Mike added.

  For Billy, as she was for others before him, ever lovin’ Linda Kosjak was the conduit that transported him from sexual fantasy to reality. She was only a few years older than Billy and the others, and kept the truant officer happily at bay with discreet sexual favors. She furthered their education that began at the Good Fellows Lodge stags.

  She was the first girl to show him her “twat,” and allow him to fondle her “boobs.” She called them “tits,” and “ain’t they beauties.”

  Ever lovin’ Linda and her round-heeled mother, Beth Kosjak, the biggest white slut in the neighborhood, lived a block over in a three-story tenement, long overdue for demolition. The horny guys who made their way up the rickety wooden staircase to their top floor apartment ignored a flaked yellow sign with red letters, “CONDEMNED PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK, by Order of the City Director of Public Safety.”

  It was Saturday morning and Milt’s was busy. Billy spotted Leo Baldoni and Carl Schroeder looking very much like they were hatching a plot in the back booth. They were scrunched over their drinks on opposite sides of the table, and were whispering so no one else could hear. Billy was as nosy as the next guy, but there was no way he would bust in on them. Let them get it off their chests he thought as he took a stool at the counter and ordered a ten cent Spur.

  “We better wrap it up. Billy just came in,” Carl said. “Probably be heading over. My five bucks is burning a hole in my pocket.”

  “Same here,” Leo said. “Let’s get out of here, make it casual.”

  “What gives?” Billy asked as he was about to slide in next to Carl.

  “Not much, just something we’ve been talking about,” Leo said. “We’ll let you know if it works out. Should be fun.”

  “Amen to that,” Carl said.

  Billy sized up immediately that he was on the outside looking in, and that he’d be a jerk if he pushed it any further. He waited until his two buddies left Milt’s and then cautiously followed them out.

  He watched them turn into the driveway of the Exeter. Billy waited a few seconds, then followed. By the time he got to the driveway, Leo and Carl were already half over the fence into the Kosjak’s backyard. After they dropped out of sight, he ran to the fence.

  Peering through the boards, he watched them climb to the top landing where a smiling Linda, barefoot and wearing only a white lacy slip,
greeted them, and loud enough for him to hear, “Got it?”

  “Right here,” Carl patted his right front pocket.

  “Same here,” Leo said patting his pocket.

  “Bet you busted your piggy banks to come up with the fin,” Linda teased. “Ain’t the only thing you’ll be breaking today.”

  Linda took each of them by the hand and guided them inside. A disappointed Billy turned from the fence and walked back to the street. He wondered how long it took for Carl and Leo to raise the five bucks needed to bust their cherries. He caught Marvin as he was walking into Milt’s and the two of them ordered sodas at the counter, then slumped into a front booth.

  “You look lower than snail slime,” Marvin said. “Don’t suppose you want to talk to a black boy about it.”

  “You supposed right,” Billy said, “and don’t give me any of that ‘black boy’ shit. Just have somethin’ on my mind. Talking won’t help.”

  “Okay then, we’ll just stare it out of your head. Nothin’ like a good head-staring.”

  “I can feel it already,” Billy laughed, surprised at their easy give-and-take.

  “My old black magic worked its spell,” Marvin said.

  “Damn, I already feel that tingling up and down my spine,” Billy said.

  They both looked-up when Frank Gazzi walked in, nodded in their direction, and took a stool at the counter. “Time to give my tired feet a rest,” the cop said to Milt. “How about a coffee.”

  “Just put a fresh pot on,” Milt said. He was still getting adjusted to having a beat cop in his shop. “A little something if you’re gonna keep our streets safe for the women and kiddies.”

  Gazzi pulled a paper napkin from its holder, wiped the sweatband of his hat, and swiveled around to take in the half-filled booths.

  “You kids staying out of trouble?” His question to Billy and Marvin had an edge to it, putting both of them on guard.

  “You betcha,” Billy said, as he and Marvin slid out of the booth. “Time to get out of here and scare up some work for you.”