“Well, it would be stupid for all of us to go racing down Snake Hill and maybe run into an ambush. What we need is an advance man to sneak down the hill and scout it out for us. We got a volunteer?”
Everyone remained silent, but everyone did the same thing—stared at Willie Paycek, who was not one of them, who was tagging along with less acceptance than Megan Magee.
You wanna be one of us, you gotta pay your way.
Willie, thin, small, dressed in lightweight clothing, sneakers soaked and frozen, bare hands red with cold, nose running, red ears not covered by the small woolen hat jammed down his forehead, hopped from one foot to the other.
“Hell,” he said, “I’m not scared a’ goin’ down Snake Hill to scout it out. Sure, shit, why not? I’m fast, I run inta any a’ them Websters.” He shoved his fists into his jacket pockets. “Can I take someone’s sled, or what?”
No one offered him a sled, and Willie of course didn’t own one.
“Well, what I’ll do is, I’ll work my way down and …”
“For Christ’s sake, Willie, stop standing here tellin’ us what you’re gonna do and get going and do it,” Ben said. His hands reached for the thin, bony shoulders, turning the boy around.
Charley O’Brien handed his old, short sled to Willie. “Keep away from the middle of the street,” he said, “just in case.”
“Hey, you want, I’ll go.” Megan danced among them. “I’ll go right straight down the middle of the street—they don’t scare me!”
Her two cousins grabbed her arms and held her back. She looked at Dante. “Whadda ya say, Danny? I’ll do it.”
Dante grinned. “Thank you very much, Megan. Okay, Willie, how about it?” Then, quietly, his eyes intent on the boy, “You’re our scout, kid. Be careful, okay?”
Willie nodded. It was an important assignment, and he would come through for them. He was their scout.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THEY WATCHED WILLIE PAYCEK DISAPPEAR around the icy curve toward Webster Avenue. The kid moved like quicksilver, his weight seeming hardly enough to anchor the sled, to keep it from zipping right into the air. If the Webster Avenue gang was at the bottom of the hill waiting for anyone stupid enough to invade their territory, well, what the hell. It was only Willie. It was the price he had to pay to hang around where he wasn’t wanted.
Danny didn’t like or trust Willie any more than the others did. Willie was a rat and you couldn’t turn your back on him. But Danny knew it wasn’t really Willie’s fault that he was the way he was. He’d keep an eye out, make sure the kid didn’t get into real trouble.
Danny felt a heavy handful of wet snow slide down his back, inside his shirt, right next to his skin. He hunched forward, pretending to deal with it. Instead, he scooped up some clean white snow and, in an easy turn, shoved the loose snow into Ben Herskel’s face.
Ben protested. “Hey, I didn’t do it. But that’s not a bad idea.”
The snow fight was on. Charley made big, loose snowballs, handed them off to his brother. Eugene caught a basketball-sized clump of snow in the face, thrown by his cousin Megan.
They all turned on Megan, who ran behind Danny.
“C’mon, Danny. You and me against the three of them.”
Eugene grabbed Megan’s woolen hat, filled it with loose snow, and attempted to stuff it on her head.
“Hey,” she taunted him, “what a way for a priest to act, jeez.”
She was the first to break whatever reluctance the others had toward the seminarian, and they ganged up on him, knocking him into a bank of snow, hanging on to his flailing arms and legs, gasping, laughing, yelling as they tried to cover him with snow. They ended in a tangled mass of wet, cold, laughing kids, breathless, gasping. None of them was even aware that Willie had returned from his mission unscathed.
Willie looked around, approaching them with the urgency of someone who had successfully, willingly, risked his life for his friends. He stepped back slightly, having taken their attention. He didn’t want to be involved in the roughhousing. He was too often a target.
Danny pulled himself up, turned, and yanked Megan to her feet. “Hey, here’s our scout back. Well, kid, did anyone spot you?”
Danny placed a hand on the narrow shoulder, surprised at how bony it was, wondering how Willie could stand the cold, wearing just a cotton jacket over his thin sweater. The kid’s feet must be numb in his wet sneakers. With a gesture unseen by Willie, Danny waved off the others, who were planning an ambush.
“Hey, all clear,” Willie said out of the corner of his mouth. His eyes moved constantly, as though seeking danger. “Them bastards musta gone home.”
Danny leaned closer. “Watch the language, Willie. We got Megan here. And Eugene.”
Willie grimaced, shrugged. “Jeez, hey, okay. Sorry.”
They stamped their feet, and brushed themselves off shaking the ice from sleeves and collars.
“You real sure, Willie?” Ben asked. “’Cause if we get down to the bottom of that hill and there’s the Webster mob, you are the one we’re gonna feed them.”
Jew, Willie thought venomously. All I gotta tell ’em is “Take the Jew.” “Hey,” he said, “they’re all with girls now. I seen ’em headin’ for their candy store a block away. Them older guys, they’ll stay with the girls.” He pulled his mouth down and leered. “Ya know.”
Ben jammed his hands in his back pockets. “Yeah, Willie, I know. But do you?”
Charley O’Brien put his wet, frozen, gloved hands over Megan’s ears. “Hey, c’mon. No dirty talk. We got a little girl here.”
Megan struggled, broke free, swung at her cousin, but it was all good-natured teasing. For almost a year, there had been a subtle but real change in the way the boys treated her. Boys her own age whom she could still beat at running or climbing seemed to hold back when it came to rough-house. She sensed their new and growing strength and it frightened her, not for the sake of her well-being but for the message such changes conveyed. Patsy had said girls couldn’t play with boys anymore after you-know-what begins to happen to you every month, because then boys only wanted one thing and if you wrestled with them, or jumped them, or had any kind of contact with them, they’d think you wanted you-know-what from them.
Megan didn’t really know what, and as her regular boy pals became larger, in spurts of growth her own body didn’t match, she tried harder, played rougher, moved faster. Some of the boys didn’t hold back, and she was startled at times by their strength. When a more thoughtful boy held back the extra-hard punch, the more powerful tackle, she resented it. It was a dilemma. She didn’t want to get hurt, but couldn’t seem to keep up with them the way she always had. Not fair.
They were arranging the sleds, deciding who would go first, should they have a race or a jump-on-board or what. They quieted down, concentrating on the hill, which was steep, curving, and dangerous. It was quiet enough for them to hear Willie’s sudden gasp.
“Oh, shit.”
They turned toward Willie because his voice was filled with terror genuine enough to cause them all to freeze in position, then turn and focus on the lurching figure of Walter Stachiew.
Stachiew was a huge man, heavy with muscle, bulked with layers of booze-fat. He came toward them, head lowered, drunken footing uncertain on the icy street. He held his coal shovel midway down the iron-and-wood shaft, raised like a weapon before him. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Walter Stachiew was drunk and on the edge of violence. They glanced at Dante, their natural leader, ready to take their cues from him.
“What you little bums doin’ here, huh? Ya got no right bein’ here in this place. This is my hill, ya sneakin’ little bastards, I show ya!”
Danny backed off as Stachiew came toward them. His voice was low, reasonable.
“Okay, okay. No problem. We’re leaving.”
“Hey, you. How’s your crazy guinea sister, huh? You crazy too?” Dante didn’t respond, just waited and watched.
Stachiew reached ou
t, caught Gene’s shoulder. Then, recognizing the boy, he smiled. Suddenly, unexpectedly, his hand slid around to the back of Eugene’s head and he forced his lips against the boy’s, then, still holding him, pulled back.
“Yah, sweetheart, like I thought. You just like a girl.”
Gene’s advantage was surprise. No one expected what he did next. He hadn’t planned it; he just reacted. He wrenched the heavy shovel from the filthy hand, pulled back, and swung at Stachiew, catching him full in the stomach.
Charley was right there, at his brother’s side. The blow hadn’t hurt Stachiew, just knocked the wind out of him. He shoved Charley aside and grabbed at Gene.
“Ya little faggot bastard! I’m gonna take ya head offa ya, then I’m gonna fuck what’s left.”
Charley had the shovel now, and he aimed at Stachiew’s head, but hit his shoulder. It was a solid blow, but the drunken, enraged man didn’t fall. He whirled around, swinging his long, strong arms, his fists hard balls. The boys moved back, tried to withdraw, but as long as Stachiew was attacking one of them no one would run away.
A kick of his heavily booted foot caught Danny just below the kneecap. He gasped with pain and went down, but a hand pulled him up. Danny grabbed the shovel. He swung. There was a great roaring howl, an animal’s fury. Stachiew grabbed Megan by her hair and pulled.
He wrapped an arm around her neck, ignoring her kicking and punching, her attempts to bite, to get free. He held her close to him, breathing hard.
“Stay back, you bums, I kill this one.” Stachiew shook his head. His laugh was harsh and hissing. “You all a buncha queers, you, pretty boy, this little girl, she wanna be a boy, ya know what, you, blondie, you give this girl your balls and she’ll give you her—”
The blow came to the back of his head and he released Megan. She slipped to the icy gutter and felt herself caught and pulled toward her friends. Stachiew’s hand went to the back of his head, then he turned.
Ben’s second blow caught the man across the forehead and brought him down, but Stachiew grabbed at Ben’s ankles and the boy fell beside him.
“Little kikey shit think ya gonna hit me and get away with it, I kill ya Jew shit, I fuck ya mudder and eat ya sister and—”
Ben felt the shovel behind him. He pulled back and hit Stachiew with a light, off-balance, glancing blow across the cheek. He stood up and felt his arms being held. He turned slowly and confronted Dante.
No one had ever seen Ben Herskel’s face like this before. He seemed calm and controlled and deadly. He held on to the shovel and shrugged Danny back, but didn’t turn back toward Stachiew, who was reviving, shaking himself, brushing blood from his face.
Ben reached out and grabbed Willie Paycek by the collar. He thrust the shovel into Willie’s raw, wet, cold hands.
“Your turn,” he said.
Willie looked around at the others. No one gave him any sign. Not Danny, to whom he appealed first, not the pretty priest-boy, who stared right through him, not the girl-boy, who wanted the shovel herself.
Herskel put his lips to Willie’s red, numbed ear and said, “Your turn, Willie.”
Stachiew, kneeling unsteadily, focused on the thin, reluctant boy. “You, ya little prick-sucker, I get you good, you wait till next time. I get you special good. You know, you know what I do to you—”
Willie Paycek raised the shovel over his head. The sound of the blow was terrible. He raised it again, saying, “This is for all of us,” but was knocked sideways when Danny pulled the shovel away.
“Lemme, lemme, lemme!” Willie struggled, but he wasn’t strong enough.
“Gimme my shot,” Megan said. She grabbed the shovel and landed a light blow on the fallen, unmoving man before Dante yanked the shovel away from her. He dropped the shovel next to the crumpled body.
“C’mon. Outta here, everybody, outta here. Meet up at the small lot. Move!”
He cautioned them, directed them. Go straight up 181st Street. Move fast, but stop and play, throw a couple of snowballs. Be seen. He and Megan detoured along Valentine Avenue. Danny pushed Megan onto her sled.
“Sit down. Make believe you’re just a little girl going for a ride with her brother. Megan. Do what I tell you.”
She sat, hunched, looking up at Danny. Whatever Danny said, whatever he said. When they reached the big hill at 180th Street, he pulled the sled over to the sidewalk and crouched next to her. A few younger kids, some with parents, whizzed down the hill. One last time. Just one more.
“Are you okay?”
She tilted her face up toward him. He was startled. Her face, in the glow of the street lamp, was beautiful. He’d never before noticed that Megan Magee had huge amber eyes, delicate features, upturned lips. Her red hair was wild around her face, and without thinking he reached down and tucked wet strands into her woolen hat.
“Megan, listen to me. Listen hard. You’ve been here all night, on the big hill, get that? You never went near Snake Hill. You’ve been here all night and now you’re gonna go back up to Ryer Avenue and go home.”
“Hey, c’mon, Danny, I’m just like the rest of the guys. I …”
Danny knew he was dealing with her pride. He stood up, took a slow and steadying breath, and his intuition guided him.
“Megan, I’m counting on you. I want you to do this for me. We’re special friends, you and me, and I want a promise from you. No one, ever, no matter what, is gonna know you were there tonight. No matter what. Not even your pal Patsy.”
She took a deep breath and stood up. Her focus on him was complete. She was trying to understand not only what had happened, but what commitment he was asking of her.
“You were never there. Promise me, Megan.”
She brought her mittened hand to her mouth, pulled the mitten off with her teeth, and offered the hand to him. He took it with great solemnity.
“I promise you, Danny. No matter what.”
“I believe you, Megan.”
Gently, he touched her cheek; impulsively, he kissed her lightly on the lips. “Remember, I trust you, Megan. Now go on home.” Softly, as she watched him head up the hill, Megan whispered, “I love you, Danny.”
They waited for Danny where he had said, in the small lot. The ground had been chopped up by the little kids during the day. There were crisscrossing patterns from the blades of sleds; a couple of lopsided snowmen; an arsenal of snowballs abandoned behind a two-foot irregular wall of a snow fort.
Ben stood perfectly still, his hands deep in the pockets of his corduroy pants, his eyes moving first to Charley, who nodded, tossed a snowball at him, as he sidestepped casually. He jutted his chin toward Gene, who was leaning against the icy side of a thick old oak tree, and raised his eyebrows. Charley shrugged. Gene was okay; don’t worry about him. Then he watched the little shit, Willie, as the kid danced around, hopping from one foot to the other, tossing ice balls at imaginary targets. The little bastard couldn’t stand still. He slid on an icy patch, went down, got up. It was all the same to Willie.
“Hey, look, there’s Danny,” Willie said, the words forced between teeth clenched to stop the chattering. Willie moved toward the street, but Ben put a large restraining hand against Willie’s chest.
“Stay put.”
Danny waved to them from across the street, made some hand gestures. He stepped into his father’s shoe-repair shop, spoke to the old man, touched his shoulder, pointed to the wall clock. The old man showed him, just this to finish, just this piece of sole to attach, then quitting time. He reached up with a blackened hand, touched Danny’s face, smiled. Okay, okay, a few more minutes.
Danny joined them in the lot, turning once to wave to his father, but the old man was intent on his work.
“Okay,” Danny said quietly. They drew closer to him, and the boys watched him intently, except Gene. Gene studied the melting snowball that he rolled between his hands.
“We’ve all been sledding down the big hill. Then we went to the big lot.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder towar
d the four-story-high mountain of a lot on the opposite corner. “There’s a fort the high school guys built yesterday. We had a private war, just us. That’s it, okay?”
No one said anything. They all turned to Gene, who didn’t look up. Danny glanced at Charley, who shrugged.
“Gene?” his brother called.
Eugene O’Brien still didn’t look up.
“Now, there’s one thing. No matter what. No matter what.” Gene looked up now. “About Megan. She wasn’t with us tonight.”
“Like hell,” said Willie Paycek.
The four boys focused on Willie. He glanced around, and the glare from Gene’s pale eyes caught him. He shrugged, shuffled from one cold foot to the other.
“Hey, yeah, sure, okay, okay.”
“Danny?” Charley spoke softly, hesitantly. “Suppose somebody saw us on Snake Hill?”
The tension froze them more than the cold. It was a question no one had wanted to ask or think about.
Danny shook his head slowly. “No one was on the hill but us and him. All the little factories and car shops were closed up tight. Nobody lives there, nobody hangs around there. There weren’t any other drunks around, and—”
Gene asked, “Do you think he’s dead, Danny?”
The other boys seemed to stop breathing. They focused completely on Danny, depending on him to make things all right.
“Drunks don’t die that easy, Gene. C’mon, it was a dumb fight, but he attacked us, so we whacked him. He’s sleeping it off.”
Willie made a strange gurgling sound. He was laughing. “Hey, maybe he’ll freeze to death and that’ll be that.”
Ben wrapped a large arm around Willie Paycek, lifting him off his feet. He leaned close and whispered, “Listen, jerk, you weren’t with us tonight and you won’t be with us any other night, ever, because none of us would be caught dead anywhere around you. Now you get lost, but …” He turned the boy around, confronting him face to face. “If anyone, anytime, anywhere, ever, asks any of us about anything that happened on Snake Hill, I’ll know it was because of your rotten little mouth. And I’ll take care of you. Got that?”
The Ryer Avenue Story: A Novel Page 10