The Boys from Eighth and Carpenter

by Tom Mendicino

  “Just so you know, she told me about the divorce in the car,” Michael confides when they’re alone.

  “That fucking bastard. I hope he’s in a car wreck tomorrow.”

  “Hey, hey, hey. Don’t talk like that. You want the evil eye to come searching for us?” he asks, making light of superstitions in which he still half believes.

  “You are so predictable, Michael, always believing a baby grand piano is about to fall from the sky and hit you on the head,” she teases, giving him an affectionate kiss on the cheek.

  MARCH 29, 2008

  Somewhere around the two-hundred-mile mark on their annual spring trek across the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, the Gagliano brothers will consider the consequences of killing each other. Spending six hours trapped together in an automobile, one brother complaining he’s too cold, the other that he’s too hot, can strain even the closest relationship.

  “You better pull off here, Frankie, unless you want me to piss in this empty coffee cup.”

  The rest stop ahead is the last fuel and food for the next forty miles. The elegant roadside dining rooms conceived by visionaries like Fred Harvey and Howard Johnson have gone the way of the Automat and curbside service, razed to rubble and replaced by industrial-looking food courts where a potbellied, fat-assed army traipses between fast-food counters, lured by the smell of fryer grease and charred meat. The thermostat is still cranked for the dead of winter despite the spring-like warmth outside. Mothers in sweatpants and flip-flops dispatch their broods to line up for precooked burgers and buckets of greasy fried chicken. An obese trucker ambles toward the door, sucking a venti Frappuccino, extra whipped cream, through a straw and squeezing a handful of greasy soft pretzel in his fist.

  A small corps of gray-haired service workers in blue smocks shuffles through the cluster of cranky guests, going about their duties without complaint. Their stiff gaits betray the sheet-metal tightness in their lower backs and the fiery flashes of pain in their fallen arches. They plod through their shifts, hoping for overtime because their Social Security checks don’t cover the rent and groceries and the car insurance. The granny behind the Starbucks counter struggles with a paper cup sleeve; a wiry old gent drags a bag of trash behind him, leaving a trail of napkins and soda cups.

  “Mikey, come here, over here,” Frankie shouts, his voice carrying across the crowded room.

  He’s in a quandary and needs Michael’s expert opinion to help him decide which stuffed animal Polly will find more adorable.

  “This one?” he asks, holding up a floppy brown rodent. “Or this one?” he asks, pointing at a stuffed bear.

  Michael doesn’t know. Polly never seemed like the plush-toy type, but he thinks she’d prefer the generic baby-blue teddy bear with the I ♥ PA bib.

  “Why the hell would she want a stuffed rat?” he asks.

  “It’s Punxsutawney Phil, the most famous groundhog in the world.”

  Frankie rolls his eyes, smiling, clearly in cahoots with the cashier.

  “You’ve got beautiful eyes,” Frankie says as he hands her the signed credit card receipt. “I bet people told you looked like Rita Hayworth when you were young.”

  After all these years, Michael is still amazed by, and a little envious of, Frankie’s ability to look at a sad-faced, scrawny old duck and see a beautiful swan.

  “It just breaks my heart,” Frankie says as they walk to the car. “Did you see her hands? Jesus Christ, I bet she hasn’t been able to straighten her fingers for years. Can you even imagine how much it must hurt for her to try to count change all day long? It’s just plain wrong that a woman her age needs to work that hard.”

  “Maybe she likes working.”

  Frankie spins on his heels to confront his brother, the expression on his face suspended between being flabbergasted and furious at his ignorance.

  “Please tell me you don’t believe that.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t want to sit at home all day,” Michael says, provoking an argument.

  “Yeah. That must be it. She’d be bored to death with nothing to do but watch Whoopi and the girls go at it on The View. Maybe you should try standing on your feet on a concrete floor eight hours every day before you start making a speech honoring the dignity of old-fashioned, backbreaking labor.”

  Michael sighs, conceding the point.

  “What is it you want me to do about it, Frankie? You want me to write the poor woman a personal check? How much should I make it out for? Do you want me to do it anonymously or can I at least take a deduction for it? You tired? Do you want me to drive for a while?”

  “No, you drive like a maniac. It makes me nervous,” Frankie says, calling a truce.

  Confined to her wheelchair by a dual diagnosis of MS and emphysema, their half sister Polly’s world has shrunk to the small rooms of the first floor of a musty clapboard mill house in a dying industrial town in western Pennsylvania. The town’s hanging on like her, barely, on life support, sustained by pipe dreams of civic revival and rumors of the imminent arrival of eco-friendly manufacturing jobs. But there are whispers of layoffs at the last standing steel manufacturing plant, and the brewery once renowned throughout the world for its iconic green beer bottles is shuttered and scheduled for demolition. The local Polish and Croatian clubs are boarded up and a single train a day stops at the once-busy station. Kids bolt for the Sunbelt and California as soon as they graduate high school. The nursing homes are filled to capacity.

  Illness and aging haven’t ennobled Polly. If anything, she’s more ornery than ever, barking orders at the pierced and inked Cinderella in residence, a step-granddaughter on hiatus between stints in rehab. It’s a source of family pride that young Melissa has conquered her street-drug habits; her current addiction to prescription painkillers is more socially acceptable. She’s out on bail, up on charges of trying to pass a forged script for Percocet at the neighborhood CVS. She’s hoping for a short sentence at another treatment facility, anything to escape the purgatory of confinement to her grandmother’s home. Frankie and Michael arrived an hour ago and have overstayed their welcome by fifty-five minutes. Polly’s more interested in the histrionic prognostications on Fox than in her flesh and blood.

  “What sounds good for dinner, Polly?” Frankie asks. “We passed a Red Lobster on the highway. An Olive Garden, too.”

  He’s insisting they treat her to a birthday dinner at one of the local chains. Melissa’s up for the prospect of a brief reprieve from these four walls, even if mealtime requires vigilant supervision to make sure Polly doesn’t choke on her food.

  “You go,” Polly wheezes. “I’m going to finish the macaroni salad I had for lunch.”

  As far as Michael’s concerned, they’ve done their duty, made the trek across the state, six hours to get here, six hours going back. But Frankie won’t hear of cutting their losses and heading home. They agreed to stay twenty-four hours and they are not leaving one minute earlier, no matter what fresh hell they are forced to endure.

  “Turn that up, Melissa,” Polly demands. “Look at him,” she practically spits, disgusted by the smiling young black man shaking hands on the screen.

  “He’s coming to Latrobe today, Mimi,” the younger woman says, enthusiastic over the prospect of the campaign trail rolling through her hometown.

  “Why? There aren’t any niggers here to vote for him.”

  The epithet rolls off her tongue casually, without passion or venom, no more remarkable than if she were describing someone as tall or short, blonde or brunette.

  “Mimi, please,” the girl pleads, eager to distance herself from the old woman’s unapologetic racism. After all, Melissa’s not like the small-minded people who live in this town and has a biracial daughter she gave up for adoption to prove it.

  Polly is squirming in her wheelchair, obviously in pain. The MS has progressed rapidly in the past few years, the relapses occurring more and more frequently, exacerbated by the gradual corrosion of her lungs. She’s nothing but a stick
figure, all elbows and ribs, her pink sweatsuit a literal bag of bones. Her stocking feet are warped and twisted and her face resembles a dried apple. But her blue eyes still blaze with the fury that’s sustained her for a lifetime.

  “Well, I think Hillary’s going to be a fantastic president!” Frankie says.

  “She wants to kill our babies,” Polly hisses, spoiling for a fight.

  “Do you think I should vote for Hillary?” Melissa asks Frankie. “I just don’t know.”

  “Not if you’re going to live in this house,” her step-grandmother pronounces.

  “You can’t tell me who to vote for,” she insists, teeming with resentment.

  It’s academic, this argument. Michael suspects Melissa isn’t even a registered voter. Besides, the topic under fire hardly matters. If it’s not politics, they’ll find something else to bicker about, sparring to pass the time.

  “I suppose you’re going to vote for him,” Polly says, her voice confrontational, accusing Michael of a multitude of sins, among them stupidity, naïveté, and blind loyalty to the liberalism that threatens to bring down the country.

  “I don’t know who I’m voting for,” he admits.

  Frankie and Melissa have lost interest in any further political discourse and turned their attention to the stuffed groundhog.

  “I don’t know why I even give a damn.” Polly sighs. “I’ll be dead before it’s all said and done.”

  “You think he’s going to win?” Michael asks.

  “It’s their turn now. There’s too many of them to stop it. I’m just glad I won’t be here to see it.”

  Polly calls for Melissa, coughing and wheezing, her oxygen levels depleted by the effort required to raise her voice above a gruff monotone.

  “I’m ready.”

  “Already, Mimi? It’s still early.”

  “I’m tired. I want to go to bed.”

  Melissa sighs, resigned to the fact her rare opportunity to indulge in an all-you-can-eat-shrimp-and-lobster buffet has slipped away. She shuffles off to the kitchen and returns with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Frankie and Michael are speechless as she shakes a Benson & Hedges 100 from the pack and fires up, swallowing a chestful of smoke and exhaling through her nostrils. She walks over to the wheelchair, drops to her knee, and holds the burning cigarette up to her step-grandmother’s lips. Polly leans forward, twisting her entire body in the chair, pumping every bit of energy in her frail body into a Herculean effort to draw enough breath to suck the precious smoke into her brittle lungs. Her tongue makes a dry clucking sound against the roof of her mouth as she pauses between each labored puff.

  “Shouldn’t you turn that thing off?” Frankie asks, the flammable oxygen tank nearby obviously making him nervous.

  “It’s okay,” Melissa assures him. “Are you done, Mimi?”

  The old woman shakes her head no and opens her mouth, anxious for another jolt of nicotine.

  “Two a day. That’s all I let her have. And she won’t rat me out to the agency nurse for taking some of her Oxys. That’s our deal. Right, Mimi?”

  Michael looks down at his feet, uncomfortable witnessing the final indignity of a dying woman being forced to agree to a Faustian bargain to indulge in the one small pleasure left in her miserable life.

  “Okay, Mimi. Done,” Melissa says, stabbing out the butt in an ashtray. “Time for bed. Say good night. Your brothers will be back to say good-bye in the morning,” she promises, anxious to put their sister down for the night and indulge in whatever substances she’s stashed away.

  “I’m not doing anything about it,” Michael insists. “And neither are you.”

  Frankie’s up in arms, arguing that they need to report Polly’s dire circumstances to the county Department of Aging. They’ll have a caseworker at the house by Monday morning to investigate; they might even send someone out tonight if they can persuade them it’s an emergency.

  “It’s elder abuse, pure and simple. She’s our sister. We need to rescue her. It’s our duty.”

  “So you think those caseworkers are going to let her smoke?”

  “She shouldn’t be smoking anyway.”

  “Why not? You afraid it’s going to kill her?”

  “That kid could be high as a kite on whatever drugs she’s stealing. She’s going to get too close to that tank with that cigarette and blow the place up.”

  There’s a commotion growing toward the front of the bar, some whooping and hollering and a smattering of applause.

  “I don’t think one lousy cigarette is going to cause an explosion.”

  “We need to do something, Mikey!” he pleads.

  “Why? She looked okay to me, all things considered. Did you see any bruises? Any bedsores? Was she lying in filth? Her clothes were clean. She was eating her fucking macaroni salad and bitching at the television screen. You call that being abused? If she wants to trade a few of her pain pills for cigarettes, what business is it of ours?”

  The patrons seem to have lost interest in the NCAA tournament game on the widescreen televisions mounted above the bar, Davidson versus Wisconsin, score tied at thirty-six apiece. They’ve turned their attention to the racket on the far side of the room.

  “Where’s that girl? This shit is undrinkable,” Frankie complains.

  “I told you not to order red wine in a sports bar,” Michael reminds him. “I wouldn’t use that crap for salad dressing.”

  They’ve still got time to kill before the seven o’clock feature at the mall multiplex. Polly’s early bedtime has freed up their evening and there are plenty of hours to fill before an early turn-in at the budget chain hotel where Frankie booked a room. Sharky’s Café looked like a good place to grab a bacon cheeseburger before the movie, and Frankie says the chicken Caesar salad is better than he expected, though he’s positive he’d told the waitress to bring the dressing on the side.

  “What the fuck is going on up there?” Michael asks, perplexed by the arrival of news cameras and spotlights.

  A burly, wide-shouldered tackle in a black suit has positioned himself in front of their table. He’s speaking into his security headset, summoning two large bodyguards, who quietly hustle a drunk kid out of the room.

  “Oh my God! I don’t believe it!” Frankie gasps.

  “What?” Michael asks, mumbling through a mouthful of cheeseburger.

  “It’s him!”

  Standing across the bar, daintily sipping a draft beer from the lip of his glass, leaning forward to listen intently to the flannel-shirted local who’s giving him an earful, is the man who would be President of the United States of America. He nods thoughtfully, though the bar is so loud it’s hard to imagine he can actually hear the opinionated citizen’s words, then tosses back his head and rewards the fellow with his blazing, irresistible smile.

  “He is so thin!” Frankie gushes.

  “He is so fucking young,” Michael says, trying to seem blasé, though Obama is so compelling it’s impossible to take his eyes off him.

  Their Democratic senator is chaperoning the candidate, an exotic stranger from parts unknown and untrustworthy. They stop to introduce themselves to a table of young soldiers wearing camouflage and heavy boots. The kids stare at one another, clearly embarrassed, too uncomfortable for small talk. Obama’s persistent, unflappable; he points at a television screen and makes a graceful little dunking motion with his arm. The soldiers relax, laughing, and stand to shake his hand as he thanks them for their service and sacrifice and wishes them Godspeed.

  “I hope he isn’t coming over here unless he wants to hear why I’m voting for Hillary,” Frankie says, pumped full of bravado.

  “Yeah, right,” Michael says, mocking him. “I fucking dare you.”

  A pair of chubby girls, one with a very prominent Hillary button, plead with the candidate to pose for a picture. He smiles for their tiny camera phone, an arm chastely draped over each of their shoulders. The bar is in good cheer. Michael doubts a single person here intends to cast
their ballot for him, but, for the moment, they’re basking in the reflected glow of his star power, thrilled to have the man of the hour, a constant presence on their television screens, among them.

  “Oh, no! I don’t believe it! Here he comes!” Frankie gasps, twitching nervously.

  “Hey, guys,” the senator from Illinois says as he approaches their table. “Enjoying the game?”

  Michael stands and introduces himself, pausing to let his brother follow suit.

  “And this is my brother, Frankie,” he finally says. “He usually isn’t at a loss for words.”

  “Nice to meet you, Frankie,” the senator says, offering his hand. “What do you do here in Latrobe?”

  “We’re from Philly,” Frankie corrects him when he finally finds his voice.

  Obama shakes his head thoughtfully, squinting as if he’s trying to formulate the perfect question to solicit their advice on an important issue.

  “So, who do you guys have in the Final Four in your brackets?”

  “I’m going with UNC to take it all. Frankie isn’t much of a fan. But I know he’s got something he’s dying to say to you.”

  He sees murder in his brother’s pupils.

  “Shoot,” the senator says.

  “I just wanted to tell you that’s a really beautiful tie,” Frankie stammers.

  “Thanks. I’ll tell Michelle. She picked it out.” He smiles, waving good-bye as he’s gently nudged to the next table.

  “You are a complete asshole,” Frankie hisses, tossing back his glass of swill in a single gulp.

  “What’s the matter, Mr. Tough Guy?” Michael laughs. “God, I thought you were going to ask him for a hug.”

  “Well, I’m not voting for him,” he insists, demanding the immediate attention of the server to bring him an Absolut and tonic to calm his nerves.

  “Oh, I bet you will.”

  “Never,” he insists. “Not in a million years.”