The Boys from Eighth and Carpenter

by Tom Mendicino

  He calls Kit and leaves a message, telling her not to wait up. He expects the celebration will go on until last call. He’ll probably drink too much and will stay at his brother’s. He says he’d stopped by home on his way to the city to pick up a clean shirt and underwear and his toiletry kit (which he had) and will go directly to work (which he won’t). He has an idea, he says, trying to make it sound spontaneous. Why doesn’t she send Danny to Dodie’s tomorrow after Little League? He’s been so busy and preoccupied the past few days and she deserves a date night. Good night. I love you, he says, hanging up. He feels sleazy and dishonest for using the promise of a romantic evening as a setup to finally disclose his brother has been arraigned and bail set and they are all about to be implicated by association in a tabloid scandal that will drag their son’s family name through the mud.

  Fuck it all, he thinks. How did he let himself get involved in this mess? If only he hadn’t answered the call from the township police. If only he had insisted Frankie spend the night in Wayne instead of driving him back to the city. If only Frankie had never changed the locks. If only he’d never kicked in the door. If only, if only . . .

  The phone in his pocket begins vibrating as he opens the front door of the appointed meeting place. It’s a text from Jack Centafore sent from Frankie’s phone.

  Please call me.

  Calling from inside the bar is out of the question. He’s already fought his way in. He’ll have one drink then fight his way out. The crowd is at least twice the maximum occupancy posted by the Philadelphia Fire Department. Young men and women in varying states of intoxication are packed into the narrow bar. Most of them have been drinking since happy hour. Frat boys, nerds, and a few stray hipsters are three deep at the bar, vying for the bartender’s attention. It’s Wednesday night. Hump Day. Even students whose greatest stress is getting out of bed in the morning feel the need to celebrate passing the halfway mark of the workweek. He sees Kelly standing with her group at the back of the room. She’s waving to get his attention.

  “I was just about to send a search party after you,” she shouts in his ear.

  She hands him a glass and offers a toast. It’s cheap liquor and burns going down.

  “Another!” the Latina princess shouts as they raise their glasses again.

  “One more!” the kid in the yarmulke insists.

  Sweat is dripping from Michael’s forehead. The alcohol and the crush of human bodies are taking their toll. He chugs a bottle of Yuengling that’s thrust into his hand, then a second, trying to wash the taste of cheap whiskey from his mouth. The Orthodox boy snakes his way through the crowd with yet another round, using his elbows to clear a path to Michael. He’s full of questions about the life of a prosecutor, few of which Michael can hear in the deafening noise. Kelly manages to wedge herself between two hockey fans screaming at the hapless goalie on the television screen and comes to his rescue.

  “You look miserable,” she laughs.

  He starts to respond, only to find his tongue has grown surprisingly thick. It’s been years since he’s done shots and tonight he’s tossed back three, chasing them with beer, all on an empty stomach. He needs to make his way to the door. Fresh air will revive him. The phone in his pocket is vibrating again. His blood alcohol level is soaring. There’s no way he can get behind the wheel of his car.

  “I have to go,” he says.

  Someone bumps Kelly from behind, pushing her against his chest. Her body feels soft, squishy, padded with flesh. She’s a bit drunk herself and sloshes beer on his shirt. Her hip is pressing against his inner thigh. It feels intentional. The Boss is on the jukebox, singing “Glory Days.”

  “I need to make a call,” he says, thankful for the excuse to escape the heat of her body.

  “Michael?”

  “Jack?”

  He expects the priest can hear he’s not completely sober.

  “Thanks for calling me back.”

  “Where’s my brother? Is he home? You didn’t leave him alone, did you?”

  “He’s upstairs. I gave him a Xanax and put him to bed.”

  Michael panics at the possibility of the priest wandering down to the basement. He’s not a shampoo girl and won’t be deterred by the odds of encountering a mouse.

  “I brought him back to the rectory. It was easier than taking him home. He’ll sleep through the night.”

  There’s a lingering chill in the April night air. Still, Michael shouldn’t be shivering on the sidewalk with all the alcohol in his bloodstream.

  “He got very agitated and wanted me to drop him at the Trenton train station. He said he was transferring at Thirtieth Street and you were picking him up in Wayne. Something about leaving his car out there. He wasn’t making much sense. He told me to forget it, just take him home, when I said I would drive him out to your place. Something’s off, Michael. None of this feels right.”

  The priest clears his throat. He hesitates, knowing he’s about to cross a boundary.

  “I have to ask you something, Michael. I know you don’t want to talk about it.”

  There’s an awkward moment of silence.

  “Please be honest with me, Michael. Please. Did that old man ever do anything to him? You know, anything inappropriate. Sexual? Your brother shuts me down whenever I bring up the subject. So, please. Tell me if you know. I can’t think of any other reason why Parisi’s death is affecting him like this. He barely seems himself.”

  Jack says he’s all too familiar with the tragic pattern. Of course Frankie is dissembling. Death has robbed him of any chance to bring closure to a lifetime of guilt and shame. Michael agrees that the wounds of abuse never completely heal. He asks for Jack’s solemn oath before confirming the priest’s long-held suspicions about the deceased.

  “You can never let Frankie know I told you. He’d never forgive me. This is between you and me.”

  “Never. Don’t worry, Michael. Never. I swear.”

  Michael feels a sharp pang of regret about smearing the reputation of an old man who’d been nothing but kind to him and was guilty of nothing except photographing two young boys with a Polaroid Land Camera. He remembers eating chocolate cake at the rectory on Saturday nights and the grown-up books Father Parisi had given him to read. The priest was strange, but oddness isn’t a crime.

  “Give me an hour. I’ll stop at the rectory and pick him up.”

  “He can stay here tonight, Michael. It isn’t a problem.”

  But Michael is adamant about taking his brother home. Jack knows not to argue. There’s just one thing he wants to say.

  “Thank you for trusting me, Michael. I really mean it.”

  Michael wanders into the latest hot spot in University City, seeking food to soak up the alcohol sloshing in his belly. He tells the hostess he’ll sit at the bar and asks the bartender for a menu, but nothing looks appealing. In fact, his stomach clamps down, rejecting the very thought of eating. He should start sobering up, but instead orders a bourbon on the rocks, an inconspicuous middle-aged man in a roomful of privileged undergraduates armed with platinum American Express cards provided by their generous parents. He still can’t order in a restaurant without looking first at the prices. These spoiled brats blithely run up the bill, then haggle with one another over the amount of the miserly tip.

  He crushes an ice cube between his molars, a habit that’s cost him thousands in crown repairs. He shrugs off the bartender who’s complaining about the Phillies’ abysmal April record.

  “Michael?”

  His stepdaughter seems shocked to find him in such an unlikely place.

  “Man, are you shit-faced,” she laughs.

  “Don’t tell your mother,” he mumbles, sounding sober and clear-headed only to himself.

  “Only if you don’t tell her. She thinks I’m spending the night at my father’s. You remember Meaghan?” she asks, introducing her companion. “We played lacrosse together for three seasons. She graduated last year and was recruited by Penn.”

>   He vaguely remembers the girl as a fierce competitor on the playing field. Kit doesn’t like her, thinks she’s a bad influence on Scottie. His wife will never admit she’s bothered by her daughter’s friendship with an obvious lesbian. She’s tried broaching the subject with Scottie, hoping to allay her own suspicions about her daughter’s sexual orientation, but their relationship has deteriorated to raised voices, tears, and slammed doors.

  “Aren’t you going to answer that?” she asks, pointing at his ringing phone.

  It’s Kit, returning his earlier call. She says she didn’t expect him to pick up, just wanted to leave a message. There’s an emergency hearing in the Southern District of New York in the morning. They may have to postpone their date night. Is he near a television? Hillary is wiping up the floor with her adversary.

  “Michael, are you there?”

  Scottie grabs the phone from her stepfather’s hand.

  “Doozy, it’s me. You better come get him. He can’t drive. He’s really, really drunk. He’s acting weird. I don’t know what to do.”

  Danny’s asleep; it’s a school night and Kit doesn’t want to wake him. She can’t leave him alone in the house. She tells her daughter to call a cab.

  “I’ll be at the door when you get here. Tell the driver you’re going to pay double the fare. Don’t let him out of your sight. Not even to go to the bathroom. Get him home safe and sound and you have a free pass. I won’t even ask what you’ve been doing tonight.”

  APRIL 17, 2008 (MORNING THROUGH LATE AFTERNOON)

  He’s standing on a deserted platform, waiting for the train to arrive that will deliver him and Frankie to their half sister’s faraway home. Sal Pinto gave him strict orders to not move a muscle until he returns from taking a leak. The clanking motor of the escalator to the waiting room sputters and dies. He can hear Sal Pinto upstairs arguing that someone needs to open the security gate. His godson is alone down there . . . he’s just a little boy.

  He shoves his hand in his pocket and touches his ticket as the train approaches the station. It wheezes to a complete stop and the doors to the passenger cars open. Frankie is standing inside, urging him to hurry. “Come on! Come on, Mikey! The train is about to leave the station!” But the suitcase is too heavy to lift. He grabs the handle and tries to drag it across the platform. Papa will be angry if he leaves it behind. It’s filled with change—quarters, dimes, nickels—he’s sending to his daughter. He begins to cry, not understanding why Frankie won’t get off the train and help. Frankie waves as he disappears behind the closing door.

  He chases the train down the tracks, but the faster he runs, the farther it recedes into the smoky distance. He hears a shrill whistle behind him and feels a charging engine speeding toward him, bearing down and . . .

  Then, as always, he’s wide-awake. His indulgent wife had force-fed him three aspirin and two bottles of spring water before tucking him into bed and, miracle of miracles, Michael is dry-mouthed and foggy-headed but doesn’t have a smashing hangover that would have lingered the entire day. He panics, thinking his brother is alone, with no one watching his every move, then remembers making a drunken, barely coherent call to Jack Centafore in the cab, asking him to keep Frankie overnight and to not let him leave until Michael came to collect him in the morning. Kit’s gone—he vaguely recalls something about her needing to take the 6:05 Acela to New York—so he’ll have to take the train into the city to pick up his car and collect his brother from the rectory.

  Michael’s assistant is already at her desk, sipping her first cup of coffee, and answers on the second ring. Something has come up, he says. Thankfully, it’s a rare day he doesn’t have court appearances scheduled. He doubts he’ll make it in today. Reach him on his cell in the event of an emergency. And give Walter Rudenstein his personal number when he calls. Jocelyn’s returned from taking Danny to school and offers to drive him to the station. He thanks her and says he can use a brisk walk to clear his head.

  It’s a beautiful day. He reaches in his pocket and turns off his phone, needing an hour without interruptions to collect his thoughts and prepare for what is going to be the worst day of his life. The weather forecast was right on the nose, the perfect spring day with a few passing clouds. The kid at the coffee shop, too young and pimply to have earned the distinction of being called a barista, manages to pull a decent café Americano. The train is due to arrive shortly. He drops several quarters in the honor box for a copy of the morning paper and settles on a bench on the platform. He flips through the front pages, his eyes glazing over the editorial debates about Obama and bitterness and religion and guns. One article gets his attention. Springsteen will be endorsing Obama later in the day.

  It’s difficult to concentrate while an agitated, nasty-tempered lapdog is barking farther down the platform. Please, lady, he thinks, keep that damn thing far away from me. He’s going to report her to the conductor if she tries to board the quiet car at the front of the train. A Haverford Prep boy flops onto Michael’s bench. The kid’s a classic model, straight from central casting: wrinkled khakis, an unpressed oxford shirt with the tail untucked and collar unbuttoned, his rep tie loosely knotted, a band of duct tape wrapped around his fashionably well-seasoned Sperry Top-Siders. The boy squirms and shuffles his long legs, searching for a crumpled pack of Marlboros in his pocket. Trained to be polite to his elders, he offers Michael a cigarette. God knows he’s tempted, but good sense prevails and he thanks the kid and declines. The boy fumbles with the matches and swallows a chestful of smoke, barely suppressing a cough. He’s a novice, obviously, needing a bit more practice before the Brad Pitt attitude seems natural.

  “I think that stupid dog is losing it,” the young man says.

  The frantic animal’s mistress leans forward, admonishing the little fucker, wagging her finger like a mother disciplining a naughty child. Across the tracks, the westbound train from Center City is approaching the north platform. The crazy mutt is spinning in circles, chasing its tail, clearly distressed by the shrill pitch of the air brakes. The woman drops her backpack and squats to pick up the dog, but can’t control it, letting it slip through her hands. It jumps off the platform and runs onto the tracks, racing toward the arriving train. The woman is hysterical, shrieking at the barking dog as she pushes aside a young girl who tries to stop her from making a mad dash across the rails. The little devil hears her voice and turns, wagging its tail, thinking his mommy wants to play. Too quick and clever to be caught, it bolts back toward the south platform and into the path of the eastbound 9:14 as it pulls into the station.

  Head down, never hesitating, the woman tries to outrun a thousand tons of irreversible momentum, seeing nothing but her little dog as it disappears beneath the moving train. Everyone is on their feet, trying to warn her, shouting No! No! No! God, no! Some are already sobbing as the inevitable unfolds in slow motion. Her body makes an oddly soft thumping sound as she’s struck and thrown under the metal wheels. The steel flange is a perfect meat slicer, scattering pieces of flesh along the tracks. The schoolboy howls in horror, his face distorted in anguish; he drops to his haunches and vomits between his knees as the train comes to a stop in the station.

  “There’s a woman!” Michael shouts at the conductor disembarking the train. “There’s a woman under the front car!” he insists, his voice surprisingly calm. Her headless torso is lying on the track bed. A leg, severed at the hip as cleanly as a country ham, is on the far side of the rail. The bright white Keds on her foot looks new, unscuffed; her sock is hot pink, something a child might wear.

  The passengers descending onto the platform are confused and frightened, not understanding why they’re being greeted by tears and sobbing. Michael hears a plaintive cry, almost human, beneath the train. The dog, a small black Chihuahua, is shaking, frightened, not knowing what to do.

  “Come here, boy,” Michael calls and it jumps onto the platform and runs toward the large black backpack abandoned by its mistress. The young girl who tried to stop the fo
olish woman from running on to the tracks is standing guard over the bag, holding a leash. Her face is streaked with tears, her eyes red, and snot dribbles from her nose. She’s fighting to compose herself, overwhelmed by the unwanted responsibility of being the last person to speak with the victim before her tragic end. She throws her arms around Michael when he gently touches her shoulder, an act of solidarity. The other eyewitnesses, frightened and suffering from shock, scatter before the arrival of the police.

  “I didn’t know her,” she confesses without Michael’s asking. “We just started talking. About the dog. She let it off the leash. I should have tried to stop her,” she says, breaking down.

  The animal is eerily quiet, content, snuggling against the canvas backpack. Its green vest identifies it as a medical assistance animal, a service dog. What kind of physical assistance could a small Chihuahua give a grown woman? None, of course. She was a petty scofflaw, scamming the exception for legitimate service animals to flaunt the prohibition against companion pets traveling on public transportation. Michael picks up a worn composition book the dead woman had left on the platform. Its pages are filled with wild scribbles and doodles, the ramblings of a disordered mind.

  The tragedy ghouls, those morbid vultures who appear at crime and accident scenes at the first scent of blood, are arriving, alerted by the call for response on the township police scanner. Michael is asked to give a statement. The young officer asks if there are any questions before he’s released. One, Michael, the veteran of hundreds of crime scenes, says. Why was there no blood? The cop confirms the prosecutor’s theory that the scorching heat of the metal wheels cauterized the wounds.

  The officials throw a tarp over the train car, shielding the gruesome spectacle from curious eyes. A patrolman is restricting the area with crime scene tape. Michael feels awkward just walking away. He feels a strange attachment to the woman whose death he’d witnessed. A bond of intimacy exists between them. He should wait until the body is removed, piece by piece, an act of respect. But he’s starting to feel conspicuous standing here, unneeded, his civic obligation fulfilled. He blesses himself, pure reflex, muscle memory, and wades through the throng of gawkers gathered at the perimeter of the station. He ignores their questions and walks away.