The tarp has been removed and the crime scene tape taken down. Frankie’s train must be late and he has yet to arrive. A young woman is tapping on the keyboard of her laptop. An older gent approaches Michael and asks if he has a schedule. No one has bothered to lay even a single flower on the sacred ground where a woman was violently killed just a few hours ago. Michael carefully places his bouquet of Gerbera daisies and snapdragons between the rails. They look sad and pathetic, unworthy, and he reaches for the medal he wears on a chain around his neck. Saint Rocco has had no religious significance to Michael since he was a boy, but the image is a talisman. He tosses it onto the tracks, a more meaningful offering than blossoms.
He shouldn’t feel this exhausted after having slept the day away. But the thought of the short walk home overwhelms him and he slumps onto the same bench where he’d sat this morning. His body feels heavy, as if he’s wearing an iron yoke and his sneakers are cement shoes. He drops his head into his hands and squeezes his temples in a futile attempt to quiet the throbbing pain behind his eyes. He stares at his feet as a train approaches from the city. His brief moment of sanguine confidence that Frankie is still alive has passed and he’s broken and defeated, unable to stand between his brother and his destiny.
It’s magical thinking believing Frankie will be among the tired commuters getting off at the Wayne station. Somewhere along the miles of tracks leading into and out of the city, his body lies mangled beyond recognition, more pieces along the tracks. This morning’s tragedy has repeated itself, two similar fatalities in a single day, the newscasters will report in amazement. He regrets his impulsive gesture. Saint Rocco is their family’s household saint, an offering for Frankie, not some nameless stranger. But the medal is a tiny thing, too tarnished to catch the light of the sun. He falls to his knees and sweeps his palm along the pebbles between the rails, determined to find it by touch if not by sight. He’s absorbed in his treasure hunt and doesn’t hear the inbound train approaching the station or the frantic voice shouting his name. Someone grabs him by the shoulders, tearing the cloth of his undershirt, and pulls him back from the tracks.
“What the fuck are you doing, Mikey? What the fuck? Jesus. What the fuck are you doing?”
Michael attempts a response, but his voice is weak and quivering, unable to utter a coherent sentence. He’s reduced to stammering, blubbering, fighting the powerful urge to sob. Self-conscious about attracting unwanted attention, he breathes deeply and slowly composes himself, using the back of his hand to wipe the snot dripping from his nose.
“I’m sorry, Boo,” he apologizes. “I saw a woman run in front of the train this morning. She went under the wheels and was cut into pieces. It’s got me . . . it’s got me . . .” Michael says haltingly. “I thought you might . . . I thought you had . . . tried the same thing. She got into my head. I’m sorry. You must think I’m crazy. I know you’d never do anything like that to me.”
“You don’t have to worry, Mikey,” Frankie assures him. “I’m too much of a coward.”
APRIL 17, 2008 (EVENING INTO NIGHT)
He’d stood there as the train approached the airport station, not moving until the car stopped and the doors opened, then stepped inside and took a seat. The conductor collected the fare, Philadelphia International Airport to Wayne, where he would surrender himself to Michael and place his fate in his brother’s hands. He’d lied when he said he was a coward. It wasn’t fear of dying that had stopped him from stepping onto the tracks. It was something Connie said when Jackie Fontana was running at the mouth about that woman who was struck by a train chasing a dog this morning.
Say a prayer for that poor woman’s family. They’ll never be the same. It’s hard enough when someone you love passes. Do you remember Marsha Carbone who lived at Twelfth and Wharton? Her son was killed in an explosion at the refinery. They had to identify him by his dental records. I don’t know what I would do if something like that happened to one of my boys.
A coward would have stood in the path of a moving train. It’s the bravest thing he’s ever done, choosing prison and confinement to spare Michael from spending the rest of his life thinking of him as bloody pulp on a slab to be packed in a box to be buried in the earth. How could he ever face their mother in heaven and explain how he could have been so selfishly cruel?
“Dad!”
Danny comes rushing from the kitchen, excited by the unlikely surprise of hearing his father and uncle come through the door. It seems to Michael he’s grown a half foot since yesterday. The resemblance between them grows stronger as Danny begins to lose the features of a boy and develop into a young man: the soft brown eyes shadowed by dark circles, the strong jaw and peaked Roman nose, the cleft in their square chins, the black hair shorn close to the scalp, their natural bearing somber and dignified. Danny’s happy to see his dad, but he’s a bit conflicted. Any variation on the settled routine is ominous. He looks anxious, seeking reassurance.
“Are you sick?”
“No, buddy.”
“How come you’re home so early?”
“Your mother is stuck in New York and I’m taking you to Little League.”
“Why is Uncle Frankie here?”
“He left his car near here and he came to get it back.”
“Where?”
“It doesn’t matter, Danny. Don’t ask so many questions,” he says, growing impatient and irritated about needing to answer to a nine-year-old boy. “Go tell Jocelyn I’ll pay for a cab if she’s too fu—if she’s too lazy to walk her fat ass to the train station.”
Danny returns a few minutes later with his glove and his North Wayne Falcons jersey, emblazoned with the logo of Ace Hardware, the team’s generous sponsor. It will be almost dark before the game is over and Danny is fed and put to bed. The call to Walter Rudenstein should have been made hours ago. More time is being wasted when every minute counts.
“Hey, aren’t you coming?” Danny asks his uncle.
“Of course he’s coming. Get in the backseat, Frankie. How many times do I have to tell you to buckle your goddamn seat belt, Danny?”
His tone is harsh. His son stares in amazement. His father has never sworn at him before today.
The radio’s tuned to News Radio 1060 and he quickly changes the station, not wanting Danny to hear an account of this morning’s accident. Adult alternative public radio is playing an Emmylou Harris track, a soothing lullaby by a Nashville madonna.
“A lady got hit by a train this morning,” Danny announces as they drive past the station.
Michael’s startled by his son’s casual observation. He looks in the rearview mirror to see his brother’s reaction. Nothing. Frankie is staring out the window, adrift in another world.
“She was chasing a dog,” he adds.
“Where did you hear about it?”
“Jocelyn told me when we were coming home from school.”
He bites his tongue to keep his temper under control. He’s going to fire the lazy bitch for overstepping her authority. She’s nothing but a car service anyway. Danny hardly needs a nanny. The team has already taken to the field for batting practice when they arrive.
“Let’s go,” Michael snaps, irritated by his son’s stalling tactics. “Goddamn it. Stop acting like a fucking spoiled little brat. Pick up your glove and get out of the car.”
Michael knows Little League is a burdensome chore for him. His son is acutely aware of his lack of skill, having inherited none of his father’s athleticism. His ambivalence and clumsiness infuriate his coach, who plays him as the fourth outfielder so he can do the least harm. Balls the other boys would catch fall from the sky and land at his feet. Michael’s told him time and again he doesn’t have to play if he doesn’t want to, but Danny soldiers on bravely, not wanting to be marked as an outcast, a pariah. It’s painful to watch him flailing at the plate, a study in frustration.
“Dad . . .”
“Shut up and do what I tell you!” Michael shouts, his tone sharper and more menacing
than intended.
Even Frankie is stirred by his outburst. Danny’s clearly frightened by this stranger who raises his voice and swears and refuses to let him speak. There’s an unspoken threat of physical punishment, of being roughly pulled from the car and slapped. He grabs his glove and slinks away, dragging himself to the field, his shoulders sagging as if being sent off to certain doom. He finally spins on his heels and stares at his father from a safe distance. Michael is unsettled by the fear and apprehension in the boy’s eyes.
“Hey! Hey! Come back!” Michael calls after him. “Come on. Come back.”
Danny stalls, not knowing if he can trust this man who only resembles his dad.
“Come on. You don’t have to play tonight. We can just go home.”
Danny’s hesitant and approaches his father warily.
“Why are you mad at me, Dad?”
“No. No. No. I’m not mad at you. I’m just having a bad day. A really bad day. You hungry, buddy?”
“I guess so,” Danny says tentatively, testing the waters.
“Don’t tell your mother about this,” Michael warns as they pull into the parking lot of McDonald’s.
Danny’s appetite has outgrown Happy Meals, though he looks longingly at the excited little boy at the next table playing with his cheap plastic toy giveaway. He orders Chicken McNuggets and fries and a strawberry shake. The father he knows has returned and life is back to normal.
“You have to eat something, Frankie,” Michael insists when his brother refuses even a cup of coffee.
Frankie hasn’t said ten words since Michael gently explained how this was going to go down. I need you to trust me. Walter Rudenstein is the best in the city. Michael said he doesn’t see the prosecution going for a murder charge. No jury will doubt the words of a priest when Jack takes the stand to testify to Frankie’s bruised and battered face and the prior history of violent beatings by a volatile young man. Throw in Frankie’s diminished capacity from excessive doses of sleeping pills and it’s voluntary manslaughter at most. It’s serious shit, Frankie. I won’t lie to you. But it isn’t murder and the prosecutor will agree to reasonable bail at the preliminary arraignment. Frankie has no record. He lacks any propensity for violence; he’s a danger to no one. And he has a brother who’s well respected by the entire Philadelphia office, even by the DA herself. The bad idea of stashing the body in a freezer chest complicates things, but that’s why Michael will be paying Walter Rudenstein his considerable fee. It’s possible he won’t have to do any time. Frankie’s only reaction had been to ask when they could retrieve his car. Is that all you have to say? Michael asked. You think you’re in this alone? This is going to affect me, too. You know that, don’t you?
Kettleman is going to distance himself from anyone associated with a dead boy found in a freezer and he’s certainly not going to anoint someone knee-deep in the muck of a tabloid scandal as his successor. The Grossmans will offer their sympathy as they move on to more promising, untainted candidates. His political career is over before it ever started. As for the impact on his wife and son, why state the obvious?
Danny’s tugging at his uncle’s shirtsleeve. He’s grown frustrated with Frankie’s out-of-character lack of interest in debating who would emerge victorious—Spider-Man or Superman—in a battle to the death.
“Danny’s talking to you, Frankie. Aren’t you going to answer the question?”
“What’s that?” Frankie asks, as if being aroused from a deep sleep.
“Never mind,” Michael says, exhausted by the effort of playing the charade that all is well in the world, that it’s just another day. “You finished, Danny? Tomorrow’s a school day.”
Danny’s patter during the drive home is a welcome distraction. His father insists he go straight up to his room and change into his pajamas when they get home.
“Lights out, buddy,” he announces when he goes to say good night and finds Danny propped against his pillow with his frayed copy of the Diary of a Wimpy Kid in his hand. “Your mother is going to be really pissed if she comes home and finds you awake.”
“Ten more minutes.”
“No more minutes.”
“Can I have a glass of water?”
“Are you thirsty?”
“Yes.”
He gurgles the contents, hands back the empty glass, and asks for another.
“No more water. You’re just stalling for time.”
Michael listens to his prayers. Tonight he asks God to bless the lady who got hit by the train and to take good care of her dog. His father kisses him good night and turns off the bed lamp. On impulse, Michael picks up his son—he’s getting to be a heavy little bugger—and hugs him. He’d recognized that voice earlier this evening, cruel, impatient, threatening. It was Papa speaking and it shocked him to realize he was capable of striking his child. He asks if Danny knows how much he loves him.
“I’m sorry for upsetting you tonight, Danny. It won’t happen again. I promise.”
The boy looks him in the eye, his expression as grave as a church elder’s.
“It’s okay, Dad. You’re allowed to be mean sometimes,” he solemnly pronounces, the son comforting the father, assuring him all is well.
Michael leaves him safe in his bed to dream of X-Men and Bakugan Brawlers, beyond the reach of the dangerous and unpredictable world for a few hours. He closes the bedroom door and walks downstairs to call the lawyer. It’s late, but it won’t be the first time Walter Rudenstein gets a phone call from a desperate client at ten o’clock. Frankie’s sitting where he left him, watching the local news. The anchor is using his fake somber voice as he announces the most urgent matters of the day.
A little dog’s excitement led to tragedy on the Main Line this morning. Eyewitnesses say the victim had bent down to pick up the animal after it wandered onto the tracks.
What eyewitnesses? The woman was running, goddamn it, head down, chasing the dog as it disappeared under the train. Michael was there. Never took his eyes off her.
The victim’s identity is being withheld until next of kin can be notified.
Michael’s phone starts vibrating as the anchor moves on to another tragedy, a four-alarm fire in North Philadelphia. It must be Kit, calling in with a status report and her estimated time of arrival. But the area code of the incoming call is 412 and he remembers he never responded to the earlier message from western Pennsylvania.
“Am I speaking to Mr. Gagliano? Mr. Michael Gagliano?”
The man’s English is fluent, his diction is formal, and his accent is decidedly Indian or Pakistani. He identifies himself as Dr. Patel, an attending physician in the Coronary Intensive Care Unit, and is calling about Mrs. Shevchek, Mr. Gagliano’s sister. He apologizes for the late hour, but Mr. Gagliano never responded to his call. The doctor explains Mrs. Shevchek had been transported by ambulance and presented in respiratory distress. She was still alert and oriented and had consented to allow them to drain the fluid that had gathered around her heart. But now she’s gone into an acute episode of COPD and he’s calling Michael as her medical power of attorney, needing his consent to intubate her.
Goddamn it, Michael thinks. He would never have agreed to assume this unwanted responsibility if Frankie hadn’t pleaded with him. Polly spent her dying years fearing the motives of her impaired stepson and his children. Her stepdaughter Laurie had died of uterine cancer and Polly and Marybeth have been long estranged after a bitter dispute over money, leaving her no one to trust but her half brothers by the father she hated. Michael, being the lawyer, was the obvious choice. His first instinct is to refuse to allow them to do the procedure. He recalls the instructions in her advance declaration, locked in a safe upstairs, and her decision to forgo any extraordinary measures to extend her life.
“It would give us the opportunity to see if she responds to antibiotics. If there is no improvement, we would agree that the appropriate course would be to remove the breathing tube.”
The doctor recommends a family
meeting between the legally authorized power of attorney and Mrs. Shevchek’s next of kin. As soon as possible. The son has been argumentative, unwilling to accept he’s been excluded from any decision about his mother’s treatment and care. Stepson, Michael clarifies, without legal standing to challenge the decisions of her blood kin and the appointed power of attorney. The physician says the hospital social worker, expert at building consensus and trained in grief counseling, will facilitate. When can they expect Mr. Gagliano’s arrival?
“I don’t need consensus. Her instructions are clear. No tubes,” he says decisively. “Let her go peacefully.”
“Was that the lawyer? Is it time?” Frankie asks when Michael finishes his call, his voice surprisingly strong and even.
He can’t read the strange expression on Michael’s face.
“That was Presbyterian Hospital in Pittsburgh. Polly’s dying. They wanted to put her on life support to give her a chance to rally. I told them to let her die.”
APRIL 18, 2008
The phone call to Walter Rudenstein was postponed once again by a lengthy debate between Michael and the suddenly engaged Frankie about his decision as the power of attorney. It wasn’t his brother’s plea for mercy and kindness that had caused Michael to call back the attending physician and consent to the procedure. He’d come to realize Polly’s bleak prognosis was a gift, an opportunity to improvise an elaborate ruse about needing to drive across the Appalachians and rush to her bedside, a reasonable explanation for the sudden absence of a reliable husband and father and his uncharacteristic behavior of neglecting his office and duties as a dedicated public servant. He hates lying to his wife but she has to be kept in the dark, unaware of her husband’s plots and scheming, until Frankie is arraigned and he can he come clean without implicating her in a possible charge of harboring a criminal. Then he’ll take Polly off life support after she’s outlived her usefulness, no pun intended.
He’d slept fitfully, checking on Frankie periodically to ensure he hadn’t disappeared while the household was sleeping. In the morning, Kit, exhausted from her sixteen-hour-day in Manhattan, had promptly announced she was postponing Miss Peterson’s birthday party scheduled for Sunday. He’d said he appreciated the gesture but that it would be ridiculous for his wife to drop everything to travel across the state for what could be a lengthy vigil for a comatose woman being kept alive by a ventilator. He’d reminded her she’d been planning Miss P’s centennial for over a year and the spiteful old bitch will have her revenge if the party is postponed. He knew Kit was relieved, having been decidedly uncomfortable on the rare occasions she’d encountered Polly and her brood. Addicts in the Ballard-Morris-Scott clan are far better bred.
The Boys from Eighth and Carpenter Page 32