Breaking Brooklyn

by Scott Leopold

  I started thinking about my baby never having the memory of life, never filling its lungs with the Earth's air, and never experiencing love or fear. Who am I to deny this baby growing inside of me these things? Like my mother said, it’s not the baby’s fault I got pregnant. But how can I love something that is the product of something so awful?

  All of these thoughts were starting to make me feel sick. I couldn’t take it. I had to get out of there. I could feel my mother's presence hovering over me like a ghost. I stopped the doctor, telling him I didn’t want to go through with the abortion.

  “This is a common reaction, you just need to relax. It will all be over in less than 15 minutes,” he explained.

  All I could picture was my mother looking at me with disappointment in her eyes. I told the doctor my mind was made up, that I no longer wanted to have the procedure. He immediately became irritated.

  “You have wasted my time! I hope you understand that you will still have to pay for the procedure,” he shouted.

  I didn’t care. I just wanted to get the hell out of there. When I got back to the car, I told Debbie I couldn't go through with the abortion. She held my hand. I cried all the way home. I was not ready to be a mother. Regret was now filling my stomach with fear and doubt. I felt like I just made the biggest mistake of my life.

  January 25, 1978

  I got home from the clinic an hour ago. I can’t stop crying. While I am not ready to have a baby, I just couldn’t go through with the abortion. My mother has gotten her way. She has forced her will on me once again. Now, she keeps asking whether or not I am 100 percent sure Sam is the father. Sam’s mom must have questioned it when my mother called her. Sadly, I have no idea who the father is. I am pretty sure it’s either Sam or Mike. But Mike was a one-time thing and I just don’t think it was him. Odds are its Sam. Plus, Sam is easy to explain to everyone because we have been seeing each other for almost seven months now. No one will question it, not even Sam.

  I met Sam at the Riviera Club, my second home in the summer. I first noticed him at the snack bar. I recognized him from high school. He was a senior, very good looking, and very popular. He has shaggy brown hair and light blue eyes that accentuate his dark tan. Asking around, I found out that he had broken up with Barbara, the girl he had been dating off and on in that spring. I decided that I was going to be his “girl” that summer. After I finally got his attention he introduced himself to me. We instantly clicked and started dating. He is smart, kind, and most of all fun! But I got bored. Summer was not a time to get tied down. Besides, what Sam didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

  Yes, Sam has to be the father! He would certainly be a good one. He is a hard worker in school, gets good grades, and works at the Nora bowling alley on the weekends. He has told me about his dreams of going to the police academy like his father and grandfather. Most guys our age have no plan for their life. Sam is motivated. He will be a good provider for me and our baby.

  The thought of making a life with Sam brings some comfort to me even though I truly feel like my life is basically over. Now, I just have to figure out when and where to tell him. Maybe his mother already has? He has been avoiding me. I bet that’s why.

  March 1, 1978

  I told him! Sam was surprised to see me at his front door today. I told him there was something important we needed to talk about. I informed him that I was pregnant. That he was the father. At first he stared at me with a blank look on his face. Like I was joking. Then strangely he smiled. I told him that I needed his help to raise this child. That's when the seriousness of the situation hit him. His facial expression dropped. Then his body sort of closed in on itself as he glared back at me. Shaking his head Sam had the nerve to question how this could have possibly happened. He asked if I lied about being on the pill. That really pissed me off! I laid into him good, telling him not to even think this baby wasn’t his! He then told me the reason he had backed off a bit in our relationship was because someone told him that I had cheated on him with Mike Salinger.

  “That’s crap! You are the only person I have slept with in the past seven months.” I yelled stormed off the porch.

  Following me he grabbed my arm. I pulled away, telling him to get his hands off of me. He let go, begging me to forgive him.

  “Look, I wasn’t expecting this! I’m sorry! I will be there for you and the baby,” he pleaded.

  I trumped up some tears as Sam pulled me in closer to him. He assured me that we would figure this out together. I was still angry, but Sam hugging me, along with his words, brought relief to me.

  April 12, 1978

  Sam asked me to marry him today!!! He took me to El Matador, my favorite restaurant. It’s a dive, but they serve the best Mexican food in town. Flacco, the bartender, is always willing to serve me a strong margarita without asking for ID. God knows I wanted one today. Considering my condition I decided not to, a coke for this mommy-to-be…

  Its spring now, and after the hard winter we had I think everyone in the city was out walking the Broad Ripple strip. Hoosiers always get overexcited about spring. They prematurely breakout their shorts and flip-flops. It can be 50 degrees out and in their minds it’s 70.

  Sam reached in his pocket and pulled out a little red box. He then began his “speech.”

  “Cindy, I know this is not what either of us expected or planned. But I have loved you from the first moment I laid eyes on you. While we have had our ups and downs the past few months, there have been way more good times than bad. Yes, we are young, but I know we are meant for each other. Let’s be a family. Will you marry me?”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Weren’t these the words I was waiting to hear? My mother would be so happy… but will I? Is this what I really want, to be a wife and mother?

  I can’t raise this baby alone. A part of me does love Sam. We can make this work.

  When I finally said yes, Sam walked around the table. In front of everyone he placed the diamond ring on my finger. Two couples sitting next to us raised their margarita glasses and yelled , “Congrats! Cheers!”

  Sam continued to assure me that all would be fine, that we would make it work, especially since we had his parents’ blessing.

  My ring is nice, not something I would have chosen, but simple and pretty.

  While we were eating, Sam was talking a mile a minute about his plans for our future.

  I knew marrying Sam was the best option for me and my baby. It will keep my mother off my back and the local gossip to a minimum.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after.”

  ~ Henry David Thoreau

  Jack Napier- Day 11

  I asked Harleen again today about my family. She blew it off like she did the last time. I told her I couldn't wait any longer, demanding I see them immediately. Harleen was expressionless, like one of those mannequins you see in a Macy’s display window.

  "I have done everything you have asked. Please let me see my family," I pleaded again.

  "Jack, I am so sorry to have to tell you this, but your wife and children were found dead in your home the night you were brought here."

  "What!" I shouted.

  "The police received a call from one of your neighbors that Friday evening reporting that they heard what sounded like gunshots. When the officers arrived they found your wife and children unresponsive. You were unconscious. Tied to a chair."

  The shock that paralyzed my body quickly morphed into anger.

  "Why didn't you tell me this when we first met?!" I shouted.

  "We wanted to see if you remembered anything. Several hours had gone by and you still had not been able to recall or shed a light on what happened that night."

  My body started to shake.

  "I want to help you remember,” Harleen said, “so we can find out what really happened. I needed to make sure you were stable from a medical and mental standpoint. The last thing I wanted
to do was blindside you with this news. I am so sorry this happened to you. I am here to help you, Jack."

  I felt the blood rush to my face. My head was tingling. Sweat trickled down my neck.

  "Is there anything you can remember from that evening?” Harleen prodded. “If not, what about the day?"

  "You lied to me!” I screeched. “You let me believe my family was alive, that I would get to see them!"

  "Jack, I never lied. My job was to make sure you were mentally prepared before I could share the news. Our focus now needs to be on finding out what happened that night. Please try and remember. Did you go to work that morning?"

  I leaned into Harleen, so my face was within inches of hers.

  I screamed, "YOU LIED TO ME!!!!"

  "Jack, I never—"

  "I DON'T BELIEVE YOU! YOU ARE LYING TO ME NOW!"

  I could see that Harleen was scared as she rang for the nurse. When the nurse and the guard entered the room, all hell broke loose. Security was called and it took several officers to hold me down so they could sedate me. Then it was lights out…..

  When I eventually woke, I realized my family was in danger, or even worse, they were gone. Something felt very suspicious about this whole situation, like I was being set up. I knew I had to keep my cool if I wanted to find the truth.

  I needed to take my mind off the current situation. I had to regroup and figure out what was really happening.

  When I was a kid, I would go to the Broad Ripple Canal when I wanted to clear my head. That's where I met Jim, my fishing buddy and one of my best friends.

  Jim and I would cast our lines in the canal, then we would sit and talk for hours about the mysteries of life. Like whether or not Goofy was a dog or a human with a dog-like face. Jim would joke around telling me that one of his ex-girlfriends had a face like Goofy.

  What I liked most about Jim was that he always had time for me and all of my silly questions. Being that I was a kid with no father in sight, Jim was a godsend at that time in my life. He taught me about life and most of all, how to put the right bait on my line to catch the big catfish, the one worth telling a story about.

  By the time I was seven I knew all the Broad Ripple Village shortcuts, which dogs to avoid, and which old ladies to stay clear of. I was a scrappy little guy with long, curly-blond hair. I was bony and malnourished with a ruddy complexion from spending every possible minute outside. I was adventurous, wandering along the train tracks and around the canal. What the Mississippi River was to Huckleberry Finn, the train tracks were to me. It was my escape from reality.

  The train that ran along the Monon Railroad passed right by our three-bedroom townhouse, slicing Broad Ripple into two equal halves. Walking along the tracks, hopping from one tie to the next, took me through parts of town where I met the most interesting people, many of whom became my dear friends. Best of all, the train tracks led right to my favorite place, the Broad Ripple canal.

  The canal had carved its way through the once-tiny village decades ago. Now it’s lined with restaurants, bars, and the after-wash of late night riffraff.

  Back when it was a child’s paradise, I would tiptoe as soon as my feet hit the bank, so as not to stir up any dirt. Then I’d flip a rock, catching a crawdad before it had a chance to scurry away. I was really good at catching crawdads.

  “They make mighty-fine bait,” Jim would tell me.

  When it got cold, Jim would go to the local homeless shelter to live for the winter. I wouldn’t see him for months. That was one of the many reasons I hated that season. I could barely wait until spring, so Jim and I could get back to fishing. We would spend hours casting our lines, hoping for a bite, and me asking a lot of questions.

  The thing about Jim was he genuinely wanted to be my friend, which made me feel loved. I asked him once why he lived under the bridge. He told me he couldn’t be tied down to just one fishing hole. Then he called me Ponyboy. He liked to call me that and he always said it with a giant smile.

  Ponyboy was the main character in Jim’s favorite book, The Outsiders. Jim kept a worn paperback copy in his back pocket. He liked to read it to me, and I loved to listen. While we were fishing, I would ask him to read my favorite parts over and over again.

  I never really knew why Jim loved to call me Ponyboy until I was old enough to read the book on my own. I was Ponyboy to him, and he wanted me to stay golden. It wasn’t until much later in life that I realized what a gift it was to have him as a friend.

  Looking back, I suppose it was kind of weird that my best friend was a forty-five year old black man who barely survived the jungle hell of Vietnam, only to take up temporary residence under a bridge in Broad Ripple. Jim’s face was worn and callused like his hands. He was built like a soldier, lean but muscular. His hair was long (afro style) with a chin curtain beard that was speckled with grey. Jim would tell me all about his adventures in Vietnam, the good ones, that is. When I would push to hear about the bad ones, he would simply say, “Leave it alone, Ponyboy,” and I would stop.

  As soon as I woke up in the mornings on summer break, I would run to the canal to see my old fishing buddy. Jim was easy to spot because he was always in his Army fatigues with all kinds of different patches on them from his service in Vietnam. My heart would glow when I saw him sitting on the bank of the canal with his bamboo pole in hand. He didn’t have a reel, but he managed to catch fish just fine.

  One particular morning on my way to go fishing, I saw Jim at the canal, right at the dam where it meets White River, where the railroad tracks cross. Jim was excited because he just got a huge bite on his line. He yelled at me to come help him. This was no regular fish nipping at the bait. We both knew “who” it was. It had to be the legendary catfish that had teased many a fisherman for years. Jim and I called him “Old Man.” He’d lived longer and avoided more fishing hooks than seemed possible.

  The bobber didn’t just sink, it popped below the surface, back up, and then down deep. Each time the fish made a run for it, Jim and I grew more excited.

  Just as Jim was pulling it to shore, the line broke. The biggest fish in the canal still held the title of “The One That Got Away.”

  Jim already had six catfish and a smallmouth bass sitting in his bucket on the bank. But this was the one he wanted. It was the fish everyone coveted, the one we all talked about. This guy was a catfish worth one hundred fishing stories.

  Jim balled up a piece of crawdad into a piece of bread and went at it again. After putting the bait on his hook, he cast his line. The bobber floated peacefully on the top of the water like a swan. Jim and I never looked away, never relaxed, didn’t talk, just waited and waited.

  Suddenly the sinker was pulled under the surface with such force Jim had to hang onto the pole with all his strength. Up and down the bank he followed the giant catfish. He wanted to tire the Old Man out.

  At one point Jim got pulled so near the bank he lost his footing, his pole slipping out of his hand. He managed to grab it and kept fighting. He yelled for me to get the net. The battle raged for nearly half an hour. My palms were sweaty. I felt like I was going to jump out of my skin. Jim pulled and pulled on the line until the Old Man was close to the shore, then he yelled for me to throwing the net over the Old Man.

  As we pulled the net out of the water, the giant catfish fought like a prizefighter, thrashing to get out of the net, refusing to accept his fate. Jim and I shared a grin of victory. Jim figured the catfish to be about eight pounds. I was pretty sure it was more like sixty.

  Jim carefully cut the line. Then he grabbed his pliers to get the hook out of the fish’s mouth. That monster was still fighting. Catfish can cut you like a knife, you know. Jim put his gloves on and fought to get it to hold still. Removing the hook, he threw the Old Man in the bucket with the rest of his fish. It was odd, because a catfish like that deserved to be in his own bucket, not one filled with inferior fish. I would have thrown the other fish back in the canal, freeing up the bucket for my prize.

 
Jim had quite a load in that old plastic paint bucket he found in the dumpster behind the drugstore. It was enough food to feed him for a week. He looked at me with a huge smile on his face while we watched our captive flop around in an effort to escape the crowded bucket of water.

  The satisfied look on Jim’s face was what you would imagine seeing from someone who just climbed Mount Everest. Breathing heavily, he looked out over the water. He was the most content man I ever saw.

  Jim then told me to take the bucket of fish home. He said I could have the tackle box as well. It didn’t make any sense; he used that tackle box every day.

  “Jack, you’re a good friend,” he said. “One of the best I ever had. I am glad I met you.”

  “Me too," I told him.

  I felt like I had ants in my pants because I wanted to show the fish to my friends so bad. I asked Jim again if he was sure he didn’t want the Old Man for himself.

  “Nah, you take him”, he said, “take ‘em all.” Then Jim said, “Stay golden, Ponyboy,” like he was saying goodbye for a long time.

  I told him thanks, that I’d see him in the morning. I didn’t think much about what Jim said at the time, but I would later regret not staying longer with him that day.

  Not thinking about the consequences, I put the giant catfish in the sink when I got home. I ran through the neighborhood, yelling to my friends, who all came running in to catch a glimpse of the legendary catfish. They looked at the monster in the sink in disbelief. They couldn’t believe their eyes!

  I did just what Jim had instructed. I told everyone I caught the Old Man singlehandedly. My friends had no choice but to believe me. The indisputable proof was right there in the sink.