“Don’t know if that made me feel better or worse,” I said, handin’ Shirley the empty glass. “But thanks.” Then I smiled like I always do at pretty women. Even one who’s lookin’ at me like somethin’ that should be swingin’ in a tree somewhere.
When we was alone again, the imposter kept up his new approach, like we was buddies chattin’ in the parlor. He repeated the question. “Now that you’ve had your water, do you want to tell me why—”
“Nope,” I said, stoppin’ him right there. “Can’t say’s I do.”
His skin flashed a shade darker. “I believe your family—I mean, the Moscatellis—have engaged an attorney on your behalf. Do you want to wait till he arrives? That’s your right, of course. But to be honest? With all the evidence we have, it’s not going to make much difference.”
I rose to my feet with as much dignity as someone who had initiated a so-called unprovoked attack and was still half drunk could muster. “It ain’t my rights I’m worried about, Chief. What I’m sayin’ is I ain’t tellin’ you shit. Not here, just the two of us. Not with twelve lawyer types present. Never.”
If it was possible to commit suicide twice in twelve hours, I’d just done it. But at that particular minute, I didn’t care.
The imposter filled up with somethin’ the color of purple. “Listen, you little w-w-wiseass,” he said, sounding like his nephew, Larry, who took on a stutter when he got pushed too far. “Who the h-h-hell do you think you are?”
“Me? I’m exactly what you’re lookin’ at. A drunk wiseass just like you said. The real question here is who you are, Chief Wood. You wanna answer me that?”
His cheek muscles twitched like he was fighting the impulse to pull an unprovoked attack himself. “You’re gonna pay for that, Kovacs,” he said through his polished-up teeth. “And the price is gonna be higher than you ever imagined.”
Just then, the guard knocked on the door. Wood called him inside. “I bet I will,” I said, like it was just him and me in the room. “But you know what? It was worth it.”
I mighta been the dumbest punk goin’, but when I walked out of there, I swaggered like I did when I was a fourteen-year-old kid off to meet the prettiest girl in town. Back when I had no idea how hot the inferno could get.
NEXT PERSON I saw was the lawyer they hired with the state money Ma had saved up all these years, hoping I’d go to college. Well, here it was: my big education. Sitting in a cell with attorney Samuel L. Chisholm, listening to him explain how it all worked. Right away he started with the same question.
“It’s not always what you did, James. It’s how the jury perceives what you did. That’s why your story is so important. Do you understand?”
I looked at the pocked floor of the cell, irritated by the name he called me: James. How many times had James Sr. sat here, sweating out one of his weaselly crimes? Only thing I could do was keep my eyes on the floor and hope I didn’t puke all over the lawyer’s fancy shoes.
“We’ll definitely be asking for a jury trial,” he went on. “No matter which judge we draw, he’s likely to be a friend of the Wood family.” He peered over his glasses, obviously wonderin’ how much I knew about all that.
Then, when I didn’t show him nothin’, he went back to his papers. “Now I hear the victim—Martin J. Dean—had been harassing your foster sister. According to your guardian, there was some severe abuse in the past. Is that correct, James?”
Normally, I woulda just corrected the guy, but with my head hammerin’ and the sound of that locomotive getting closer, I didn’t have a lot of patience.
I snapped my head up so fast the room spun. “Nobody calls me that, okay? You wanna tell a good story, at least get the names right. I’m Jimmy, and my sister ain’t no foster nothin’. My dad neither.”
Like I say, it wasn’t how I generally talked, but after you pound a guy to an inch of his life, people see you different. Least I could do was give them their money’s worth. If I was really as tough as I pretended, though, I wouldn’t’ve felt sorry right after I said it. Poor bastard was only tryin’ to help me and here I was takin’ his head off.
He cleared his throat. “I’ll make a note of that, Jimmy,” he said. “Now, if you could tell me a little bit about the events that led up to your encounter with Mr. Dean.” I nodded my head like I did in school when somethin’ like photosynthesis all of a sudden made sense. So beatin’ someone to a pulp with a baseball bat was now a encounter? Made it sound like we run into each other at the beach or somethin’. Locked eyes across a bar maybe. Yeah, I was beginnin’ to understand how this lawyer thing worked.
“See, I was up at my buddy Duane’s house when my sister called me—” I told him.
“Duane Hillyer, correct? Your father mentioned the name when we spoke.”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
He cleared his throat again—a habit that seemed to go along with the lawyer trade. “Unfortunately, Mr. Hillyer is very familiar to the court . . . So you were with an old friend from school—doing what? Watching TV?”
“Yeah, I s’pose the set was on,” I said, getting the idea. “His grandmother’s always got one of them sitcoms runnin’. Even though she sleeps through most of ’em.”
“All right, you were visiting . . . a friend and his grandmother . . . when your sister called for help,” he said as he wrote out every word in his book. “Very good. And during the visit, you and your buddy shared a beer or two perhaps? Or maybe his grandmother offered you something?”
“Beg your pardon, Mr. Chisholm, but I ain’t never let it go with a beer or two in my life.”
He made no response so I dropped it. Yep, this was the education Ma saved up for her whole life. How smart people been runnin’ the world since Adam and Eve messed everything up. When I went in the direction he wanted me to go, he took out his pen, repeating my words back to me like he was writing in stone. But if I veered off track a little, he sat back and waited.
I scratched my head. “Tell you the truth, after I talked to Sky Bar—I mean, my sister—things get a little fuzzy. Heck, even before that. I think she told me she was in a phone booth over on Penniman Street, and that son of a bitch—Dean—had just parked the car and got out.”
Piece by piece, it came back. “Shit, the whole thing was my fault,” I said more to myself than to him. “Agnes had a night practice cause of some big meet comin’ up and I was s’pose to pick her up. So while I was waitin’, I thought I’d kill a little time at Duane’s place. Then I got hung up . . . um, watchin’ TV with his grandmother, right?”
I paused to look him in the eye like Ma was always after us to do. “You really think anyone’s gonna believe that crap? The cops seen me, Mr. Chisholm. They seen me and they knew I wasn’t drinkin’ no cherry cordials with Duane’s grandma. Not that bein’ drunk as shit was any kinda excuse. Nah. I wanted to kill that bastard with everything in me. Have for years. Only thing Duane’s bourbon did was give me the courage.”
At that, attorney Samuel L. Chisholm closed the leather notebook in which we was supposed to be makin’ up—I mean writing—somethin’ good enough to stop a train.
“I see,” he said, checkin’ his watch, like to see how much time he’d wasted on me and my crap story. He rose to his feet. “Your arraignment is at nine tomorrow morning. They’re charging you with attempted murder, Jimmy, but I’m going to try to get it reduced to aggravated assault. I advise you to plead not guilty to all charges.”
“Not guilty? All due respect, how’s that gonna work? First of all, I done it. Didn’t even try to deny it when the cops came. Least, I don’t think I did. And second, I seem to remember a witness.”
“You were defending your sister, were you not?”
AFTER THAT, WE talked a little more, him arguin’ like he was on the other side. Devil’s advocate, he called it. But the way he looked at me when we were done—it was like he knew I didn’t have a chance.
“According to the witness, Mr. Dean was walking down the street, minding
his own business. If you can’t convince anyone of your motive—or that Agnes was under serious threat—then we lose. I’ll be honest with you, Jimmy: It’s a tall order.”
AFTER HE LEFT, I walked up and down my cell, holdin’ the head that was now explodin’ with a lot more than a hangover. Now it was full up with the key words Chisholm had dropped on me.
Unprovoked attack; that was the first one and it musta been big cause Wood used it, too. When I tried to explain the guy had showed up at her meet on the other side of the state before he started comin’ to her practices, that he was followin’ her that night, Chisholm took the role of the prosecutor.
“Are you aware that Mr. and Mrs. Dean had no children of their own? It was only natural that they would be proud of their former ward, wasn’t it? Mary Jeanne Doherty, another former foster parent, has also shown an interest in her success, from what I understand.”
“Mrs. Doherty was the first one who brung Agnes to swimming lessons, and her daughter’s on the team. So yeah, of course, she took a damn interest. You think Dean ever gave a damn about Agnes—aside from the pleasure he got outta torturin’ her? The man used to follow her around in his stupid yellow station wagon when she was a kid.”
“Did he ever accost her?”
“A-what her?”
“There are a lot of yellow cars in this city, Jimmy. How could you be sure it was him? Did the man ever get out of the car and harm Agnes in any way in all these years?”
“He harmed her by drivin’ by. By livin’, for chrissake. Every damn breath the son of a bitch took did her harm—”
There were words that were even more important, though. Dean had apparently claimed that on the night in question, he was just walkin’ down the street. Like the citizen of the damn year. If I didn’t wanna get sent to the slammer for tryin’ to murder the bastard, I had to convince the jury he posed a serious threat to Agnes. A threat that justified gettin’ beat nearly to death.
Even though this guy, Samuel L. Chisholm, seemed decent enough, there was no way I could make him see the stuff I seen.
“The guy kept her in the attic like a animal. Did you know that? Made her bang on the floor with a stick when she had to pee.”
“Is there documented proof of that, Jimmy?” There was real pity in his voice by that point.
“Agnes told me. She told all of us. How’s that for documented proof? You wanna know what he did a coupla days before they took her away? He picked up a hammer and broke every bone in her hand. She was fucking six years old, Mr. Chisholm, and that hand still ain’t right. It’s never gonna be. How’s that for a unprovoked attack?”
“Mr. Dean claimed she had an accident, and his wife corroborated it. No charges were ever filed. And you better not use language like that in court.”
“So the language I use, a fuckin’ word, is a bigger deal than takin’ a hammer to a six-year-old?”
“The records say it was an accident.”
“The records? The fu—excuse me—freakin’ records lie about more shit than you can imagine.” I raked my hair. “How about you answer me a question for a change? What kinda accident could do somethin’ like that?”
But Samuel Chisholm knew when to sit there in silence. Another lawyer thing I was s’pose to learn.
“They took her away, didn’t they? And they never let the Deans take in another kid neither. What’s that tell ya?”
“No charges were filed, Jimmy,” he repeated. “That’s all the court cares about.”
“And you wanna know why? Cause you think someone’s gonna get a whole courtroom together, bring people in for questionin’ like this over Agnes? Waste valuable jail space that could be used for someone like me or my old man? That bastard Dean said it was a accident and even though everyone knew it was a damn lie, it was good enough for them. Just move the kid to another home and forget about it. Who was gonna complain?”
The question sat between us in the jail cell. Just like it had sat in the house on 100 Sanderson Street ever since the first night I seen Agnes standin’ in the window, watchin’ for the yellow car.
“Well, how about we say he had a little accident himself over there on Penniman last night? That’s a different story, ain’t it, Mr. Chisholm? Hurt a hair on the head of a fine upstandin’ guy like Marty Dean, and someone’s gonna pay. They’re gonna pay big. Ain’t that how it works?”
As I was talkin’, I seen Chief Wood sitting in front of me. Those sparklin’ teeth of his when he told me what I already knew. And I seen the fear on my sister’s face lit up like neon inside that telephone booth when I showed up. By then Dean was standing outside, poundin’ on the glass. Just wanted to ask when she’d be done with the phone, he said when they took his statement in the hospital. Had some car trouble and he needed to call his wife; that was all. Bad as I hurt him, he could still lie good as ever.
But yeah, I seen all that. Seen his fists poundin’ glass like he wanted to shatter it the way he did Sky Bar’s knuckles, and then I seen his face when he turned around and spotted me comin’ toward him. Me and my Louisville Slugger.
“You wanna know who was gonna complain about the stuff he done to Agnes? It mighta been ten years too late, but in that minute, the bastard finally got his answer. I was. Jimmy Kovacs was.”
I WISH I coulda been that cocky next day in the courtroom. It was easy in front of Wood or Chisholm, the guys in the cells, but with Dad, Nonna, Zaidie, and Agnes lined up—even Jools—behind ’em on a bench, it all become real. The O’Connors had closed up the N. P. to come, too, but Joe had to take Junior out when he started hollerin’ to me about how many minutes I was late for work. The face I searched for, the one I saw when I closed my eyes in the cell, didn’t show up till the thing was half over. Jane took a seat in the back row.
Seein’ Zaidie cry and Nonna dabbin’ her face with a lace handkerchief was bad enough, but when Dad started up, it about killed me. Only thing worse was Jane’s hard look—and Sky Bar, whose cheeks were dry as the Sahara. Even when Princie died, they said she hadn’t broke. And I knew why, too. Back in the years she spent in Mr. Dean’s attic, she learned it wasn’t no damn use. I hated the bastard for that, too.
Then there was the empty space where Ma shoulda been. The empty space that was always there, and me knowin’ she was at home, beatin’ on herself for everything she couldn’t do. Everything she couldn’t be. Probably even blamin’ herself—the way I used to blame her. When Chief Calvin Wood come into the courtroom, I could almost feel the Slugger in my hands all over again.
IN THE WEEKS that followed, they all come to visit me, one by one, each carryin’ that dumb question like they thought it all up themselves. Why’d you do it, Jimmy? Then Nonna and Zaidie sat there cryin’ like they did in court.
A day or two later, they brung Dad into my cell with Joe O’Connor. Right away, Dad comes at me with the same question: “You been doing so good. Why, son?”
“You know me, Dad. Whenever things are goin’ too good, I gotta do somethin’ to mess it up.”
I turned to my ole boss, half jokin’, half serious as hell. “Tell ’em, Joe. Nothin’s perfect—least of all me, right? Tell ’em.” Anything to stop my dad from crying like the girls.
But Joe just sat there, like he was thinking maybe he should change the name of the market. He draped a arm over Dad’s shoulder. Much as Dad hated stuff like that, he didn’t shove him away.
JANE WAITED TILL after I got my sentence to visit. I hoped she mighta softened up a little, but I felt like I was getting beat with the Slugger myself when she talked about all our ruined plans, when she accused me of lyin’ when I said I loved her. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine her in that dumb white dress the way I used to, as if I ever deserved anything that fine in my life. When I opened ’em, she was gone. What I’d told Dad about ruinin’ any good thing that came my way never felt more true.
They wouldn’t let me see Sky Bar, not right away, on account of she was too young—and not even a real relative, accordin’
to what people think. Not till the sheriff, who knew Dad from the garage, snuck her in one Tuesday afternoon when all the snitch types were off.
For a while we just sat there, the two of us, with Penniman Street between us. Then she asked me the only question that mattered: why I stopped. Actually, she didn’t even ask it, she led me to it myself when she filled in the final piece, the part of the night that was still blacked out.
“I thought for sure you were gonna kill him, Jimmy. I was screaming for you to stop, but you heard nothing. You just kept hitting him. But at the last minute, when you had him on the ground—by then, he was begging—you raised the bat high in the air—and—”
“I stopped,” I said, closin’ my eyes as I finished it for her.
As she said the words, I saw Dean layin’ there, seen his face beat to a bloody pulp, heard him pleadin’ for his pathetic life. And in my mind, just like I done that night on the street, I dropped the bat.
Not cause I didn’t want to kill him, cause I did. I still do. But when I looked down at him that night on the street, all’s I could think of was the soldiers I carried off the field over in Nam; I heard their voices, too, some screamin’, some cryin’ like the kids they were. You might say I stared straight into the inferno itself. And when I looked one more time, the bastard I wanted to kill had disappeared and I seen my own Ma lyin’ there.
Chapter Nine
Louie Takes a Walk
DAHLIA
I WAITED TILL LOU AND THE GIRLS LEFT THE HOUSE THAT MORNING. Then I went to the closet to look for my good blue dress, the stockings my mother had given me for my birthday some years ago. They were still in the wrapper. If you ever have an occasion to wear them, she’d said in that way of hers, proving that even a present with a bow on top could be an accusation.
Well, I won’t, I told her, accusing back—as I pushed the gift in her direction. She left it there on the table before she walked out.
Foolish words you play over and over in your mind, I thought as I pulled those damn stockings on. As if those silly arguments matter when you come to a day like this—my mother too old and sick with the rheumatism to come by anymore, and across town, the boy she refused to call a grandson slouching in the new suit Louie had bought him in the same courtroom where, decades earlier, I left a part of myself forever. After I checked myself in Zaidie’s full-length mirror to make sure the seams were half straight, I put on my shoes. I’d only worn them twice in twenty-six years—first on the day I married Louie with only his mother and his aunt Leona in attendance, and then when the department come to interview me. I even dug out the hat Anna had bought me, thinking that if only I put it on and went to Mass with her, I’d be cured of what ailed me. Hah.
All the Children Are Home Page 23