Brooklyn Story (28 page)

A peaceful feeling enveloped me as I knelt in silent prayer, alone in the bosom of a facility that had been constructed decades ago. It seemed I was far away from the torment that was being endured only a few floors above that I was powerless to alleviate, and my lifelong goal seemed to be slipping from my grasp in the Bensonhurst world that was all too real that day. I bowed my head, closed my eyes, and sought the Blessed Mother.

Ten minutes later, I looked up at the chapel's large wood cross. The suffering all around me, I knew, paled in comparison to Christ's. I vowed to endure my own, and to do whatever I could to help others do likewise. I bowed my head again, made the sign of the cross, and clasped my hands for a moment longer on the pew in front of me.

I left the chapel and headed for the elevators, where I saw the back of a priest who was waiting. That wouldn't be unlikely, I thought, in a hospital with a religious affiliation. But I knew who he was, and that seemed appropriate to me, too. “It's good to see you, Father,” I said as I reached his side.

Father Rinaldi turned toward me. His face was all business. “'Twould be better if I saw you and those upstairs in my parish.”

I glanced at the descending lights above the elevator door.

“I suppose saving souls can happen anywhere,” I said, and turned my head back to him.

Father Rinaldi's face brightened. “Out of the mouths of babes.” He smiled as the elevator chimed.

On the subway an hour later, I knew I'd be hunching over my Smith-Corona for a long time that night. Still no word from Tony; was he involved, was he on the lam, was I insane having these absurd thoughts? I just didn't know anything at the moment. I had sat with Janice in the corner of the waiting room until she had had a chance to see Richie. She came back after a two-minute visit at his bedside and moaned about the tubes coming out from all over him. It made me think about how some connections were really tough to sever. And that, in turn, made me think about Tony again. In the swaying train, I decided I'd call his house as soon as I could steal away to my room after dinner. The clanging wheels beneath me marked the passing time until I reached the stop near my home.

Mom and Grandma were in the living room, sitting on the couch, when I arrived. Grandma's socks were rolled beneath the simple, faded housedress she always wore and Mom was wrapped in her robe, whose random stains had never come completely out in the wash. The
News
was spread open on the coffee table.

“Nice crowd ya hang with,” Mom said through a haze of cigarette smoke.

“You should talk,” I murmured as I headed for the kitchen.

“What was that?” she called after me.

“Nothin',” I said as I disappeared. She couldn't wait to say I told you so. Then the unexpected came from her.

“Whatever I did in my life you do exactly the opposite! Look at me. You know why I'm sick and poor, because I abused myself. Going out with the wrong guys, drinking too much. Finding myself in situations I wasn't very proud of. This is
what happens when you wind up with the wrong man. If I can tell you one thing and one thing only, that's it.” My mother exhausted herself with her words, yet continued on. I could see it within her red swollen eyes. “Do you think I like being on welfare? Having to walk around with those fuckin' food stamps? It's a horror.”

“Mom, I understand,” I blurted out to her.

“No, you don't, and hopefully you never will! Now go and get me another box of cigarettes.”

Her talk was genuine; however, it seemed to revert back to self-destruction, and cigarettes were a part of that. So I got them for her; sometimes I felt that was all she had left. My heart ached for my mother.

Grandma sat quietly. I knew that at this moment there was a bigger issue: Richie fighting for his life.

That struggle served as the start of the next chapter that I felt I had to get on the page as soon as I entered my bedroom, before I made that call to the Kroon residence. The later the better, anyway, I reasoned. There would be more of a chance to catch Tony there.

At my desk, I felt that Richie's struggle trumped my own and I filled pages with my ruminations about perspective. In the scope of things, how important was my quest to reach the other side of the river? I wondered. Did it matter, and did it matter if Tony was with me? Would not making it across make any difference in either of the two worlds that I was straddling? Would crossing it even change anything?

Thoughts raced through my mind as I questioned everything. An hour later, I had sorted it out in my mind and on the pages advancing in my typewriter. It came down to building something, brick by brick, cable by cable, until it was finished. So what if it wasn't easy? I asked myself. The struggle for life never was, I felt. Even those born with a lot more than I was given had their battles. The movie stars and rock stars, whose
posters Tony wouldn't let me hang in my bedroom, carried their own crosses. Everyone had to fight to get somewhere, I reasoned, and use every means of support, whether it was fans or family money. Or the loved ones I had, I thought as I wrote. I decided that my towers and my roped wire were as real as the life that was waiting for me.

I spun the last filled page from the carriage and clipped it to the rest before reaching for the phone. Pamela answered.

“Oh … hi, Sam,” she said after my greeting.

“Is Tony there?” I asked. Please, God, I said to myself.

“No.”

“Do you know when he'll be home?”

“He said not to wait up,” Pamela deadpanned. At least she'd talked to him, I thought. “So ya's don' know where he is, huh?” she scoffed.

“Will you tell him I called?” I asked.

The phone went dead.

Katrina Kroon's afternoon birthday party in early February was starting in thirty minutes and Tony was late. I set my hand mirror on the dresser and looked into the full-length one on the inside of my bedroom door as I assessed both my appearance and the events of the weeks that had followed New Year's.

Tony had finally showed up at school two days after Janice and I visited Ritchie in the hospital. He swore the lump above a blackened eye was the result of a “discussion” that had taken place at Cue Ball. I didn't mention days later that Janice had been unable to confirm his story with information from her father, who alternated between his pool hall and Rocco's below. Not that he would be likely to blab, anyway, I had thought, not even to his own daughter.

I knew that Tony wouldn't be any more forthcoming than Mr. Caputo and I didn't want to add to the stress he always appeared to be under, but I needed to know what happened. Richie had taken a turn for the better and was out of danger. Maybe I can create a story, I thought when I eyed myself up and down and recalled that frantic episode in Janice's Camaro.

I knew that Tony was on his way because he was obligated to be at his sister's family celebration and his mother would never forgive him if he didn't show up. It seemed like he had
been busy more often than not since New Year's, and distracted every time I saw him, which hadn't been often. I had asked him numerous times about this drug thing; I mean it made the papers and television. Still, I got no response, not even his usual bad temper. I felt that something was brewing, something that even I couldn't get out of. For once I was beginning to actually feel trapped. I'd be with him for only a few hours, but when the sex was finished he dropped me off at home and told me he had to meet the guys. His phone calls were abrupt and he always said he'd call back but usually didn't. Was his business consuming him, I wondered? Even though the usual wad of C-notes was ever present in his pocket or his hand. What business? I wondered more. Were the legal proceedings against him and the visits from cops for questioning about Richie's incident, which he let slip once to me, getting to him? Or was Tony losing interest in me? Was there someone else? I wondered.

That whack across my face still gnawed at me. Janice had suggested I forget it but I couldn't. It seemed like all the girls overlooked their guys' bad behaviors because one wrong word or glance would cost the women plenty. Like it had for me. Those girls didn't want to lose their Bensonhurst world, but I desperately wanted to lose mine. I didn't want to follow in my mother's footsteps and end up sick and bitter from trying to find happiness with a batterer and philanderer. I needed to keep myself fresh and creative, not only to make it to Manhattan but to stay there. It was waiting for me, I knew. I could see my name in bookstores and I wanted everything to work out with Tony so he'd be by my side when success hit.

It seemed like Tony “knew a guy” just about everywhere and I thought that maybe he really did have contacts in publishing. But that wasn't the only reason I wanted to keep seeing him. He was handsome, strong, confident … and had taken my virginity. I loved the guy and wanted him to be proud of me, but I made a vow to myself: if he ever hurt me again, I would
dump him. I would tell him that, too, and if he didn't like it, that was too damned bad.

With weeks of time on my hands, I worked on myself. My job at the bookstore allowed me to read more and learn more about the publishing business. The store owner gave me books for free now and then and I was in heaven. I suspected Tony wouldn't like it since it had nothing to do with him, and I decided I would only tell him if I felt like it. After all, he had
his
private life with the guys. Why shouldn't I have my own?

Now, when the doorbell rang, I went to the living room to greet Tony. I caught my breath when he waltzed in. He looked as good as I'd ever seen him, his soft hair just so, his wonderful physique exaggerated by tight pants and a shirt that was tucked in to reveal his narrow waist. What a looker! I beamed. Just like that, any bad memories and doubts I had about our relationship faded away. How could love banish all the bad? I just wasn't strong enough to turn him away. That was my problem.

Tony waved at Mom and Grandma and complimented me in front of them before taking my hand. “C'mon, Sam,” he said as the others looked on without saying a word. “I don' want ya makin' us late for my sister's party.”

I fought the urge to scoff. Who had kept whom waiting? I asked myself. He sure knew how to kill a mood, I thought. I grabbed my pocketbook and gave Mom a kiss on the cheek. She snarled under her breath. I know she just wanted to scream at him, “Stay away from my daughter, you loser,” but she didn't; frankly, she just didn't have the strength. That was all she did after New Year's Day when Tony was around or was mentioned. She must have seen something on my face then, some little clue, I thought, or her own experience as a battered woman helped her interpret my body language and mood. Or maybe it was just her convictions about who Tony was and the neighborhood he came from, I thought. Whatever the reason, Mom had refused to talk about Tony Kroon. She had made
up her mind that he was no good for her daughter, and she would continue to hold her ground. She'd tried to prevent me from ever seeing him again until Grandma reminded her that Grandma herself had tried the same thing before her daughter had gotten married. The resistance had done no good at all then, and wouldn't work with me, either, Grandma had said. Besides, I was too smart and would be able to handle myself.

Mom lit a cigarette as I kissed Grandma's soft face. “Do I look okay, Grandma?” I asked.

“You're my little beauty,
bubelah,
” she said with a smile, and stroked my cheek. “You have a good time.” She looked at Tony and her smile disappeared. “You be good to my granddaughter,” she ordered in her usual raised voice.

“Yes, ma'am,” Tony said without shame. “Always.”

Despite my family's misgivings, and my own concerns, I was happy to leave with Tony and felt as good as I had before when he opened the Porsche's door for me, even though that only happened in front of my apartment building. We were silent as he drove a few blocks and then he pulled over to the side of the road. Tony looked me over and smiled.

“What're ya doin', Tone?” I asked. “We're already late.”

“I got sumthin' for ya,” he said. Tony reached into his pocket, pulled out diamond earrings, and dropped them into my hand. They glistened in the daylight.

“Oh my God,” I said. I rotated them in my palm and rainbows danced around the car's interior. “They're so beautiful.”

“Damned right they are,” Tony said, and then he put them on my ears. He sat back and smiled. “What do ya think of your boyfriend now?” he asked. “Maybe this'll show your mother how serious I am about ya.”

My mother would not be impressed at all by him trying to make up for violent and still unknown criminal behavior with jewels. I knew better, too, but this was a moment, my moment, so I went with it. I looked from Tony to my ears in the rearview
mirror. He hadn't apologized for any of his behavior, but weren't the earrings the next best thing? I pondered. The words “I'm sorry” were not in Tony's vocabulary, but didn't an expensive gift prove how much he cared? Wasn't it a sign of how things would be someday? But as happy as I was at that moment, I considered telling him that if he ever hit me again, he'd be saying good-bye, just like I'd planned. I decided not to ruin the mood. He might think I wasn't grateful, and I was. And I was sure that his inattention to our relationship was because of his struggle, and the smack that night had to be a fluke. He was still young and he just needed to learn a little self-control. Isn't that what he was trying to say with the earrings? I constantly found myself in my very own war of contradiction. My brain would say one thing and my body would do another.