Pins: A Novel (24 page)

“Get upstairs.”

Mike mooned him as he tripped up the stairs.

The phone rang. He didn’t wait for the machine to pick up. He unplugged it.

They’d been calling again. The news people. The principal’s assistant. A bill collector or three.

Watching through the window, he saw his mother cross the driveway, stand at the back door, saw Irene DeStefano’s arm extending out, holding the screen door open, sweeping her in.

He sat on the couch, leafing through the latest bundle of forwarded mail;
 
magazines,
People
’s Most Beautiful People, a
Catholic Digest
.
 
“Is It a Sin? Improve Your Confession.” “Pilgrimage to Lourdes: One Man’s Story.”

Maybe that was what he needed, a pilgrimage. He thought that might do something for him, remind him what it was all about. Then he saw an ad for the Pope John Paul II doll, a tiny potato-faced version of the pope dressed in a tiny miter, chasuble. “Six convenient monthly installments of $29.”

He tossed the magazine back onto the coffee table, replugged the kitchen phone, turned pages in the phone book to look up the Lambros’ number.

There were seven. He picked one.

An older woman answered.

“I’m really sorry about what happened,” he said.

“Thank you. Who’s calling please?”

“Joseph. Nicci.”

A hand covered the phone. He heard mumbles.

“Was that you on the news the other day?”

“Um, I think, yeah. I mean, I don’t know about that.”

“Well, thank you very much for your condolences. The funeral is at eleven.” The phone clunked down.

Their house must be even worse than mine, he thought, with people moaning and crying. Anthony would never graduate, never become the person he thought he would be, okay with it, Tony.

7

 
“Are we going to the cemeterrarium?”

“No, Soph, we don’t have to go to the cemetery.”

“But why?” Mike was obviously disappointed.

“I’m a scared. I don’t wanna go.”

“Hush. We’re not.” By the time they were in the car, Joseph gave up arguing with his mother about bringing Sophia after she gave the glance that said, If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t be going to this funeral, so keep your mouth shut.

He knew where Anthony would be buried, since the news showed it like a movie opening; Cedar Grove Cemetery. A statue near his family plot stood proudly, a stag in bronze with the words around its square base, among other phrases, BROTHERLY LOVE.

He got that one on tape, planned to visit someday.

Mike was told that he didn’t have to go if he didn’t want to. He countered, “Are you kidding?” It was later discovered that he had smuggled in a disposable camera.

Dino had to park so far away they could have walked, if it hadn’t been five degrees above freezing.

Joseph thought about lying to his mom again, saying he was sick, but she was too busy squeezing into a black dress that she’d been trying to find time to press since dawn.

Anthony. The contents of that thing in the aisle.

He stopped at the entrance just long enough to let his eyes adjust. A copied program was handed him by someone. They stepped down the aisle. He was about to sit down, but then knelt on his way in the pew, only to face the short end of it.

 
The casket seemed unusually big, a shiny black sandwich with gold handles and a funny skirt below, as if little puppets might pop out.

 
Behind him, rows of familiar faces; three rows up, Chrissie Wright turned back. Joseph dropped his head, dodged stares but heard the whispers.

Everybody on the team, everybody from his school, it seemed, people showed up who never spoke to Anthony, never looked at or even touched Anthony, just to get the afternoon off from school.

He was spoken of as a model of perfection. Every time a pair of eyes met his, Joseph gazed down. The program curled in his hand. He unfolded it.
 
The words began to swirl in his vision as he looked down, waiting for a tear to drop onto the paper. Then he folded it neatly, placed it inside his jacket pocket, next to his wallet, which, he remembered, had about four dollars inside. He wanted to take a train somewhere, buy something. He felt in his breast pocket, found the picture of Guiseppe of the Our Den.

Joseph kept his head bowed, his lips tightly shut, as he heard one after another person or priest talk in wonder, justifying why a young boy should be taken, a good boy, a devout Catholic, a loved boy, an athlete. Joseph squeezed a hand from his parents, who bookended him for support.

Anthony’s brother stepped up to the podium. His hair slicked back, his brown and bloodshot eyes darting around, he sought familiar faces.

With one vindictive bleary glance, he brought the rustling, fluttering audience to silence.

“I don’t know why you’re all here.
 
Most of you didn’t know my little brother,” he said into a microphone. “At least the way I did.” And there his throat choked, but he held back. He was magnificent, what Anthony might have become if thicker, tougher, better off.

“He wasn’t what everybody wanted him to be.” The brother sniffed. Joseph wondered, is he saying what I think he’s saying?

“Sometimes he wasn’t what he wanted to be, but he was trying. He was really moving forward.” He looked out over them for a moment, checking, looking for some consensus. “He was…he was learning how to become himself, but he was killed. I love him and will miss him…every hour…of every day of my life.”

He then folded up his speech, half of which it seemed he couldn’t say. “This is a song he loved, so we’re gonna play it. And I appreciate Father Thomas for allowing us this favor. This is one of those songs my brother used to play a lot and it’s The Cure and he taped if off the radio so I apologize but for those who don’t know it, if you could just think about the part where it says, ‘To Heaven, forever,’ and just wish my bro a safe trip.”

Anthony’s brother pressed a button on a small cassette player. The song filled the church. They sang it in their heads, kids who had expected a mere freak show on their day off from school. Priests and parents clicked their ears in wonderment while the girls in black sweaters, the boys in baggy jeans and perfect buzzcuts lost it, their faces burning crimson, eyes wet, souls dented.

It was decided that Dino would bring the car around, since Marie needed more time to display her son to her friends as a fine upstanding boy, despite evidence to the contrary.

Joseph hung with the team a bit, savoring the only time being seen crying with his teammates would be allowed. They didn’t talk much at all, being under the scrutiny of parents, cameras, the chasm that scattered their once-comfortable herding.
 

Joseph dodged stares from kids he’d met once or twice at school. They filed past, looked down, stared silently, or whispered to each other, blended in with older versions of the Lambros family, who disappeared into a stretch limo that could barely navigate the small corners of the tiny town. Some kids had retreated toward Farnese’s Bakery, where the cameras gathered across the street. Sister Emilia and Sister Bernadine had to keep shooing them off church property.

“I’m gonna go check to see where the car is,” he said.

“Don’t go far.”

“Naw.”

He walked down the slush-clotted yard of St. Dominic’s. At the foot of the church lawn, behind the brick edifice that housed a small statue of Mary, a few reporters had snuck up.

He scanned the street for that chubby Latino guy, when a woman emerged from the camera cluster, approached him, her brassy blond hair immobile in the wind. She held a microphone, the wire trailing behind her, attached to a man with a black camera for a head. Joseph wanted to escape her, but it was too late. Some other kid, after giving his two cents, pointed right at him. He couldn’t duck behind a car. He’d seen guys do that. He was trapped, but it almost felt good, relieving, like he could stop running.

“Aren’t you a member of the Little Falls wrestling team?”

“Yes.”

“How do you feel about the death of Anthony Lambros?”

The women’s microphone aimed for his face, closing in like a snubnose. The camera jostled around behind her. He looked at it a moment, then at the woman. Her makeup was so thick, like his Aunt Lilla. He waited for the camera guy to settle down.

“Uh, I’m very sad. It was very unfortunate, the thing what happened.”

“Have you talked to the family members?”

“No.” They hung up on me. Joseph shook his head at nothing, bit his lips in.
 
“I miss him.
 
We all miss him a lot.” The tears started, welling up in the back of his eyes. He looked up so they would stay in there. “Can I go now?”

“Thank you.” The woman pulled back with a sigh of well-rehearsed sympathy. Joseph backed away as two other crews spotted him, then he walked briskly away.

He’d get hell for that. Everybody was gonna see it. He retreated back to his mother in time to see the cameras all shift and jostle towards the door.

It came out, held by larger versions of Anthony; brothers, cousins, uncles.
 
Even that photographer kid from school, all of them aimed at it, as if the lenses could see through it, through the wood and through the lining and the satin-pillowed stuffing and through the sewed-up three-piece suit with a seam along the back and through the stiffening body no bigger than him, a boy’s body that probably shifted when they walked it down the stairs and through the drying skin and down to the bones like an X ray. That’s what’s gonna be on the tube. Sliding X rays.

He’d lost his family in a flock of black coats. The sun shone brightly in the freezing afternoon, glaring over bits of frozen ice, flat snow. He kept hoping someone would just take him in, let him back in there, let him cry, weep, howl to the Holy Spirit for forgiveness, plead for mercy so as not to be swept down into hell or its many dark waiting rooms.

But he couldn’t change what would really send him to hell. He could be forgiven for letting a guy die.
 
But kiss him?

In the car, he felt no obligation to speak, nor did anyone else.
 
His nose thawed, dripped.
 
His father’s handkerchief appeared.
 
He took it.

At a stoplight, softly muffled from inside both their closed windows, Joseph turned to see a gloriously handsome man gripping his steering wheel. The man didn’t turn, just sang along to a song the boy couldn’t hear. Joseph wondered if he had just become invisible.

And then the man turned, saw him, winked.

The light changed.

The number on the microphone. Nine. Yeah, he liked nine. Nine was a good number. He was born in the ninth month. His dad won three hundred dollars playing Lotto on a few nines. That was about the only good thing he could think of to keep his feet in the car, the door locked, his body contained.

8

He never went in through the front door anymore, where Chrissie Wright and some other girls had placed an eight-by-ten photo of Saint Anthony surrounded by flowers in the display case. More flowers appeared daily, cards, tiny teddy bears, scribbled notes.

Joseph wondered why the Principal let them do that. Had he read it out of some instruction manual on Grief Counseling for Adolescents? He didn’t care. He couldn’t see Anthony’s picture when he had a Math quiz or worse, lunch, where entire conversations dodged the whole topic. Every day another wrestler found a reason to skip lunch or split off.

What had protected him had fallen away. The very air around him felt colder, despite the once-golden armor of a varsity jacket.
 
Even that seemed too heavy to wear on rainier days.

He saw the glances, where once there were close nudges or quiet jokes between his friends. The looks now said, He was one of Them.

Some of the other guys on the team talked with him outside of practice, but only briefly, hesitantly, or at lunch with fellow Colts, other jocks he didn’t know, like Brandon Miller, a basketball goon about six feet high. One day Miller made a crack about fags. Joseph got up, left his tray. He was later told that Miller got a complete chewing out from the wrestling team, but he wasn’t sure what was said. He got conflicting stories about who was defended as a fag.

After school, gatherings were held, chaperoned parties with fruit drinks. Introduced to a girl who told him he looked really cute on the news, all he could do was smile, walk away.
 

After-practice events, prayer groups, even the wholesome pasta parties at Tommy Infranca’s, then Raul Klein’s birthday party, wore on him. He told them he was grounded. He wanted to give them time off from him.

At the dual match in Clifton, Joseph competed with an inexperienced boy for a few minutes, letting him get some points in before simply grabbing the boy’s arm, which had hung too close and too long not to grab. As Joseph had been trained, the head followed, leaving Joseph flattening, then forgetting him.

Tommy Infranca sat to his left. On his right, Ricky Ponzell, a soft-spoken JV, shucked off his sweats. He’d tried really hard through his first bouts, but he was a bit of a fish.

Joseph learned something from Bennie, after it all. When falling apart, retreat into headphones. From Dink he still had PSYCHE UP. GRAPPLE. AURGH.
 

Joseph didn’t take the team bus home. The whole family drove that night for team spirit, that or just as a security measure.

In the Bronco, good things were said. Chat was made. He counted the minutes until he could escape to the tub or his bedroom for ZONE OUT.

It was like the time Ronny Boyer’s brother died in a car crash, how everyone treated him delicately, as if misery were contagious.

Since the “fag” incident with Miller, Joseph usually found an empty table during lunch. Buddha Martinez or Lamar could usually be trusted to stop by or sit with him when Jock Row was too much.

He heard it once, a joke over his shoulder, “Nitch the Snitch,” but he didn’t respond.
 

Then he smelled someone approaching, sweet girl perfume. He looked up from his cafeteria tray, where he’d been toying with his creamed corn. Chrissie Wright smiled like an animal trainer; cautious.

“Can I sit with you, Joey? Kimberly’s skipping today, the hood that she is, and I don’t know any of these people except those pigs on the team. Thanks. How are you?”

“Fine.” How am I. That was just something people said, just a motion. He concentrated intently on swirling his spoon around in the creamed corn.

Chrissie’s chatter dodged any mention of the team or Anthony. Maybe some guidance counselor had corralled her into doing it. It seemed the thing for her to do, like all those mornings at invitationals, afternoons spent volunteering for the team, suffering for a cause. “So whaddaya think?”

“Huh?” He was busy checking his creamed corn, which had begun to resemble old teeth in pus.

“Going out with us this weekend.”

“Naw, I can’t.” He didn’t bother to ask who “us” was. “I’m grounded forever.”

“I think you oughta get out, you know,” she said. Let’s Try Being Cheerful. “See a movie or something. A coupla kids are going out this weekend and–”

“Look, I can’t, awright? Besides, they don’t want me. You don’t want me. You’re just being nice to make yourself feel good.” He swirled creamed teeth.

“That’s not true.”

“Yeah, it is. You think you’re doing good to be a better person, like it’s gonna get you brownie points.”

“Joey, please,” she whispered. “Play along. It’ll feel better.”

He stared up to meet her pretty face. “Look, I was there, okay? I was there. I didn’t do anything.”

“I know.”

“You don’t know. I didn’t do anything to stop it.”

“You couldn’t have.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. Kids in all directions were listening.

“I just want to help you get back into things. Maybe I could help you study, or we could just go for a walk. Talk.”

“Thanks, I really appreciate it.” He got up.

“Well, I want to be here for you. Just let me know if you change your mind.”

“Okay.” He dropped his tray on a belt that led to the churning waters of a huge stainless steel washing machine. The woman operating it was rumored to be attempting to lose a hundred pounds. From the look of her, she could still take on Buddha Martinez, no problem.

Change my mind, he thought. I’d change my life, my hypothalamoose, if only someone could make it so.

Despite his brushing her off, just talking to someone made him feel better. He started walking with his head up, looking back, defying the stares. He even said Hi to someone.

But then he got more than a Hi back.

“It’s Joey ‘the Killer’ Nicci.”

Brandon Miller, the basketball player he barely knew, stood cocky, confident, bracketed by two of his huge buddies. Joseph felt hurt at first, as if he could just walk away, around them, or even dart under them. He could do that.

He turned around, faced the Basketball Wall. “What did you say?” A couple of kids on the sides of the hall froze, smelling trouble.

Miller’s eyebrows darted up, impressed. “You heard me. Killer. Whadja do, getcher Mafia friends to pay off the cops? Didn’t help your boyfriend, did it. I heard Khors’s gettin’ gang-banged in juvey.”

Another boy. “Ha. And lovin’ it.”

On the mat, he had never broken the rules. He’d never shoved an opponent, never used his skills to intentionally hurt another boy. He’d never felt the surge of violence he’d seen other wrestlers use in matches. He was as pure as the sport itself. He’d always shaken hands after every bout, happy to be a good boy.

Happy was out. Technique was on deck.

Since Miller looked to be about forty pounds and one foot above him, he thought a surprise move would help.
 
Joseph dove low for a double leg takedown. It took a long, arcing moment to get him down, like felling a tree. Once they crashed to the floor, he crawled up, grabbed Miller’s arm, a neat nelson, tied him in a pretzel bundle, squeezing Miller until he bleated.

Miller’s face turned red as Joseph tightened his grip. Miller’s free hand grabbed at anything, Joseph’s hair, his shoulder, his eyes. As Miller randomly punched his face, he felt his flesh move and tear, felt bone underneath, squeezed Miller’s neck tighter, pressed down on his chest. Some blood dripped, liquifying the fury in Joseph, the blanked outrage, to finally do this, after so long, after being so contained, not using his skills for anything but sport, fun, the excuse to touch. Like his father’s best wrench, he clamped Miller’s rage shut, turning the neck of his willing, obstinate and entirely worthy foe purplish, veiny, constricted. He felt the charge in him rise bigger than this white bread Aryan Youth Group asshole named Brandon who acted like he owned the place, hurt him the way they wanted him to hurt Anthony, or Dink or anybody. The screaming around him was familiar enough, but there was no whistle, so he kept choking, until Miller got an arm up to rip at Joseph’s face again.

Joseph felt other hands from behind grab him, pry him off Miller, pluck him up off his feet, slam him against a locker. He slumped down to a heap.

Beside him, a pair of shiny black shoes tapped the floor.

The Ass Prince had glasses, a greasy comb-over, diplomas on the wall. He resembled a marshmallow in a suit. Outside was the principal’s office. The Ass Prince had a smaller office, a smaller desk, but a bigger nameplate: Assistant Principal Schieffe.

Miller had already yakked a while. As he’d walked out, holding a compress to his face, he glared down while Joseph sat in a waiting room chair. Miller knifed his own throat with a finger, then pointed to Joseph, as if they had a future appointment.

“Mister Netchie?” The Ass Prince stood in the doorway.

He listened to Schieffe rattle out some rules, regulations about school insurance, regulatory bla bla. He expected a scolding, but then he heard “suspension.”

“What?”

“This is, merely a, regulation that’s school policy. Anyone who is suspended is automatically prohibited, from athletic activity, if they are, participating at the time of the incident that–”

“Then don’t suspend me.”

“The rules are very clear about fighting in school–”

“What, like he’s not getting suspended? He said things that were … I was defending myself.”

“Did you hit him first.” It wasn’t a question.

“I didn’t hit him, I got him in a double leg takedown.”

“You see, this is what I’m talking about. You’re a weapon, young man, and we can’t have weapons in our school.”

“What?”

“We don’t fight in this school. Maybe in Newark, or in Catholic schools, you boys like to rough it out, but not on our school property.”

That burned. He had never gotten in trouble, not until he moved to this suburban paradise. The Ass Prince argued, “The Miller boy could have gotten a concussion from falling.
 
He has a game tomorrow night.”

“And I got a match in three days, against Nutley, which our team has successfully defeated for the last consecutive six years.”

“Boy, Cleshun really knows how to stoke you boys up.”

“I found it in the library.” Brett Shiver had found it, actually.

 
“Are you on steroids, young man?”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Do you take drugs?”

“No.”

“Good. I believe you.” Liar. “I know you’re a good kid in spite of all this.” Liar. “You have good grades, but we’re concerned for you as well.” Double shit liar.
 
“Take a break. Cool off. Think about your future. Look, I’m going to have to suspend you both from athletic activities for now.”

Scholarships. Planes and hotels. NCAA. Meeting Les Gutches. Crashed and burned, thank you very much.
 
He didn’t even try to explain. The problem wasn’t wrestling. Not wrestling was.

“I’m sorry, son. That’s the uh. You’re welcome to have your parents write a letter to the school board.”

“That’s okay. I’ll do it myself, sir. I got a B in typing.” Pretty good for a delinquent, huh, StayPuf?