The Wanderers (17 page)

The sound of slippers shuffling on linoleum broke the spell. Emilio wearing a baggy pair of boxer shorts, scratching his balls, his eyes half-closed in sleep, stood in the doorway. His eyes traveled slowly from Wanderer to Wanderer, finally settling on Perry. "Hey, you come inta my house," he said, pointing a thick finger at Perry, "an' you watch your language. God lives in this house." They stared at his incredible biceps flexing effortlessly with every movement of his arms. "I don't want no cursin' here." He absently picked his nose as he sized up Perry, wondering if he could still kick a big man's ass as fast as he could twenty years ago. "Don't your father teach you no manners?" Emilio leaned against the door frame, tensing his body almost seductively. His words were angry, but his facial expression was slick and cool. "Ain't you got no tongue in your head? I ast you a question." Joey's eyes darted from his father to Perry and back to his father. Perry gripped the sides of the padded easy chair. The other Wanderers sat as if nailed into their chairs. "That's the trouble with you rotten kids today." He raised his hand over his head, a riot of muscle movement in his arm, and caressed the arch of the door frame. "The fathers are afraid to kick some sense inta their heads."

Perry half rose, still gripping the doily-covered arms. Emilio smiled, sizing up Perry again—he liked them big. "Your father mus' be some kinda piss ant 'cause..." He never finished the sentence. Perry flew across the room. Emilio stood poised, relishing the sensation of his iron fist sinking into soft flesh. But Perry didn't get close enough to be hit because Joey knew what his father was up to, and he tackled the big Wanderer as soon as Perry moved. Emilio stood there with his fist cocked watching his scrawny son trying to hold down the enraged giant The other Wanderers also jumped on Perry. Perry bellowed in fury and frustration as his friends stopped him from getting to his feet.

"Perry!" Joey shouted. "He'll kill you, man, he'll kill you!"

"Lemme up! Lem-me up!" He struggled, his face almost purple, but the Wanderers held him. Emilio chuckled. Joey looked up as his father turned to leave the room. Snarling, Joey sprang to his feet, grabbed a wine bottle, and smashed it across the back of his father's head. The Wanderers ran like hell, dragging Perry with them. Eugene grabbed Joey's hand, almost jerking him off the ground.

"C'mon, man!" They flew down the stairs into the sunlight and raced for the park. Emilio Capra slept in a pool of blood and homemade apricot wine. They sat on the stone wall circling the park, gulping the cold air into their overworked lungs.

"H-hey, Joey." Richie labored to catch his breath. "Y-you shouldna done that."

Joey stared sullenly at the ground. "I hope I bashed his fuckin' brains out."

Perry grabbed Joey by the front of the shirt, pulled him to his feet, and slammed him against the wall. "Don't ever say that." He eyed Joey coldly. "He's your father and don't you forget it."

Perry walked home with a mean head. He was confused and angry. He would have liked to paste that rotten scumbag Emilio, yet in a funny way he liked him. He was sorry that he got pissed at Joey, but he didn't feel like apologizing. Fuckit. His mother was still at work. He threw himself on his bed and listened to Babalu on the radio. Half an hour later, he heard her come in. He didn't feel like talking so he turned off the radio and pretended to be asleep.

"Perry! C'mon, honey. I gotcha supper on the table."

"I ain't hungry." He rolled over on his side.

"C'mon, it's gonna get cold."

"I ain't hungry."

"You wan' me to bring it onna tray?"

Sighing, he got up to wash his face.

"I'm gonna be at Tillie's," she said, slamming the door.

He sat down to a dinner of hamburgers and three mounds of mashed potatoes. The phone rang. "Hey, Ma! Get the phone." He remembered she was next door. "Hullo?"

"Perry?"

"Hi, Ray."

"Hi, is Mom there?"

"She's over by Tillie's."

"Good. Ah, lissen, buddy, you gotta do me a favor."

"What?"

"Ah, Mom is supposed to be comin' out Sunday."

"So?"

"Well, we're gonna have some company and, ah..."

"You don't want her to come."

"Yeah. I mean whathehell she'll be out in a couple of weeks for Christmas anyhow."

"So? I'll call 'er in, you can tell 'er."

"Hey! Perry? Ah, you tell 'er."

"Why don't you tell 'er."

"Ah, you know. She'll keep me on the phone for hours."

"Awright."

"Make up somethin' good."

"Sure."

"Take care, babe." Ray hung up.

"Rotten douchebag," Perry muttered.

"Was that the phone?" Perry's mother walked in.

"Yeah."

"Yeah what?"

"It was Ray."

Her face brightened. "How is my sweetie?"

Perry stiffened with anger. "Your sweetie's fine. Your sweetie said he can't wait to see you on Sunday."

Perry's mother sat down at the table as if in a trance—her eyes glazed with happiness. She was a short, fat woman with a face so sexless that if she wore the right clothes she would look like an old man. Perry took after his father—big and powerful, but with a soft baby face, round, full cheeks, and slightly pouting mouth. His eyes were like his mother's though, deep blue, pulled down at the corners. They gave the impression he was much older and more weary than his seventeen years would seem to permit.

"You know," his mother smiled, "I'm sixty years old, I ain't got more than a couple a years. But when I hear my sweetie gotta call me long distance
just
to tell me he can't wait to see me, I don't care if I die tomorrow. As long as I can see my sweetie on Sunday."

"You got more mashed potatoes?"

His mother drifted into the kitchen, took the ice cream scoop off the counter, and dipped it into the two-quart pot. She plopped the ball of mashed potatoes on Perry's plate and took her seat. "Hey! That's funny!" She smiled.

"What?"

"If I die tomorrow, how could I see Ray on Sunday? Hah hah!"

"You oughta be on television, Ma."
"Yeah, like on 'Ed Sullivan,'" she offered.
"I was thinkin' more like 'Queen for a Day.'"

That night Perry had a nightmare; he dreamed he was lying in bed. He heard the limp jangle of a cowbell from his mother's room and he jumped out of bed, his candy-striped pajamas soaked with sweat.

"Per-ee, Per-ee, Per-ee," in her weak, petulant voice.

He closed his eyes, trying to slow down his racing heart. "Hold on, Ma, I'm comin'." He lit a cigarette, exhaled heavily, and walked into her room. The stench of human shit assaulted his nostrils. She lay in bed—a vague collection of flesh and damp bedsheets.

"Per-ee, Per-ee, the man was here, yeah?"

He took the cover off the bed. She was laying in a pool of diarrhea. He pinched the skin between his eyes and clenched his teeth. "Jesus Christ. I'll be right back, Ma." He walked into the bathroom, grabbed a towel, and a small blue plastic pail. On the way back he took a clean bedsheet from the linen closet. He rolled her on her stomach. Then he pulled the dirty sheet from under her, carefully rolled it into a ball, and threw it out the window. He went back into the bathroom for a sponge to wipe down the rubber sheets. When he returned he saw she had partially missed. "Jesus fuck! You got it onna mattress! Goddamnit! That's it! You did it an' you're gonna lay in it!" He rubbed furiously with the sponge, but the stain was deep. He threw the sponge in the bucket. He opened all the windows in the room—the smell was causing his eyes to tear. Then he went to the other side of the bed where his mother lay motionless on her stomach He removed her soiled nightgown and tossed it into the bucket. For a moment he stared down at her nude frame—bloodless and fleshless. He spread her legs delicately and turning his head away wiped her ass with the towel.

"Per-ee, the man was gonna hurt me, yeah?" She started to cry.

So did Perry. He went to his room. He took the thirty-eight from his dresser drawer, placed it on his desk, and sat down. Wiping the tears from his cheeks he smelled the shit on his hands. No matter how careful he was when he wiped her, no matter how big a towel he used, the same smell was always on his hands when he finished.

The cowbell again. Perry picked up the gun. His mother still lay in the same position. "Oh, Jesus." With two hands Perry aimed the gun at her head, closed his eyes, and fired. The shot missed its mark, blasting the pillow into a cloud of feathers.

She remained motionless as Perry dropped the gun at his bare feet. Then she calmly turned her head until she could see Perry. "Where's Raymond? I want Raymond."

"Aw-nuld! Aw-nuld!"

Perry's eyes opened wide.

"Hey, Aw-nuld!"

He got out of the bed and went to the window. Two kids sat on the green wooden bench downstairs in front of his building shouting for their friend. A little head appeared at a window two floors down. "C'mon, man. It's twelve-thirty."

The head disappeared, a window slammed. Perry sat on the window sill. It was a cold, sunny day. He spit, watching his saliva spiral and twist until it hit the pavement. He closed the window. The doorbell rang.

"Hey, man, it's twelve-thirty."

Perry scratched his ass through his pajamas and sleepily regarded Joey. "C'mon in."

"Whadya wanna do today, man?"

"I dunno. Hey, boil me some coffee, O.K.?" Perry headed for the bathroom. When he came out, Joey had poured him coffee and was sitting in the dinette eating a salami sandwich. "Help yourself!" Perry smirked.

Joey opened a bottle of soda.

"What happened wit' your old man?" Perry asked.

"Nothin'," Joey answered.

"What!"

"Yeah, nothin'."

"It don't make no sense." Perry sat down and sipped his coffee.

Joey shrugged. "Well, as near as I can figure it, that was the first time I ever hit back, you know what I mean?"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, so like ... I dunno, maybe he got respec' for me now, you know what I mean?"

"I'd still like to mix wit' 'im. No offense." Perry poured another cup of coffee.

"Don't," Joey said, "don't even think about it."

"Ah, he ain't so tough."

"Perry, I know that cocksucker. Hell tear you to shreds."

"Well, just tell 'im to stay outta my way."

Joey shook his head sadly. "Hey look, man, nothin's happenin' so I think I'll go over to my cousin's. I gotta get some shit over there." He headed for the door. "Dig you later."

Perry sat in moody silence for twenty minutes holding but not drinking his coffee.

"Perry?" His mother came through the door with a fun-shopping cart. He ducked through the kitchen and into his room. Dressing quickly, he left the house before she had taken her coat off.

He wandered over to Big Playground. No one was around except Turkey.

"Hey." Turkey waved.

"Hey. What's goin' on?" Perry didn't like Turkey, didn't especially want to be alone with him.

"Nothin'." Turkey felt self-conscious alone with any of the Wanderers. A big group was O.K., but one guy made him want to run away.

"You doin' anything?" Perry jammed his hands into his coat pockets, hunching his shoulders against the cold.

"Well, I gotta go downtown. I wanna check out this new bookstore."

"How you goin'?"

"Train."

"Let's go." As much as Perry disliked Turkey he didn't want to be left alone to think about Emilio.

"Sure." Turkey was amazed at Perry's confidence. He could never just walk up to a guy and say "Let's go" like that. They walked to the train station. Turkey felt like he had to entertain Perry, but everything he said fell flat. He talked about the skull he'd seen for sale on 46th Street, but Perry only scowled and stared across the street. He mentioned the Nazi armbands he'd just bought off this guy on Radcliffe Avenue, and it was like Perry wasn't even there.

On the train, Perry thought about the possibilities of fighting Emilio. This made him nervous, so he searched his brain for something else to think about. He flashed on Debbie Luloff, the orange-haired girl from the Bronx House dance. Maybe he should take her out. He imagined diving between her huge breasts and staying there for a week—maybe taking food and water with him.

"...and he also has the original soundtrack from 'War of the Worlds.'"

"What?"

"He has all of them."

"Turkey, what the fuck are you talkin' about?"

"This guy Lowell Tucker down in the village got all the..."

"Turkey, I ain't interested. You broke my train of thought. Shut up."

Turkey wondered why he thought that
he
had to keep Perry amused. At Times Square, Perry walked off the train without even saying goodbye. Turkey felt hurt but relieved.

Perry wandered past the row of dirty movies off Broadway. Although he wasn't eighteen he could get into the "be 21-or-be gone" bookstores because he was a big guy. In one narrow shop with pegboard-covered walls, he examined a magazine called
Hand-Job.
One of the girls looked just like Debbie Luloff. He found a phone booth outside.

"Hullo?" An older woman's voice.

"Oh. Is Debbie there?"

"Who's calling?"

"A friend from school."

"What's your name?"

"Perry."

"What do you want with Debbie?"

"Oh, I gotta get the homework."

"Well, Debbie doesn't have it. She's been in bed for a week."

"Well can I..."

The lady hung up on him. "Rotten cunt," he muttered. He walked around the streets in a mixture of rage, embarrassment, and horniness. A storefront caught his eye:

TROPICAL JACK'S BOOK STORE
MOVIES—MOVIES—MOVIES
Private Booths
With SOUND!!!

Two life-sized big-titted nudes were painted in silhouette against the white windows. Perry walked through the brightly lit dirty-book section past the cashier into a dark hallway lined on both sides with curtained booths. The only light came from red bulbs over each booth: on if occupied, off if available. Perry picked a booth and stepped inside, drawing the curtain. He checked out the interior—a square closet with a wooden box on one wall, a coin slot, and two eyeholes. He dropped in a quarter. The screen lit up—the show began. He pressed his eyes against the peepholes. Two teen-age kids grinded mechanically from all angles for about three minutes. A tiny speaker from somewhere in the booth played a recording of a woman's voice, "Ohhh-oh-ohhh," alternating with a man's voice, "Yeah baby oh yeah baby oh baby."