As it turned out, my father wasn’t called next, or even the case after. He disappeared from view as the next two cases were called, and I was just starting to settle in when I heard his name announced.
He walked out quickly, and unlike every other defendant I’d seen, no one had to tell him where to stand or to keep his hands out of his pockets. The lawyers must have changed shifts or something while he was coming out, because the guy who’d represented the last three or four people was gone. Instead, there was a young woman standing next to my father. She looked like an anemic version of someone who does Ivory commercials.
The officer in front of the judge’s bench called out the charges, which seemed to be grand larceny and driving without a license.
“How does the defendant plead?” the judge asked, sounding very tired.
“Not guilty, your honor,” my old man’s lawyer answered, with an accent that was straight off Walton’s mountain.
“Facts of the case?” the judge asked.
“Your honor,” a fat black guy in a bright blue suit, standing to my father’s left, piped up, “in this case the defendant was stopped for driving erratically on Ocean Parkway. A plate check turned up that the vehicle was reported stolen. The defendant has no license. And,” he paused dramatically, then added, “the arresting officers noted a substantial amount of blood on the front seats and recent body damage to the car.”
If he was waiting for a collective gasp or for someone to yell stop the presses, I’m pretty sure he was disappointed. The judge said “Uhhuh,” yawned without covering his mouth, then looked at my father’s lawyer. “Ms. Beckett?” he said.
The little birdlike woman launched into an impressively passionate defense that had something to do with returning from rushing an injured dog to a vet. Her voice sounded strange to me, the occasional bits of legal jargon coming out in this Beverly Hillbillies accent. She moved her hands around as she spoke, resting one on my father’s back and rubbing it as she talked about his disability and the tragic death of his wife. She seemed genuinely upset, and I wondered if my father had made up the dog story overnight and played it out to her that emotionally. When she finished talking she abruptly stopped moving, one hand still on my father’s back. Her thin blonde hair took a moment to settle flat again, like a puddle of water when you throw in a small stone.
“Bail?” the judge said, as if he’d heard nothing.
“Your honor,” my father’s lawyer chirped, “the defendant has had no contact with the criminal justice system in the last ten years. He’s never before been charged with a felony. He’s lived at the same address for the past twenty-two years. He’s not going anywhere.”
Cruel but true, I thought, then realized the same argument could be made for me.
“People?” the judge said.
The fat guy in blue said, “The people consent to releasing the defendant on his own recognizance.”
“R.O.R.” the judge said.
My father’s lawyer whispered something to him and then he turned and walked past the cop at the rail and into the audience. He sat in the first row next to the midget Don Juan, looked over his left shoulder at me, and winked.
“The girl says I gotta wait for some kind of paper,” he whispered. I nodded, and he turned back toward the front of the room.
The next case was called and a Middle Eastern–looking guy walked out. Before the charges were read, the lawyer said they needed an interpreter.
“Five minute recess,” the judge said, and they hustled the guy back into the pens. The judge left the bench and people began speaking freely and walking around the room. Gina hadn’t returned with my father’s cigarettes yet, and while that wasn’t shocking, I knew he’d be asking for them. The newsstand in the lobby was only about the size of two phone booths, and I’d told her specifically what brand to get, but Gina would window-shop if she were buying insulin, and it was my own fault for not picking up smokes on the way down.
My father stood and stretched. I got up when I saw him stand. He turned to me and we hugged, a little awkwardly, over the back of the wooden bench. We were hovering over the little Spanish guy, and I saw him cringe, but he didn’t look up or say anything to us.
“How are you?” my father asked. “How’s the side?”
“Pretty good. I don’t much feel it unless I move the wrong way. How are you?”
“Tired. Otherwise, fine.”
“You didn’t sleep?”
“Sleep,” he snorted. “In with these fuckin’ animals? You’ll wake up an’ find one of ‘em spreadin’ mayonnaise on your leg an’ putting it between two pieces a’ bread.”
“Did you eat?”
“Yeah. Food sucks, but it was food. I ate enough.” He smiled. “Where’s the little woman?”
“Knock it off. She’s getting your cigarettes.”
“Great. I should have them by the weekend.”
“If you’re lucky. What are we waiting for?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Let me go see if I can talk to Minnie Pearl.”
The lawyer who had spoken for my father was shuffling a huge stack of folders and separating them into two piles. My father walked past the rail and over to her table. If any of the cops hanging around noticed this, they did an excellent job of keeping it to themselves. The woman spoke to my father, then began writing something out for him. Just as she handed him the paper, the door opposite the pen area opened. The judge rushed out, sprinted up the two steps to the bench, and sat down quickly, like someone with a real job might.
“Anything ready?” he asked loudly. The officer calling the names spoke to him quietly as my father made his way back over to me.
“No interpreter? No interpreter?” The judge was yelling. “Next ready case.”
Jesus. I was glad they’d arraigned my father before the Jeckyll/Hyde thing kicked in. Maybe the guy smoked crack in his chambers.
My father stopped in the aisle in front of my row and gestured for me to follow him. Up front, the officer called out a French-sounding name with the word “saint” in it, and the most bedraggled-looking Rasta I’d ever seen stumbled out from the pens, looking blinded by the fluorescent lighting. He had a thick, seemingly solid mass of dreads to his shoulders, then five or six vinelike strands for a foot or so, then another thick clot of hair around waist level. A cop steered him over to the defense table.
I joined my father after climbing over a half-dozen people, and we started walking out. “You have everything you need?” I whispered.
“Yeah,” he said. “Just the adjourn date an’ her office number—you know—in case I want to discuss this crime a’ the century.”
“You have some imagination. Thank God nobody asked how the dog was doing.”
“Wasn’t my idea,” he said. “I was shocked to shit when she came out with that.”
We were at the back of the courtroom, right at the door to the main hall off the lobby. My father opened it and stepped out, holding it for me. I stood in the doorway and looked up to the front of the room. My father’s lawyer was speaking for the Rasta. From that distance I couldn’t hear any of her defense, but I saw her blonde hair dancing and her right hand gesturing frantically as she spoke. Her left hand was on the Rasta’s back, under the patchy strands of dreads, rubbing back and forth.
When we got to the lobby, Gina was just returning from the newsstand and almost walked right into us. She had two packs of my father’s cigarettes in one hand, and a pack of Virginia Slims and Juicy Fruit gum in the other, which she immediately snaked into a pocket of her blazer before giving my father a hug and kissing him on the cheek. It would almost be a shame to break up with her, I thought. Between her wardrobe choice and this, I was stocking up on ammunition that would last for months.
We went straight out of the building, past a line as long as when we’d arrived. Gina asked my father a lot of questions about how he was feeling and if he’d been treated well, and he answered them politely. Her upbringing had been old-world enough that she would never ask about what had happened or why. She might bring it up with me at a future date, or not, but it would just be formality, really. She’d accept whatever I told her as long as I didn’t insult her by trying to pass off something like the injured dog story. That idea amused the hell out of me, and I almost laughed out loud.
Gina insisted on letting my father ride in the front seat, and frankly, she didn’t have to insist very hard. My old man had seemed up, even spirited, on the walk back to the car, but as soon as he sat down and we started rolling, he looked exhausted. I put the oldies station back on, and lowered the volume considerably. By the time we’d gone ten blocks, my father had dropped off to sleep. I didn’t notice at first, until Gina tapped my shoulder and gestured toward him. She smiled and pointed to the radio. I lowered the volume again, until it was barely audible.
We took the streets back, and although there was never a time anymore when Fourth Avenue was free of traffic, it wasn’t terrible and it moved. I avoided highways when I had the luxury of driving on the street. The Gowanus was an elevated roadbed, cutting across South Brooklyn about thirty feet above Third Avenue, and though I would have been embarrassed to admit it, riding along it always made me feel like a traitor. It was as if the act of physically leaving pavement level meant that I was abandoning the neighborhoods I passed over—seeing their rooftops instead of their people. More importantly, I’d miss any changes taking place down there, and I couldn’t tolerate the idea of being out-of-touch.
Whenever we stopped for a light I looked over to see if my father had come around, but he slept for the entire ride back to Gina’s, head bowed straight, chin resting on his chest. He’d been in custody long enough to need a shave, and I knew that must have been killing him. I’d seen him haul around some of the worst hangovers the gods had visited upon this planet, but I couldn’t recall the last time I’d seen him with stubble. I knew that he used to keep a shaving kit at work when he was with Sanitation, but I didn’t know how he managed to clean up on his all-nighters.
His beard was coming in white, and that unnerved me. I found myself glancing over at it even between lights. His hair had been gradually shifting from black to a kind of steel gray for some time, but it wasn’t very radical. Also, his hairline hadn’t headed south much. But white? It was a startling contrast to his face and hair, and combined with the hoboish look of stubble in general, it really aged him. Being asleep in the car didn’t make him look any better. I drove a little more quickly.
When we stopped at Gina’s, my father woke up. He looked disoriented for a second, then embarrassed.
“Great,” he said. “Out the whole time. Maybe you could just drop me at the Medicaid office.”
“You need about three hours sleep,” Gina said, “an’ a hot meal. Then you’ll be fueled up for another six months of trouble.” She leaned over the front seat and kissed him.
“I’m an old fart,” he said, smiling. “I can only go three months at a clip.”
“Hey,” she said, shrugging, “there’s guys I worked with where I temped who only go out on weekends.”
“I’ve heard about that,” my father said. “Be good, honey.”
“You too,” she said, then turned my way. “Call me when you get home?”
I said I would. I sat there until Gina was up the steps and inside her house, then we pulled away.
“So,” I said after a block or two, “you want a hot meal? Cause I’m pretty sure Gina’s mother could whip something up for you.”
My father had leaned his head back and closed his eyes again. He started laughing without opening them. “Eye of newt, maybe?” he said.
“We had that yesterday.”
We parked two doors from the house and went up to the apartment. As we passed through the hallway I glanced at the basement door, and my stomach muscles constricted. Going up the stairs cramped that way made me feel a little nauseated. I couldn’t unclench, and I was glad that my father was ahead of me so he didn’t see me grab the rail and pull myself along to keep up with him.
Now that my old man was out and all right, the fear I’d been able to keep on the back burner was returning in a rush. While my father was locked up I’d had this abstract notion that, like most of life’s problems, he’d just take care of this. I’d been far too idealistic in thinking that something like this could be resolved as easily as a schoolyard fight or an argument with Gina.
As we reached our floor, and my father fished for his keys, I suddenly thought about my mother’s last few days, when she finally gave up fighting; when I could no longer deny it was going to happen.
While she was in the hospital, my father would lug huge pastelcolored octagonal wig boxes back and forth every day, and he couldn’t have looked more ridiculous if he’d been walking a little pink poodle with matching leash. My mother had had a head of stunning fiery red hair that she primped and tended with the pride of an award-winning rose gardener. One of the endless series of chemo treatments she’d received had caused all of it to fall out.
My father spent a small fortune on three wigs of human hair. Two of them looked exactly like my mother’s; the third was pretty close, but a shade too light. No visitors—including me—were allowed into her room until he’d brought a wig in and helped her put it on and adjust it.
When we’d leave, he’d take the wig from the previous day and drop it off at the house of the girl who always did my mother’s hair. She’d bring it to work with her in the morning and have it ready for us by visiting hours. The third wig, with the color a little off, was left at the hospital as an emergency measure; in case we were late one day, or if something happened to one of the others. I don’t think she ever had to wear it.
Once, when her whole family descended on us and then left, we had an exceptional amount of get-well crap and little trinkets to gather before leaving my mother’s room. My father was loaded down with shit and asked me to grab the wig box. It was the silliest looking carton of the three: blue-green with wide purple stripes running diagonally along it. The handle was a gold-colored metal chain. I told my father that I didn’t want to carry it; that I was embarrassed. He looked at me for a second, then put down half the stuff in his arms. He scooped up the box on his way out the door.
He didn’t talk to me for the rest of that day and all of the next, until we were back at the hospital. Then he acted as though nothing had happened. He never mentioned it after that, and never asked me to carry any of the wig boxes again. I was mad at him for a while, for being such a hardass and not even trying to understand how I felt. Now I was ashamed of myself whenever I thought about it. The irrational anger I’d felt had come embarrassingly late in life—at sixteen—with the realization that there were, in fact, things my father couldn’t fix.
I’d always meant to talk to him about it one day, but it hadn’t happened. I knew that he’d felt my resentment, and I knew that it wasn’t right. He carried all the weight of guilt that came with being the one who’d be left alive. He’d get drunk when we’d come home from the hospital and tell me how unfair it all was. How he was the one who smoked like a chimney and drank like a fish. I never said a word one way or the other, and unquestionably made things harder for him.
As I watched my father fumble in the shadows for the pullcord to the overhead light in the foyer, I felt a hint of that childish rage, but I fought it down. I would take all the help I could get, I told myself, but miracles were few and far between; besides, I might already be over my quota.
I ran out to pick up a late lunch and brought back some Chinese food and beer. My father was going to call Joey to set up a meeting for the next day, but I convinced him to let me do it. He was surprised, but didn’t argue. I figured that if I was going to do something as stupid as become responsible for my own actions, there was no time like the present. After a little pepper steak and a couple of cans of Bud, he turned in.
As soon as he went to lie down I called the number he’d given me for Tony. A woman whose voice I’d never heard before answered on the second ring. She asked my name and number before I’d said a word, and when I gave her that she said thank you and hung up. Five minutes later Tony called back. I told him how things had gone, that my father was fine, and that I was home.
“I wanted to talk to you about setting up the meeting,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. I was sure he could sense my nervousness.
“I thought your father would call,” he said, which didn’t help me maintain composure.
“I told him I’d do it. He went in to lie down.”
“He’s all right, isn’t he?” Tony asked, though I’d just told him that he was.
“He’s fine,” I said again. “You know, a little tired. I don’t think he slept much inside.”
“He could of slept,” Tony said. “He didn’t have to worry. There was always somebody watching.”
“I know, Tony. I’m sure he knew too. He was probably just a little uncomfortable.”
“Yeah, sure, I don’t blame him. But he’s okay, right? I mean, nothing’s wrong?”
“Everything’s fine,” I said for the third time. I was starting to feel like I was talking to a great aunt with Alzheimer’s. Tony sounded as jumpy as I felt, and I didn’t understand why. “How do you want to handle the meeting?” I tried.
“The meeting? The meeting’s set. You’re good to go tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll call in the morning with the when and where.”
“Oh,” I said. “All right. I didn’t realize it was set already. Okay, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Me? Yeah, I guess. Yeah, tomorrow.” He sounded either distracted or scared.
I wondered if he was watching television. There might have been a game on somewhere, and I knew he had a satellite dish. “Good,” I said. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Yeah. Uh, tomorrow. Good.”
He hung up. It occurred to me a few minutes later that maybe he didn’t like talking on the phone. He couldn’t shake hands that way.
Although he’d taken me seriously enough, Tony’s disconnected demeanor left me more shaken than before. Almost any other response would have been preferable. Even anger or suspicion would have at least made sense to me.
Who the hell was in charge of the planet anyway?
First my father, then Tony: human frailty was everywhere. Who’d bail out on me next, the pope? Maybe I was being overly sensitive, but none of this was doing my confidence any good. I felt like a six-year-old next to a grown-up, pretending to shave or drive the family car. The stakes were a little higher here, though. I was more like a six-year-old playing with the switches in a sawmill.
The knapsack down in the basement wasn’t helping either. Now that my father was sleeping and the call to Tony had been made, there was nothing for me to do but worry. I felt the pressure of having Tony’s property in the house. It seemed to seep up through the floors as though the thing was radioactive. It might have been, for all I knew. Maybe Tony was dealing in black market plutonium. I fidgeted around for an hour or so and killed the rest of the beer. I leafed through my father’s copies of Playboy and GQ, turned the television on and then off, did the same with my radio, and finally gave up. I checked on my father, who was snoring up a small opera, and quietly left the apartment.
The basement door was less vocal now that I had the strength and patience to inch it open, but it still made enough noise to keep me looking over my shoulder. When I got down the steps, I felt like it had been months since I’d last been there. The super or my father had folded up the cot and put it away, and I didn’t see any signs of blood. I walked to the boiler and looked along the wall, but I couldn’t see a thing. The heat was too intense to get very close, so I couldn’t reach back any appreci able distance. I nosed around the basement for a few minutes, and up against a wall next to my old train set and C.H.I.P.S. bicycle, I found a whiffle-ball bat and a petrified string-mop. The bat turned out to be useless, but the mop handle was long enough to make contact, and I used it to slide the knapsack out into view. Until that moment, when I saw the bag again, I’d almost convinced myself that it wouldn’t be there. I wanted to believe that they’d gotten the bag. Even if someone had removed it from behind the boiler, I could at least stand in front of Tony again and tell him I didn’t have it without worrying that my voice would crack.
I picked it up. It was very warm—almost hot—but nothing like I thought it would be considering where it had been. I turned it over and looked at it carefully for the first time. The pack was made out of some kind of flat black textured fabric that felt more like nylon than canvas. The buckles on the front were black plastic, but the thing didn’t look cheap. I turned it over again. No markings, no brand name. The bottom half of the back had a stain of dried blood about the size of a quarter. I tried scraping it off with my thumbnail, and only ground it in deeper. I scraped harder, but it got worse. I scratched furiously, digging into the bag until my thumbnail bent back halfway down, tearing away from the skin. I howled, dropped the bag, and kicked it against the stairs. I just stood there for a moment then, and tried to compose myself. I had my thumb in my mouth, and I glared at the knapsack as though I could will it to vanish.
When I calmed down, I walked over to the stairs and sat, the bag at my feet. I looked at my thumb. The nail was back in the right position, but it had a white line across the middle and the finger was bleeding underneath. I put it back in my mouth. It hurt like a motherfucker. Since I was alone, I didn’t bother to fight the tears that welled up until they ran down my face and embarrassed me. Then I laughed. Shoot him and he’s okay, but if he breaks a nail, watch out.
I wiped my thumb on my pants and picked up the knapsack again, keeping the side with the spot of blood away from me. I brushed my dusty footprint off the front. If they were smuggling Italian crystal I was fucked.
The bag was still warm. I remembered hearing somewhere that heat was no good for coke. I’d never had any coke long enough to know if that was true. Whatever was on hand—a half-gram or a half-ounce—was always a one-day supply. I shook the bag. No unusual sounds. My father had said it wouldn’t be drugs. I unfastened one of the plastic clasps, then closed it almost as quickly. My palms were wet and I wiped them down my pants. I turned the buckle around to see if I’d broken any kind of seal, but if I had I couldn’t tell.
I couldn’t open it. I was definitely concerned that there was some non-reversible means of determining if it had been touched, but it was more than that. I didn’t want to open it. If I didn’t know what was in there, then I wasn’t really guilty of anything. I hadn’t stolen from Tony, I hadn’t fucked everything up. As long as I didn’t look.
I stashed the bag again, back where it had been. I couldn’t think of anyplace else. I went upstairs, and even though it was barely evening, I decided to shower and go to bed. I felt like I’d spent the day unloading trucks. When I removed the bandage, my side looked surprisingly good. It was dry, and starting to scab. I dressed it less elaborately. As I climbed into bed I remembered that I’d told Gina I would call. I took the receiver off the hook and put it in my night table drawer. Then I stretched out and watched the ceiling, and wondered what would happen at Tony’s meeting.
From outside I heard people on the street talking, sometimes guys shouting, and I recognized most of the voices. They were kids from the block, a couple of years younger than me, throwing a football around— just raising hell. They’d knock off soon and drift up to the corner in a huddle to curse out teachers or bosses; and later, when the girls came out, they’d strut and pose and try to get laid.