Laurie Tusing

6 The Old Songs cramped. In fact, within these rooms, in these days, family and friends always felt there would be enough to go around. Jen busied herself with clearing a space on a countertop for Mike while her older sister, Rose, scoured the cabinets looking for serving bowls for the dishes that were nearly ready. Rose knew the whereabouts of just about everything in Jen's kitchen and the reverse of this was equally true. Both households threw their share of parties with maybe a few more occurring at Jen's house. She'd have liked to not have to do the work, but the food prepared in other houses just didn't taste the same. The key to a successful meal was having all the dishes ready at the same time; next to that little else mattered. Rose was not as adept at this and was just as happy working along in Jen’s house. After the serving bowls were assembled Rose began another task, that of marshaling the kids together to set the table. This was something that invariably expended more energy than it saved, but was persevered through none the less. “Right in the middle of the exam Dr. Holmes starts talking to me about the high cost of taking care of his big, expensive home and cars. Can you imagine? The nerve of him!” Tim, Jen's son, knew this type of nerve was always a bad thing. But many times, such as this one, he was unsure why that was the case. Tim was getting the knives out of the drawer and listening to his mother's and aunt’s conversation about his mother's recent doctor’s visit. He finished counting the knives and started towards the dining room table, but before leaving the kitchen, he looked back at his mother and saw her face still reflecting the anger she felt. He had seen this emotion before and was always surprised when it rose up so suddenly. What horrible thing had the doctor done, he wondered, as he walked into the dining room. Tim had been called from the living room along with Rose's son, 10 The Old Songs “Aunt Jen can do it in a second.” “But she should not have to.” And then after a pause Rose continued, “Do you remember when we baked the cake last week? You liked working in the kitchen with me. You sifted the flour, and lots of it flew around the counter. You helped clean it up and were a big help then.” He thought about baking the cake, his mother’s arms around him as they sifted the flour together, and her trying, at first anyway, to control the motions so the flour poured through the sifter as it was supposed to. The smell of his mother and the sweet cake baking also returned and merged with these other memories and he felt his body relax. They were now both leaning against the door but in a way totally different than just moments before. There would be more to say later, but they would get through this incident and, for a while anyway, hope would exist that incidents of this kind would not need to happen again. When Rose was leaving the kitchen to find Don, Frank was making his way in. His glass was nearly empty, which was what had roused him from his chair. Jen had always admired her older brother, Frank, for his job at the bank and his conservative ways. His wife, Jessie, was sweet and quiet although a little removed, Jen thought. Why they never had kids of their own was a question no one ever asked but once. In jest, someone from outside the family asked what they were waiting for and Frank turned away with a cloud of sorrow covering his face. Frank had internalized his role of eldest sibling and assumed the patriarchal role that age had bestowed upon him. Although he had forty-seven been born in 1911 and was only now 47, his actions and thought process had slowed to a rate that others might associate with the onset of dementia. The waiting for his pronouncements invariably 13 Fred Burton into the small kitchen, setting up storm clouds above the counter where Mike was sweating over his work. Mike reconnoitered. Again, he had allowed himself to be taken off-guard against this on-again, off-again foe. Oh, he was just kidding, Jen would assure him. But rarely did it feel like fun. “How many times do I need to make this for you before you admit that this is as good as a New York sirloin or strip steak?” “Do you hear this Jennif?” Frank called out to his sister, using the name only her brothers called her, usually when invoking a conspiratorial, sibling attitude. And then, loud enough so that his words echoed through the hallways and into the adjoining rooms for everyone to hear, “Mike thinks that London broil is as good as strip steak or a good sirloin.” The enormity of this blunder was staggering to all in earshot. Peals of laughter rang through the house. Even Mike felt like he’d blasphemed, which was followed by a sense that he’d been rocked by several short, crisp body blows. The world around him seemed to conspire against him in ways such as this. A slight, usually innocent comment went across the bow and the return volley came back at him as if from Captain Black himself. And the storm of cannonballs continued until the ship had been boarded and all the men killed. Mike returned to his work, slapping and turning the meat, immersing himself deep and deeper. Rose returned downstairs with Don and saw that the mess on the table had been cleaned. She tried to make eye contact with her sister, to thank her, but Jen whisked past her and pretended to have moved on to the next set of preparations for dinner. There had been a time when they could discuss matters like this, but those days seemed to be gone, maybe forever. Even though Rose was four years older than Jen, placing her midway between the ages of Jen and Frank, they began having 17 Fred Burton entirely of the moment. Rose gave voice to one of these thoughts, saying, “I read an article about Gandhi's life and I just keep thinking about the people there and what life must be like in India. He seems to have been a great leader and the people did love him even though he was killed by one of his own. I’d love to visit there someday.” There was a look of calm on her face as she recalled the brightly colored sarongs the women were wearing in the pictures she’d seen. Frank did not take kindly to this talk of India and Gandhi. What did he think he was doing, wearing those silly clothes and not eating just to make a point? It didn’t prove anything. “Why would you thirteen want to leave our country, anyway?” The war had been over for 13 years, and now the thought of leaving this country voluntarily seemed almost un-American to him. “That place is nothing but filth and war.” The roar came up again and Dan, who was already standing in front of the TV, was able to provide a firsthand account of the action. “Huff did it again. He stuffed them right at the line of scrimmage on a third and one.” Sam Huff was the middle linebacker, the brace of the defense and its captain. Even though they were too late to see the play, all the men left their seats and offered some type of congratulation to one another as the teams on the field huddled in preparation for the next play. Jen enjoyed football almost as much as the men and thought of joining them but held back from doing so. Sam Huff was one of her favorite players as well. She had been heard remarking during Giants games on his sheer power as he seemed to absorb the charge of a whole row of men and turn them back on themselves singlehandedly. Rose remained in her seat, too. Usually she would have been stifled by Frank’s comments. Being the oldest fit him perfectly. For as long as she could remember, his demeanor was exactly as it was 24 The Old Songs had no other choice but to make this change. In the past when the work increased they had hired another junior clerk and he wondered why they had not done that this time as well. “Just can't leave well-enough alone,” he would often mutter to himself. He had no grand illusions about himself, his role, his options, his potential. All he asked was to be able to do the things he did the way he had always done them. One morning a few weeks ago she appeared standing next to him. Her hair was pulled back and parted perfectly down the middle, as always. She was as sprightly and cheerful as ever and then she handed him a manual. The first page contained the title, “Suggestions for Improving the Financial Month End Close Process.” Myrtle explained, “I've been thinking about how we can process the books faster and came up with these ideas. I thought we could improve the way we gather expenses from the departments downstairs and also improve the way we allocate them, so I wrote my thoughts down and here they are.” She couldn't contain her pride and was even beaming a little. “I'd like to show them to Walt but thought maybe you could look them over first.” Frank barely moved but his head but raised his eyes above his bifocals to meet her gaze. It would have been much more difficult to maintain his composure if he was not simultaneously viewing this hostile act alternately from his seat and from an elevated spot in the corner of the room. He saw the faint head turns and tightened neck muscles of his co-workers without having to turn his gaze on them. They would have much to say to each other, and the wordless conversations on the topic at that moment were almost deafening for him. “Sure,” he said, and pointed to an empty spot on the side of his desk. 28 The Old Songs Chapter 3 Mike sat in his seat next to the fan that filled the only window in the kitchen, and which protruded several inches into the room. Normally the fan would have been removed months before but this year Mike simply closed the window behind the fan. It had remained there through fall and into the first days of winter and now wouldn't be moved at least until the end of next summer. He sat there nursing a beer, trying not to think about the fan that was only inches from his head and instead enjoy this time, his last day off work before starting a week of four to twelves as a policeman for the New York City Police Department. Jen was peeling potatoes for dinner. The long strands of the cuttings fell onto old newspapers that were laid out on the counter. The kitchen was serviceable and only felt cramped when it was time to sit down to eat. Then they moved the table into the center of the narrow room which allowed Anne space to slide into the seat at the back of the table. If someone needed to get from one side of the room to the other, chairs would be moved this way and that to allow this passage to occur. There was a no nonsense quality to the table with its metal legs, a wide, corrugated chrome apron and Formica top that contained a random, densely packed pattern of various shades of black, gray and white. The chairs were clunky, too, and had rubberized seat cushions that were tightly bound to the frame. This set was designed to withstand all that a family of four could throw at it and still provide service long after the children had set off on their own. The only decoration in the room was a single wooden plate with a simple pastoral setting and high gloss finish. It was attached to the wall above where Anne sat and just above her 37 Fred Burton aren’t sure what to make of me. I’m trying to look like every jackass sergeant we’ve all seen walk the line hundreds of times. Then I turned to the guys and said, 'Well, we’ll have no more insubordination of that kind. From now on it will be Fat Ass, Sir!' “Most of the guys got it right away but some did not let go until I busted a gut.” Even after the umpteenth time, for all but Mel, they laughed so hard they almost wet themselves. Now cruising through the second drink the party was underway, and Marie picked up the story. “So for the Halloween party Mike gets some oversized pants and fills them up with paper in the middle. He gets a tee shirt and writes on it ‘Sir Fat Ass.' The guys he served with, all of them, one by one come up to him. Some wrap their arms around him, some fall down laughing. “Near the end of the party somehow the underpants are on the outside of the pants and the paper is gone. Jen’s slipped herself through one leg of the underpants and Mike is in the other. They’re pulling in opposite directions and twirling each other around like whirling dervishes.” “Just another crazy night with the Eatons.” Bert offered with an approving and bemused quality. Marie looked at her watch and said, “Oh, Mike. Look how late it's gotten. You’ve gone and made usfinish late for the dance.” Bert and Marie went upstairs to finished getting ready, leaving Mike and Mel alone with their thoughts. Mike was left remembering the war. Of course it was good to be back. It was all that everyone had wanted and dreamed about. He ended the war a 2nd Lieutenant, in charge of feeding a battalion of men. They’d be up close to the front ranks, setting up and breaking down camp in a hurry. It was his job to get the guys fed, as well as was possible. He made friends with the locals moving 38 The Old Songs through Normandy scouring the countryside for fresh vegetables, meat, and eggs. He’d done his share of fighting, too, which was how he got his first promotion. The next thing he knew they needed someone to keep the food lines flowing and he stepped into a position of responsibility he never thought would be his. He’d never been much good at anything and had never really tried to be. No one from his poor Irish neighborhood in Queens thought about much beyond the next meal, or the other borders of their lives. But cook-up a batch of bacon and eggs for a bunch of K rations guys who hadn’t eaten anything but k-rations for a week and you knew you had accomplished something. You were a god to them whether they made a big flap about it or not. And nobody cared where you came from; what state or which side of the tracks. The locals liked the big, smiling Yank who learned to turn a phase or two of the local dialects. Along with the food was the need for liquor, booze of any kind. Many, if not most of the guys, stayed loaded the majority of the time. The interminable waiting with the constant threat of air strikes, the enemy usually not far away, hunkered down the same as they were. All this punctuated by frequent periods of inhuman battle. What else could they do to not lose their minds but anesthetize themselves? So Mike scoured the towns to barter for barrels of wine and hard liquor. He did his job efficiently and, without realizing it, professionally. “So, Mike, what do you think? Will I turn some heads tonight?” Marie said, letting the fox wrap fly from her uncovered shoulders as she spun herself around. The crepe dress held closely above her waist and flowed freely to just below her knees. “I’ll say you will,” Mike answered appreciatively. Though the thought had not crossed his mind until this moment, she did look wonderful. “If I do get there tonight, make sure you save a dance 39 Fred Burton for me.” Mike and Mel got up and the four prepared to leave. “We’ve still got a little time to kill. Why don’t we drive over with you and we’ll pop our heads in before heading back to work,” Mike said. “Sure, we can do that,” Mel responded. Bert and Marie entered their car while Mel and Mike got back into their police cruiser. The cars moved onto the side street, one of the hundreds of streets that make up a grid that allowed heavy traffic to disperse from the major arteries. Night had just descended but there was light everywhere. The metronomic passing of street lamps containing bluish tinged globes of light provided a coolly lit passage. They turned off this numbered street onto Hill Side Avenue and sat. Nothing moved, which was very unusual. They crept along one block and then another and then sat again, this time for ten minutes. The dance was in full swing by now and those in both cars sensed their inescapable predicament; there was no other way to the VFW hall. Mike rolled up along-side Bert and Marie. Both cars opened their windows and Mike said, “Follow me. If anyone asks, you tell them you think you have appendicitis, Marie.” Bert and Marie still had that look of a deer in headlights when Mike swung his cruiser in front of their car. Then the police car siren started, as did the cherry top rotating light. Mike straddled the left lanes of both directions of traffic that grudgingly made way for the two car caravan. Bert hunkered down in his seat, his eyes receded into his head again, which never moved to either side. Marie was laughing hysterically but remembered she was the sick one so doubled over to lend some authenticity to their charade. They saw the problem up ahead after traveling for five or six blocks. A fender bender involving three cars had snarled traffic in 50 The Old Songs with them, at least temporarily. And here they were now in his home, which no longer felt like his home. Everything was different, changed? charged. Even the air, which it seemed had contained an almost solid stillness now swirled. There was so much going on in their lives right now and he had no mind for so many details. All he could think about were the two children living with him now and especially the tow-headed boy sitting at his small kitchen table eating breakfast. Sara cried herself to sleep both nights since the deaths of her parents and had been lethargic during the days, but Donald showed little emotion. His excessive energy was in evidence and he seemed almost unremorseful. Frank looked at Donald again and wondered why he refused to behave more appropriately and how he could make Donald see that the way he was acting was wrong. Don picked at the French toast his Aunt Jessie had made for him. It was dry and crusty, having been cooked in a pan on top of the stove. He saw egg streaked between strips of nearly bare bread. He was used to French toast cooked on a special skillet that his mother pulled down from the highest shelf in the kitchen closet which, along with French toast, was reserved for grilled cheese sandwiches. Heavy and imposing, it was something of a luxury item because of its specialized uses and represented a source of unsuspecting power, something holding the household together, protecting it. She would plug it in and keep it closed until the light on its top turned on. Then she opened it like a clam shell, heat streaks emanating from it. Eight perfectly saturated pieces of bread were fitted on its two surfaces. She shook cinnamon on each, which bubbled, coagulated, but at some point in the cooking process conceded and spread uniformly across the surfaces. When the slices of bread were served, they had to them a nearly uniform brown, silken quality almost but not quite too perfect to eat. And now even the syrup it was served with was 68 The Old Songs they were able to stay upright as they ran from one side to the other by correctly compensating for the changing stable area beneath their feet, but that never supplied a satisfying experience. Instead they tripped or fell, on purpose if necessary. Once down, they would let the arc of the cylinder take them up as far as it might, resisting the tipping point, until they toppled into themselves falling in a heap and then starting the process over again. They ran next to the slide that extended upwards a dizzying distance and had several humps placed along the course that their bodies flew over on the way down. "Grab a sack," each child told the other. The burlap sacks were made from thick, coarse jute and may have been used at one time to hold many ten pound bags of potatoes but would now be sat on to give a faster glide on the way down the slide. Each child rifled through the piles of sacks strewn at the bottom of the slide. Most searched for the "best" one, although uncertain of what constituted "best" in this case. But this uncertainty did not deter them from touting the virtues of their own sack compared to the others while waiting on line. Size, shape, density, and thickness of the weaved pattern were discussed, as were more esoteric topics such as the sack's ability to lay flat, their gradations of the color brown; each child propping up their own choice, while secretly suppressing doubts within themselves. Soon they were on the staircase that straddled the slide and led up to the starting point. The line was long but it moved steadily. They critiqued the techniques applied by the kids they observed on the way down as if they were slalom skiers and the humps were moguls, things these kids knew nothing about at this time in their lives. Perfect posture included sitting upright, feet first, body from the waist down in contact with the sack. Most important was to keep arms folded in front at all times or risk the dreaded brush burn. Don 73 Fred Burton This recognition calmed him and he retreated from thoughts of outrageous acts and turned and walked in the direction he came. They were chasing after him and by the time they met he was completely under control and focused. They were able to piece together that something had occurred with the legless man but had no idea of the effect this had on Don. They questioned him, but he said he was alright. They wanted to probe further but sensed his aloofness and how removed he was and didn't know how or whether to try to pierce through this strangeness. Yes, he was alright and as long as he stayed like this he would be alright. So he decided at that moment to stay in control of his emotions the rest of his life. They continued onto the bumper cars and made it to the front of the line. When the chain was removed from the gate they rushed along with everyone else into the area where the bumper cars lay idle. Don and Tim had already determined which cars they believed were the fastest and raced towards them. Sara took a car with her uncle Frank and Anne with her father; Jen and Jessie grabbed cars close to their husbands. This left the boys separated from the rest of the family and each of them some distance from the other. Jen and Jessie considered this only as an after-thought when it was too late to choose different cars. The buzzer rang and the sparks began to fly and crackle from the bendable metal wands that connected the cars' motors to the electricity emanating from the metal mesh suspended above the track. The action started slowly and politely, but soon the banging started. Don had never been allowed to ride on his own before and felt fueled by the idea of driving a vehicle by himself. During the first few turns he cautiously drove the course, learning the art of the steering wheel and coordinating it with the gas pedal. He even took time to look beyond the track, wondering who in the crowd waiting 79 Fred Burton that was not discussed was Don's increasingly strange behavior. Frank, as he now looked down the table at Don munching on his eleven-year-old pizza crust, carrying on and behaving every bit like the 11 year old that he was, thought about the time earlier in the week when he took Don along with him to pick up his car from the local mechanic. Frank had been going to Nick's Auto Repair for many years and was friendly with the owner and mechanics working there. They weren't giving anything away but only did what was needed and did a good job, and because Frank had no interest in doing the work himself he accepted the cost of these services without a sense of being taken advantage of. The shop was on a road that made no pretensions about itself. Junkyards, lumberyards, and auto repair shops made their place of business here, making it possible for the nicer neighborhoods it abutted to maintain their way of life. Frank didn’t mind going down there and even took some pleasure in it. Sometimes he waited for more than an hour, filling the time by reading the paper and casually speaking with the workers or the others waiting for the repairs on their cars to be completed. This time they did not need to wait long and when Frank was handed the bill to review, he placed it down on the counter and pulled out his reading glasses. At this moment he sensed Don's presence beside him. It was not how he expected him to be, and he was still trying to decipher what had transpired in the short interval of time that followed. Don was standing there as if he considered himself the center of this transaction. He interjected himself more by his body posture than by anything he said. Then there was the expression on his face, which had nothing childlike about it, no indecision, no acceptance of an adult shape to the world that he should know better than to try to lay claim to. The little man-child was so bold as to reposition the bill in a way so that it was easier for him to read it and began studying it line by line. Frank and the 84 The Old Songs see them. They offered little help to the hand and Jessie started to wonder if they would be able to make what she had originally thought was a safe bid. She laid them into the hand and selected four others that she passed back to Frank. At that point, everyone laid down their meld. Mike laid down aces, which drew a round of ahhhs from the adults. Apart from the four kings, only the two 9s of clubs were laid down by Jen. The points were jotted down by Jen, who was keeping score. The cards returned to the hands, and play began. As the tricks were being played, Don sensed a disturbing trend developing. Whenever it was their turn to lead, his aunt directed him to place a card but then his uncle Mike invariably played a better card cards and won the trick. All four of Mike's aces were played early and were winners. The flow of play shifted from Jessie and Don leading the cards, to the other team of Mike and Jen controlling play. Back and forth they worked the rounds; Mike being short suited in hearts but with more trump than the other team combined, and Jen with a near run of hearts. Frank looked on with a resigned expression and signaled that he was powerless to head off the assault being mounted by the other team. They would not make their bid and it did not take long to realize it. Jessie carefully studied their cards but ultimately there was little they could do, so she directed Don to throw out loser after loser. When the hand was played out, the carnage over, Frank asked Mike, "Why didn't you choose trump if you were sitting there with those aces?" The cards were collected and then would be shuffled and it was not unusual during the time between hands to discuss the strategy employed in the just completed hand. "When Jessie took the bid I decided not to bid against her. I had the four Aces and was short in hearts. I was hoping Jen would be able to make my clubs winners 99 Fred Burton should be done next. It was late and the day's events had left everyone spent, emotionally and physically. Frank passed the children's room and heard nothing, so assumed they were resting; finally there would be no more crises to attend to. Jessie was already in their bedroom. She was performing her end of day rituals and was sitting at her make-up table removing her jewelry. Frank brushed alongside her, letting his hand graze along her shoulders and the small of her back on the way to his side of the bed. Wordlessly he replaced his day clothing with his night clothes, mindless of his actions. Instead of doing the routine things that he did prior to going to bed, he simply slipped under the covers and closed his eyes and waited for Jessie to join him. Their ritual of kissing and holding each other briefly was done, but Frank felt only the mechanical aspects of these motions and was numb to the pleasure they usually gave him. Sleep came quickly to him; deep, wonderful sleep. And he began to dream almost as soon as sleep descended upon him. He found himself in a large room, or something that reminded him of a room. All but one side extended seemingly without end, dimensionless. The wall in front of him was circular and curved out of sight. Doors existed on this wall, but there were no windows to suggest what lay beyond them. Conditions in the room he was in, if you could call it a room, were horrible. There was a stench suggesting rotten garbage and excrement. A cold wind whipped along the corridor and passed through him. He heard voices off in the distance, but they were in foreign languages and of no comfort to him, and the dark gray lighting made it impossible to see the people speaking these words. He heard other noises as well, but they were equally indistinguishable and sounded like the banging of heavy machinery off in the distance. Within moments he opened one of the doors that led into the 128 The Old Songs you," Eddie began, throwing out the final comments without much interest and then sucking down the last of his beer. The bartender came by and got them another round. They sat quietly for a minute in their own space before Eddie resumed his explanation. "If they show an interest, you explain they can purchase this pass from you." And at this, Eddie pulled from his coat pocket a small, hard-backed piece of paper about the size of a business card. The wording on it was, "One pass for auto violation," and below that was the name Marty Herman. The border around the card had a type of double line graphical quality that lent the card a somewhat official appearance. "You explain that this pass costs forty bucks and is good for this infraction and maybe the next time they get stopped by a motorcycle cop. Tell them that if they want to use the card to ask the cop if they know a cop named Marty Herman." Eddie continued, "Marty Herman doesn't exist. It's just a code name that we use to let the guy being stopped know whether or not the cop who pulled him over is in the game. If the cop does not acknowledge Marty Herman, tell him not to try to use the card." Mike was always being asked if he knew this or that guy when someone was trying to weasel out of getting a ticket and thought he remembered hearing this name more than once. They stopped again to take some pulls on their beers and let the first bit of information settle in before Eddie resumed explaining how the operation worked. $5 (to be consistent) "You get the cards from me. They cost $5.00 a piece, and they're the only ones you use for this scam. The money goes for protection in case the wrong people ever catch wind of this; the less you know about that the better. You come up with a number and put it on the back of the card, and you let the rest of us know what that number 134 The Old Songs saying many of the things he said. It was as if his father could not stop himself from speaking of these things and many times this led to his mother and father hurling hate-filled comments at each other across the dinner table. Tim sometimes was unable to finish his meal because his stomach was tied into knots and he would ask to be excused from the table. One of these times his father had asked him, "What's wrong, can't you take it?" Tim's mind cramped up at this question. He wasn't able to answer then and still could not. Or more correctly, none of the answers that he could summon forth came even close to expressing the feelings he was experiencing while these arguments were taking place. But then the idea for Catholic school popped into his head and seemed maybe to be the answer he was looking for. He would make them proud of him, so proud that they would forget all the problems that seemed to have twisted them into different people. The laughter and closeness that had existed in his immediate family and the wider extended family and family friends, had become mostly a memory, one that he could not map a path back to. So he would become that path with his new clothing, considerate manners, and joke-a-minute personality. But if this approach did not work he could not imagine what the solution was to this problem—a problem that had become a burning issue for him. The nuns were constantly beating into them that only the best students would be good enough to go onto college and from there move onto a successful career; and even some of these students would falter when they were confronted by the rigors of any of the better Catholic high schools to which some of them would be heading. The rest, and this accounted for nearly everyone sitting there before them, would not amount to much. Tim was only a 148 The Old Songs building that abutted the playground. The dilemma at hand was whether to plow into the second bottle of wine now or after they got into one type or another of some mischief. "I say we show Tim some of the sights around our fair borough. We could take the train to Brighton Beach, walk around there for a little bit and take it from there," Don said, as if having already made up the group’s mind. "Bring the bottles along. I'll hide them with my shirt." and with that he took off his outer shirt that he had put on just in case this type of need developed. The air was moist and hot. Air like this usually slowed Tim down half a step but now the sense of newness and the effects of the alcohol lifted Tim and carried him along these city streets effortlessly, making a sort of fuel out of even this balmy evening. Once they made it out of the park, they chose a direction that led to the train station. The tracks were elevated above the ground and quiet now, and it wasn't long before they were standing within view of them. "Follow us," Don said to Tim, after checking that the coast was clear, "and you ride for free." Paulie was first to bound along the well-worn path. They squeezed between a steel girder and metal fencing that Augie was able to dislodge just enough to allow them to fit their bodies between. From there it would be a short climb diagonally up a manmade elevation of rock and dirt, and then a three foot jump to the steps that they would have reached had they used tokens. The only problem was that between the two landings was nothing but a free twenty fall of some 20 feet directly onto pavement that could kill you, certainly one that would break some bones if you came up short of the landing. "Don't scrape your khakis," Paulie yelled behind him as they were making their run up the hill. Tim ran along, trying to keep up, 181 Fred Burton throttled him. Jack tried to defend himself, but was ineffectual. His screams were the thing that saved him as others charged into the room, breaking them up. Blood gushed from Jack's nose. He yelled at Mike in his high Irish tenor, things about him being a stupid animal, not knowing what was good for him. After the fight was broken up Mike fell silent and reasserted control of himself. He walked away, down the hall and collected his stuff from his locker. He was not sure what his future would bring but was quite sure he would never walk through the doors of this building again, not, at least, as an active duty policeman. Word got back to the captain about the fight while he was sitting alone in his office. He smiled to himself and then let out a long, deep roaring belly laugh. Eaton was a fool for doing it; there was no doubt about that. But Mike was a good judge of character and the captain reflected on how he would love to take a shot at that loud-mouth himself. If you were looking for a litmus test in the precinct it could be how you felt about Jack McCann. There were who those hated him straight up. He was not surprised to include Mike Eaton in this group and he felt a strong affinity with anyone counted among them. Then, on the other side were the group of whiners who were more than happy to let Jack do their bidding, willing to bury their manhood under his protective wing. Then there was the middle group that recognized in Jack, and so many others, the necessary evil they represented. This last group was the one the captain found himself in, knew he had to be a member of. But damn, he would have liked to have been the one to administer the blows to Jack, would have paid a handsome price to witness the exchange. Eaton was stupid, all right. But if he had a chance to save him from losing his job, or worse, he would stick his neck out a little to see what he could do for him. 196 The Old Songs Twenty to twenty-five white men descended onto a bar on the outskirts of Flatbush. They drank, some heavily, waiting for the appointed time. They were all carrying their weapons and were none too concerned about whether they were concealed or not. twenty-five forty-five Their ages ranged between 25 and 45 years and each was capable of expressing warlike aggression. When the time came they walked outside. A hand-drawn map was circulated. The point of attack was noted by an "X" in the middle, which was where the policemen were injured and where the group responsible for the attack hung out. The intersecting streets spanning outward were noted. Four circles were drawn two blocks in each direction from the point of attack. Four equally sized groups were formed, and each took ownership of one of the attack points. There was little said but one man took the lead and with military precision issued the few instructions that were needed. He was an Italian with wavy dark hair. His dark eyes narrowed with intensity that spoke to the fact that he was several steps ahead of the rest of them on the road to aggression, the road towards dispelling doubts and questions and fears and replacing them with fierceness and a sense of the rightness of their cause. Anything less or contrary would not be tolerated from those assembled here, who had come not by force but by choice. The leader was not tall but was powerfully built and wore a black leather coat and seemed comfortable with taking charge, and the others accepted his authority. Within the crowd there was a full range of emotions and dispositions. On one hand there were those who hated to be there and doing what they were about to do but who knew they would want this backup if the tables were turned, and so did what they felt was their duty. At the other extreme were those who actually enjoyed everything about the rumble, had done it since childhood, 200 The Old Songs they would advance from. They were only a few minutes early and waited a block from the point of engagement. Nick was crazy now in movement and thought. "Why don't we just drive up there and get things rolling, kick their asses? I hate this fucking shit waiting!" your "Cool it, Nick," George said. "You'll have you chance soon enough. We all will." He was now in the process of amping up, letting free the fury he had kept walled up behind an avuncular attitude that he knew would keep things reasonably calm while it was necessary to do so. But that time had now passed. Only Tony remained most like he had been throughout the trip, but there was no doubt that he could be counted on once the action began. George was studying his watch and then heard the car horn from the adjacent block, the signal to begin the attack. They shot off from the curb blaring their horn in response and sped to the site while cars came rushing in from all sides at the same moment. Car doors flew open and they were moving, spreading out. They kept their night sticks down, along the length of their legs, concealed as much as possible. Shouting and taunting commenced from all directions. There were about a dozen men, mid-teens to mid-twenties, inside the circle. Within seconds a few of them started to run, trying to find cracks in the wall of men facing them. A few of the cops gave chase to them while the rest continued to move closer, sealing the gaps. This made everyone restless, everyone but one big black man who seemed to refuse to be fazed or impressed by what was unfolding. Mike and this young man locked onto each other's gaze as if they were destined for each other. Even as pandemonium broke out, their focus remained undisturbed. Mike came at him with his night stick raised and as he did, the man picked up a bottle that was on the ground, flicked the bottom of it against the wall, and extended the jagged end towards Mike. 212 " What The Old Songs about spelling words? Want to see if you can spell 'chartreuse'?" "I'm not in the mood." With each question and response Jen experienced a new feeling. She sensed that her denials were giving her a sense of control over her older sister, something she had never laid claim to before. The experience was stunning. She was filled with a type of energy and power, the nature of which she had never comprehended until these days of contemplation on the bed at the end of her third pregnancy. But at the time it took place, all she knew was that she had retained, and perhaps even enhanced, the special relationship with her brother and altered, fundamentally, her relationship with her sister in a way she found alluring, but darkly so. "I don't think this dog will hunt," their father said. It was one of his favorite sayings and found a wide range of applications. But its primary goal was to cause whatever was happening to end, usually in quick time. Rose snatched up the candy, which was never seen again. She rushed to the doorway leading into the house, swiftly opened the door and let it crash behind her. Jen felt an odd sense of victory where she knew there should be none. She thought she saw a slight smile spread across Frank's face, but couldn't be sure. She let the desire for the candy run its course, while at the same time sensed a strange power radiating through her body. In many encounters like this she experienced ephemeral emotions of power and control. Her victories against Rose were parlayed by an increased closeness to Frank. He never advocated for these skirmishes but also never used his authority, his place in the family, to curtail them, and Jen sensed a conspiratorial ascent from Frank. Although he only rarely gave voice to his feelings about battles between Jen and Rose, Frank commended her on occasion 214 The Old Songs feelings (to be consistent) vetted thoughts, feeling, ideas. Slam down anything that evaded their simple, singular, form of correct thinking. Smash closed the doors on anything in opposition. These were the things she had lived by, formed the basis of what girded her up—and then Rose died. She died and was gone and would not return. Ever. Jen lay there in bed, made immobile by her body engorged with the new life that was all but fully formed, able to embark on its own, starting empty, ready to be filled with experience, with life. But she herself was now empty, less than empty. Those defenses and walls that had sustained her had been scaled, become porous, washed away as if by a tidal wave of emotion that found no defense, spreading, overwhelming her total waking and sleeping self. She thought she had felt grief when Rose first died, but that was an easy grief compared to what she experienced now, which threatened to unhinge her mind. This was a grief that forced Jen to face how she had failed her sister, how she chose against her, against what Rose in herself felt most strongly about saying, being, doing. How she, Jen, worked strenuously but surreptitiously to suppress her, to silence her. To what end, she now wondered, did she pursue this way? What was so great that needed to be preserved? What danger did Rose, in any of her guises, pose to them? What cowardice did they show by denying her this right to express herself? “Things don't just happen to you,” she insisted, talking into the void of the room that was her bedroom but was transformed. Dr. Holmes had insisted that the window blinds be drawn to allow the darkness to calm her, to promote rest. But that was not the type of darkness permeating the room. This darkness knew more but withheld this knowledge, parsing it to her in sudden bursts of clarity and then stopping completely, receding back into obstinate, impenetrable silence. And how did she respond to this deeply knowing, deeply quiet force? By speaking in complete sentences all 215 Fred Burton the questions that issued forth from within her. Over time that was sometimes connected and sometimes not, the following questions were cast out from her: "How do you hurt someone you love and not see the hurt caused? Or see the hurt caused but continue the hurting? What part of me enjoyed hurting you, Rose? What did I think would come of it? What does that even mean, 'come of it'? When you can just die and nothing comes of it anymore and I am just left with what is." She looked out across the haze of dusk-like darkness in the room to the portrait of her family on the opposing wall. The permanence of photographs was something she had always enjoyed, especially that picture with her two children's smiling faces, and her own and Mike's, too. But these faces were indistinct now and even if they were not, she would not have experienced the same pleasure that they normally gave her because nothing was as it seemed, nothing was as stable and frozen in time as this or any photograph. And most of all, situations and people changed of themselves, arcing through their own trajectory, touching and being touched by other unforeseen forces and sent imperceptibly in other directions, bit by bit until the original trajectory was all but scattered, indistinguishable. Despite these thoughts Jen had never learned to forgive herself— for anything. The notion itself was outside of her mind’s and spirit's grasp. If you lived by a simple set of rules you could advance through life without need of such nonsense. Control was the main thing above all else. If you screwed up, it was your own fault and you should be forced to sleep in the bed you made. The dangerousness of this notion of forgiveness went deeper, much deeper. If you allowed this fuzzy thinking to enter your thoughts there was no end to it and no answers that would be satisfactory. That might be OK for those high minded folk, the big shots on the 250 The Old Songs special talent for entering a situation and recognizing the relationships to take advantage of and those to stay away from, as if he could see lines of energy and the type of charge associated with them. He instinctively trusted his decisions and was seemingly always in the right place at the right time for the picture that called out to be taken. After he developed the pictures, he pored over them, engrossed in their placement in the photo album, realizing there was a power in what he was doing if he did his job properly. While he was able to snap the pictures with casual assurance, the final placement was a much more painstaking affair. He would also crop and re-crop the pictures as though accepting the raw material of the pictures' content but never being quite sure of their final alignment. But invariably he came through this difficult decision making process with the right sequence and spacing; the one he arrived at being the only one that could have been chosen, different than any earlier option or those that may be considered in the future—so obvious was the choice once it was uncovered. Business was brisk and getting brisker. Mr. Mitchell began receiving calls from clients who were of a certain quality, a quality that he had rarely dealt with in the past. And these clients asked specifically for the young man who had done such a marvelous job for Mr. and Mrs. so-and-so. Mr. Mitchell was not an overly proud man and was given no cause to resent his former apprentice who had quickly eclipsed his own skills. Tim continued to act deferentially towards his boss and seemed scarcely aware of how he had turned the business upside down in a few short years. The jobs that Tim brought in required more of and better everything: cameras, lights, facades. Tim would preview the site where they would be shooting a big event, talk to his patrons, and return with a list of props and equipment he felt he needed.