A spray of blood streaks from this guy’s mouth as he flies three steps back, wavers for a second, and then crumbles to his knees.
Steve doesn’t see any knife in the guy’s hand. The knife! The knife! It’s still in me! With his trembling hand he feels his side. There’s nothing there; no knife, no blood, no nothing. He feels around his side some more and it begins to dawn on him that he must have been jabbed with a fist.
As it comes to Steve that he might not be near death, he’s waiting for other gang members to come at him, his whole body raging and filled with terror.
The gang members hold their ground. Their eyes dart to their fallen comrades, then at Steve’s flashing eyes, and then to the flood of blood dripping from a gang member’s mouth.
Steve’s breathing hard, waiting.
Anita, scanning the members of her gang, senses the faintness in their hearts. “Let’s get out of here,” she yells. “We’ll take care of this guy later.”
As she says this, Harold is beginning to sit up, and with his hand, he feels the back of his head and the hot stickiness of his own blood. When he hears Anita order a retreat, he screams, “Nooooo! Get that bastard! Get him!”
Nobody moves.
“Get him you bastards!” Harold screams.
Still, nobody moves.
Suddenly an eerie voice comes out of Harold, hissing and guttural. “You think you’ve won, you bastard?” it says to Steve. “You think you won? Well wait. You hear me, you just wait you dirty scum and see what happens. You dirty bastard, we’ll slice you up just like we sliced up Gary.”
Gang members gasp.
“Holy shit,” says one.
“All these witnesses,” cries Anita.
They look at him in horror. Harold’s mouth, still open, congeals like hardened cement.
* * * *
Seven police cars begin to screech onto the scene. Gang members scatter while Steve runs off by himself. As he runs, he hears his breathing as if it were greatly amplified through a loudspeaker. Bloody images race through his mind, images of knives coming at him, images of blades piercing through his skin and deep into his flesh. What must it feel like…?
Huffing, puffing, and gasping for breath, he reaches his spot on the beach.
Frantically, he looks around. It’s a cold workday and no one is nearby. Steve falls to his knees, down to his elbows, and putting his face in his arms, he begins to cry.
CHAPTER 27
RING!
“Metropolitan Insurance,” answers a secretary. “Records Department. How may I help you? Yes, I’m Marie Marino. Yes, I’m Steve Marino’s mother. What do you mean he hasn’t reported to school this morning? No, I don’t know where he is at this moment. What?! He was last seen leaving the scene of a gang fight?!”
CHAPTER 28
The day of Steve’s run-in with the gang, he missed the whole day of school crying on the beach, being picked up by the police and being grilled by the station’s captain. Now it’s the next morning, Wednesday, November 20, 1963. Steve is returning to school. The first person to spot him entering the schoolyard is Ron DeFelipo.
“Well, did ya call yet?” asks Ron
“Call?” asks Steve.
“The girl from the bowling alley for Christ's sake! You were gonna call Fran Lobasso so you, me, and Arlene could go over to Fran’s house on Friday to listen to records.”
“Ron, I almost got killed yesterday. It seems a little strange to me that you don’t first ask me how I’m doing, or anything!”
“OK, how ya doing? There, now did ya call?!”
“Not yet, Ron.”
Clasping his hands together, Ron begs Steve, “Tonight, pleeese? Pleeese!!!”
“All right, Ron, tonight.”
“Great! Call me immediately; do you hear me, immediately after you talk to her, okay?”
“Sure.”
As this is going on, a freckled red haired boy points at Steve and whispers to his neighbor, “That’s the guy.”
“The one who beat up Harold?”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
Others, too, begin to point and whisper.
Steve tries to ignore his hot facial sensations.
“Wow, Steve, you okay?” Mysterious Jane asks when she arrives at the schoolyard. She touches his shoulder and looks into his eyes in the sweetest manner.
“Kinda.”
“Oh, how horrible. I haven’t slept since it happened.”
“My sleeping’s been messed up pretty bad too.”
“Where’d you run to afterwards? Everyone was looking for you.”
“I have a little place I go to when I want to be alone.”
“But you’re the hero. Why would you want to run away? You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Steve looks away for a few seconds, and then he returns his eyes to Jane and looks firmly at her. “I felt like I was about to burst out crying. I know I shouldn’t ov cared if people saw me bawling in front of everyone, but the thing is my Dad can’t stand it when I cry, and I bet others don’t like it, and well, I guess I prefer to do it alone.”
* * * *
“Now you sit down, Steve,” says Marie wearing her white apron. “You too, Pete. I made your favorite dishes—minestrone, rigatoni, and fresh panini.” The aroma of the panini coming out of the oven is intoxicating.
“My appetite’s just coming back, Mom,” says Steve pulling up a chair.
“It’s about time,” says Marie waving her hand. “You ate nothing since yesterday’s breakfast.”
“Mom, pass the parmigiano,” Pete calls out.
The savory scents of Marie’s zingy sauce, oven baked rolls, and mozzarella cheese has everyone salivating. The radio is playing, softly, “I Will Follow Him” by Little Peggy March.
“Mom,” says Pete, “some kid in the street said someone killed the guy Steve got into a fight wit. Is he really dead?”
“The afternoon paper said he is,” Marie answers, her face taut. “Quiet now. Here comes the news on the radio.”
“President Kennedy, arriving in Houston today, has plans during a two day tour of Texas to mix a strong defense of his space program with some old-fashioned, earthbound politics.
“Mayor Robert Wagner is pressing for fluoridation of the city’s drinking water…”
As the news about the mayor finishes up, the newscaster reports,
“And now here’s a follow-up on the gang members that were arrested yesterday for the alleged murder of a boy in Brooklyn. This morning at approximately 9:40, as the gang members were being brought from jail to see the judge, the father of the boy who had been killed was waiting at the courthouse entrance. As the alleged male leader of the gang, a Harold Holzer, walked by, the father of the slain boy took out a gun and shot Harold in the head. As Harold was being rushed to the ambulance, a female gang member, attempting to reach Harold by pushing herself through the police holding her back, began screaming hysterically, “Harold! Harold! It’s all my fault! I killed you! It’s all my fault! I killed you…”
* * * *
After supper, the boys help to place the dishes in the sink while Marie starts to work on them. The least favorite part of the evening is upon Steve. He gets his school materials and sits at the kitchen table. Well, I guess I’ll start with my French homework. But first, let me just check the TV listings to see what’s on. Flipping through it he notes that he has little more than an hour before “Ben Casey.” Then in an ad, Steve spots a model that looks a bit like Mysterious Jane.
Marone! His face flushes. Come on now; let me get down to my homework.
He picks up a pencil and starts to translate a French passage with the help of a glossary in the back of his textbook. After considerable effort, one sentence is done. But now images of Jane are rushing through his mind far more powerfully. He looks up and sees his mom drying the dishes. Pete is watching cartoons in the living room.
Shaking his head hard, Steve begins work on the next sentence’s translation. Under the table Jane begins to rub his leg. He turns to her and she smiles in an ever so inviting manner.
It’s no use, he says to himself as he puts his pencil down. What can I do? I sure could use some privacy.
He gets up, walks a few feet, enters the white tile bathroom, and locks the door. Placing the top down, Steve sits on the toilet. It turns into a sensuous sofa. Jane is sitting beside him leaning into him and they begin to kiss ever so sweetly.
Now Jane is sitting in his lap and he can feel her up against him. They have their arms around each other, pressed against one another, passionately kissing, her breasts against his chest, and at that moment, he takes an explosive rocket ride among the heavenly stars.
* * * *
Back to work at the kitchen table, Steve starts to flip through his French textbook, first scanning the pictures and then arriving on the passage he has to translate.
RING!
“I’ll get that, Mom,” Steve shouts as he makes a mad dash to the phone. “Ron, how are you… No. I haven’t called Fran yet. I’ll do it right now and call you back.”
Quickly, Steve retrieves Fran’s number and dials HI 5-2539.
“Hello.”
“Hello Fran, its Steve Marino.”
“Oh, you’re the boy Arlene and I met at the bowling alley.”
“Bowling alley? Actually, as I recall, we were on a cobble stone path that wound along Paris’ Seine River. The moon was out and you looked ever so beautiful.”
Fran laughs. “Now I remember. It was by the Pont-Neuf, and we could see the Eiffel Tower just off in the distance.”
Ron, Fran, and Arlene are delighted with the results of Steve’s phone call. Steve, on the other hand, is stricken with pangs of guilt as images of Mysterious Jane shove their way into his field of consciousness.
* * * *
Two days later, on November 22, 1963, it is a particularly chilly, cloudy Friday afternoon. Steve is out in the schoolyard during his gym class. In a perfectly surreal few moments of passing time, Mrs. Kreetch steps from the school building with tears streaming down her cheeks. She whispers something to the gym teacher, Mr. Gargano, who turns pale. He whispers back something to her, and she hollers back to him, “Yes, I’m certain! Oh God, oh God!”
Mr. Gargano, using a bullhorn, calls out, “Class, stop what you’re doing and gather around me please. Mrs. Kreetch has something urgent to tell us.”
“What the…we’re in the middle of a game!” cries Jerry Miller who has been dazzling everyone with his handball skills. “I can’t believe…” But then Jerry notices Mrs. Kreetch’s face, and he whispers, “Uh, oh.”
When everyone has shuffled over to her, Mrs. Kreetch, in a quivering voice announces that President John F. Kennedy has been shot and killed.
“It can’t be,” says Ron DeFelipo. “You know how many FBI agents they got guarding the president? It just can’t be. Tom, it can’t be!”
A frantic silence begins to sweep across the large asphalt school yard. Mysterious Jane runs over to a girl with pigtails who has a transistor radio. As the girl fiddles with the dial, a group begins to form around her, leaning their ears toward the little box. Within seconds tears begin to pour down the cheeks of every one of them.
“Wow” says George clearly shaken, “first Gary gets killed for standing up for what he believed in, and now Kennedy. I wonder who’s gonna get it next.” Then he glances at Steve, and then quickly down. “Oh…I… I didn’t mean to suggest…I mean…” George pauses, pulls down on his right wool coat sleeve with his left hand and then brings his right forearm up to cover his face as his chest begins to heave.
Steve turns away from everyone, his heart pounding against his ribs. Don’t start crying in front of everyone. Dio Mio, I can feel it coming! He hears the voice of his dad screaming in his head, “Cry baby! Basta! Basta!” He hurries to the farthest corner of the school yard. “Cry baby! Basta! Basta!” He grabs ahold of the chain link fence, and starts kicking.
CHAPTER 29
Steve and Ron arrive at Fran’s house for their record listening date a week late. Fran’s parents had her postpone it so her household could grieve the tragic loss of the president.
Before the boys ring the doorbell, Ron pulls on Steve’s jean jacket sleeve. “You know I like Arlene,” he says. “I bet both girls are gonna be goin’ for you.”
“Right away I’ll let Fran know I’m interested in her,” says Steve. “And I’ll get her to go off with me by ourselves so you can have some time alone with Arlene.”
“You’re a pal, Steve.”
* * * *
DING DONG!
“Welcome young men. I’m Mrs. Lobasso, Fran’s mom,” says a smiling young lady in her mid thirties upon opening the door. “And over here is Fran’s dad.”
The introductions go smoothly, everyone very polite. Then Fran’s parents leave the girls and boys in the living room, while they go into the kitchen, just a room away, the door between them only partly shut.
“You boys ready to learn to do the twist?” asks Fran who has a glossy Chubby Checker record in her hands as she stands by a powder blue stereo.
“I’m looking forward to it,” says Steve, “but just before we get to that, Françoise, I’d like to take you over here, just we two, for a few moments, over here by this oh so beautiful Parisian bridge.” Steve ushers Fran to the corner of the room, leaving Ron and Arlene off on the other side. Arlene tips her head to the side as she watches what Steve is up to. Ron has a little half smile.
Steve, with a flourish, takes an afghan off the couch and drapes it over the arm of the couch and a large overstuffed armchair beside it so the afghan makes a kinda bridge connecting the two pieces of furniture.
“Here it is,” says Steve smiling at Fran, “the lovely, Pont-neuf, one of the finest bridges in all of Paris. Françoise, my lovely mademoiselle, won’t you please join me under the bridge for a few moments? I wish to whisper something in your ear.”
“Whisper in my ear?” Fran replies, her eyes registering intrigue. “What do you want to whisper in my ear?”
“Now, now,” says Steve, “first, under the bridge. I’m a little shy, and what I have to say, it is for you alone.”
“Okay,” says Fran. Steve takes her hand, and together they bend down and slide under the hung afghan.
Fran’s eyes look up at Steve.
“It sure is a beautiful night,” he says leaning his shoulder gently against hers. Then, with a wave of his hand, he directs her eyes to the imaginary scene before them. “Look at the bold, flowing Seine; the way it reflects the city lights of Paris.”
“Oh, Steve!” says Fran, “I can see the Eiffel Tower, just over there. Do you see it? It’s just beyond that boat floating down the glimmering river.”
* * * *
“So, anything going on at Mark Twain Junior High?” Ron softly asks Arlene, both of them standing side by side, off on the far side of the living room.
“I just got on the yearbook committee,” Arlene replies, switching her gaze from the ‘under the bridge’ scene to this guy smiling at her.
“The yearbook committee!” he enthuses, his arms beginning to conduct the symphony of his emotions. “No kidding. What a coincidence! I’ve been seriously considering joining the yearbook committee at Cunningham.”
“You should join it,” says Arlene. “It looks great on your school record, and you meet some really great people.”
“Well, okay, I’ll do it!”
“Great! Let me know what your committee comes up with. We’re looking for creative ideas.”
“Sure,” Ron replies with his hands waving all about. “I’ve been telling all my friends about the virtues of the Yearbook Committee but they always goof on me whenever I bring it up. It’s great to find someone else that so appreciates such an import
ant…um…”
“Such an important part of our school experience.”
“Exactly!”
* * * *
“So what’s the secret you wanna whisper to me?” Fran asks Steve.
Steve points to her ear and curls his pointer finger, beckoning her to lean toward his lips.
Fran puts both her hands together, and then, with sweet anticipation, she tilts her head and moves very close to Steve.
Steve cups his lips with his two hands, and very gently, he whispers, “Françoise, I want to make your dreams come true.”
A glowing smile comes to her, and with bright eyes she looks up at Steve and she sees he’s gazing ever so tenderly at her.
“What can I get you kids for drinks?” asks Fran’s mom as she swings open the kitchen door.
CHAPTER 30
Almost a year and a half flies by. It’s now Monday, March 24, 1965, 3:15 pm. Brainy George, Cliff Schweitzer, Ron DeFelipo, and Mysterious Jane are among the students in Cunningham Junior High’s library at this year’s first meeting of the school yearbook committee. Dusty sunlight slants through the large windows onto the book stacks. A musty smell fills the air. A tinny six-transistor radio is softly playing The Beatles, Love Me Do.
Most of the students are sitting around a heavy wooden table near where several newspapers are draped over a rack. Splashed on the covers of the newspapers are pictures from America’s first two-person space flight that began over the weekend as Gemini 3 blasted off from Cape Kennedy with astronauts Virgil I. Grissom and John W. Young aboard.
Cliff is beside the magazines that face out from the wall, scanning a Sports Illustrated story describing how Cassius Clay knocked out Sunny Liston in 7 rounds; George is at the card catalogue flipping through the section on Einstein’s theory of relativity.