“The father?” I asked.
“Take a number,” the woman said. The sarcasm could not hide the sadness in her voice.
“What are you going to do?”
“I know what you want me to do,” the woman said. “And I know what I should do. I just don’t know what I’m gonna do.”
“There’s time,” I said, sweat running down my neck.
“I got lotsa things,” the woman said. “Time just isn’t one of ’em.”
The woman blessed herself, rolled up the rosary beads, and put them in the front pocket of her dress. She brushed her hair away from her eyes and picked up the purse resting by her knees.
“I gotta go,” she said, and then, much to our shock, she added, “Thanks for listening, fellas. I appreciate it and I know you’ll keep it to yourselves.”
She knocked at the screen with two fingers, waved, and left the booth.
“She knew,” John said.
“Yeah,” I said. “She knew.”
“Why she tell us all that?”
“I guess she had to tell somebody.”
John stood up and brushed against the wall, accidentally sliding open the small door to the confessional. A man knelt on the other side, obscured by the screen.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” the man said, his voice baritone-deep.
“So?” John said. “What’s that make you? Special?”
John opened the main door and we both walked out of the booth, our heads bowed, our hands folded in prayer.
5
WE SPENT AS much time as possible outside our apartments. John and Tommy—the Count and Butter—had no televisions at home, Michael—Spots—wasn’t allowed to watch anything when he was alone, which was most of the time, and my parents would often just sit and watch the Channel 9 Million Dollar Movie. The radios in our apartments were usually tuned to stations that focused on news from the old hometowns of Naples or Belfast. So the bulk of our daily entertainment came from what we read.
We pored through the Daily News every day, working our way back from the sports pages, letting Dick Young and Gene Ward take us through the baseball wars, then moving to the crime stories up front, ignoring all else in between. We never bought the Post, having been warned about its Communist leanings by our fathers, and you couldn’t even find a copy of The New York Times in Hell’s Kitchen. We read and we argued over the stories, blaming the writer if he dared offer criticism of a favorite player or gloat over the tale of a criminal we thought was being given a bum’s ride.
We saved our money and sent away for Classics Illustrated comics and waited patiently for the package to arrive in the mail. What comic books we couldn’t buy we stole from candy stores outside the neighborhood, the four of us keeping a combined collection in our basement clubhouse where we stored them all—The Flash, Aquaman, Batman, Superman, Sgt. Rock, The Green Lantern—in large boxes, protected by strips of plastic, each carton carefully labeled.
We collected baseball cards in the summer and traded them the year round. The cards, too, were organized and labeled, kept in team order in rows of shoeboxes. The hard piece of bubble gum which came with each pack was set aside until needed for the summer bottle-cap competition. Then the chewed gum would be mixed with candle wax and poured inside an empty 7Up bottle cap for use in the popular street game.
None of us owned any books and neither did any of our parents. They were a luxury few in Hell’s Kitchen could afford—or would want. The bulk of the men were literate only to the extent that they could follow the racing sheet of a newspaper; the women limited their reading to prayer books and scandal sheets. People thought reading to be a waste of time. If they saw you reading, they figured you had nothing better to do and wrote you off as lazy. For me and my best friends it was a damn good thing we had a library to visit.
The public library in Hell’s Kitchen was a large concrete gray building sandwiched between a tenement and a candy store. It was divided into two sections. The children’s reading room faced Tenth Avenue and was always crowded. The adult section was in the back and was empty and quiet enough to hide a body in. It was well manned and well stocked, the half-dozen librarians accustomed to the unruly habits of their guests. It was open every day except Sunday, its large black doors swinging wide at nine.
My friends and I read quite a few books inside that library, after school on winter afternoons. We also created our own share of havoc. We laughed when we should have been quiet. We brought in food when it wasn’t allowed. Sometimes, we slept at our seats, especially if the previous night had been hard. The library was the only place besides church and home where thievery was not permitted. In my time there, I can remember no book ever being stolen.
We also went there for the quiet. There was so much shouting and screaming in our lives, if we didn’t have some kind of sanctuary, we might have gone crazy. Plenty of people in our neighborhood did go crazy. But not us. We had the library. It was like home should have been but never was. And, since it was like a home, we didn’t just read, of course. We also raised a little hell.
I WAS SITTING at a light wood table in the back room of the library, reading a hardbound copy of The Count of Monte Cristo, immersed in the mental battle waged by Edmond Dantes in his desolate prison cell.
“C’mon Shakes,” John said, nudging me with his elbow. “Do it.”
“Not today,” I said, gently putting down the book, careful not to lose my place. “Tomorrow, maybe.”
“Why not today?” Tommy demanded from the other side of the table.
“I don’t feel like it,” I said. “I wanna read.”
“You can always read,” John said.
“I can always knock over a row of books.”
“I bet you two Flash comic books you can’t do it today,” John said.
“I’ll toss in two Green Lanterns,” Michael added, raising his head from a National Geographic spread across his knees.
“The new ones?” I asked.
“Just got ’em the other day.”
I nodded my head toward Tommy. “What about you?”
“What about me?” he wanted to know.
“What do you got?”
“Nothin’,” Tommy said. “I just wanna see you do it.”
“So?” Michael said. “What’s it gonna be?”
“Pick a book,” I sighed.
Moments later, I reached the top level of the library fiction shelf, a copy of Moby-Dick in my hand. John and Tommy were stationed at opposite ends of the aisle, watching for passing librarians. Below me, Michael held the wooden ladder with both hands.
“Take your time,” he said. “They must all be on a coffee break.”
There were twenty-five books on the shelf, all arranged by author. I pressed the dozen on my left to one side, tipping their covers toward the center. I did the same to the books on the other end, arranging them so that each depended on the weight of the novel beside it. I dropped Moby-Dick in the middle of the shelf, making slight adjustments until it caught the weight from both sides. I scanned the row with satisfaction and then moved down the steps of the ladder.
“Think it’ll work?” Michael asked.
“It’s a can’t-miss,” I assured him.
“Who should we get?” Tommy said, coming up behind my right shoulder. “You know, to test it out?”
“How about Kalinsky?” John suggested, one foot resting on the base of the ladder. “Everybody hates her.”
“Not everybody hates her,” Michael said. “So, let’s leave her outta this.”
“Sorry, Mikey,” John said. “Forgot about her and your dad.”
“Just pick somebody else,” Michael said.
“How about Miss Pippin?” I asked. “Anybody’s father goin’ out with her?”
TOMMY STOOD AT the counter in the middle of the large room, patiently waiting as Miss Pippin, a tall, worried-looking blonde, stacked a handful of children’s books on top of a file cabinet.
“Hello,” she sai
d, turning to face Tommy. “Do you need help?”
“I can’t find a book,” Tommy said.
“Do you know the name of the book?” she asked, moving her glasses from the chain around her neck to her eyes. “Or who wrote it?”
“It’s called Moby-Dick,” Tommy said shyly. “I think a guy named Herman wrote it.”
“You’re half right,” Miss Pippin said. “It was written by Herman Melville. It shouldn’t be all that hard to find.”
“That’s great.” Tommy nodded his head and slapped the top of the counter with his palms. “Did you know there was a movie made about it?”
“No,” Miss Pippin said. “No, I didn’t. But the book is much better.”
“How do you know?” Tommy said. “If you didn’t see the movie.”
“I know,” Miss Pippin said, stepping out from behind the counter. “Follow me and we’ll get you your book.”
“Right behind you,” Tommy said.
MISS PIPPIN RESTED her hands on the edges of the step-ladder, scanning the bookshelves left to right. We sat at a table at her back, only Michael facing her. John and I were across from each other, catching quick glimpses of Miss Pippin in profile. We were settled behind the pages of large picture books, our eyes visible, peeking over above the covers.
“Well, you couldn’t have looked for it very long,” Miss Pippin said to Tommy. “There it is. Right up there.”
“Where?” Tommy said. “I don’t see it.”
“Right there,” Miss Pippin said, one sharp-nailed finger pointing up. “On the top shelf.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Pippin,” Tommy said. “I can’t see it. I left my glasses in school.”
“Since when do you wear glasses?” Miss Pippin asked. “I’ve never seen them on you.”
“Just got ’em,” Tommy said.
“All right, all right, I’ll get you the book,” Miss Pippin said. “But next time, don’t be so quick to give up your search. Take the time to look for what you want to read.”
“I will,” Tommy said. “I promise.”
Miss Pippin started up the steps of the ladder, one hand keeping her long, pleated skirt in place. Tommy stared up, his eyes eager to catch a flash of thigh. Michael turned to me and winked. John held the book he pretended to read well above his face, making valiant attempts to suppress his giggles.
“Keep it down,” I whispered.
“She’s almost there,” Michael said, his voice even lower. “Couple more steps.”
“Don’t look up,” I said. “Until it happens.”
Tommy turned his head away as soon as he saw Miss Pippin’s fingers wrap themselves around the spine of Moby-Dick. She gave the book a slight tug, inching it from its wedged-in slot. It slipped easily into her hand, releasing the pressure on the other books on the shelf, causing them all to fall in her direction.
The first two landed on the side of Miss Pippin’s head, undoing the red ribbon in her hair and slamming her eyeglasses to the ground. A flurry of other books collapsed around her, loosening her grip on the ladder. The flat pages of an open novel hit her square on the chin, her body lurching down, off the ladder, to the ground.
“Oh, shit,” Tommy yelled. “She’s gonna fall.”
Miss Pippin landed on her back, her eyes closed and her legs spread apart at angles. She lay quiet, an occasional moan rising up from the back of her throat. The copy of Moby-Dick was still clutched in her right hand.
“You think she’s dead?” John asked, standing away from the table, his mouth open, his eyes fixed on Miss Pippin. “She can’t be dead.”
“Let’s get outta here,” Tommy said, stepping away from the crowd forming around the motionless librarian. “Let’s get out now.”
“Not until we find out if she’s okay,” Michael said.
An old woman, her arms wrapped around Miss Pippin’s head, shouted for smelling salts. Two other women ran by with small cups filled with water from a cooler. A maintenance man, standing in a corner, leaning on the arm of a mop, mumbled on about calling an ambulance.
We stood in a group, a good distance from the crowd, aware of the suspicious eyes cast in our direction. John was the most nervous, lines of concern etched across his face. Tommy was sweating through his T-shirt, his breath coming in rushes. Michael’s arms were folded against his chest, staring back at those who looked his way, masking his fear with a defiant stance.
I stood next to him, aware that whatever harm had been caused to Miss Pippin was my fault. I had performed the crammed-book trick dozens of times, each time to gales of laughter. This was the first time something bad had happened, and I didn’t like how that made me feel.
I watched with outward relief as the hands and arms of three coworkers helped Miss Pippin to her feet. She stood unsteadily, her back resting against the shelf where the damage had been done, dozens of books scattered about her.
“Looks like she’s gonna be okay,” Michael said to me.
“Let’s go, then,” I said.
“In a minute,” Tommy said. “Something I gotta do first.”
“Let it go,” John said. “Then for sure they’ll get wise.”
Tommy ignored the plea and stepped through the small cluster gathered around Miss Pippin, searching among the fallen books until he found the copy of Moby-Dick. He scooped it up and turned to face a still-dazed Miss Pippin.
“Thanks for finding the book,” he said to her. “Didn’t mean for you to go to all that trouble.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, watching as Tommy turned his back and walked out of the library, slapping Moby-Dick against his thigh.
I WAS STANDING in the doorway of the building next to Mimi’s Pizzeria, licking an Italian ice, trying not to let the melting liquid drip onto my new white T-shirt.
“You know what crap like that does to your body?” Father Bobby asked, coming up to my left, a cigarette dangling from his lips. “Have you any idea?”
“Beats smoking,” I said. “Cheaper too.”
“Maybe,” he said, tossing the cigarette to the ground and twisting it out with the heel of his sneaker. “So, what do you hear? Anything?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Quiet. Nothing to do except wait to go to school.”
Father Bobby was wearing a Yankee T-shirt under a blue button windbreaker, gray sweats, white socks, and low-cut Flyers, fresh from a two-hour basketball game. His face was ruddy, his hair combed back and still wet with sweat. Since he had been raised in the neighborhood, he pretty much knew all the rules and how best to break them. Anything we had thought of doing, he had already done years before. He never preached to us, fully aware that long sermons were not the way to go with my group. But he knew we liked and respected him and cared what he thought. There were so many ways to fall on the streets of Hell’s Kitchen. Father Bobby tried to be there to break those falls.
“What about what happened at the library the other day?” he said, stepping up into the doorway next to me. “That sounded exciting.”
“You mean Miss Pippin?” I asked, finishing the last of the ice.
Father Bobby nodded.
“That was rough,” I said. “All those books falling on her. It was scary.”
“I heard you were there,” he said. “The other guys too. Looking for something good to read, I suppose.”
“Something like that,” I said.
“Strange business,” he said, leaning even closer. “You know, a whole shelf of books falling on top of somebody’s head. How do you figure a thing like that happens?”
“Accident, I guess,” I said.
“Must be it,” he said. “What else could it be?”
I wiped my hands and mouth with the clean corner of a folded napkin and said nothing.
Father Bobby pulled his hands out of his pockets, a stick of Juicy Fruit between his right thumb and forefinger. He had a smile on his face.
“It’s got a name,” he said, offering me the gum.
“What?” I asked, declining with a shake o
f my head.
“The shelf trick you and your buddies pulled. It’s called keepers. I played it when I was your age. Never could get the whole shelf down though. You must be pretty good at it.”
“Father,” I said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Maybe I’m wrong,” he said, still smiling. “Maybe I got wind of the wrong information.”
“Sounds like you did,” I said, shifting my weight. “Well, I’d better get going.”
“I’ll see you later tonight,” Father Bobby said, turning away and walking toward the corner.
“What’s tonight?” I asked.
“Going to drop off some books and magazines around the neighborhood,” he said. “You know, for the elderly and disabled. People who can’t get out on their own. I checked with your mother. She said you’d love to help.”
“I bet she did.”
“She wants you to be a priest, you know,” he said as he wedged the slice of Juicy Fruit into his mouth.
“Do you?” I asked.
“I just want you to stay outta trouble, Shakes,” Father Bobby said. “That’s my only wish. For you and your friends.”
“Nothin’ else?”
“Nothin’ else,” Father Bobby said. “I swear.”
“Priests shouldn’t swear,” I said.
“And kids shouldn’t dump a row of books on a librarian,” he said, waving and turning the corner, heading for church.
Summer 1964
6
WE HAD FOUR bath towels spread across the hot black tar of the roof. A cooler filled with chunks of ice and a six-pack of 7Up rested against a slate-gray chimney. A portable radio played Diana Ross, singing soft and low. Clotheslines, crisscrossing rooftops and bent under the weight of laundry, supplied the only shade.
“It can’t get any hotter,” John said, his eyes closed to the sun, his upper body lobster red.
“Let’s go swimming,” I suggested, sitting next to him, the sun baking my back.
“We just got here,” Michael said, lying down on the towel closest to the edge, an ice cube melting on his chest.
“So?” I said.