Unexpected Gifts (16 page)

“I can get some anytime I want,” I bragged one Friday at lunch, sitting on the middle of a high crossbeam, sandwiched between the other guys.

“Yeah, yeah, Balakov, we all know about your sleeping around!” Syly growled, half sneering, half envious as he spat out a piece of gristle from his meat.

“Don't be such a sap, Syly! He's just giving us some bushwa!” someone else called out. The others just grinned, and I would have told them more if I hadn't looked at Joe.

“You have no idea what you have. No idea!” he growled, leaving me with a mouth as wide open as the Hudson River.

Meantime, our foreman John was on the warpath, barking orders at everyone, particularly Joe. After listening to Syly piss in his ear for months, he now seemed to really have it in for the Mohawk. Oh, I did try to stand up for my friend once, but then backed off. After all, I did need this job, didn't I?

After that, the big Palooka still came around, but far less regular. He had other obligations, he claimed. I missed him and Rose and Daria sure took it hard. I even caught Daria a couple of times over a sink full of dishes, wiping her eyes like she had a bad cold.

Fact was, there was really only one thing I looked forward to: booze. Women, clothes, getting cuzzy all seemed like things from my distant past. I'd wake up, my tongue like the back side of a lizard, whisky the only thing on my brain. By five after ten, I'd run that rivet bag up to Syly who'd comment these days I was walkin’ like an old man, then return to the ground floor for another round of rivets and my hiding place behind the boss’ tin hut to grab a swig before I returned to work. What's more, money was slipping through me like I had holes in my pockets, Daria was barely speaking to me, and Rose ran for cover the second I'd enter the room.

“Did you's hear ‘bout the cash till?” Eddie Smith asked one day on the lunch beam. “I heard some cash has gone missing.” His voice turned conspiratorial.

I stayed mum, as did Joe, but then again, lately he wasn't prone to talking too much anyhow. He had changed. Maybe because of Peterson giving him the third degree. It was like he had left all of us and gone to who knows where. He told me once Mohawks were like that.

“Yeah,” Eddie went on. “I guess Peterson's about to say something to us.”

Just then, we could all hear the slow creak of tired ropes pulling the derrick up to our level, with Peterson, Syly, and a beat cop standing on board, their arms crossed over their chests, their eyes like slits.

“Joe Connaugh, we need you to come with us,” Peterson spat out. We all gasped. Were they on the level? Joe for crying out loud!

I opened my mouth to protest, “You've got the wrong man!” but Syly's piercing eyes stopped me short. By the end of our shift Joe had already gone, vanished from the site and from my life. No more Sunday meals together, no more gifts, no more good times. At one point I even went down to Brooklyn to see him, but the family, once warm and welcoming, now wouldn't even let me in.

More and more I was waking up in a sweat, with Daria's look of disgust close at hand. All I wanted to do was to hop a train and end up anywhere else but here. How could such a lovely Irish girl have become such a hard woman? How could Rose be so scared of me?

One day, up by the riveters, as the mist floated around us and the mumble of the men lay like a soft buzz, I thought of a new tact. Maybe I would get Daria and Rose out of the house and entertain them like Joe did. The more I thought about it, the more excited I got and by the time I returned home, by-passing my usual drinks, I told them that the following Sunday we were all going to see the
Three Little Pigs
at the Loew's Sheraton. Warmed by their instant hand clapping and Rose's high-pitched squeal, I thought, now, that wasn't so hard! I guess they were kind of starved for activity.

The walk over to the theater reminded me of old times with Daria. With our arms linked, I was once again the cat's meow, just like before we were married. Scampering along beside us, Rose actually started chatting again, and Daria's continuous smile swelled my chest up a good two inches. Yessir, this was the ticket, this was how I was going to play it from now on. Who needed Joe?

We went inside to find some seats, but as soon as we sat down, I could feel The Thirst tickling in my throat. Not today you don't, my mind commanded, but soon, that tickle spread, in my throat and in my brain, like oil building up into a whopping gush. Before I knew it, having that drink was all I was thinking about.

There was an odd, inescapable smell around us too, like cheap perfume gone bad. Leaning over towards Daria, I whispered, “What is that smell?”

She hung her head a bit before lifting her face up towards mine. “Ach, Tony, ‘tis you. Tis the drink come alive through your skin and if you don't stop, you'll be finding death, you will.” Her voice wasn't as harsh as usual, it just sounded dead.

I sprung up like a caged animal, sputtering, “I need a cig, I'll be back in a few minutes,” and ignoring her wide eyes, charged up the aisle, out the front entrance and into the alley, where my hidden hip flask erased everything.

The last few shafts of afternoon sun were filtering through the apartment by the time I let myself in. My body tingled, my hands were shaky, my throbbing head relieved at the silence. I called out for Daria but obviously no one was home. I lay down on our bed to try to get more sleep, but my brain just wouldn't stop pulsating. Maybe a quick nip would smooth things out. Then I remembered my near empty flask and vacant pockets and my eyes welled up with tears. What did I do to deserve this? Why me?

Wait a minute! Daria used to save money. Maybe she still…I rose slowly from the bed, but the longer I searched, the more frantic I became, destroying anything that stood in my way. After twenty minutes, the sweat pouring off me like heavyweight Max Schmeling at Madison Garden, I came to an abrupt stop.

There, amongst her beloved toys in Rose's Corner, was the porcelain cookie jar I had given Rose for Christmas last year. It was a silly looking tiger cat, with both ears poking out of its painted orange and white tabby fur, with a turquoise collar slightly out of alignment from being opened and closed so often. I sucked in my breath and approaching the jar, blubbered, “Please let it be in there, please let it be in there, please let it be in there.”

Its head opened with a scrape and staring down into the body that overflowed with dollar bills, several fivers, and plenty of coins, I started to laugh. Good old Daria. I quickly reached in, grabbed the tiger jar, and disappeared into the bedroom to tally up the stash just as our front door lock clicked.

I was counting, over twenty dollars so far, when I heard Daria gasp so loudly I nearly jumped out of my skin.

“You be stealing me money!” she hissed.

“Whaddiya mean? This is my money!” I barked back.

“Ach no, I'll hold you used all your money on liquor, clothes, and the trollops you be sleeping with!”

She had me there, but I grew stubborn. “That's my hard earned money, don't you forget it. Anyways, I don't see you going up to the 100
^th
floor earning your keep!” I could feel my blood pulsing so hard my head might've exploded at any minute. “You're my wife, goddammit, and you'll do what I say! I'm sick of you thinking I'm nothing!” My dry mouth was making me crazy.

“What about
leaving
us at the theater so Rose be scared to death. No, tis a pity you wouldn't think of
us
, indeed it is!” Her red face had matched mine and before I could think, I lunged at her, knocking her down and sending her sliding across the room. She stayed still for a couple of seconds, stunned, but I couldn't stop there. I ran over and placed my hands on her shoulders, shaking her so hard her teeth chattered and her face became a blur.

“You, you—YOU! Always looking at me like I was an ant on the floor beneath your feet. You're not such a big ticket yourself. And you still talk like a mick!”

I stopped, horrified. I had become my father.

I sat back on my heels, frozen by my wife's quiet sobs, ignoring the pounding door and Rose's feet pattering across the living room floor to answer it. While I turned away, wracking my brain for something comforting to say, I could sense a movement in the room. There was Joe, cradling Daria in his arms, his black eyes and white barred teeth fiercer than any tiger. He stayed attached to her for what seemed like a very long time, and if my guilt hadn't been so strong I would have demanded an explanation. I was her husband, after all. And why was he here anyway?

Instead, I crawled back to bed, shutting my eyes tight, blocking out the sound of our front door closing, and making believe my wife and child weren't deserting me.

Two weeks later I received a letter from Daria explaining how she needed more time away from me to think things through. She also wrote that she was happier than she had been for a long, long time and not to worry about her or Rose, she had a good way of making money. No word of where they were staying, but that really wasn't necessary. The Brooklyn postmark said it all.

Simple, organic hysteria. So organic in fact, Sonia thought Shannon might be heading straight towards the birthing process right then and there on the other end of the phone. Her labored breaths, part gulp, part gasp, came in waves like being too loosely hooked up to a ventilator.

“Shannon! My God! What's wrong?”

A few seconds passed before she could eke out a croak. “Pete!”

“What about Pete?”

The breathing was sounding a little more normal. “They've arrested him!”

“
What?
Why, for God's sake?”

“Three cops appeared yesterday, handcuffed him, and took him to the local station and they won't even let me see him. Oh, Sonia, Julius is accusing him of stealing that money!”

“What? That's crazy!”

“I know.” sniff…sniff “I know. We don't have a lawyer, either.” Her sniffs were morphing into sobs again.

Sonia flashed on Sadie, so helpless when the HUAC people picked her up, then fast-forwarded to Harlem, with the police cracking down on the rioters. “Shannon, listen. Mike and I'll make some calls. You make some calls. Between the three of us, we'll get someone, all right?”

“Okay, thanks, Sonia.” At least her crying had stopped, replaced by hiccups.

Hanging up, the first call Sonia made was to Mike. His voice sounded gruff from sleep and cigarettes. “Yeah?”

“Mike! Did you hear about Pete?”

There was a long pause. “Yeah.”

“Well, you're gonna help him, right?”

Another long pause. “I'm going down there this morning, why?”

“Why? Because it's your partner and Shannon is frantic!”

“Don't blow a gasket, Babe. Steve and I are handling it. Look, gotta get ready to go. Bye, catch ya later.”

The 24
^th
Street police station was right out of a TV crime drama. Paint-peeled walls, desks littered with paperwork, nonstop ringing phones, stale donuts in open boxes, and The Interrogation Room, where Mike was led by two detectives.

“What can we do for you, Mr. Green?” One of the detectives asked.

“Call me Mike.”

“Okay, Mike. Why are you here?” The portly detective was obviously a Crispy Crème fan. The other one stayed in the background. Good Cop Bad Cop? Mike wondered.

“Pete Washburn is my partner in our rock group,
Grand Elbow.
”

“Yeah, he mentioned your name. So, what do you have to add to all this?”

Mike stared at the cop for a couple of seconds. “I think he may have done it.”

“Really.” Both cops leaned in.

“Yeah, he's been acting strange recently. A little paranoid.”

“He claimed he's been worried about his wife and upcoming baby,” said the fat guy.

“Nah! Pete may be worried, but this is something different.” He searched their eyes carefully, then prattled on, giving as much information as he could on Pete, his home life, his tendencies towards paranoia. After fifteen minutes, he left and immediately rendezvoused with Steve.

“Steve, I already have a replacement for Pete.” Mike said at their appointed spot.

“That's good. Tell him it's probably not just temporary. It'll probably be permanent.” said Steve, looking directly into Mike's eyes.

Back at Sonia's Mike was all concern. Except for tossing Petra off his lap, he couldn't have been nicer. “It's terrible, Babe. But I'm here for Pete and Shannon.”

“How did it go?”

“Well, they interrogated me and I stuck up for him the best I could. Who knows? They wouldn't really tell me anything. They were kind of nasty to me in fact.”

“Oh, God. That's terrible. We gotta get Pete a decent lawyer.”

“Sure, sure we will. But…”

“But?”

“Well, I talked with Steve who was worried about our upcoming concert. We can't back out at this late date.”

“So?” Just hearing Steve's name, Sonia bristled.

“So we will have to replace Pete, because…”

“
Replace
him?”

“Just temporarily, Babe! God! I'd never replace Pete. Why he's the backbone of the group. Just for this gig.”

When Mike started tossing out his Let's-Make-Love cues, a part of her stood back, detached. As he kissed her neck and unbuttoned her blouse, she thought about Joe, falsely accused of stealing money from the Empire State Building, how Great-Grandpa Tony hadn't even lifted a finger, and how glad she was that at least Mike was better than that.

Sonia was shocked at the state of Shannon's living room. It had always been like a sterilized hospital triage, something they both had in common. Now, there were clothes and newspapers strewn everywhere, dirty dishes crusting over in the sink, the couch covered in crumbs and on top of the TV, a half-eaten petrified Hawaiian style pizza slice.

“Sonia, I wanted to tell you, I've retained a good lawyer, but thank you so much anyway,” she said, stroking her huge belly.

Sonia double tapped with each index finger on the credenza next to her. “Of course. You know, Shannon, I was thinking. Remember how you told me that Pete was recently always going on the computer? Well, maybe you should look on it to see if anything pops up at you.”

“Oh, Sonia! They took his computer. That was one of the first things they came back for.…”

When Steve announced their upcoming gig was going to be as the opening act for
Smash Mouth
, most people gasped, but Mike seemed to take it all in stride. While the others discussed what songs would go well together for the big concert, how they were going to miss Pete terribly, Mike's biggest concern was where to buy the perfect outfit for the occasion.

Pulling Sonia aside, he whispered, “You gotta come with me, Babe. Maybe the East Village? That's where the trendiest stores are these days.”

Picturing her mother's description of the East Village back in 1969 and how trendy would be the last way you would describe it, she chuckled ruefully. Even so, halfway up the subway steps with Mike, she steeled herself, reliving Lily's words about the young, listless couple huddled together under a blanket, and a kid strung out on something.

What a difference! Suburban teenagers, armed with Daddy's Wall Street money, immediately accosted them, and with so many catchy-titled stores and appealing window-dressings, Mike had trouble deciding which one to enter first.

“Babe, we can do these stores later. I'm starved. Can we eat first?” Before she knew it, he had guided her into a local restaurant called
The Ink Blot.

Inside, they sat in the back against an old brick wall covered with framed
EVO
posters and 60's memorabilia. Soon, a gray-mustached, pot-bellied man who instantly introduced himself as Bruce, the owner, ambled over.

“You folks new to this area?”

Mike concentrated on the menu as Sonia answered. “Yes, but my mother actually lived near here during the late 60's.”

“Oh, yeah? What street?”

She gave him the address and he immediately laughed. “Oh, you mean
Shangri la
!”

“You know about that?”

He looked amused. “Sure. Everyone did. It had quite a reputation. They tore it down in recent years. A shame, really.”

They chatted for a few more minutes, while Mike, bored and starving, started producing louder and louder
I-thought-we-were-here-to-eat grunts.
Sonia, folding and unfolding her napkin, took the heavy hints, but Bruce apparently chose to ignore them.

Finally, Mike couldn't take it any longer. “Hey, Bruce? We've got a deadline, man!” and pointed to the menu. The owner nodded and stepped back, but as he looked down at Sonia again to take her order, she spotted pity in his eyes.

As soon as they hit the shops, Mike was a changed man. Swaggering down the aisles with hangers full of clothes, he kept disappearing into a dressing room for several minutes before coming out to parade in front of the mirror. After about ten different outfits and different reflections, she suddenly pictured Harry in his usual flannel shirt, clean, but slightly worn, and laughed.

“What's so funny?” Mike snapped.

“You! You remind me of a peacock,” she said, thinking of her great-great grandfather Tony, spending all his money on himself instead of Daria or Rose.

He was not amused.

Five stores later, one sales girl even approached Sonia. “You're so lucky!”

“Excuse me?”

“What a catch he is! You are one lucky bitch!” she added, shaking her head.

Back in his apartment, while Mike dug into his ten bags of clothing, humming, Sonia couldn't help but flash on Tony again. Such a catch for Daria at the time, and then years later, Peter was quite the catch for Rose.

“I just saw
A Texas Chainsaw Massacre
on TV last night,” Mark declared, holding court while they waited for Pamela and Ana. “You wanna know why it's so great?”

“Not really,” Harry replied winking at Sonia.

“Okay, hotshot, it's become a cult classic because of the message it gives.”

“What message is that?”

“The kids represent good and the evil family represents corporations.”

Sonia laughed. “Now, that's a new one.”

“Well, Ms. Know-It-All, what's your favorite movie?”

She didn't hesitate. “
To Kill A Mockingbird.”

Harry leaned forward. “Hey, I love that movie.” They began recalling scenes for several minutes before Mark broke in.

“You know, that's a total chick film, Harry! Is there something you're not telling us?”

Sonia started sputtering. “Just because you're an idiot when it comes to interpreting social significance in films, doesn't make Harry gay. What, are we in grade school?” Mark opened his mouth to speak.

She kept going. “And besides, Harper Lee just
happened
to win a little something called a Pulitzer for that unimportant, gay, chick book the film was based on! You're a moron, Mark. Just leave the movie commentaries to Harry and me.”

There was a hush. Then, “What the hell has gotten into you lately, Sonia?” Mark paused another second. “You know, you didn't use to be this vocal. The last few months you've changed.”

By the time the two women entered, she could still feel her body tingling with righteous indignation. Notebooks were taken out, psychology chapters discussed, and a good two minutes passed before she even glanced over at Harry. As Mark and Pamela bantered over behavioral science and Otis Skinner in preparation for the next lecture, she finally turned her head towards him, but he was just sitting back in his chair, not even looking at his notebook, a grin the size of Alaska plastered across his face.