Kiss of the Wolf (2 page)

When my dad left, he left a note on the phone. That was it. He mighta snuck into my room and said good-bye or something, but I don't know. I'm a light sleeper. He sent me a letter that was two pages long once he got out to Colorado, but it was not real informative. I sent him back this card I made of Audrey flying an F-16 and hanging a paw out the canopy. Audrey was saying, “WHEN ARE YOU COMING BACK?” He wrote and thanked me like that wasn't a serious question.

The day I got his letter I watched cable twenty-three straight hours, nine in the morning to eight in the morning, still my record. My mom was a wreck. I saw the strangest ending to any movie ever. The movie was called
Half Angel.
There's a good gangster and a bad gangster. At the end the good gangster goes to kiss the girl, and right in the middle of it his friend starts this gross story about this other gangster who kills everybody. His friend goes, “Yeah, Bugs himself was drooling with the lust of slaughter.” That's exactly what he said, and the movie ends like that. I watched it twice, at 1:00
A
.
M
. and 4:00
A
.
M
., because I couldn't believe it.

A few weeks after my father left, my mother and I had a fight. We had more fights than that, but this was a big one. I broke about seven things in my room, and my mother kicked open the door. She broke the lock. It was like martial arts or something. Later she said, “When did you ever have it so bad? What did we ever do to you?” So I said, “Okay,” and told her about the time we went to Moodus Lake to look at the property they bought and never did anything with. We went there like once every three years to prove to ourselves we still had it. We never used it. Where our part was, the water was all weedy and gross, like a swamp, and there was no driveway in—you had to walk through the woods—and not even a good place to camp. We all went up there, and they went off to talk to the owner of the land association or somebody and told me to lock the doors and not let anybody in and wait where I was. Where was I going? We were pulled off this dirt road in the middle of the woods. One side of the car had like smashed branches up against the windows. I just sat there. They couldn't find him. It was like they were gone forever. Then they couldn't find the car. They took the wrong trail or something. It got dark. I was in the backseat. I had the radio on. I thought it'd be good for them if I ran the battery down, and then I thought that was stupid, because we'd all be stuck here when they got back. Even so, I left it on. And the disc jockey or whoever must've put a stack of records on the turntable and gone away, because something stuck, and the station played “Down in the Boondocks” like fifty times in a row. The guy announced it once, and then it just kept coming on. I couldn't believe it. I couldn't change the station or turn it off. I kept thinking the next time the guy would come in and stop it. I wanted to see if he'd apologize, or what. I don't know what happened. Finally I got too scared for the battery and turned it off. I could still hear the song in my head. It was pitch-black, and there were all these cricket sounds and rustlings. I spent some time closing my eyes and checking out those circles and gray things that float around behind your eyelids. I thought, They don't even have a flashlight. The song coming back was worse than the sound of the woods: Down in the Boondocks. I sang it, though that was the last thing I wanted to do: “‘People put me down 'cause that's the side of town I was born in. I love her, she loves me, but I don't fit in her society.'” Then I heard them calling, and I turned on the headlights, and they found me.

B
RUNO

Three guys walk into a bar. Roof collapses, kills 'em all. Turns out they had cancer.

Hard Luck stories. Poor Me stories. Isn't It Sad stories.
Isn't it sad I had to do what I had to do?
I looked the other way during kickbacks, I put less in the Sunday envelope, I hit my kid and now he's got this stutter, my husband left me and I had to raise my three blind girls alone. Bruno, Bruno, poor Elena, poor Lucia, poor whoever, poor me, no one should have this much trouble. Bruno, Bruno, you're so hardhearted. Isn't it sad? I say, You got trouble? Too bad, my condolences,
deal
with it. There's no trick to this. I'm not here as a therapist. This guy Darwin on TV had it right: you got too many legs, a fin out to here, teeth smaller than Harvey across the rock, you're not gonna make it. And what is that? What? Bad
luck?
You pray all your
life
you don't get luck like some people get. Guys with no eyes, guys whose whole families go down on some boat, guys who're vegetables, get fed off a tray. People say, Bruno you wouldn't be so hard it happened to you—I say, My father came over here, he was fourteen years old, knew four words of English—four—worked on the highways going in upstate for three days and a back-loader dumped a load of shale where he was standing, crushed his legs. Guy called, “All clear?” and my dad waved and stood there. My mother died of this simple thing because some Mick doctor couldn't find his ass with both hands and a diagram. I'm forty-two years old, never got married, I've gone broke twice. Started up from nothing twice. Now I sell cars. You think I
like
selling cars? My life is a bowl of
roses
selling cars?

I came here, started working in the off-season. Everything was down. Sales were down. The economy was down. Inventory was down. Spirits were down, morale was down, the shade in my office was down. The desk they gave me, the drawers didn't open. They probably figured, Guinea, he's not gonna write anything, anyway. They told me I couldn't use the coffee machine. I hadda go across the street. You imagine this? Bruno, it's only an eight-cupper. Oh, I didn't
realize.
You know what it's like, you're humping to sell the car, Gee, Mr. Dickhead, would you like a cuppa coffee? Okay, well, we'll have to go across the street, see, because I got this
disease
and they don't let me touch their fucking coffeepot. Gas shortage, oil shortage, money shortage, no beans for the soup: just the time to be selling ocean-liner Buicks in Bridgeport. I'm brand new at this, standing there in my—I got one suit, I change the shirt and ties day to day—and guys're coming in without a pot to piss in, just looking for transportation, and I'm pushing station wagons with power sunroofs. Four doors you can land planes on. The whole world's selling little Nip cars to Yupsters at eighty-percent markups and I'm selling V-8s to cane-dragging Sanka-sucking cottontops. But I sold. I sold to everybody. I sold to morons. I sold to kids. I sold to widows with bad eyesight. I sold to sharpies. I sold to Puerto Ricans. I sold to
mulignons.
I sold to family. I got my coffeepot. I drink their coffee now.

You don't think I cut corners? You don't think I did what I had to, to move inventory? You don't think I
lied
to people? You don't think I
cheated
people? Before we had a name for it, before we called it anything, we did it.

So now I hear, Bruno, you been lucky. You been doing good lately. Lately kiss my ass lately.

Bruno, you're not for her, leave her alone, she's had too much trouble.

Listen to this: I am the guy for her. I am the guy.

Bruno, she lost her husband. Hey, she lost her husband. Worse: the guy ran off and left her. She's alone in the world. She's gotta raise the kid by herself. It's tough. Bruno, she doesn't need you around, complicating things. I told her what the loan sharks used to tell
me
on Kissuth Street: Hey, I'm not here to
observe
your problem. I'm here to
enlarge
it.

Joanie and I go back to when we were kids on North Avenue. We go back to Blessed Sacrament. Years later, I told her I was the guy, when we were still kids. She put her hand right up to touch your mouth when you were talking. You could taste her.

What do I want from her? What are my
intentions
toward her? The days I don't see her, the days I don't hear about her, I draw her picture on the wall.

P
ART ONE

 

Todd was getting confirmed. Confirmation made him an adult in the eyes of the Church. At the ceremony, Joanie tried to remember her own confirmation but couldn't. She squatted in the pew and thought dull and repetitive things like, Do I really have a son old enough to be confirmed? The bishop read Todd's name out of sequence, the only mistake he made all day. Back at home, Todd changed into play clothes and took off for parts unknown while Joanie napped away the rest of the afternoon. The whole thing seemed like an official transition to something more unpleasant.

They still had to deal with Todd's confirmation party that night. Joanie's mother was having it at her house: more room, she said. They got there early to help, and while Joanie dumped antipasto from plastic tubs onto a silver tray Nina saw a mouse under the refrigerator. This was the end of the world. They all had to hunt for the mouse. Together with Sandro they moved the refrigerator, banged around under the cabinets. Todd, of course, thought they should let it go. Nina, while she set the table, stayed upset about the mouse; for her it was One More Thing.

Once everybody showed up, Todd got a watch, a cableknit sweater, and some envelopes. His father's present had come in the mail a week early, no return address. There was a card taped to it made of a folded piece of paper. It said on the top, “Sorry to Miss the Festivities.” Todd hadn't shown her the inside.

It was a small party. Nancy, her mother, Elena, and Joanie's great-aunt Clorinda, so old she never said anything. Sandro, Nina, Todd, Joanie, and the mouse. Like all Italian parties, it was planned for all rooms and stayed in the kitchen. Nina started them on the antipasto Joanie'd done a lousy job of arranging, and some spinach bread. The antipasto was good, but the spinach in the spinach bread wasn't chopped up enough. Joanie worked on a piece for minutes. Todd sat around picking at things and waiting for his father's phone call.

Everyone knew his father was supposed to be calling.

Joanie was spear carrier. Her mother was throwing the party, her son was guest of honor, her missing husband the offstage star. At one point her mother served more coffee by leaning in front of her while she was talking, like she was the ghost nobody could see.

Everyone ate the olives and left the marinated vegetables. They lined olive pits up on their dishes like hotels in Monopoly. The spinach bread wasn't going over. Sandro suggested Todd start the present-opening.

Todd looked over the pile and opened Joanie's first. A lightweight jacket for school. Purple and gold, Nike. He liked it, she thought. She'd had little energy to pick something out and had decided, anyway, not to play “Can You Top This?” with her husband's mystery gift. Todd waited one or two presents more before pulling his father's and a few others closer. That self-restraint constricted some part of her chest.

Nina, meanwhile, went ahead with the mouse hunt. She had that look, like every part of her life had come apart and she wasn't waiting any longer on
this
one. Sandro wanted to know what kind of
cavone
went exterminating when she had guests. He told her to get up and got on his hands and knees in her place, clunking around under the cabinets with a broom.

Gary's present sat there, the one everyone wanted opened, until Sandro, sweating and peeved, pulled his head out from under the sink and said, “Hey, open your father's.”

“Shut up, Sandro, why don't you,” Nina said. “Let him open what he wants to open.”

Sandro stood up and stretched, his hand on the small of his back. He was bald and the white hairs on top of his head waved like undersea plants.

“You get it?” Nina said, meaning the mouse.

“You mind if I take a leak?” he said. He went into the bathroom. On the way out, he made a stop at the stereo in the living room. Lou Monte came on. “Pepino the Italian Mouse.” Everyone around the table was quiet. Todd had his hands on his father's gift. Elena chewed with her mouth closed. Sandro came back from the living room. Joanie heard a skittering under the cabinet and imagined the mouse trying to get a look, too.

The present was in a square, head-sized box. The day it arrived, Todd wandered in and out of the kitchen, where they'd left it, checking it out from all angles. Now he had one hand on top of it, as if to see if it was warm. He pulled it closer. The sliding sound on the tablecloth reminded her of moving boxes, moving in.

The phone rang. Joanie answered it. Someone for Bruno. Whoever it was, he sounded pretty unhappy. While Joanie talked to him Nina put a hand to her collarbone and threw Joanie a “That was close” look. Joanie crossed her eyes at her. Todd started working on the box.

It was sealed with some sort of clear supertape. Nina got scissors.

The phone rang again, this time for Joanie. She sighed and took it around the corner, with a finger in her ear. It was Bruno: something'd come up, he'd be a little late. Joanie wanted to say, We care. When she got off, the box was open. Todd was holding the thing up.

It turned out to be a lacrosse helmet. He was controlling his face, but she could see he loved it, absolutely loved it.

“Oh, that's lovely,” Sandro said. Everyone was doing their “Great gift” murmurs.

“What is it?” Nina said, like they'd found it under a rock.

“It's a lacrosse helmet,” Sandro said. “Don't you know nothing?”

“No, I don't know nothing,” Nina said. “I should know an across helmet?”

“It's sports,” Sandro said.

“Pardon me,” Nina said. “I thought it was olive picking.”

Todd didn't try it on. He was holding it by the facemask. He loved lacrosse and had wanted something like this for months; she could see it in his face. Before this second she would have been as likely to say he was interested in the Flags of All Nations, or dolls.