"Me either," she said. "Jose Canseco? Yecch."

I nodded up at Rood's office window. "So what's he writing up there, anyway?" I said. "The Great American Novel?"

She shook her head. Nonfiction, she said. An expose.

"Yeah? What's he exposing? Housepainters?"

She smiled, fiddled with a blouse button. Even two and a half sheets to the wind, she was a nervous wreck. Henry had been writing this book for eleven years now, she told me. It was hard on him; it had taken its toll. She couldn't really discuss the subject matter. It would upset Henry for her to talk about it.

It made me think of what Ma had told me about her father's autobiography: how everything had been so hush-hush that summer when he wrote that thing. How he'd hired and fired a stenographer, rented a Dictaphone, and then finally retreated to the backyard and finished it himself.

I told Ruth Rood I'd see her in a couple of days-that by the time I was through, she and her husband would be sick sick of seeing me. of seeing me.

"Oh, I doubt that," she said. On the radio, the crowd roared. The announcer's voice went manic. Eric Davis had just clobbered a two-run homer off of Dave Stewart. "Yippee!" Mrs. Rood said, draining her rye and ginger.With two down and one to go, I headed over to Hollyhock Avenue to see Ray. Started thinking about that goddamned goofy Nedra Frank. She'd stolen stolen that manuscript of my grandfather's, really. Cashed my check and disappeared. By now, she'd probably trashed the thing. It probably didn't even exist. that manuscript of my grandfather's, really. Cashed my check and disappeared. By now, she'd probably trashed the thing. It probably didn't even exist.

I rolled slowly up Hollyhock Avenue, pulled in front of the house, 173 173.

and cut the engine. Sat there, just looking up at it: the house that "Papa" had built. . . . The shrubs looked gawky and overgrown; the hedges needed a trim. It was unusual for Ray to let the yard go like that. Thomas used to say that Ray couldn't sleep unless the hedges stood at attention and the front lawn had a crewcut as short as his. The garbage barrels were out front, too-emptied the day before and still waiting to be brought around to the back. It had always been another of Ray's pet peeves: people who didn't bother putting away their trash barrels. We used to hear lectures lectures on the subject. on the subject.

I got out of the truck. Walked right by those friggin' garbage cans and up the flight of cement stairs to the front of the family duplex. Home Sweet Home, aka the House of Horrors. The statute of limitations was long since up on most of the crap Ray had pulled on us while we were growing up, but being back at 68 Hollyhock Avenue always made me feel pissed and small. Ten years old again, and powerless.

It was funny, kind of-the way things had worked out. Ma was gone, I owned the condo now over on Hillyndale. Over the past several years, Thomas had lived either at the hospital or in the group home, not here. The only one left at the house old Domenico Tempesta had built for his family was Ray Birdsey, a WASP from Youngstown, Ohio. No Tempesta blood in residence. No Italian blood, even. Ray hadn't wanted to rent the other side of the duplex after Little Sal, the last of the Tusia family, moved to Arizona where his daughter lived. "Why don't you you move back in?" he asked me, after Dessa's and my divorce. "Save yourself a mortgage payment. move back in?" he asked me, after Dessa's and my divorce. "Save yourself a mortgage payment.

You and him own half this place, anyway. After I kick the bucket, the whole thing'll be yours."

It would have been a smart move financially and a kind of emotional suicide. So I bought the condo instead, and the other side of the duplex on Hollyhock Avenue stayed empty. When I asked him once about renting it, Ray said he didn't need the extra income.

"Yeah, well maybe you you don't," I told him, "but I can't afford to turn my nose up at half of a $700-a-month rental income." Rather than rent, Ray went down to the Liberty Bank and took out a savings 174 don't," I told him, "but I can't afford to turn my nose up at half of a $700-a-month rental income." Rather than rent, Ray went down to the Liberty Bank and took out a savings 174 174.

account with Thomas and me as beneficiaries. Each month, he deposited $350 into it. It was worth it, he told me. You never knew who you might get stuck with. His buddy Nickerson down at the Boat had rented his upstairs to a bunch of pigs he couldn't get rid of, no matter what he did. Ray didn't need that kind of grief. So he paid into that account each month and lived by himself in Domenico Tempesta's sprawling, sixteen-room, two-family house.

Rather than knock, I let myself in with my key. La chiave, La chiave, I thought I thought . . I walked through the house, front to back. I hadn't been over there for a while. The rooms looked cluttered, everything in neat piles but nothing put away. Tools, stacks of old newspapers, and a half-completed jigsaw puzzle littered the dining room table. The rugs felt gritty under my work boots. In the kitchen, the heavy stink of fried food hung in the air. Dishes and pans and cups were clean and stacked on the counter, but Ray hadn't bothered to put anything back in the cabinets. Lined up on the table were his blood pressure and diabetes medications, a stack of I walked through the house, front to back. I hadn't been over there for a while. The rooms looked cluttered, everything in neat piles but nothing put away. Tools, stacks of old newspapers, and a half-completed jigsaw puzzle littered the dining room table. The rugs felt gritty under my work boots. In the kitchen, the heavy stink of fried food hung in the air. Dishes and pans and cups were clean and stacked on the counter, but Ray hadn't bothered to put anything back in the cabinets. Lined up on the table were his blood pressure and diabetes medications, a stack of Reader's Digest Reader's Digest s, and two piles of mail held together with elastic bands. That day's s, and two piles of mail held together with elastic bands. That day's Daily Record Daily Record was folded in quarters, heads up to the article about Thomas's committal to Hatch. was folded in quarters, heads up to the article about Thomas's committal to Hatch.

So Ray knew already. That much was over with.

I found him in the back bedroom, tangled up in his blanket, snoring away in the semidarkness. He'd begun sleeping downstairs after Ma died. His official reason was that there'd been a prowler in the neighborhood-someone had jimmied open the Anthonys' cellar door across the street. But I was pretty sure that wasn't really it.

After Dessa left me, one of the toughest things I had to get used to was her empty side of the bed. I'd find myself falling asleep down on the couch in front of the TV just so's I wouldn't have to go upstairs and deal with that empty space. Not that it was something you could have ever talked about with Ray. He had to sleep downstairs with a crowbar under the bed so he could fend off burglars. Be a tough guy instead of facing whatever he was feeling about the death of his wife.

If Ray was sleeping days, then the shipyard must have him work- 175 175.

ing nights again. You had to hand it to him, really. Sixty-seven years old and the guy's still working like a plowhorse. I stood there, staring at him. The midafternoon sun came through the open blinds, striping his face with light. With his mouth open and his teeth out, he looked older. Old. His hair was more white than gray now. When had all this happened?

Growing up, I had wished my stepfather dead so often, it was practically a hobby. I'd killed him over and over in my mind-driven him off cliffs, electrocuted him in the bathtub, shot him dead in hunting accidents. He'd said and done things that still still weren't scabbed over. weren't scabbed over.

Had made this place a house of fear. Still, seeing him like this-white-haired and vulnerable, a snoring corpse-I was filled with an unexpected sympathy for the guy.

Which I didn't want to feel. Which I shook off.

I went back into the kitchen. Found a piece of paper and wrote him a note about Thomas. I explained what Sheffer had said about the fifteen-day paper, the security check they had to run on visitors, the upcoming hearing in front of that Review Board. "Call me if you have any questions," I scrawled at the bottom. But my guess was that he wouldn't call. My guess was that Ray had already walked away from this one.

On the way back out to the truck, I passed those garbage pails again. Then I stopped. Grabbed one handle in each hand and walked them up the front stairs and around to the backyard. Saved him a trip.

Our old backyard . . .

I put the cans down and walked past the two cement urns where Ma had always grown her parsley and basil. Fresh basil. God, I loved the smell of that stuff-the way it perfumed your fingers for the rest of the day. . . . Dominick? Do me a favor, honey? Go out back and pick Dominick? Do me a favor, honey? Go out back and pick me some me some basilico basilico . Half a dozen leaves or so. I want to put some in the . Half a dozen leaves or so. I want to put some in the sauce. . . . sauce. . . .

I walked up the six cement stairs to "Papa's little piece of the Old Country." That's what she always called it. According to Ma, Papa had loved to sit out here among his grapes and chicken coops and 176 176.

tomato and pepper plants-to sit in the sun and sip his homemade wine and remember Sicily. . . . Maybe that was why she'd heard him crying that last day as he sat up here, finishing his history. Maybe, at the end of his life, the "Great Man from Humble Beginnings" had wept for Sicily.

I remembered the way Thomas and I had played up here as kids.

Saw us pogo-sticking around the yard, staging massacres with our plastic cowboys and Indians, chasing garter snakes into the stone wall. Every June, when the honeysuckle bush blossomed, we'd suck nectar from the blossoms. One small drop of elixir on your tongue per flower-that was all you got.

I walked over to the picnic table Ray and I had built one summer. The seat had rotted at one end. I ought to come over some morning and just haul the thing away to the dump for him. Maybe next spring I'd get over here and plant a garden-work the soil, bring this old yard back from the dead. Ray had let this go, too; I'd never seen the backyard so overgrown. The grapevines were all but choked off with weeds. The dead grass was knee-high. Probably hadn't been mowed once all summer. Probably loaded loaded with ticks. with ticks.

What was the deal on Ray? . . .

I thought about what Ma had told me that time-the day she'd gone upstairs and come down again with that strongbox. With Papa's story. She'd come out here with his lunch, she told me. Had found him slumped in the chair. . . . And while she waited for help-waited for the ambulance to get here-she'd gone around picking up the pages of his life story. . . . One of these days, I was going to pursue it: find that bitch Nedra. Get my grandfather's story back if she hadn't already destroyed it. She'd told me her ex-husband was a honcho down at the state hospital. Maybe I could track her down through him. He probably had to send alimony someplace, right? And if that didn't pan out, maybe I'd go see Jerry Martineau over at the police station. Because it was theft, theft, what she'd pulled, not to mention breach of contract. . . . what she'd pulled, not to mention breach of contract. . . .

The summer the Old Man had died up here was the same summer Ma was pregnant with Thomas and me. Pregnant by a guy 177 177.

whose name I was probably never never going to know. And what about him? Had going to know. And what about him? Had he he known about known about us us? Why had she kept him from us?

Whose son was I?

And who, for that matter, had Papa been? In my mind, I saw and felt again those legal-sized pages I had lifted out of the strongbox that morning: the first fifteen or twenty typed and duplicated with carbon paper, the rest of it written in that sprawling fountain-pen script. She'd saved her father's history for me, me, she said. Thomas could look at it, too, but Papa's story was mine. . . . And I saw Nedra Frank's Yugo sliding diagonally down the street in the middle of that snowstorm. Saw her driving away for good. Talk about shitty luck, getting mixed up with that one. Talk about "losing something in the translation." she said. Thomas could look at it, too, but Papa's story was mine. . . . And I saw Nedra Frank's Yugo sliding diagonally down the street in the middle of that snowstorm. Saw her driving away for good. Talk about shitty luck, getting mixed up with that one. Talk about "losing something in the translation."

Once all this Hatch stuff was over with, I'd track her down, even if Martineau couldn't do anything for me. Even if I had to hire a freakin' private detective. Because when you thought about it, she'd stolen stolen my grandfather from me. It was a theft that went way beyond the lousy four hundred bucks I'd advanced her. . . . And maybe I'd try to find out about that stenographer, too. That Angelo guy who'd worked here that summer. Ma had said he was cousins with the Mastronunzio family. I knew a Dave Mastronunzio at Allied Plumbers. Maybe I'd start with him. Start somewhere. Maybe. my grandfather from me. It was a theft that went way beyond the lousy four hundred bucks I'd advanced her. . . . And maybe I'd try to find out about that stenographer, too. That Angelo guy who'd worked here that summer. Ma had said he was cousins with the Mastronunzio family. I knew a Dave Mastronunzio at Allied Plumbers. Maybe I'd start with him. Start somewhere. Maybe.

Maybe not.

178 12.Any sane man would have called it quits at that point. Would have said, "Okay, that's enough crap for one day," and driven home and crashed. But who ever said sanity ran in our family? Exhausted and antsy, I swung left and drove over to the dealership to see Leo.

Constantine Chrysler Plymouth Isuzu. "Make Gene's Boys an honest offer, they'll give you an honest deal." Yeah, sure. If honest deals were the way Diogenes "Gene" Constantine, my ex-father-in-law, made his money, then I was Luke Skywalker.

Leo was out on the lot, holding a single red carnation and helping a middle-aged redhead into a white Grand Prix. "Well, good luck with it now, Jeanette," he said. "Thanks again for the flower."

"Oh, it was nothing, Leo. You've just been so sweet. I wish I could have bought two two new cars instead of one." new cars instead of one."

"You just give me a call if there's anything I can do for you in the future. Okay?"

Jeanette revved her engine like one of the Andrettis. "Oops, sorry," she giggled. "I'm still getting used to it."

178.

179 179.

"That's okay, Jeanette. You'll get the hang of it. You take care now."

She put the car in gear, rolling and bucking away from us. "Good riddance, Jeanette," Leo said, his mouth frozen like a ventriloquist's.

"You fat-headed douche bag. I hope the engine drops out of your goddamned Grand Prix."

"Let me guess," I said. "No sale?"

"The bitch was this far from signing on the dotted line on a white-on-white LeBaron. That thing was loaded, loaded, Birdsey. Then I take one stinking day off to go into the city and she buys that showboat from Andy Butrymovic over at Three Rivers Pontiac. You know Butrymovic? Fuckin' weasel. Fuckin' Polack bastard." Birdsey. Then I take one stinking day off to go into the city and she buys that showboat from Andy Butrymovic over at Three Rivers Pontiac. You know Butrymovic? Fuckin' weasel. Fuckin' Polack bastard."

Entering the showroom, we passed a sign-painter who was whistling and stenciling the plate-glass window for some new promotion. "So what's the flower for?" I said. "You get Miss Congeniality or something?"

He snorted. "Something like that." Snapping the stem of the carnation, he tossed it into Omar's wastebasket. Omar's the newest salesman at Constantine Motors. Black guy or Spanish or something. Now there's there's something you wouldn't have seen ten years ago, or even five: my ex-father-in-law hiring minority salesmen. You wouldn't have seen him hiring women, either. Now there were two. something you wouldn't have seen ten years ago, or even five: my ex-father-in-law hiring minority salesmen. You wouldn't have seen him hiring women, either. Now there were two.

"How's your brother?" Leo asked. "Angie said they checked him in down at Hatch? What's that all about?"

I told him about Thomas's commitment the night before. About the knee to the groin I'd taken and the advice I'd just gotten from Lisa Sheffer. "He gets to list five visitors," I said. "They run a security check on everyone he puts down. Then they frisk you, make you go through a metal-"

"Lisa Sheffer, Lisa Sheffer, " he said. "I know know that name. Have a seat." that name. Have a seat."

I sat down opposite him at his desk. That's a bone of contention with Leo: the fact that he's been at the dealership all these years and the Old Man still has him parked out there on the showroom floor.

Dessa and Angie's cousin Peter joined the business about four or 180 180.

five years after Leo did, and he's already got one of the private paneled offices off off the floor. Peter's been named Leasing Manager and leasing's the new big thing. the floor. Peter's been named Leasing Manager and leasing's the new big thing.

The veneer on Leo's desk had buckled a little and was coming unglued at the corner. It happens with that cheap veneer shit. You should see the desk in the Old Man's office suite. It's big enough to land planes on. Leo flipped through the Rolodex on his desk. "Lisa Sheffer, Lisa Sheffer. . . . Here it is. Lisa Sheffer. She test-drove a Charger with me about six months ago. Nurse, right?"

"Psychiatric social worker."

"Little skinny broad? Short hair, no tit?" I thought about Sheffer's reprimand to me: how she was a woman, not a "gal." She must have really really bonded with Leo. bonded with Leo.

"You know what I'd do?" Leo said. "About your brother? I'd hire a lawyer and have him start talking police brutality. Have him bring the doctor's statement and those medical pictures and everything.

Maybe you could cut a deal with them-promise 'em you won't go to court if your brother gets transferred back to Settle. Then you know what I'd do? After you got him out of there? I'd turn around and sue the state's ass off anyway."

"You would would do that. Wouldn't you, Leo?" do that. Wouldn't you, Leo?"

"You bet your left nut I would. What are they going to do? Complain that you welched on an under-the-table agreement? Better to be the screwer than the screwee." He stood up. "Hang on a minute, will you, Birdseed? I'll be right back. I gotta go check something in the service department."

In a way, selling cars was the ideal job for Leo. Professional bullshitter. He'd been bullshitting me since the summer of 1966, when I sat across the aisle from him in remedial algebra class and he got me to believe he was second cousins with Sam the Sham of Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs. Their hit song "Woolly Bully" was popular that year-the year I was fifteen. It came cranking out of my red transistor radio all summer long while I mowed lawns, solved for x, x, and lifted weights-curling and bench-pressing in an effort to transform myself into Hercules, Unchained. Leo told me that he'd 181 and lifted weights-curling and bench-pressing in an effort to transform myself into Hercules, Unchained. Leo told me that he'd 181 181.

been to Sam the Sham's apartment in Greenwich Village for a party and that a Playboy bunny had sat in his lap. That his uncle was a talent scout out in Hollywood. That his mother was thinking of buying him a Corvette once he passed algebra and got his license.

He was paunchy and chip-toothed back then, a middle-aged-looking sixteen-year-old who could make our fellow algebra flunkies suck their teeth just by walking into the room. Sometimes I'd watch him with a kind of grossed-out fascination as he'd pick his nose, examine what he'd come up with, and then wipe it under his desktop. He made life miserable for our teacher, shaky, old, semiretired Mrs. Palladino.

Leo would raise his hand for help on some problem he couldn't have given a flying leap about solving and Palladino would come hobbling up the aisle on her bum leg. Then, right in the middle of some explanation Leo wouldn't even bother to listen to, he'd cut a fart-a "silent-but-deadly" so foul that everyone within a twenty-foot radius would start groaning and fanning their worksheets. Poor Palladino would stand there, droning on in good faith and trying, I guess, not to pass out from the stink.

Leo got away with plenty that summer, up to and including passing the course by snatching the mimeograph stencil of the final exam from the teachers' room wastebasket. But the following fall, his luck ran out. Neck Veins, the assistant principal at JFK, caught him red-handed one afternoon stretching Trojans over the heads of the athletic figurines in the main corridor trophy case. Neck Veins: I forget the guy's real name, but when he screamed, the veins in his neck would bulge out like electrical cables. Neck Veins nailed nailed Leo. Leo.

Had him apologize over the PA during morning announcements to all the former and present student athletes whose victories he had mocked. Then he made him run laps after school every afternoon for two months. Leo's mother, who had just become Three Rivers'

first city councilwoman, dragged him once a week to a "specialist."

After all that running and counseling, Leo dropped thirty pounds and grew his hair long. By springtime, he was lead singer for this garage band called the Throbbers. Now girls liked him. Skanky girls at first, and then more and more popular ones, including Natalie 182 182.

Santerre, who everyone thought looked like Senta Berger and who Leo claims to this day gave him a BJ the weekend before her family moved to North Carolina. The Throbbers played the usual covers: "Wild Thing," "Good Lovin'," "Nineteenth Nervous Breakdown."

Leo was a real ham; whenever they did that Question Mark and the Mysterians song, "Ninety-six Tears," he'd drop to his knees and act like he was blowing a gasket because the girl in the song had left him. The band fell apart after a while, but by then Leo had become addicted to the attention-to standing up there on a stage. He majored in acting at UConn, dealt a little weed on the side, and was, during his junior year, stud enough to have bonked all three of Chekhov's Three Sisters over the course of a two-month rehearsal. According to Leo, that is, who you'd never mistake for a reliable source-particularly on the subject of his sex life. He played Snoopy during his junior year in You're a You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown. Good Man, Charlie Brown. That was the highlight of Leo's dramatic career: Snoopy. Dessa and I had been going out for about six or seven months by then. (Dessa didn't like Leo that much; she tolerated him.) When she and I drove up to see That was the highlight of Leo's dramatic career: Snoopy. Dessa and I had been going out for about six or seven months by then. (Dessa didn't like Leo that much; she tolerated him.) When she and I drove up to see You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown, You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown, we brought Dessa's sister Angie along. Angie had dated my brother just before that-a two-month disaster I don't even like to think about. we brought Dessa's sister Angie along. Angie had dated my brother just before that-a two-month disaster I don't even like to think about.

But anyway, for better or worse, Angie sat that night in the audience and fell in love for life. Dessa and I got to hear all the way home how adorable Leo looked, how funny he was, how Angie had laughed so hard at one point, she'd wet her pants. After Leo found out about his one-woman fan club, he asked Angie out. They went at it hot and heavy all that summer-the summer of 1971-then seemed to cool off. But the following Christmas, when Dessa and I told them we were thinking of getting engaged after graduation, they they told told us us that Angie was pregnant. Shit, man, if Angie hadn't miscarried, that kid would be what by now? Eighteen? that Angie was pregnant. Shit, man, if Angie hadn't miscarried, that kid would be what by now? Eighteen?

That whistling sign-painter had finished his first letter on the plate glass: a blue "G," as tall as Joy. Leo came walking back across the showroom.

"Hey, I forgot to tell you," I said. "Guess who I saw down there 183 183.

at Hatch in the middle of everything else last night? Ralph Drinkwater."

"Drinkwater? No shit. God, I haven't seen Ralph since . . . when did we have those summer jobs?"

"Nineteen sixty-nine," I said. "The summer we landed on the moon."

"So how's he look? Ralph?"

"Not that different, really. I recognized him right off."

"Jesus, remember that bag job we pulled on him? With the cops?"

"The bag job you you pulled on him," I said. " pulled on him," I said. "You were the one who sat there in that station and told them-" were the one who sat there in that station and told them-"

"Oh, yeah, Birdsey, you were Mr. Innocent that night, right?

Hey, not to change the subject. What do you think of this suit?" He got up from behind his desk, turned to the side, and strutted back down to that white-on-white LeBaron. Virgins Virgins is what Leo calls the floor models. The suit was tan, double-breasted. Looked too big for him in my book. is what Leo calls the floor models. The suit was tan, double-breasted. Looked too big for him in my book.

"I picked this up in New York yesterday when I auditioned," he said. "Armani-top of the line. I felt like celebrating because things went so well."

Leo and his auditions. For all the tryouts he's rushed to New York for over the years, I've only seen him on TV in two things-a Land-lubber's Lobster commercial that ran sometime back in the mideighties and this public service thing for AIDS prevention. In the restaurant ad, Leo played a wholesome dad taking his happy family out for seafood. The thing starts with a close-up of Leo, bug-eyed and looking like he's having an orgasm. Then the camera pulls back and you see a waitress tying one of those plastic bibs around his neck. There's this motherfucking monster monster of a lobster in front of him. The rest of the family looks on, smiling like they're all high on something, even Grandma. The other ad-the public service thing-is something they still run every once in a while at two or three in the morning, usually when I'm riding the Insomnia Express. Leo plays a dad in that one, too-shooting hoops with his teenage son and talking man to man 184 of a lobster in front of him. The rest of the family looks on, smiling like they're all high on something, even Grandma. The other ad-the public service thing-is something they still run every once in a while at two or three in the morning, usually when I'm riding the Insomnia Express. Leo plays a dad in that one, too-shooting hoops with his teenage son and talking man to man 184 184.

about responsibility. At the end, Leo says, "And remember, son, the safest thing of all is waiting until you're ready." Leo and Junior smile at each other, and Leo takes a hook shot. There's a close-up, nothing but net. Then Leo and the kid high-five each other. The first time I saw it, I laughed out loud. For one thing, Leo couldn't make a hook shot to save his ass. Back in high school, he made up a story about a damaged left ventricle and conned his way out of gym class for two years in a row. And for another thing, Leo talking about abstinence is like Donald Trump talking about altruism.

"So get this, Birdsey," he said. "I buy the suit, have them alter it, and I get back home around midnight. The house is dark, Angie and the kids are asleep. So I nuke myself some leftovers, flip on the tube, and there's Arsenio wearing the exact same suit I just bought. Arsenio, Arsenio, man! man!

Recently voted one of the ten best-dressed guys in America. It's an omen."

"An omen?"

"That I'm going to get that part. How much do you think I paid for this baby, anyway?" He stroked a jacket sleeve, pivoted to the side again. "Italian silk," he said. "Go on, take a guesstimate."

"Hey, Leo," I said. "I've got one or two too many things on my mind right now. I don't particularly feel like playing The Price Is The Price Is Right Right with you and your new suit." with you and your new suit."