Weepers

  Weepers

  (a novel)

  Nick Chiarkas

  Dedicated to

  Judith E. Olingy

  My wife and IR

  In memory of

  Harry E. Oxford, Jr.

  (October 27, 1944 – August 14, 1966)

  And a big thank you to the rest of the gang—

  Angelo, Anthony, Barbara, Billy, Bobby, Bruce, Carl, Carol, Cathy, Chico, Denise, Dennis, Diane, Eddie, Georgia, Harriet, Harry, Howie, Jimmy, Joey, John, Johnny, Lydia, Marie, Mary, Mike, Natalie, Rennie, Richie, Robert, Ron, and Tommy

  —for always being there with me,

  on those streets, so long ago.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The Two Bridges neighborhood of Manhattan’s Lower East Side is the setting for Weepers. In the 1950s, “Two Bridges” defined the slums moldering between the Manhattan Bridge to the north and the Brooklyn Bridge to the south. The collection of narrow streets and trash-lined alleys slithered through the decaying brownstone tenements with common toilets—one per floor—and was among the most notorious neighborhoods in the city.

  Perched on the midnight-edge of the Two Bridges neighborhood were the Alfred E. Smith Housing Projects. The Projects were a no-man’s land: no history, no common bond, and no rules. Bordered by the South Street docks, Catherine Street, Madison Street, and St. James Place, it was the most dangerous part of an already dangerous neighborhood. I grew up in those projects.

  Weepers is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  And all the children are insane.

  — The Doors, The End

  There can be no courage unless you are scared.

  — Eddie Rickenbacker

  1951

  Chapter One

  “If it moves toward you, you’re food.”

  “Angelo, don’t get too far ahead.”

  “I won’t, Papa.”

  Angelo had never been happier. It was the night before Christmas, he was with his father, and it was snowing. Not a chilling, icy snow, but a powder of flakes—perfect forms floating to the streets of New York.

  The few maple and ash trees that stood watch along the cement playground on Cherry Street were dressed in white, with crystal-gloved fingers reaching down to the silent sidewalk. Those brittle bushes that had managed to survive another summer pouncing of playful children now nestled comfortably under a downy white cover.

  Angelo heeded his father’s warning and shortened the distance between them. Even at seven years old, he knew these streets were unsafe. This was, after all, the Two Bridges section of Manhattan’s Lower East Side.

  “Doesn’t it look just like that glass ball that snows when you shake it on Nonna’s table?”

  “Yeah, but a little colder.” His father followed behind at a steady pace, pulling a two-wheeled metal shopping cart filled with brightly wrapped Christmas gifts.

  “Yeah, it sure does, but a little colder.” Angelo giggled and turned to grab for a particularly large flake that see-sawed down like a feather from a pillow fight. The ash on his father’s cigarette brightened momentarily.

  Like a dragon, his father streamed smoke from his nostrils and the corner of his mouth. Mixed with the vapor from his breath, it left a brief trail before disappearing behind him.

  “Wouldn’t it be funny if Nonna looked at her snow globe and saw us walking?” Angelo asked in an effort to continue the connection with his father. “What would she say?”

  “Jesus, Kid, I don’t know.” Angelo’s father took a quick drag on his cigarette and flicked it into the snow. “Try to catch a snowflake on your tongue.”

  “Okay.” Angelo danced in circles with his opened mouth to the sky.

  “Don’t cross Catherine Street without me.”

  “Okay, Papa.”

  “How’s that eye doing?”

  Angelo instinctively touched the left side of his face with a wet mitten. “It’s okay. It don’t hardly hurt no more.”

  “Good.” His father’s voice was suddenly stern. “But, like I said, it was your own fault.”

  Angelo didn’t respond. He was absorbed by the memory of sterile pads on his eyes, the aroma of tomato soup and alcohol in the hospital, and his mother’s weeping.

  “Hey, you hear me?”

  “Yes, Papa.” Angelo again felt the snowflakes on his upturned face. “My fault. I know, Papa. My fault.”

  “You better believe it’s your fault.”

  Angelo’s father was not a big man. Mostly he seemed calm, though Angelo had witnessed just how rapidly things could change with little provocation. He’d learned to read the cues quickly and respond accordingly. He was pretty sure he didn’t need to respond at that moment, but threw back another “I know, I’m sorry, Papa,” just in case.

  Angelo walked alongside the burgundy brick walls of Knickerbocker Village. Beyond the narrow park to his left that separated Cherry and Water streets, he could see the Journal-American newspaper building. The Journal’s loading platform on Water Street, usually lively with shouting men and the comings and goings of trucks, was quiet. Instead, three Christmas trees stood on the platform, each beautifully decorated with colored lights and an illuminated gold star on top. “How come nobody stole the trees, Papa?”

  “They belong to Uncle Nunzio.”

  Angelo nodded.

  After a slight pause, his father spoke. “Angelo.”

  “Yeah?”

  “That stuff I said…it wasn’t your fault, Kid. None of it was your fault. You’re a good kid, Angelo. Beats me…it just beats me.” His father shook his head in private puzzlement.

  Angelo stopped walking and turned around.

  His father winked. Angelo smiled and resumed his dance in the snow. Beyond a veil of falling snow, Angelo could see black-jacketed, shadowy figures moving within the projects. Two standing there. Four more moving together, a white mist kicked up at their feet.

  “Papa, see those guys?”

  “Don’t worry about it. They’re just punks.”

  “I wish I was a lion. Pompa said they’re the king of the jungle.”

  “He would know.”

  Angelo’s attention alternated from the black-jacket shadow-punks to the Christmas lights dancing in the projects’ windows. “Will Uncle Johnny be home before the new baby comes?”

  “Probably.”

  “I bet he ain’t scared of the projects. I bet he ain’t scared of nothin’…just like you, Papa. Just like a lion.”

  At the corner of Cherry and Catherine, Angelo stopped, waiting for his father to catch up. He looked back up Cherry Street and was stunned. Less than twenty feet away, the cart stood alone in the snow. Angelo stared in disbelief. He ran to the spot where his father should have been. He grabbed the handle of the cart, looking down at the abandoned presents.

  He knew his father had been right there pulling the cart. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, opened them, and still his father would not appear. He turned in circles, scanning the quiet street for some sign of where his father had gone. His foot slipped. He fell. He got up. Nothing. No one. Not a sound.

  “Papa,” he shouted into the silent night. “Papa!”

  No response. Not even an echo. The solid brick walls of Knickerbocker offered no clues. No cars moved and no footsteps could be heard. Nothing. Just the cart standing there filled with Christmas. He was alone.

  “Papa, please!”

  Angelo fell to his knees in the snow and cried into already soggy mittens. In a breath between sobs, he heard something. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck and goose bumps flooded his small body.

  “Aspetta, aspetta,” someone
whispered. Just that. Hushed, deep, and nothing more.

  Startled, Angelo jumped to his feet. Eyes wide, his head whipped around. There was no one. Terror tightened its grip as he looked across the street at the projects. Like hyenas spotting a lost lion cub, the black-jacketed punks were moving cautiously toward Catherine Street. Toward him.

  Angelo looked at his own building, 20 Catherine Slip, on the edge of the projects, about a block away. He locked his grip on the shopping cart in a failed attempt to pull the cart with him. It was too heavy and the punks were coming.

  The boy already knew the first rule of the jungle: If it moves away from you, it’s food; if it moves toward you, you’re food. He took a deep breath and released the handle. The cart toppled onto its side as he ran as fast as he could toward home.

  Angelo cut diagonally across the snow-covered street without looking toward the black-jacketed punks, for fear it would slow him down just enough for them to get him. He kept focused on his building. The cold air and snow were clouding his eyes and burning his lungs, but 20 Catherine Slip was getting closer. He tripped on the edge of the sidewalk in front of his building and fell face down, sliding in the snow. Even while skidding, he was getting up, finding his footing and running. The entrance was now in front of him and he flew through the door and into the lobby.

  Slipping in a puddle of melted snow, Angelo slammed into the wall of mailboxes to the left of the door. Amidst the muted cacophony of Christmas music from several first-floor apartments and the scent of pine and pie, he noticed for the first time the sound of his own crying. Fearing that his sobs might attract predators, he tried to control himself, planning the safest route to his fifth-floor apartment.

  Not the elevators. They were unreliable and he could be trapped. He cautiously entered the stairwell. Grabbing the banister, he dashed up the first flight of stairs. A sharp pain from the cold air burned through his lungs and heart. Only to the fifth floor, he thought. His ankles felt like weights as he continued up, pulling himself along with the banister as fast as he could.

  His breathing was shrill and strained as he rounded the third-floor landing. The acrid smell of urine replaced the stale stairway air as he stopped abruptly at the fourth-floor landing. He didn’t recognize the man who lay on the floor with his head and shoulder propped against the wall. Any other time, Angelo would have run down a floor to the elevator or back stairway. But tonight he had no time for detours and he was running out of steam. He had to keep going.

  Angelo moved cautiously, stepping over the thin, extended arm. The young man did not move. White crusts covered the stranger’s lips below unblinking eyes. Angelo’s eyes remained locked on the ghostly figure as he turned toward the next flight of stairs.

  Angelo grabbed the banister and snapped his head toward the fifth-floor landing and safety. Once there, he slammed open the firewall door and shot down the hallway to his apartment. He threw himself against the locked door and pounded.

  “Mama, Mama, hurry, Mama!”

  After a moment that felt like a lifetime, his mother opened the door and reached down to him. Angelo collapsed into the harbor of her arms.

  “Angelo, my baby, what is it?” She kneeled and embraced him in the doorway. She looked at her son, and then past him. “Where’s your father?”

  Angelo, unable to speak, cried and gasped for air. His mother lifted him over the threshold and inside the warm apartment as he tried to control his sobbing.

  “Frank!” she shouted, but her brother was already behind her.

  “What’s goin’ on?” Uncle Frank asked.

  “Calm down, my baby. Tell us what happened.” Her tone comforted Angelo. For the first time since he’d turned to look back up Cherry Street, Angelo felt safe. The warmth and smells of home rolled over his body like a tonic.

  Anna Pastamadeo’s black hair accented her warm and worried gray eyes.

  “Mama, we have to find Papa.”

  “What do you mean, ‘find Papa’?”

  “He disappeared on Cherry Street. Just gone. We have to go find him.”

  Uncle Frank grabbed his leather jacket off the closet doorknob. “Cherry Street…you see anybody, anything I need to know?”

  “A voice…I don’t know.” Angelo choked down a lump of fear. “P-Please find my—”

  “Anna, lock the door and call Pop. I’ll be right back.”

  Angelo heard the stairwell door open and close as his uncle went into the night.

  His mother locked their apartment door. “Okay, Angelo, okay.” With some effort, she lifted him up, wet clothes and all, and carried him to the living room couch. The room was lit only by the Christmas tree in the corner near the window. She held Angelo in her lap, swallowing him in the sanctuary of her embrace.

  There, in between sobs and shivers, he told her what had happened. Angelo knew she had to swallow hard and hold on. He knew she remained calm for him.

  He told his mother all of it—the Christmas trees at the Journal-American, catching snowflakes on his tongue, his father saying he was a good kid, hearing someone say aspetta, the gifts tumbling into the snow—all of it.

  “Your father said you were a good kid? He said that?”

  “He really said that…to me.”

  “Huh… and after he was gone you heard aspetta?”

  “Yeah. The cart fell over. I couldn’t pull it. And then I ran home. I just left.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Sweetheart. I’m glad you left it there and came right home.”

  “No. Mama, I left Papa. I should’ve looked for him. I got scared and left him.”

  “You did right, Angelo.”

  “I got scared of the punks with the black jackets and I ran.”

  “Punks with black jackets? Knights.” His mother nodded. “Did they hurt your papa?”

  “No. They were in the projects. I just got scared of them and all. And I ran home instead of looking for Papa. I should’ve been with him. Walking with him.”

  “Angelo, you did just what you were supposed to do. Uncle Frank will find out what happened.” She gently unfolded Angelo from her lap. “Come to the kitchen. I’ll call Pompa.”

  Angelo nodded. Pompa, his grandfather, would make things right.

  * * *

  Angelo took a hot bath, put on his pajamas, and was halfway through a slice of bread when Uncle Frank returned with the shopping cart and damp presents.

  “Did you find Papa?” Angelo choked back despair.

  “Not yet, Kid. Angelo, I found these cookies in a napkin on the presents.”

  “They’re from Mrs. Monahan.”

  “Angelo.” Uncle Frank kneeled on one knee. “Tell me exactly where your father was the last time you saw him.”

  “Right where the cart was.”

  “Did you notice any cars coming down the street?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t answer so fast, Angelo. Close your eyes. Try to picture it, Kid.”

  Angelo closed his eyes. “No, no cars. No people. Nothing.” He opened his eyes.

  “Okay, when you turned around and Mac—when your father was gone, do you remember any empty parking spots?”

  Angelo closed his eyes tighter this time and pictured the cart standing there on its own. He remembered looking around for his father, but nothing about the cars parked along the street, except they looked like rolling, snow-covered hills.

  “I don’t remember any empty spots. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry, that helps. Do you remember anything else that seemed different when you turned around and your father was gone?”

  “No, I was scared, kinda still am a little.”

  “Ah, hey, Kiddo. Don’t you worry about nothing. Your Uncle Frank’s here and I ain’t quitting ’til I find him. And, Angelo, I’m not going to let anything hurt you.”

  “Angelo,” his mother said softly, “it’s time for bed now.”

  “But, I wanna help find Papa,” he protested as he turned from his uncle to his mother.
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  His mother’s and uncle’s eyes met for a moment.

  “If you wanna help get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow, think about what you saw. You know, with your eyes shut, and trying to picture what you might have seen.”

  “Okay, Uncle Frank.”

  “Now I need to talk to your mother. You go to bed, and don’t worry about nothing.”

  Uncle Frank’s stubble was scratchy and he smelled like cigarettes and Old Spice. But his hug made Angelo feel safe again.

  Instead of turning into his bedroom down the hall, his mother led Angelo to her bedroom.

  “You sleep in here with me tonight, Angel.”

  “Okay, Mama.” Angelo climbed into the large bed and under the thick comforter, a hand-me-down wedding present from his mother’s parents. He rolled over onto his back as his mother brought the cover up to his chin.

  “Angelo, are you sure you heard someone say aspetta?”

  “I think so, Mama.”

  “You know it’s Italian. It means—”

  “Wait.”

  “That’s right, Sweetheart. It means wait. And that’s what you heard?”

  “That’s what it sounded like.”

  “Okay, Angel. No more tonight.”

  “Mama,” Angelo said as his mother turned out the light, “I’m sorry.”

  She stopped short in the doorway. Backlit by the hall light, Angelo could see her frown. “Angelo.” She walked back to the bed. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing.”

  Bending over him in the dark, she placed a hand on either side of his face—carefully avoiding the fading bruise near his left eye—and kissed him on his head. A stray tear moistened his forehead.

  “Wait here.” She needlessly adjusted his cover. “I’ll get something for you to drink.”

  “What?”

  “Something Pompa used to make for Uncle Frank and me when we couldn’t sleep.”

  “And for Uncle Danny, too?”