Weepers Read online

Page 2

“Danny, too.” She smiled. “You say your prayers and I’ll be right back.”

  “Okay.”

  In minutes, his mother returned. She placed a glass on the nightstand and then helped Angelo sit up. Holding the glass to his mouth, she said, “Here, drink this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Warm milk, some honey, and a touch of brandy. It will help you sleep, Sweetheart. Now drink it down.”

  Angelo took a sip and made a face. His mother held it back up to his lips until he was finished, then placed the empty glass back on the nightstand as he nestled in beneath the covers. Gathering her skirt in front, she lay down next to him and began to hum a familiar tune while gently stroking his head.

  He stirred when he felt her get up. She touched her lips to both his eyelids and his forehead. “God grant you peaceful dreams, my baby.”

  After she left, Angelo listened to the muffled voices through the closed door. When Pompa arrived, he heard his mother’s voice augmented by her fear.

  He could hear enough to know she was telling Pompa the story he had told her. He heard her say, “Aspetta, aspetta! Angelo heard it.”

  “Shhh, Anna. You’ll wake the boy,” Pompa said. “Frankie, what do you make of the gifts still being there?”

  He heard Uncle Frank say, “That bothers me, too, especially since Angelo said some Knights saw him.” Uncle Frank continued in little more than a whisper. “I figure the Knights saw something that scared them enough to keep them away.”

  Angelo tried to stay awake, but exhaustion and the brandy took hold of him and, through silent sobs and clinging fears, guided him into dreamless sleep on that chilly Christmas Eve.

  1957

  Chapter Two

  “And then there’s the edge thing.”

  “Tea, Annabella?” asked the priest as he entered his spartan office at Saint Joachim’s Catholic Church. He was holding a heavy silver tray in both hands. On the tray were two cups, a pot of strong black tea, and a beautiful buttermilk porcelain plate crowned with silver-dollar-sized shortbread cookies.

  Father Joseph Bonifacio was fifty-two years old, five-foot-eight, and built like a fire hydrant. The small scar that split his left eyebrow publicized his Golden Glove youth. He had a gentle smile and while his brown eyes invited trust, it was his matter-of-fact edge that served him best on these wicked streets. He wore a black, short-sleeved shirt with an embroidered cross on the pocket. The top button of the placket was open and the white pontiff’s tab askew.

  Father Joe, as he liked to be called, deftly kicked his office door shut with the heel of his right foot and moved to the large, well-worn wooden chair behind his desk.

  “Annabella,” Anna repeated. “You’re the only one who still calls me that, Father Joe.”

  “Hard to believe, you’re still the most beautiful flower in this neighborhood.”

  This was exactly what Anna wanted. She’d made the appointment to talk about Angelo, but she also needed to be reassured.

  Rosemarie Moran, her best friend and neighbor, had been worried about Anna’s lingering melancholy and convinced her to see Father Joe. Anna agonized but made the appointment.

  “Well, thank you. But frankly, it’s hard to trust the judgment of someone drinking hot tea on a day like this,” she said. “It must be eighty degrees out there.”

  “Eighty-two. I have always admired the way hot tea can, at the same time, comfort you and stimulate conversation.” Father Joe placed the tray on his oversized, uncluttered wooden desk. Without looking up, he poured tea into the two cups and passed one across his desk to Anna, who was seated in a smaller wooden chair in front of the desk.

  The aroma of black tea mixed favorably with the lingering scent of cigarette smoke and incense. Until Father Joe closed his door, she was listening to the radio playing in the outer office. Now she could faintly hear Elvis Presley singing “Loving You.” Elvis made her feel good. Sinatra made her feel lonely. But it was Johnnie Ray who pierced through years of restrained sadness and stirred her soul.

  “Thank you for the tea.”

  “How’s your mother, Anna?”

  “She’s fine. So’s my father,” she added a little too quickly. Fearing that she sounded like she wanted to dispense with small talk and get on with why she was there—which indeed was the case—she added, “I’m taking Angelo and Adam there for dinner tonight.”

  “Your parents are good people.”

  “I know.”

  “And Mac’s brother, Johnny. How is he?”

  “Johnny’s okay. He’s still afraid to leave the apartment. He spends his time cleaning that rifle he brought home from the war, exercising, reading, and looking out the window. I know the people in the neighborhood call him ‘the ghost.’ He’s very pale, but healthy and strong—and he adores Angelo.”

  “You know I could still have him stay with me.”

  “We’ve been through that…and anyway, he helps me as much as I help him. He’s good company.”

  “Okay, so Anna, dear,” he said, with an understanding smile, and taking a cautious sip of tea, “talk to me.”

  Anna sighed. “Father Joe, you’ve known Angelo since he was born—”

  “Ha! I’ve known you since you were born.” He picked up an open pack of Camels that had been resting against an empty ashtray on his desk and offered a cigarette to Anna.

  “Thanks, but I’m quitting.” She watched Father Joe light his cigarette. “Angelo is wonderful. I know, every mother feels that way about her child, but Angelo had this light behind his eyes.”

  “Had?”

  “He’s changing. Becoming more like…like where we live…the projects. He’ll be thirteen in two days, and I know a lot of this could just be growing up, but I’m worried.”

  “It’s only natural that Angelo is changing. Remember when he’d first learned to walk? He would take a few steps and then look back.”

  “Yeah, but now when he looks back, he’s looking for his friends, and believe me, his friends are not the best influence on him.”

  “No, Anna, he’s looking back to make sure you are still there,” Father Joe said in a comforting voice. But then he added, “Are you?”

  * * *

  Angelo, usually alert to danger, especially after delivering groceries, mumbled to the sidewalk as he sauntered against the summer heat back to Bookman’s delicatessen, failing to notice the five teens closing in on him as he walked along Monroe Street. This was not the first time a kid returning from a delivery with money in his pocket was targeted. But he was quicker to recognize danger, and to dodge it. But not this time.

  He finally spotted them out of the corner of his eye as he started to cross the wide, trash-laden thoroughfare running adjacent to the Manhattan Bridge—Pike Street. The teens walking along Pike toward Monroe Street were wearing sky-blue shirts with a small image of Popeye on the left front pocket. These were South Street Boys—Popeyes. All of Angelo’s senses kicked in as two of the South Street Boys broke off to circle behind him.

  Angelo figured that by the time he got across Pike, the other three would be less than six feet to his right and moving quickly toward him. If he ran now, so would they, and it would be too close to call. Plus, even though the two behind him were pretty far back, he would have to run to his left, toward South Street, where there would surely be more South Street Boys. No, he needed to get back to Bookman’s, and that was straight ahead.

  He would not look directly at them; the only thing he had going was that they didn’t know that he knew. He needed something. Some advantage. But no matter what, this was going to be a hard run. Angelo knew he was quick; he just needed an edge. They moved toward him. And then it came to him.

  Angelo turned toward the three South Street Boys on his right and looking past them, waved and shouted, “Uncle Danny, wait up.” It worked. The three boys stopped and turned toward no one, but in that moment, they lost their momentum, and Angelo was flying down Monroe Street.

  “Get him!” one of th
e South Street Boys shouted, and the teens were in angry pursuit.

  Angelo dashed down Monroe toward Market Street with three of his pursuers thirty feet behind him. The two who had circled to his rear earlier gave up and slowed to a fast walk. The slap, slap, slap of Angelo’s sneakers echoed as he ran under the Manhattan Bridge. The bridge’s dark refuge was home to several bums crouched in black alcoves, rats digging through trash, and a decomposing cat under a blanket of humming and crawling insects. Here, the soggy summer scent surrendered to a wall of urine, excrement, and decay. He tried to hold his breath, but his breathing was already strained.

  “I gotcha, ya little shit,” cackled one of the alcove residents, reaching out toward Angelo. A startled Angelo spun out of the way but in doing so, lost his advantage, and the three South Street Boys were now gaining on him.

  He recovered his bearings and bolted on course and out from under the bridge. Taking a deep gulp of air, he hit Market Street at an angle, just in case a car was coming. It was clear. He crossed Market with his pursuers now trailing by less than twenty feet.

  The boy ran up the stoop of the first tenement on Market and Monroe. The entrance door to the tenement was held open by a trash can. Two older women sitting on the stoop moved to the side as Angelo shot past them. Hand over hand on the banister, he pulled himself up the steps two at a time, the South Street Boys one flight below and gaining.

  Angelo slammed open the metal door to the roof with a bang! sending an explosion of pigeons scattering into the overcast sky. He bolted onto the roof and ran toward Catherine Street.

  Angelo knew the roofs the way a smitten sea captain knew the ocean. He ran from roof to roof, some lower than others. He leaped alleyways and airshafts. And he did it without slowing down a bit.

  On one of the roofs, six teenagers on blankets were packing up from a day at “Tar Beach.” Their radio was still on and Angelo could hear the Del Vikings singing Come Go with Me as he increased speed. He was now at full gallop; he was clicking, and he felt like he could fly.

  His pursuers, not as certain of the terrain and uneasy on these open, fenceless roofs, slowed down.

  “The kid’s a roof rat,” one of the Popeyes said. “We’ll never catch him up here.”

  By the time Angelo reached the roof next to St. Joseph’s, on the corner of Monroe and Catherine Streets, his pursuers had given up the chase.

  Angelo panted, drenched with sweat as he walked over to the edge of the roof facing Monroe Street. He took little steps until his toes were perfectly even with the rim of the roof. Chin on chest, he looked straight down and imagined falling. Window by window, floor by floor…falling. Vertigo tugged at his belt.

  Angelo lifted his chin and looked straight ahead at the building across the street. A woman in a window watched him with more curiosity than concern. She sat in a chair pushed against her open window. Her elbows rested on a pillow placed on the windowsill.

  Turning his attention back to the street, Angelo asked himself, “May I take another baby step?” “Yes, you may,” he answered and edged out over the roof about an inch. His stomach churned. His arms were limp at his sides. Angelo smelled a storm coming. His tongue tasted like turpentine. He could see people sitting on stoops and walking along Monroe Street. A young priest across the street stopped walking and looked up at him.

  Angelo looked straight up at the sky—gray sea foam rolled over the tenements toward him. He felt even more lightheaded. He recalled his father saying, “Angelo, don’t get too far ahead.” Papa. He took a deep breath, backed away from the roof’s brim, and jogged over to the roof on Catherine Street next to Bookman’s. He ran down the four flights and through the front door of the tenement. And there, at the top of the stoop, Angelo became immobile at the sight of Liz Brennan.

  Liz and two of her girlfriends were standing on the sidewalk in front of the stoop. Liz lived in this building. She was fifteen, wearing tight jeans with folded-up cuffs and a pale-blue short-sleeve shirt. He heard her say hello to the priest he’d seen from the roof. Angelo loved her voice.

  He was frozen there on top of her stoop when she turned toward him. Surprised to see him coming out of her building, she smiled. Angelo swallowed hard. He smiled timidly and walked down the steps of the stoop, more nervous than at any point during his recent race from harm. But he would not run now—not even if a Buick were going to fall on him.

  “Hi, Angelo,” Liz said as he walked toward them.

  “Hi,” Angelo said, still a bit breathless.

  “He’s cute,” one of the other girls said, ruffling Angelo’s hair. “Wish he were older.”

  “Bye, Angelo,” sang the third girl.

  “He’s sweet,” Liz said to her friends.

  Angelo waved without turning around as he walked away from them and into Bookman’s.

  * * *

  Anna was stunned by Father Joe’s question and stared at him for an uncomfortable minute, shaking her head. She finally said, “Am I there?”

  “I’m asking if you—”

  “Me? Am I there?” Anna leaned forward. Her hands gripped the arms of the wooden chair. “How dare you imply that I’m not there for my boys. You have no—”

  “How dare I? We have always been like family. I was there when you were born. You are like my own daughter. How dare I if I were not willing to talk to you about this.”

  “I don’t want to talk about me. I came here to talk about Angelo.” Anna started to get up. This was not going the way Anna had imagined it would.

  “We are talking about Angelo, Anna. Sit down!”

  “I don’t want to talk about me,” she said, trying to redirect the discussion while sitting back in her chair. It was too late to leave.

  “We have to. It’s in Angelo’s best interest.” He took a long drag off his cigarette and blew the smoke into the air away from Anna. “Are you there?”

  Anna eyes filled with tears. It seemed like an eternity before she replied. “I don’t know.”

  Anna didn’t remember Father Joe putting his cigarette out and leaving his chair behind his large desk. She did not remember him walking around to where she was sitting, or her chair being moved. But suddenly her chair was turned away from the desk and he was kneeling on the floor in front of her, his strong arms wrapped around her shoulders and neck. She was leaning forward with her face buried under his chin and she was softly crying. He held her as she cried.

  Anna hated crying in front of anyone. She was raised with brothers and could hold her own. She hated being thought of as weak. Pitied. Patted like a child. She pulled herself together. Regaining control over her dragons, she forced them back down into the shadowy prison of her stomach. “I’m sorry—”

  Father Joe took a bright white handkerchief out of his pocket and patted her eyes. He kissed her forehead and handed her the handkerchief. He lifted himself up and into the empty wooden chair next to her.

  “I’m just a little emotional right now—”

  “Anna, I don’t want you ever to say, ‘I should have been there for Angelo.’” He looked directly into her dissolving, pepper-gray eyes. “It’s not too late for you and Angelo. I just want you to tell me how you really feel.”

  “I’m unraveling.”

  “Let’s see, you’re a thirty-one-year-old woman without a husband, working a full-time job at the Journal-American while raising two sons and taking care of your brother-in-law for the last six years. And you’re doing all this day after day while living in the projects. Frankly, Anna, I couldn’t do it. I would have unraveled a long time ago.”

  “Sooo?”

  “So, let’s talk honestly about you and Angelo and Adam.”

  “Primarily Angelo.”

  “Okay, Angelo. But Adam will learn from Angelo. And from you.” Father Joe watched as Anna’s gaze found the floor. “What am I missing, Anna?”

  * * *

  Father Robert Casimiro headed down Madison Street toward Roosevelt Street and St. Joachim’s. His head turned from si
de to side, taking in the swirl of movement. The smells of sausage, onions, and peppers grilling at the corner stand. The sound of children laughing and daring each other to jump from the swings they were pumping in the concrete playground attached to Public School Number One. He stopped for a moment to watch a group of boys playing punchball on the same playground. He’d been in New York for less than twenty-four hours and already loved the city.

  Father Casimiro was twenty-eight, almost six feet tall, and fit. His coffee-brown hair, which he groomed by wetting it and shaking his head dry like a dog, lay in any direction it wished. Ever since Father Joseph Bonifacio’s keynote address at Saint Lawrence, Father Casimiro had wanted to work with this inspiring and dedicated priest. And long before that, he’d wanted to work in the slums of New York’s Lower East Side. Both dreams came true.

  He continued to stroll along Madison Street. Two men sat in lawn chairs in front of a funeral home. He smiled at them and nodded.

  “Hello, Father,” said the larger man, removing a cigar from his mouth and returning the priest’s nod.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Father Casimiro said, looking back and smiling as he inadvertently walked into a boy. The boy, who looked like he was in his mid-teens, was carrying a white paper cup filled with lemon ice.

  “Hey, watch where you’re goin’, Pal,” the boy said as he stopped and looked at the priest. The boy was wearing dark pants and a black T-shirt with two narrow red stripes going around the collar and the edge of the short sleeves. On the front left side was a small crest with the boy’s name, Jimmy, in red script below it. Two more boys wearing black T-shirts came out of a grocery store carrying lemon ice and stopped behind Jimmy.

  “Here, hold this,” said Jimmy, handing his lemon ice to one of the other boys with Andy on his pocket.

  “Hey, Jimmy, he’s a priest.” One of the boys took the lemon ice and looked at the other.

  “So what?” Jimmy said. “He still should apologize. Ain’t that right, Priest?”