Days of Eight (eBook)

2

Danny got up early for a Saturday. As soon as he did, Frankie sat up, wiped his nose, and started blabbering. “You shoulda seen it, Danny, you shoulda seen it! There was blood everywhere! They beat these Clicks up really bad! I saw the whole thing! And then the cops came and beat the Rats up! There were three of ’em! Me and Ma were there. We watched the whole thing. We did.”

Danny rubbed his eyes and scratched his head. “Huh?”

“There was a fight on the train when me and Ma were coming home.”

“A fight? What time did it happen?”

“I dunno, it was after the movies. It was kinda late.”

“Did you know any of them?” Danny asked, yawning and stretching his arms.

“Naw, I ain’t never seen any of ’em before. You shoulda seen it. The cops were waiting at the station; they beat the crap out of the Rats.”

“Hmm. Hey, I’m gonna get some breakfast. You hungry?”

“Yeah. I think we got some Cocoa Puffs.”

They both took a leak, went into the kitchen, and filled a couple of bowls with cereal and enough milk for everything to soak in. They carried them into the parlor and sat them on the coffee table. Danny turned the TV on and fiddled with the crumpled strips of aluminum foil clinging to the rabbit ears antenna until the static stopped and the picture was clear. After the third episode of The Three Stooges, Frankie burped, farted, and got up to get more cereal. Danny followed, putting his bowl in the sink and then going to the bathroom, where he closed the door and studied himself in the mirror, rubbing the stubble that peppered his cheeks. He removed his father’s razor, crusted with shaving soap, picturing his father shaving a thick mat of whiskers from his face. He ran the un-bladed shaver along his chin, listening for the sounds of scraping stubble. After a few more passes, he returned the rusted implement to the same place, hoping his mother wouldn’t notice it had been moved.

He returned to watch a little more television while the sun soon made its way out from behind the early morning clouds. He stretched his legs until they basked in the morning light, and when they were warm, he got up and went into his bedroom. He rifled through a pile of soiled clothes until he found a pair of dungarees. After sniffing them, he put them on, slid a T-shirt over his head, draped his Saint Christopher medal over his neck, and said a Hail Mary. He stuffed his arms through his sweatshirt and caught the scent of fresh coffee, something his mother made to entice Mrs. Feeney to come up so they could share the latest gossip. Marion, her neighbor, a chain-smoking, overweight nurse twice divorced, lived on the first floor with her frail mother, Kathleen, a seventy-two-year-old alcoholic who liked cheap scotch, nightgowns, and forty-ounce bottles of malt liquor.

“Morning, Ma,” Danny said as he shuffled into the kitchen.

“Good morning, honey. Did you get something to eat?”

“Yeah. Me and Frankie had some cereal.”

“Any plans for today?” she asked as she stirred some sugar into her cup.

“Naw, nothing really. I’m gonna hang out with the kids.”

She nodded agreeably in response.

“I’m gonna go. I’ll be back later.”

“Are you gonna be warm enough?”

“Yeah, no problem,” he said. “See you in a while.”

“Okay.”

Danny took the stairs two at a time down to the front porch, onto the sidewalk, and headed to Four Corners, crossing the street at Abe’s Pool Room, where greasy-haired guys in leather jackets and white T-shirts leaned against tall plate-glass windows painted over with black paint. The crew nodded and parted when Danny entered.

“Just looking around,” Danny said, nodding at Abe, who looked up from his dog-eared racing pages and nodded back. His desk was next to an old Coke machine that rumbled like a ’57 Chevy needing a tune-up. Eight drink-stained pool tables were crammed into a long, narrow building like a dresser drawer. A long wooden bench, carved with the names and initials of every guy in Dorchester, sat alongside a foul-smelling restroom wherein the stains in the toilets matched those on the walls and ceiling. None of the kids were there, so he left, went outside, and strolled past the corner drug store into the deli. A row of white-and-blue Naugahyde booths and Formica-topped tables trimmed in strips of stainless steel ran along the left side of the high-ceilinged dining room. A Seeburg jukebox anchored the back of the restaurant. To his right, a long counter with a row of spinning seats sat in front of a stainless-steel grill and a pair of stoves, where the owner made breakfast, lunch, and dinner, splattering the walls with grease and oil, thickly layered from years of cooking.

“Can I have a bag of chips?” Danny asked the waitress, a thin blond wearing a grease-and coffee-stained apron.

She grabbed a bag from the counter. “That’ll be ten cents.”

He handed her a dime, thanked her, and left. He passed Sullivan’s, a three-desk real estate office that always smelled of alcohol whenever a lease was signed or a house was sold. When he reached the Mount Bowdoin Y, he leaped up the wide, granite stairs and went through the large oak doors into the front office.

“Morning, Carl,” Danny said.

“Morning. You staying out of trouble?” Carl replied.

“Me?” Danny responded, lifting his hands in the air.

“No, the other guy.”

Danny laughed, paid the twenty-five cents entrance fee, and strolled through the foyer into the gym, past some little kids playing squash. He took the stairs two at a time to the boy’s room in the basement; none of the kids were around. After taking a leak, he headed upstairs to the second floor, where “Leader of The Pack” wafted through the hallway. He heard some female voices, but couldn’t place them. He caught his reflection in the window. He leaned forward, licked his hand, and patted his cowlick until it lay flat.

“Hey,” Danny said, sticking his thumbs in his belt loops—something he’d seen Paul Newman do once in a movie—as he entered the “Teen Room.” A jukebox sat in the corner. Several card tables and some magazines were scattered about. The place was full of girls, all of whom turned and stopped talking. Danny locked eyes with Becky Morrison, something he hadn’t planned. She was a tall, leggy blonde wearing a cherry red, high-collared sweater matching the color of her lips. A pair of false pearl earrings shimmered in her lobes. Her slacks, black as the ace of spades, looked like they had been painted on. She sliced him in half with her stare.

“Hi, Danny. How are you doing?” Patty asked in a pleasanter exchange.

“Um, good. What-are-you-up-to?” he replied, sounding as if he had a mouth full of rubber bands.

Unlike Becky, who dressed like a magazine model, Patty McNulty was Irish-pretty, freckled, blue-eyed, and light-haired. Patty wore a light blue sweater, jeans, saddle shoes, and white socks. Her hair, blending blonde streaks with red hints, flowed across her shoulders, complementing her freckles.

Becky was sitting next to Katie Campbell. Everyone called her Kat. She wore a pink skintight sweater that hugged her chest as tightly as her spandex slacks hugged her hips and ass. Her dark silky hair was tied in a ponytail with a matching pink bow. A pair of black pumps accented her slender ankles. “Hi, Danny,” Kat said, making the greeting sound like a solicitation.

“Um, hi.” Danny felt his mouth dry up. “You girls seen any of the kids?”

“Like who?” Patty replied.

Becky stood up, drawing everyone’s attention, fluffed her hair, leaned forward, and breathed on the window overlooking the church next door. She drew a little heart with her finger, stepped back, and admired her work. Danny waited a second before speaking.

“You know, the kids. Bugsy, Mooch, Charley, Mikey, and Billy.”

“I haven’t seen them,” Patty said. Becky coughed loud enough so everyone would notice her. She drew another heart, larger than the first one.

“Um, okay,” Danny said, shaking his head and turning to leave.

“G’bye,” Kat said in a syrupy voice. Danny felt a pulse in his stomach and another, lower, thicker one between his thighs.

“Bye-bye,” Patty added cheerfully.

Becky paid no attention to Danny; she started up again, “So I told her, for the second time, she shouldn’t call him. It’s not the first time like I said . . . blah, blah, blah.” Danny left the room, went downstairs, pushed the front door open, and glanced across the street at half a dozen black kids hanging out on the corner. He lit a cigarette, and they stared at him. He stared back just as hard. They yelled something he couldn’t make out. Danny took another drag on his cigarette and flicked the snipe in their direction. They shouted again, something he couldn’t make out. He gave them the finger and walked past Levine’s funeral home...