Bloodbrothers (34 page)

"Chub...

"Hoowah!" His backhand slap knocked her rolling, sprayed the white glossy enamel of the stove with a riddle of blood from her split lip. She sat up on the floor, staring at him in wild-eyed disbelief, lightly touching her wounded mouth.

Chubby aimed a kick at her face, but Phyllis deflected the tip of his shoe with her arms. A sickening crack. She screamed in pain, staring at the limp hand hanging from her broken wrist. The kick threw Chubby off balance, and he flopped backward on his ass with a grunt.

"Chubby! Oh God!" Phyllis tried to drag herself to the corner of the kitchen. Chubby was all business. He crawled after her and dragged her to him by the ankle. On his knees now he held her by the front of her blouse, reared back and punched her square in the nose. A flash of pain like lightning branched out over her face. The linoleum was splattered with rain and blood. The momentum of the punch toppled Chubby over her as if they were in the kitchen for a quickie. From the back of his throat rose that high-pitched whining singsong again. She tried to scream, but the pressure from her broken nose sent shock waves across her face. Chubby heard laughing. He struggled to his knees again, straddling her chest.

"Laughin', hah? Funny?" He lifted her slightly off the ground by the hair, caught her with a murderous slap along the jaw. Her head bounced hard against the floor. Chubby still heard the laughing. Pulled her unconscious to her feet, her head bobbing backward as if her neck were a broken hinge. Laughing. Chubby bellowed as he punched her in the chest. She sank to the floor, knocking over a dinette chair. Chubby lunged after her but his feet got tangled in the legs of the upended chair. He sailed into the living room wall, smacking his head. He sat up in front of the TV like a six-year-old, watched Lassie for thirty seconds, holding his forehead and rocking in a circular motion. Far away he heard fists pounding on the door. Squinting, his eyes focused on Phyllis' impossibly twisted body. He reached forward to straighten her out, decided to turn off the television first and dropped on his face out cold.

***

Early Sunday morning Tommy and Marie sat in Cresthaven Hospital staring in shock at the centerfold of the
Sunday Daily News.

VIOLENCE IN CO-OP CITY

Louis V. De Coco (49) (c) is being led handcuffed from 100-12 Kennedy Place, Co-op City by Ptl. Lucius Packard (r) and Ptl. Frank McConnachie (1) after severely beating his wife Phyllis De Coco (45).

De Coco sees wife on stretcher emerging from building entrance, begins to break loose from Packard and McConnachie.

De Coco on knees, crying in front of stretcher as Packard and McConnachie take him back into custody.

Responding to complaints of screams from apartment 11 A, Patrolmen McConnachie and Packard broke into the De Coco residence at 9:15 p.m. yesterday evening, found the apartment in shambles. Both Louis and Phyllis De Coco were unconscious on the living room floor. Phyllis De Coco is in fair condition at Cresthaven Hospital suffering from a broken nose, a broken jaw, a fractured wrist, a cracked sternum and numerous contusions and lacerations. Louis De Coco suffered a mild concussion, was treated, booked and is being held for psychiatric observation at Jacobi Hospital. The cause of the fight is unknown.

Tommy and Marie sat pale and numb like battered refugees on a long wooden bench in the waiting area outside of surgery.

"Mr. De Coco?" A black cop knelt in front of them, supporting his weight on the balls of his feet. "I'm Officer Packard." He glanced down at the newspaper. "Do you have any idea what that whole thing was all about?" He produced a thick, black, paper-stuffed worn leather notebook from his rear pocket.

"You tell me." Tommy was impassive.

"Mrs. De Coco?"

Marie nodded dumbly.

"Has your brother ever had any history of any kind of... ah, disorder? Has he ever been hospitalized?"

Tommy thought of last week at Roosevelt Hospital. "No way."

"How's Phyllis?" Marie asked.

"She's pretty busted up. But she'll be O.K. She's not pressing charges."

"What's that mean?"

"That means we can't hold him. He's over at Jacobi. He'll probably be out in a day or two. They got him out on sedatives. He had a concussion."

"Yeah, I read it in the papers." Tommy smirked.

"Why don't you people go home?"

"Can we see Phyllis?"

Packard turned to Marie. "No visitors tonight. Maybe tomorrow or Tuesday."

"Well, what's the story with my brother?" Tommy asked.

"I don't think so." Packard shook his head. "He'll be home soon."

The double doors in the hallway swung open. Stony strode in in a T-shirt and wrinkled chinos, a copy of the newspaper rolled in his fist. His eyes were red, and his hair flew in six directions. When he saw his parents he started crying. Packard glanced down, noticing Stony was barefoot. Tommy grabbed Stony's hand and sat him down. "This is my kid." Stony leaned against his father's chest, rubbing his eyes.

"You have any idea what happened?" Packard asked Stony.

"He don't know nothin'. Hey, you sure it wasn't burglary?"

Packard nodded. "No way." He stood up, hissing, as he stretched his legs. "You folks want anything? Some coffee?"

Three mute no's.

"Well, look, if anything comes up, call me at this number." He tore a piece of paper from his notebook and handed it to Tommy. He smiled briefly, walked away, then turned around. "Mr. De Coco?" He nodded for Tommy to come to him. They walked down the corridor out of earshot. "Lissen ... ah ... did your brother have anything goin' on the side?"

"No." Flat and formal.

"How about her?"

"Phyllis? You gotta be kiddin'."

"Hmph." Packard placed his hands on his hips. "You got the key to his place?"

"Yeah." Tommy dug into his pocket. Packard stopped him. "Look, I seen a dozen of these things before. Guys flippin' out like that, tearin' up the place, beatin' on their wives. You been up there yet?"

"Whadya mean?"

"The apartment."

"No." Tommy shrugged, confused.

"That place is a mess, lotta blood and busted-up furniture. Now, your brother will probably be home Monday. If I were you I would go up there sometime today and clean it up. Your brother comes home, sees it like he left it, he might go nuts again, you know what I mean?"

***

That afternoon it poured worse than Saturday. The four De Cocos walked around the house like zombies. Nobody talked, turned on the TV or the lights. When the phone rang, everybody jumped out of their skins.

"Tommy?"

"Chub!" Tommy's stomach flipped. "Howya doin'? What happened? Where are ya?"

"I'm fuckin' sick to my heart, Tom. I'm so goddamn ashamed. I'm still in Jacobi. I can't ever look her in the face again."

"Hey, the doctor says she'll be O.K."

"I know."

"What the fuck happened?"

"I can't talk about it. How the fuck am I gonna make it up, Tom? How many fuckin' flowers do I gotta buy? Oh God, I just wanna fuckin' crawl into a hole somewheres an' die. When I heard she didn't press charges I broke down an' cried like a baby. How's Stony takin' it?"

"Stony? He's O.K. He's a little blown out. So am I. Were you drunk?"

"A little. Tom, look, I can't talk. I want you to do me a solid. I'm comin' home tomorrow. Please, you an' Stony, go up there tonight and clean the place, O.K.?"

"You wanna live with us until Phyllis gets out? Stony'll sleep on the couch."

"No... no, just clean it up."

"It's no hassle, if you wanna..."

"No, no, babe, just clean up my place."

"Sure. You want me to get you anything?"

"No thanks. Look, I'll be home tomorrow morning. I'll talk to you then, O.K.?"

"Sure, babe."

"Tom? I love you."

"I love you too, Chub."

***

Stony lay on his bed in the rainy darkness. The shades were drawn. He lay with his hands behind his head staring at the skyline of books. Thinking about Monday. Back to the hospital. Derek. Tyrone. Spit brothers. Construction work. Doctor Harris. Butler's Hosiery Palace. Anything but Chubby.

A knock on the door. "Yeah."

"Can I come in?" Tommy sounded almost apologetic.

"Yeah."

Tommy sat on the bed next to Stony's legs, putting a hand on his stomach. "We got a job, kiddo."

As father and son approached the door to Chubby's apartment, Stony was shaking. He had walked to this door a million times before, but now it seemed unfamiliar—sinister. Murderous. Tommy carried a mop and a red plastic bucket filled with sponges, dustcloths and Comet. Stony also held a mop. They were silent as Tommy dug into his pocket for the keys. He fumbled at the lock. Cursed. Dropped the keys. Dropped the bucket. The Comet rolled down the hallway. Stony chased after it. When he stooped to pick it up he felt dizzy and almost keeled over.

"Pop?"

Tommy didn't answer. He kept fouling up opening the double locks. Locked one, unlocked the other. Unlocked one, locked the other. Finally the door swung open. Tommy and Stony stepped back then. Tommy strode in; Stony hesitated, then followed. The apartment was like a haunted house. Cautiously they walked down the long foyer, holding their mops like carbines. Everything was immaculate but it felt like someone might jump out any second and dismember them both. They heard laughter from the living room. Music. The television was still on. Stony was relieved that everything was in order. They walked into the kitchen. Stony gasped. Cold enamel blazing white under the fluorescent overhead light splashed with brown blood. Splattered linoleum. A smashed blender on the floor. A bloody handprint blurred on the washing machine. Tommy whistled long and low. The light chain swung lazily over their heads like a noose. Stony felt nauseated, dropped his mop. Bent down to pick it up and fell backward on his ass. Automatically he reached for a cigarette.

"Oh, my God," Tommy groaned. Stony followed his stare into the dinette. A smashed chair lay like the carcass of a rotting animal. A broad stroke of blood was smeared on the dinette wall, as if it had been laid on with a paintbrush. Stony crawled through the dinette into the living room. Ran his hand lightly over the stained rug. The stiff fibers were caked with blood. Stony scraped a tiny ball of crust off the rug with his nails. Sat there rolling it between his fingers like snot.

"We'll never get this out." Tommy stood near Stony.

Stony looked up at him. "Turn off the TV," he mumbled. As Tommy moved to the set, Stony stretched out like a cat on all fours, arched his belly downward, heaved a few times and finally vomited, the vicious contractions of his stomach making him cry in pain.

***

Stony sat powwow style in the kitchen, a sponge pungent with Comet in his lap. Tommy was rigorously scrubbing the rug with something foamy laying like sediment on top of the stains. "It's a good thing Phyllis uses them plastic slipcovers," he yelled into the kitchen. "Saved the fuckin' couch. She shoulda had one on the damn rug," he grunted as he scrubbed.

Stony stared at a small bloodstain in front of his face on the cabinet door below the sink. It looked like the profile of a witch on a broomstick. She was flying into a strong wind that swept back her hair and her long brown skirt. Her nose was hooked like a claw. She was old.

"What the fuck you doin' in here?" Tommy fumed. Stony didn't move. Tommy knelt down, grabbed the sponge from Stony's lap, curled Stony's fingers around it and moved his son's hand up and down the side of the washing machine.

"Snap out of it, Stones." He moved Stony's limp arm up and down like a puppeteer. "Act like a man."

Stony continued to stare straight ahead, oblivious to the movement of his arm. He screamed. The witch had moved.

***

Stony lay in bed, the covers up to his chin. The room was pitch black. Tommy opened the door, a slice of light like a deep cut in the darkness. Television noise trickled into the room. Tommy sat on the bed. Stony stared over his shoulder.

"You cold?" Stony didn't answer. Tommy lit a cigarette, the small explosion of light illuminating his face like a Halloween pumpkin. He exhaled into the darkness. "Stony, there are some things a man has to do." He ran his thumb down his mustache. "Ah, fuck it. Look, it's over. Tomorrow you go back to the hospital. I ain't gonna hassle you no more." He smoked in silence for a long moment. "When I was a kid I useta belong to this gang, The Fox Street Gougers, tough kids. The initiation was you had to jump on the back of a subway train, you know, hang on to the rail on the last car and ride it three stops. Me an' this kid Pete Maddarasso was doin' a double initiation. We jumped on the train at a Hundred and Forty-ninth Street and the Concourse. The whole gang was on the platform watchin'. I was scared shit but I wanted to be in that gang so bad. Anyways, we both jump on, ride down to a Hundred and Thirty-eighth Street. Everything's cool. All of a sudden the subway makes this sharp turn 'n' Pete loses his grip. I tried to catch him, but it happened too fast. The poor fuckin' kid fell on the third rail—burned to death. You know what I did? I stayed on the back of the train for the next two stops so I could pass the initiation." Tommy took another drag. "There's a fuckin' initiation for everybody." He stood up, sighing. "Baby, tonight was yours." He leaned down and kissed Stony on the lips.

A
N HOUR LATER
Stony was walking naked through the sleeping apartment. His fingers still smelled of Comet. To him it smelled like cunt, but he knew what it was and why it was on his skin. Leaving the light off, he washed his hands in the bathroom, rubbed some after shave on his palms. He shuffled into the living room, sat down on the overstuffed couch and listened to the distant grinding of the electric wall clock in the kitchen. The brocade material of the couch felt scratchy on his ass. He got up. squatted next to a tall stack of records. In the darkness he pulled out a James Brown album, slipped it onto the turntable, adjusted the volume to the lowest audible level and sat cross-legged on the rug. Before the arm hit the record the phone rang with a shrill heart-freezing suddenness.