Family Reunion
I
Later, it was poker night. Let me rephrase that, every night was poker night back then. It didn’t matter if it was Ash Wednesday or Thanksgiving night, there was somebody always in attendance. I played probably four to six nights a week depending on how my luck was runnin’ that particular week. I know this sounds strange and is maybe even a little contradictory, but poker and gambling kept me out of a lot of trouble in those days. I could have been spending five hundred dollars a week on shit I put up my nose, or smoked in a pipe, or placed on my tongue, or rolled in a paper. I have no doubt that if I had taken that road it would have been the end of me, not only because of the self-destructive habit itself, but because I had no job. I would have had to steal or deal to keep my habit going, or maybe even worse
Anyway I’m getting off the subject. Tonight was poker night, and our poker games were always held at Pick Bryant’s dad’s tavern. Pick had a problem keeping his finger out of his nose during the kindergarten through second grade years, and never could shake the name. It was one of those names hung on people that started off as joke or a way to make fun, but it ended up just being a name. He was Pick to all of us. He even called himself Pick. Anyway the name of the place was simply ‘The Tavern’. The name wasn’t hung outside the entrance in neon or anything like that. In fact there was no sign anywhere on the building, but I assure you everyone in the city of Collingston knew exactly where The Tavern was. It was located in the East End of town. Not the greatest neighborhood in the world for sure, but it attracted all types—factory workers, police, garbage men, lawyers, doctors, brick layers, bums, babes, you name it. The outside was brick that probably hadn’t been powerwashed since the building was built in the early 1900s.
I have no proof of this but it is rumored that Al Capone and the boys would stop in the place on their routes from Chicago to St. Louis. There was even a secret trap door that was used to get to the basement if the police should arrive. That door has since been removed and the floor boarded up. A picture hung on the wall behind the bar of a man holding a Tommy gun and dressed to the nines; it was supposed to be one of Al’s top guys, but like I said, I have no proof.
Carl Stumot was a regular at The Tavern. In the hundreds of times I'd been there, Carl was there every time. Sometimes I wondered if he ever left the place.
Carl sat at the far end of the bar, drinking Miller Lite draft beer in a sixteen-ounce mug for a buck and a quarter. He wore a dirty olive green coat that hung down past his waist, some kind of old beret with earflaps, brown trousers, and big galoshes-style boots that could have waded him through a foot of water. Carl had nappy gray hair sticky out from under his cap and a goatee that was wrapped with some sort of rubber band. He looked like a mix between a Chinamen and an African. I never asked him what race he was, never had any reason to. As much as the man drank I’d never heard him stutter or slur a word. He knew every line of every song on the jukebox and was not afraid to sing aloud if a tune he like played, even though many of those anthems were written well after his prime. The man 23
didn’t sit there and pound beers by any means, but he did drink at a steady pace for a good five hours a night, and who knows how many he had drunk before coming down to the bar.
I made my way to the back room, stopping briefly to say hello to Carl, who was seated in his usual spot at the end of the bar.
“What’s up, Carl?” I asked
“Ah, just having a drink. And you?”
“Playing poker here in a minute,” I said. “You’re here a little early tonight aren’t you?”
“Ah, those goddamn crack whores won’t leave me alone. They keep banging on my door. I had to come down here to get away from them. I told them before to leave me the hell alone. I don’t want anything from them.”
I smiled and asked Laura the bartender if she could break my twenty into ones.
“Who’s your friend?” I asked, nodding to the guy seated next to Carl.
“Not my friend,” he began. “I can talk to anyone about anything, but this man is a babbling fool, not being able to say anything worth listening to.”
The man next to him was swaying back and forth on his bar stool with an unlit cigarette stuck to his lip, and using what brain cells he had left to keep his eyes from falling shut. Four pennies and a full mug of beer sat in front of the man.
He leaned in toward Carl closing his eyes completely as if this would help him talk.
“Yer buy, I’m need another beer,” the man babbled.
Carl picked up the man’s already full mug and slammed it back on the counter hard enough to open the man’s eyes.
“Okay there you go now,” Carl said.
The man snapped his head back in surprise noticing the beer in front of him. He began to talk again in almost English.
“Geez Carl (it sounded like Curl) that was quick, I owes ya,” the man said.
“No worries my friend,” Carl responded, shaking his head and smiling at me.
“Well Carl, have a good one,” I said picking up the ones from the bartender.
“Ah, and you as well sir,” Carl said holding up his beer to toast me, even though I had no beer.
I made my way through the pool players and their tables in the second room, thinking about Carl. A smile came to my face. It was well known that Carl, if bothered enough, would give in to the temptations of the crack whores. I guess a five-dollar blowjob doesn’t sound too bad to a man of his age. But even in Carl’s simple world, five-dollar blowjobs can complicate life.
I entered the third room—the one we played poker in. It wasn’t completely finished. The drop ceiling covered only half the room, the walls weren’t painted, and the only form of heat was a small propane tank that sat right next to our table.
When Pick’s dad had a good couple of months he would pay the local dry-wallers and electricians under the table to work on the room. The work was slow and the money slim. That was just fine with us though, the longer it took to finish, the 24
longer we had a place for our game, and not just anyplace. We were like old-time mobsters hid out from the rest of the crowd. We drank whatever we wanted even though we were all under age. The bartender even came back especially to take our orders. The police knew about our little game, but since one of our regulars was the son of a cop, they didn’t throw up any fuss. Al Capone would have been proud.
Johnny the Killer, Pick, and two others sat at the table, already playing.
“I thought you had the flu?” I commented.
Johnny smiled. “I’m feeling a lot better. Needed to get out of the house.
Glad you worried about me though.”
“Where’s Jack and Brunno?” I asked.
Johnny pulled the cigar out of his mouth. “They’re running an errand.
They’ll be here later.”
Pick giggled like a little girl at this. I wasn’t sure what the joke was but I wasn’t in the mood to play twenty questions with Johnny. I put my coat on the back of a chair and sat down.
We played dollar antes. You could bet two, bump two. That way it never got too out of hand, and also the big winner that night couldn’t buy the pot by out-betting everybody. We played all different games from five and seven stud to Texas hold ‘em to match pot games. When it came your time to deal, you got to call the game. Johnny pushed the cards over to me. Evidently it was my time to deal. I threw in my dollar and the rest of the guys followed. I shuffled the cards, offered Pick a cut (which he took knowing that I didn’t cheat, and even if I wanted to I was not smart enough or talented enough to set the deck), and started passing them out.
“Chicago,” I said. Maybe because I had mobsters still on the mind.
Chicago was a seven-stud game. First two cards down, next four up, last one down, bet on every card after the first two. The low spade down split half the pot with the winner of highest hand. In theory you could win the entire pot if you had both the low spade and the best hand. I liked the game because you were betting on two different things, and in that confusion sometimes people would give away their hands.
After several rounds of betting and sticking to my guns everyone folded except for Johnny. He was the Killer, you know? I had raised him the only time he bet and bet the max every time. I controlled the game. After several seconds of contemplation the words I wanted to hear came from Johnny’s mouth. “Take it,”
he said.
Johnny would have beaten me with his up cards if he stayed, but I bluffed him by the way I bet and bumped. Johnny should have stayed if for no other reason than he had quite a bit of money in the pot, and if you go that far you should pay to see the other guy’s hand. But Johnny’s arrogance got the best of him once again. He would rather lose money and fold, than stay and take the risk of losing to me.
“What’d you have?” Johnny asked.
25
“You’re supposed to pay to see them, Johnny,” I said as I collected the money in the pot. I was just about to mix my cards in with everyone else’s when he grabbed me by the wrist.
“I said what’d you have?” Johnny grabbed my wrist and flipped my cards over.
He looked, trying to see something that wasn’t there.
“The fucking four of spades. That’s all you had. Goddamn, I would have won half the pot.”
As quickly as he got pissed he calmed down and lit another cigar.
“You’re suppose to pay to see them,” I said again.
“What’s your problem lately, Tony? You don’t hang out no more. You eat lunch with some faggot janitor. What’s the deal?” Johnny asked.
“He’s not a faggot janitor. He’s just like me and you.... only smarter.”
“If I didn’t know you, I mean if we didn’t grow up together, if our ma’s didn’t get their nails done together, I’d think you were taking up for him, stabbing me in the back. Whose side are you on anyway?”
“I didn’t know I was supposed to be on a side,” I said back.
Before Johnny could say anything else there was some commotion in the other room and then the door opened. It was Jack and Brunno and they weren’t in good shape. Jack had a huge goose egg over his eye almost to the point of being swelled shut. Brunno had tears running down his face and a bag of ice over his right hand. Dry blood had formed a river from his nostrils, down his lips to the end of his chin. Johnny sat them both down at the table. The two new guys that were playing poker with us looked uneasy.
“I think my fu-fu-fuckin’ hand and nose is broke,” Brunno said, breathing heavy.
Jack grabbed some of the ice from the bag on Brunno’s hand and put it up to his eye.
Johnny looked Jack and Brunno over. His face had the presence of disgust and pity mixed together. “Don’t tell me the two of you got your ass beat by the fucking janitor.”
Jack and Brunno looked at each other and then dropped their heads simultaneously.
“Not exactly,” Jack began.
It seemed the geek janitor had been busy taking out the trash so to speak.
Roman somehow beat the tar out of Johnny’s two best men. And according Jack he did it without ever throwing a punch.
II
I got to school twenty minutes early the next morning. I looked for Roman but was not successful. To be honest I didn’t know where to look. I had no idea where his locker was or what floor it was on for that matter. I did though hear a couple of things from random people in the hallway that morning. Some of them I knew well, some I had never talked to in my life. They were talking about Roman. They were talking about his little run-in with Jack and Brunno. They were talking about him giving Johnny the Killer mouth to mouth. As I walked to 26
my class I only caught bits and pieces of several different stories but one thing was for sure. The legend of Roman Swivel was growing.
Not hard to believe. Like I said before, people are looking for anything to break up the boredom of school life, the more controversial the better. It’s amazing how this story was told to about seven people at the most, and overnight everyone and their brother knew about it. That’s how high school was though.
Fragments of the story that I heard had been somewhat changed and in some cases over-exaggerated. One account said that Roman picked Jack up over his head and body slammed him head first to the ground. All it took was for one of those new guys to tell one of their girlfriends the story and pretty soon cell phones and pagers would start blowing up like fireworks. For information to travel the fastest, you knew a girl had to be involved. My mom even asked me about the story later that day. Needless to say she had been at the beauty shop.
Lunch finally came. I double-timed it to the cafeteria and beat everybody to the table. Roman came in first with his applesauce, salad, and milk. I looked over at Johnny’s table, the table I used to sit at, and nothing but pure hatred radiated from the Killer’s eyes. He was staring at Roman. Jack and Brunno were absent. Probably had the flu. Caught it from Johnny maybe.
I decided to play the waiting game and make Roman talk first. Surely the past night’s events would get him to say something, anything. I waited. And waited. I couldn’t hold it in anymore.
“Aren’t you going to say something?” I asked.
“What?” Roman replied eating his applesauce.
“What...oh I don’t know, you just whooped two of Johnny’s toughest thugs, and there isn’t a scratch on you.”
“I didn’t whip anybody. They did that to themselves. You’ve heard the story already I’m sure,” Roman said.
“Yeah, but I want to hear your story,” I said back.
“I just gave you my story.”
Roman’s attention was directed over to Johnny’s table. Heather walked by it, ignoring Johnny’s kissy face, and came directly over to our table.
“Are you all right?” she asked Roman.
“I’m fine.”
Heather sat down between us and looked at Roman for a second.
“This shit is going to stop. I already informed Johnny that if he wants to be with me then he has to leave you alone.”
I rolled my eyes.
Heather began again. “He denies he had anything to do with it but I know better. I’m sorry you had to go through it, and I’m quite sure that it won’t happen again.”
I rolled my eyes again.
Roman smiled and drank some of his milk.
“How come you were following me yesterday, Tony?” he asked.
I stopped in mid-chew. It caught me off guard at first, but then I wondered how the hell he knew I was following him if he never looked back.
27
“I uh, was just wondering where you lived, since you never let me give you a ride,” I said with a full mouth of pizza. I know the answer was lame but it was the truth.
“If you wanted to know where I live, why not just ask me? I live at 25
Kingdom Street,” Roman said.
I sat there not saying anything like some kind of dumb ass. I should have just yelled his name in the cemetery. Mostly I was embarrassed, but I was still in shock that he knew I was following him. The bell rang. Heather said her goodbyes. Roman stood as she got up from the table.
“I’ll see you later Tony,” Roman said as he left the table.
III
Kingdom Street was in the East End of town a couple of miles from The Tavern actually. I drove down it after school that day. I’m not exactly sure why.
Maybe I thought Roman would be out in his front yard and I could stop and say hi.
Or maybe I did it for the same reason I chose to sit at Roman’s table instead of smear lasagna in his face.
Kingdom Street was a short jog more than a real street. It was only a block long. At the north end of the street was a steep hill that I imagine in the winter many cars tried but failed to reach the top of, and beyond that was a huge cemetery—the one I lost Roman in.
The sun was out and it seemed more like summer than early fall. As I drove down the hill the houses I passed were much like I expected. They were trash. The first one I passed had no screen door on it and the grass looked as if it hadn’t been mowed since the spring. Some were abandoned although I’m sure when winter came people would have no choice but to call them home. Windows were cracked and shattered, garbage littered the yards. Piles of tires and an old rusted-out car frame lay in one of them. In another a fallen tree branch had smashed against the roof—the people that lived there were either unaware of this or simply did not care. Someone thought it would be a good idea to make a fence surrounding their yard out of old wooden bowling pins. Music blared from one of the houses. Little girls were using a thrown-away television cable to jump rope.
Dogs ran through the neighborhood unleashed. I smelled the embers of charcoal and later the sweet scent of barbecue. Two hookers were flirting with a potential client.
And then there was 25 Kingdom, and the house directly across from it, 26.
26 was well maintained but Roman’s house stuck out like a mansion in the middle of the ghetto. His yard was neatly cut, countless flowers remained in bloom, and the sidewalk was edged out against the yard. The house was white with black shutters, freshly painted I thought. There was a porch with a swing on it. A green plant hung in the large window south of the front door. There was a bright green hose neatly wound and hanging against the house. There wasn’t a weed to be seen in the flowerbeds or the small cracks in the sidewalk. His small one-car garage was empty except for a mower, a ladder, and some gardening tools all neatly organized in the back corner. Maybe his parent or parents weren’t home from 28
work yet. I had never heard Roman speak of his parents during our conversations at lunch.
I slowed the car down, contemplating stopping it all together. Roman’s front door was open and I waited to see if he would come out. He didn’t and after waiting longer than I told myself I would, I drove off. If Roman wanted to open up his world to me, to be my friend, then he would ask.
My mind drifted to last night’s events with Jack and Brunno. Much like Johnny those two were tough, maybe the toughest behind him. Jack was a wiry son of a bitch and used to take people’s lunch money before school and beat them senseless. It eventually got to the point where those poor punks would seek Jack out before school and hand over their money to avoid the beating. Jack wanted whatever Johnny wanted. If Johnny said go shoot the president, Jack would at least attempt it. Jack once drank a small cup of Pennzoil to impress Johnny; luckily he got to the emergency room to get his stomach pumped before he digested the stuff. I would have hated to be the toilet he sat on the next couple of days. Johnny would put Jack up to getting the booze and reefer. He was Johnny’s right hand man and loved every minute of it.
Brunno was a wrestler and damn good one; he made a run at the state title last year. Brunno was not his real name, Brian was. His father hung the name Brunno on him before he could even walk, against his wife’s wishes I’m sure. I once saw a kid stand up to Brunno at a pick-up baseball game by hitting him with a wooden bat square in the mouth. Brunno was dazed momentarily but when he got up, he just smiled at the kid, and pulled out one of his front teeth that were loosened by the swat of the bat. The kid ran. I wish I could tell you he got away, but that day ended with Brunno repeatedly slamming the kid’s head into the ground.
Brunno was fascinated by storms, but instead of watching them from inside the house like everyone else did, Brunno would climb on top of his roof. There was a tornado last year that blew Brunno into the neighbors’ yard knocking him unconscious until the next morning. It was also rumored that Brunno was hit by lightning on more than one occasion, but of that I have no proof, except for his sporadic stuttering. His tongue-twisted speech has gotten less over the last year, probably because Brunno preferred shaking his head repeatedly instead of speaking.
IV
Heather sat at the dining room table that night, scraping over her food.
There were two large candles sitting on the long lavish table. Classical music played softly in the background. Her father ate at a good pace. He missed lunch earlier while performing surgery, repairing an ACL on a football player from the U
of I. He was in sports medicine and renowned all over the state for his work. He’d fixed countless tendon tears on everything from shoulders to ankles. The Bulls and Sox even used him from time to time. He had married Gina after graduating from medical school. Both were older parents.
29
Gina Hawthorne had never worked a day in her life. Not at Seven Eleven as a teenager and not as a teacher even though she had the degree. She was from money and married money, just like her mother and just like her grandmother. She was Dr. Hawthorne’s trophy wife and that was fine with her. She lived through Heather: through her grades, her cheerleading, her dances, her friends, and most importantly her looks. She always knew where Heather was and what she was doing and conversations she had and whom those conversations were with. Gina would not let go, not now, not until she had to, not until Heather left for college.
Heather’s parents had raised her right. Growing up she took piano lessons, was active in the Girl Scouts and sports, and was in beauty competitions and ballet. She always got straight A’s, and was in line to be the valedictorian of Collingston High. Heather was the president of the student council, interested in politics and worldly affairs. She spoke French very well. Heather was aware of the world even though her mother was not.
“Something wrong honey? You haven’t touched your food,” Gina said from the far end of the table.
“I’m just tired, that’s all,” Heather responded.
“I heard there’s a new boy at school causing some problems. That’s what Cynthia said at the country club anyway,” Gina said as she patted her lips with a white cloth napkin.
Heather looked up from her plate dropping her fork onto it. “What boy?”
“Some vagrant that works as a janitor during the night shift at the high school,” Gina said.
Heather’s face reddened. She threw her napkin down on the table hard enough to get Dr. Hawthorne’s attention. Her father knew better to say anything though. He had been outnumbered in the house for eighteen years and got his head torn off trying to be peacekeeper with the ruling majority in many a battle. He concentrated on his food.
“First of all he’s not a vagrant. He’s a student, just like me, and a nice guy at that. He saved Johnny from drowning in the lake and he put back the cheerleader grandma gave me after I accidentally shattered it into a million pieces.
He defended himself when Jack and Brunno tried to jump him. That’s all,”
Heather said.
“Cynthia said...”]
Heather interrupted. “Maybe Cynthia should keep her mouth shut if she doesn’t know the whole story, and better yet maybe you should not listen to people that have nothing better to do in life than gossip at the club and run down the lives of people they know nothing about.
It sounds like to me the only reason you and the other hags do it is because you have no life of your own.”
Heather got up from the table and went up the winding staircase to her bedroom.
“Did I say something wrong dear?” Gina asked.
“No dear, she’s just tired, remember?” Dr. Hawthorne replied.
V
30
The Saturday came when Collingston sent its best and brightest to compete in the scholastic state tournament. Even with all of Mr. Buttworst’s prodding and pleading Roman never turned in that permission slip. Mr. Buttworst even held the bus from leaving an extra ten minutes hoping that Roman would show. When his hope was gone, Mr. Buttworst instructed the driver to go.
I didn’t know it at the time but that Saturday would show a glimpse of who Roman really was, of where he came from and where he was going, and how talented he truly was. It is that glimpse that I want to peek into now.
Although Roman wasn’t on the yellow school bus that morning, he was on a bus, a Greyhound headed for Iowa just as he had told the bearded teacher. It was a six-hour trip from Collingston. Roman paid for his ticket in cash. He read books the entire way, sitting by himself, minding his own business.
At the Greyhound station in Iowa, Roman threw his duffel bag over his shoulder and began to walk. He stuffed the second half of the round trip ticket into the front pocket of his jeans. He walked through the center of town past the mom-and-pop shops and taverns and flower shops. He ended up at the cemetery. It was a small cemetery and he seemed to be the only visitor. Roman scanned the tombstones and trees trying to remember the exact location. It had been six years since he had been there, and although there were some things that looked familiar, Roman felt like it was his first time. He saw a big oak, the biggest in the cemetery and remembered they were just west of it. He walked to the tombstones and knelt down with duffel bag still over his shoulder.
Sometimes when people lose loved ones and visit their graves, it makes them feel close to the departed. They talk to them like they were sitting at the kitchen table over dinner, and even though no one else can hear their response, the one still here seems to hang on every word. Roman said nothing and heard nothing. The stories he heard of extraordinary things happening in cemeteries, to him were just fairy tales. He felt alone even though he was only six feet above them both. There were no surges of wind to let him know they were there and watching. Birds did not start to chirp. The earth did not move. There were only two gray headstones that were now weathered by time and less glossy than he remembered. The dates on the stones were today’s date only six years earlier.
Roman reached in his duffel bag and pulled out their gifts. He placed the bouquet of white carnations on his mother’s grave and a baseball, brown from use, onto his father’s. He wanted to speak but the words would not come. They would understand anyway he thought. Roman sat there the good part of the afternoon not speaking or crying. Crying got old the first few weeks after their deaths.
Memories flooded his mind and smiles came to his lips from time to time.
“I thought I might find you here,” a voice said from behind.
Roman turned and jumped to his feet. He looked at the giant man behind him and took a few steps back, thinking of running, but holding the urge at bay.
“You’ve turned into a man Roman, physically I mean of course. You look good,” Johnson said.
“Agent Johnson,” Roman said with exhaustion, scanning the cemetery for more agents.
31
“Still blaming yourself for their deaths?” Johnson said with a smile that hid his pity.
“Still trying to kill the enemy and reverse 9/11?” Roman asked.
Johnson’s smile faded. “I have to say I’ve seen a lot in my travels over the years, but your stunt with the trains last time was very impressive.”
Johnson looked at Roman trying to read his thoughts. “I know you want to run, but take this under consideration: the gun in my hand has a dart filled with a tailor-made cocktail that’ll stop a buffalo in his tracks thirty yards away. Besides, aren’t you tired of this? Tired of the running, the hiding?”
Roman said nothing.
“If it’s that business in Colombia you’re worried about rest assured it was a success whether you realize it or not. There’s always going to be some collateral damage, Roman. I’m sure you’ve heard the saying that to make an omelet you have to break a few eggs.”
“I’m sure you’ve heard the saying that liars prosper,” Roman said back. “I just want a normal life.”
“That stopped being an option the moment y