Killing
A Novel By Victor Fortezza -- Contributing Author

WARNING: Killing takes place in a very real world where people are flawed and may contain material of a harsh nature. While the Cynic Online Magazine does not feel that the novel promotes racism, the novel acknowledges that racism exists in the real world and therefore acknowlegedges the possibility in its characters. If you are offended by content of this nature, please navigate to another feature within the magazine.

21

The circle was broken this particular lunch hour. Several members of the crew had gone out into the brisk mid-March day. The three who remained sat quietly, Dante eating, Ben and Pete Jr. reading. Dante found the atmosphere soothing, in direct contrast to what he had at home, where even stillness was torment.

He watched Ben with fascination. He'd never seen anyone so organized. Ben was seated with his back to the wall, knees to his chest serving as an easel for his Times, from which he did not take his eyes even when directing food or drink to his mouth.

"A'you a vegetarian, Benny?" said Dante. "I neva see ya eatin' meat."

"A half-assed one. I cheat about once a week and at weddings and barbecues. I'm really as barbaric as the next guy. I do it 'cause it's healthier, not 'cause I feel sorry for animals."

"I could neva do it. I'm a caveman, like ya said dat time."

Ben's brow furrowed, as if he couldn't recall the reference. "Dinosaur."

Dante nodded. "Right, right." How had he screwed that up? he wondered. Was he thinking it was how Deanna regarded him? "Sandy's the caveman."

Pete chuckled., and the three fell silent. Soon the peace was shattered by the return of the others.

"How was it?" said Pete, who was stretched out on his side, music magazine spread before him.

"Lousy," Sandy returned. "We didn' see none."

"Too bad," said Dante ironically.

"I whizzed an egg past the moolinyon's head, though, jus' like I did Sharpton's on Beaht Avenue dat time."

The others laughed, shaking their heads.

"It jus' missed him," said Cheech ruefully.

"Why keahn't ya leave people alone?" said Dante.

"Why keahn't the sfacheem leave us alone?" said Sandy resentfully. "I hate 'em."

"Whatta you keah what dey do in deah own howses? If dey wanna suck each otha awf an' take it up the wazoo, dat's deah business."

"But dey don' wanna leave it at dat," said Cheech. "Dey want us to respect 'em, to say it's awright. Dey wanna mahch down Broadway showin' awf. Dey wan' teachiz to teach kids it's okay. Screw dat. I'm fightin' back."

"Why're you so scared of 'em?" said Pete.

"I ain't skeahed'a nobody," said Sandy. "I'll crack the head'a any who come neah me. Dey won' be satisfied 'til everybody's goin' bote ways. Dey want the picks'a the littah. Dey ain't foolin' nobody."

"Dey say the ones who'a the mos' skeahed 'a the ones closes' to turnin'," said Dante.

The others howled as Sandy fumed.

"It ain't funny. I'm serieiss. Ya wanna see 'em holdin' han's an' makin' out in public? Let 'em stay on Wes' Street aw in the Village wheah dey belawng."

"What d'you know about West Street?" Pete chided, to everyone's delight.

Sandy swung a leg as if to kick, and Pete rolled away.

"Whattaya think about awl dis, Benny?" said Cheech.

"Deah's the right one to ask," Sandy huffed. "The gayes' one heah."

Cheech was the only one laughing, as he'd accomplished what he'd intended - to rile Sandy. All eyes turned toward Ben, who stared at his nemesis, who avoided eye contact.

"I wish they'd stay in the closet. That'd be the best and easiest thing for the rest of us. But life wasn't meant to be easy. If there's no conflict, human beings'll search for the flimsiest excuse to invent it. We're so well off in this country that we have to look for stuff to be pissed off about. What I don't like about the activists is their refusal to acknowledge that there's a legitimate arguement against homosexuality. They don't see a problem with it at all, despite AIDS, despite the fact that a small percentage've gotten straight. Maybe they're right. Maybe the ones who've been cured'll eventually go back, but maybe they're wrong. Only time'll tell. Maybe there's nothin' wrong. Maybe God or whatever controls life decided long ago that there would be gays."

"I dunno what to think no maw," said Dante.

"Look, homosexuality's always been with us and always will be. Nothin'll ever change that, unless they locate the gene that causes it and people start abortin' fetuses that're carryin' it."

"They'd all flip-flop to pro-life," said Pete, fascinated.

"I'd love to see dat," said Tony, sitting on the floor, looking like Buddha. "Could joo amagine? Dey'd go wild. It'd be a riot."

"I'd ratha see it the otha way," said Sandy. "Wipe 'em awl out. De'ah ain't dat many of 'em, 'cept heah."

"I've read that they're two-percent of the population," said Ben, "men and women, although the activists argue that it's more like ten-percent."

"Get-at," said Cheech. "Dat's awl politics."

"Let's say it becomes widely accepted as a legitimate lifestyle. What'll that do to its population? Will it become five-percent? Ten-percent? And then suppose anotha five-percent can't decide either way - that's fifteen-percent. Do the lower birth rates pose a threat to society or is it just a natural means of population control, evolution at work?"

"That'd be the only good thing about it," said Pete.

"Would it? Some people're startin' to argue that not enough babies are bein' born right now. Who's gonna pay the taxes to cover Social Security, Medicare and any other schemes politicians dream up to buy votes? We've already knocked off millions through abortion."

"Dey woulda awl went on Welfeah, anyway," said Sandy.

"All? Probably not even half, I'd say."

"Hah d'you know?" said Cheech, smirking.

"I don't, but it's a great arguement. How do we know our greatest minds haven't been slaughtered in that percentage?"

Dante felt as if Ben were addressing him personally. Had he dropped hints, giving himself away? he wondered. Suddenly he again believed he was right. He could not understand why Deanna didn't see this. Was she truly only being vindictive?

"Are we gonna sanction gay marriage and allow them to adopt?" said Ben. "Are domestic partners gonna be entitled to health benefits? Is the cost gonna be a strain on business and government, raisin' taxes and killin' jobs in the process?"

"What a mess?" said Tony.

"Then there's the moral question, which'll probably never be answered: is homosexuality immoral or unnatural? Why're we so appalled by it?"

"'cause it ain't nat'ral," said Sandy. "A sozzeach ain't made to go up the ass. Dat tells ya right deah."

"You never did that to a girl?" said Pete.

"Sure - a nice tight one wit' no heah on it."

"Maybe Cheech'll shave his faw ya," said Tony, inciting howls.

Suddenly the tension was broken. Everyone was now seated.

"If you did it," said Pete, "why's it wrong for them?"

"'cause it's an awl the time thing fuh dem. An' what's to keep 'em togetha if dey ain't got kids? I do a lotta runnin' aroun', but I awways go home to my kids."

Cheech was suddenly beside himself with glee, eyes alight. "Ya know what dis nut tol' 'is wife the otha day?"

Sandy flushed. The others were all ears.

"We scawed dese two nymphs in a bah las' week. We been bangin' 'em eva since. De'ah mawrons. Anyway, dey wa 'sposta meet us at the Win'jamma...."

The others erupted.

"Big spendahs," Tony chided. "Dey change the sheets at leas'?"

Now Cheech flushed. "Listen," he said petulantly. "He tells Marie we'ah goin' crabbin' - in the middle'a wintah! Den, afta we dumped the chicks, he had me drivin' to every fish staw in the neighbahood, lookin' fuh crabs!"

Everyone was writhing.

"We found 'em," said Sandy, beaming.

"Took us lawng enough."

"I could neva get away wit' somethin' like dat," said Tony. "My wife reads me like a book. Meanwhahl, what happened to awl the tawk about the finauks? I was reahly into it." He waved a hand effeminately.

"A'you turnin' too, ya fat bastid?" said Cheech.

"They say everybody has a little in 'em," said Pete.

"Get-at...."

"I hate the tiny percentage of me that leans," said Ben.

Silence fell. The discomfort of the others was obvious.

"Is that an irrational fear or a sensible safeguard against a practice that would endanger the species if it became widespread?" He gazed about the circle. "I can see by the looks on your faces how threatening you find just the mention of it."

"What's dis - a test?" said Cheech, peeved.

"It's you who's t'reatenin'," said Sandy.

"No, it's nature. How would you know how much homosexuality disgusts you unless you've had a flash? Believe me, I'd like to extinguish all traces of homosexuality in me, too. It scares the life atta me."

"Ya full of it," said Cheech. "I ain't neva had no flash."

"Me neitha," said Sandy.

"That's not hard to believe," said Pete. "Sometimes I wonder if you've ever had any kind of thought at all."

The others revelled in the barb and praised Pete. Tony patted him on the back. Sandy pretended to spit at him: "Ock-poo."

"Having one doesn't mean you're gay," said Ben, "or that you'll ever be gay, no more than a murderous flash means you're a murderer, or a lecherous one means you're a pervert. It always amazes me how easily I shrug off a violent or lustful flash. I don't even give 'em a second thought most of the time."

"'cause it's nat'ral," said Sandy.

"To want to kill? To want to fondle a woman you know nothin' about?"

Cheech nodded. "Yeah."

"Imagine how things'd be if we gave in to such impulses."

"Too many people awready do," said Tony.

"Look at you, Sandy. You're always lookin' to crack the heads of people you don't like. What would it be like if you did?"

"Heaven, if I could get away wit' it."

"If you think wipin' out half the human race'd be an improvement," said Pete. "That's one solution."

"The final sahlooshin," Tony interjected.

"Not everybody, jus' the lowlifes."

"Wouldn't somebody point you out as a lowlife for havin' sex with so many women?" said Ben.

"What I do's nat'ral. What dey do's sick."

"So bein' gay's actin' on a bad impulse?" said Dante to Ben.

"That's the sixty-four thousand dollar question. It is for us, but how could we ever know for sure, bein' we're not gay? Since the sexual revolution, has society become better or worse?"

"Worse," said several at once.

"I'm talkin' morally and ethically. We're still good financially, at least outside of the socialist state of New York, although danger lurks on the horizon."

"No betta, no worse," said Tony. "People'a the same as dey awways was. Life's the same, only maw ixspensive."

Dante was surprised at the happy-go-lucky Tony's negativism. It then occurred to him that it was better to laugh, as Tony did, even if one believed life was cruel, meaningless.

"Worse," said Cheech. "Ya got chicks stealin' men's jobs, zams on quotas."

"If it has gotten worse," said Ben, "and the acceptance of homosexuality is part of that revolution, does that automatically condemn it?"

"Yeah."

"Some people'd argue that things are better than ever, given the strides women, blacks and gays've made."

"Betta?" Cheech scoffed. "I laugh at dese lady cops ya see. Dey couttn't punch deah way atta a papah beahg. The only thing dey got goin' fuh dem's the gun."

"Ya got dat right," said Dante.

"Anyway," said Ben, "The thing that scares me most about gays is the promiscuity of a lot of 'em. The average heterosexual has eight partners in his lifetime."

Cheech and Sandy looked at each other and laughed.

"I'm way peahst dat," said Sandy, gloating.

"I peahss it every mont'," said Cheech.

The others chuckled.

"Shrinks say guys who're promiscuous are really gay at heart," said Pete.

"Oooooh!" said Tony, delighted.

"No," Cheech shot back, "jealiss bastids like you who neva get laid say it. Somebody's gotta make up fuh gihdrools like you who keep the av'ridge down."

Now there were guffaws. Only Pete, who'd taken the slap hard, and Dante, were not laughing.

"Hah many do the gays av'ridge?" said Dante.

"Thirty-five percent average five hundred, and seventeen-percent average a thousand."

Tony's whistle was all that penetrated the ensuing silence.

"Of course, that's if they're tellin' the truth. If they are, and the homosexual population increased because of widespread tolerance - how many of 'em would be that promiscuous? And what kind of danger would it pose in the age of AIDS when so many of 'em still practice unsafe sex?"

"Suppose they were no more promiscuous than the most promiscuous straights?" said Pete. "Maybe the total number in each group's the same. Then what?"

"Dis's gettin' way too complicated fuh me," said Tony.

"If the sixty's taught us anything," said Ben, "it's that the more widespread promiscuity becomes, the greater danger it is to society."

"So then promiscuity's the problem, not homosexuality," said Pete.

"You can make a strong case for that."

"Spoken like true fags," said Cheech contemptuously.

"What's next - NAMBLA?" said Sandy. "We gonna say dat's okay too?"

"What kin we do about it?" said Dante, concerned that his son was dragging society down.

"Maybe AIDS is doin' it. The fear of death is about the only thing that can curb human behavior, and even that fails consistently, as the frequency of executions attest. All we can do is preach abstinence to our kids and hope for the best."

Sandy and Cheech tittered derisively.

"Good," said Cheech. "Dat leaves maw horny piglets fer us."

The two exchanged a high-five.

"I tell ya," said Tony, "if dey try to fawce dat crap on my kids in school, I'm takin' 'em out."

"Too late," said Cheech. "The schools'a full of it awready. Ya kids'a prob'bly brainwashed by now, 'speshly if dey watch MTV."

"But what if one'a ya kids turns gay?" said Dante to Ben.

"T'row 'im out," said Tony.

"Betta yet - shoot 'im," said Sandy.

"I'd hope he'd be discreet about it," said Ben.

"Den nobody'd keah, right?" said Dante. "Dat's the easiest way. Why keahn't it be like dat?"

"I tol' ya why," said Sandy. "Dey want everybody to be like dem."

"Another thing I worry about is backlash," said Ben. "The harder they push, the more likely it is they'll be attacked."

"Serves 'em right too. Let 'em go back in the closet wheah dey belawng. Den nobody'd bahdah dem. Dey gotta be knocked back into it."

"Soun's like fun to me," said Cheech. "Whattaya say we take a ride to the Village tanight an' crack some heads?"

"So you can show us where you hang out?" said Pete.

"Wohhhhh!" Tony cried, kicking his feet gleefully.

"Let's staht wit' you," said Cheech to Pete.

"Betta be keahful," said Dante. "Jus' 'cause dey take it up the wazoo, don' mean dey keahn't fight."

Insults flew back and fault in a cacophony.

"You know, Sandy," said Ben calmly, drawing every eye; "if we were all in prison, I bet you'd be the first one to bend over - willingly."

Sandy leaped at him, cursing, and the two rolled and wrestled on the floor. Dante alone tried to intercede.

"Help me," he called past his shoulder, trying to wedge himself between the combatants.

His plea was ignored, and he took as many blows as the two. The others did not move until Pete Sr. approached.

"Oh!" Pete shouted. "Oh!"

Everyone froze and looked at the floor as he scanned the broken circle. Ben and Sandy scrambled to their feet. Pete's eyes trained on them.

"What's dis?"

No one dared look at him as he addressed them in sailor's terms.

Dante spoke up. "We wa makin' believe we wa wrestlin' like the guys on TV, dat's awl, Petey."

"Shut up, Dan. Ya think I'm a mawron? Yous shoulda been back to work ten minutes ago. I'm tired'a dis. Let's go."

Dante followed Ben to their station. "Jesus Christ, Benny," he whispered, "ya let dat giuche get to ya - ova finauks, no less. I don' believe it. Ya got a fag fer a brotha aw somethin'?"

Ben was still respiring heavily. His lower lip was swelling. "No. From the way you were talkin', I thought you were gonna say your son was gay."

Dante tensed. "He does bang a lotta chicks."

Ben waved the comment off. "He'll outgrow it. Don't take all these social theories seriously. Who're we to discuss these issues, anyway?"

"We got as much right as anybody. Dis's America. Whattaya so mad about, anyway?"

"I can't believe I stooped to that idiot's level."

"Whattaya tawkin' about? He jumped ya. Ya had'a fight. I'm proud'a ya."

Ben rolled his eyes heavenward. Dante slung an arm around him.

"I didn' think ya had it in ya. Maybe ya ain't as wishy-washy as ya think. Way to go."

Ben peeled the arm away from his shoulders.

"What'sa matta now? You unshaw'a ya sexuality?"

"No, I'm unsure of yours."

Dante laughed heartily, and they set to work.

Later, after a long silence, Dante grew restless and succumbed to the urge to speak, even though he sensed Ben did not want to.

"You awright now?"

Ben stopped hammering and shrugged, and they resumed working.

"Want a cup'a cawfee?" said Dante, putting down a saw.

"No."

Again they fell silent.

"Somethin' on your mind?" said Ben finally, relenting.

Dante smiled and hung his head. "I don' know hah ya kin go so lawng wit'out tawkin'. I go nuts after a whahl, 'speshly heah. I kin do dis wit' my eyes closed now."

"So talk. It doesn't bother me."

"Shaw?"

Now Ben showed signs of annoyance.

"I jus' wannid to ask ya if ya think things'a gettin' betta aw worse. Ya didn' get the cheahnce to finish befaw. I hate to think de'ah worse, but dat's the way it looks."

"It's hard to say. We live in New York, which's in a prolonged slump and which attracts every type of weirdo in the country. Medically, we're certainly better. Technologically, we are. And the poverty of old age's been almost completely wiped out, although you can argue that we're doomin' the young to impoverishment in the process. Society's slowly becomin' a true meltin' pot, although we have to worry about breakin' up into a lot of separate aggrieved groups."

Dante's face brightened. "I was havin' a burgah the otha day, an' at the table nex' to me deah wa dese faw girls, a white, a black, a Chink an' a Pawta Rican, an' I got to thinkin' maybe we will awl get alawng someday, if it's stahtin' in the schools. It wasn't like dat when I was goin'."

"Unfortunately, somethin' happens to us when we become adults. Maybe we just get too wrapped up in takin' care of our families to really care about anything else."

"If everybody took care'a deah fam'ly like you do, we'd have nothin' to worry about. The govamint wouldn't hafta do nothin'."

"Guys like you are the real backbone of this country, not me. You accept life on its own terms and go at it head on. I let my disenchantment with how things are make me weak."

"Ya not weak. Whattaya tawkin' about?"

"I envy and admire people like you who have firm, quiet convictions."

"Me quiet?"

"You don't force your beliefs on others. It's so much better to have faith. I'm divided, and I hate it sometimes."

They had stopped working. Dante was too ashamed to tell Ben his own faith was often wavering. Given what he'd seen in Vietnam, it seemed silly to believe.

"And I'm not only talkin' about belief in God. I'm talkin' about everything. I think formal education stinks, but I couldn't give you a viable alternative to it. I take everything I read in the papers with a grain of salt since the press's become so partisan, but we can't do without the occasional good even the most swinish reporters do. I pray I'll never have to deal with a lawyer, even though I know society can't do without them. I'm not even that crazy about democracy, although it works way better than anything else. It's so discouraging to think that somebody like Sandy has as much say as you or I do."

"Keahn't blame ya fuh dat."

"I don't have any confidence that any politician can improve my life. Only I have that power."

Dante gazed about, wary of the boss. "Ain't dat the way it should be?"

"I think so, but it seems we're losin' that. I feel like every election comes down to pickin' the guy who'll do us the least harm, not the most good. All they do is buy votes. So many people look to government with a hand out." He turned his palm upward, as if asking for alms. "We're creatin' what I think of as a 'Culture of Gimme.' It used to be, let's say, five-percent of the people were unwilling or incapable of doin' for themselves. Now it seems like close to fifty-percent, includin' million dollar corporations. And the politicians' only answer in how to pay for it all is to raise taxes."

"I jus' saw wheah we work 'til May now befaw we kin staht keepin' ahr money."

"How long can we go on like that? This's the greatest country in the world. Are we gonna self destruct like other great civilizations before us? Maybe it's just me. I'm an alarmist by nature, a pessimist."

"A'you kiddin'? I get skeahed too. When my wife got a job it took so much pressha awf me."

He was stung by the irony.

"We've always had the luxury to ignore the political process in this country. Maybe we can't anymore, but who do we vote for? Ninety-nine-percent of 'em're massed around the center. Maybe it's too late, anyway. Maybe socialism's inevitable."

Pete Sr.'s voice bellowed nearby. Dante started and dropped his hammer. He scrambled for it and went back to work.

"Boy, he's reahly on the wawpat' taday. I betta shut up befaw I get ya in trouble."

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22

For the first time in memory, he was not excited about the approach of the baseball season. His cares so usurped his concentration that he stared at the television with little comprehension. Basketball and, especially, hockey and its mindless thuggery, once entertaining diversions until spring and the renewal of the national pastime, now annoyed him. In fact, since his son had grown independent of him, he demonstrated less and less interest in sports each year. Even the Giants' victory in the Super Bowl had failed to excite him, as Junior had been in the Gulf at the time. Jo Jo remarked that she felt sorry for the Bills, whose valiant effort fell short. He was amazed she would squander sympathy on a privileged group involved in a game, while other young Americans, including her brother, faced the possibility of death in real combat. He did not mention it in deference to superstition. Now, more than a year later, he'd yet to recover his love of team sports. He'd become one of those fans he used to despise, interested only in playoffs. And there were so many jerks at the professional level. Each team had at least one. It tempered his enthusiasm, often had him changing the channel, something he realized his father might do.

Only one event snared his attention during this period - The Democratic National Primary. To his dismay, Bill Clinton, after allegations that nearly destroyed his candidacy, had rebounded and appeared to be the front runner. Dante wasn't troubled by the revelation regarding marijuana, as men were apt to act foolishly when they were young. He would never condemn anyone for that. As long as the candidate wasn't still smoking it, what did it matter? After all, how many politicians had drank to excess during their college years? How many still did?

Nor was he troubled by the influence the candidate's wife had on him. Until recently, Deanna and he had been a great team. In fact, if not for her, he was certain he would have had considerably less to show for his life. She was smarter than he was; it would have been foolish not to have deferred to her as often as he had. If not for her, he might have never known any happiness. He might have been childless.

Nor was he troubled by the rumors of Clinton's womanizing. Of course, Clinton may very well have had sex with the shameless woman who had come forward to gain the spotlight. What did it matter, however, if that fall from grace, which had occurred years ago, had been his only one? If he were really a philanderer, why weren't other women coming forward in this age of dubious morality and anything-goes journalism? Did his mistresses admire him so much as to steadfastly protect his aspirations? To Dante, the accusation had no more validity than had Anita Hill's claim, and did not justify public humiliation, especially if the candidate had been faithful since then. How many men would qualify for office if marital fidelity were a criteria? Hadn't Franklin Roosevelt, regarded as the greatest president of the century, had a mistress? Hadn't Dwight Eisenhower?

He wished the media would cease its coverage along this line, at least until it had substantial proof that the behavior was constant. He was irked at what passed for news these days. Word of President Kennedy's promiscuity hadn't reached the public until years after his death. Now, even the adultery of ordinary citizens garnered headlines, as long as there was a sensational angle to be exploited. Many argued that such openness, at least in terms of politics, was healthy. And others, to Dante's chagrin, argued that a president's promiscuity was of no concern to the general public. He found he agreed with this to a degree - if the public had already unwittingly elected a philanderer. It would be to everyone's benefit, he believed, that it be kept quiet, as the citizenry should have the utmost confidence that its leader was, morally and ethically, above reproach. However, he doubted it would be hushed in this age where the risque was pounced upon by the press and reported ad nauseum.

Dante had voted Democratic in every election in which he'd been eligible. He believed the party truly had the interests of the common man at heart. He now faced a challenge. How, in good conscience, would he be able to vote for someone who fudged on every question concerning his draft status, and whose evasiveness made it seem he had indeed shirked his duty as others had been making the ultimate sacrifice for the country? Clinton had remained on the sidelines, safe, reaping the benefits, avoiding the fight to preserve those benefits - and now he wanted to be Commander-in-Chief, the principal caretaker of the benefits he'd refused to risk his life to preserve? Shouldn't this have precluded him from running for the highest office in the land? Had he any shame, pride or honor? Was he the best the Democrats had to offer? Where was Mario Cuomo? Where was Bill Bradley, the personification of team-man as a professional basketball player? Where was Al Gore, who had served in Vietnam? Why weren't they challenging this man?

Dante was beside himself. In his view, there was no amount of service, of penance, that Clinton might have done to atone for his actions. A sinner himself, he could have forgiven any sin but this. He despaired at the thought of Clinton in the White House, occupying space that Washington and Lincoln had. The mere fact that he was running made it appear as if nothing were sacred in America any more. While he loved the way America allowed anyone to succeed, to redeem himself, he found some actions inexcusable. As far as he was concerned, Clinton had the blood of American servicemen on his hands. He wished the souls of all those who had fallen in Vietnam would rise and haunt the candidate until he'd withdrawn from the race.

"He keahn't reahly win, can he, Benny?" he said at lunch one day, too troubled to eat. "We wouttn't elect a dreahf-dahjah president, would we?"

Ben shrugged. "The guy keeps comin' back. One writer compared him to that punchin' bag doll we all had when we were kids. He bounces right up. He's a proven winner, although we don't really know that much about him yet."

"A winna? Hah could somebody like dat be a winna? Ya soun' like the announsahs on TV who cawl dese coke-head, cry baby millyineahs 'winnahs' 'cause dey kin play bawl. Is dat what a winna is?"

"In the nineties it is, and maybe it's always been that way. We're a bottom line society. I doubt he'd hesitate to send troops into combat, if that's what you're worried about."

"I'm shaw he would. But does he got the right when he wouttn't go 'imself?"

"He wouldn't be the first. Most of us want other people to do the dirty work. If we ever wound up in a war, I'd want you in the foxhole with me, not somebody like him. But when it comes to political office, I don't know. You think it's fair to judge him on somethin' he did twenty years ago, when he was a kid?"

"But dis ain't a little thing like smokin' pot aw bangin' broads. I ain't sayin' he shouttn't be a gov'nah or senatah. If dose hillbillies wanna elect a dreahf'-dahjah, dat's deah business - but president? He's gonna send kids like mine inta combat? No way, not unless he's leadin' the chahge."

Ben chuckled.

"I mean it, Benny. It ain't right. Some things ya keahn't take back. Dey stay wit' ya ya whol life, at leas' dat's the way it should be."

"A lot of people were against the war. I don't think it'll hurt him unless the economy recovers very soon, and there's no sign of that - and that means change. Remember what happened to Jimmy Carter? And things aren't half as bad as they were then, although you'd never know it from the papers and TV. Sometimes I think there really is a liberal bias in the media, 'though I'd hardly call it a conspiracy."

"I keahn't believe yer a Republikin. Dey ain't fuh guys like us."

" I'm a conservative by nature, but, as usual, I can't really make up my mind. I'm afraid some Republicans wouldn't bat an eye if the poor were starvin' to death or riotin' in the streets, or if industries polluted at will. Then again, if people're healthy enough to riot, they're healthy enough to hold jobs. Where do you draw the line? That's the problem."

"At people too crippled to help demselfs. At mothas whose husban's croak alluva sudden an' leave 'em wit' nothin'. I'm a Demacrat 'cause dey awways been fuh uneyin guys like us."

"Then why do they keep raisin' our taxes?"

"Dey should tax the rich maw."

"If you confiscated all the wealth of the rich, it wouldn't be enough to cover the spendin' you'd need to pull everybody out of poverty. That's already been tried in Russia. People need incentive to create jobs. That's the only thing that'll cure poverty. The government is the richest thing in America, but it doesn't create any wealth. It just consumes it. It can't pay its bills without taxin' the middle class, guys like us. Like you said the other day, we work for them 'til May.""

Dante hung his head. "I dunno what to do. I keahn't vote fuh dis guy - I keahn't. I'd be stabbin' every guy who bought it aw got crippled in 'nam in the back. I keahn't do dat."

"Vote for Bush. He's a veteran. He volunteered, even though he was rich."

He looked away, pained. "I couttn't, 'though I respect 'im."

"How 'bout Perot?"

Dante made a face. "Who the hell's he to alluva sudden run fuh president? Jus' 'cause he's rich? He ain't paid 'is dues."

"How 'bout Kerrey? He's a decorated Vietnam vet."

"He ain't got a cheahnce, though. Couldja 'magine dat - he's the one who ain't got a cheahnce. It should be the otha way aroun'."

"If the economy doesn't pick up soon, the Democrats are a lock. I just hope we don't get hit in the wallet again. Clinton says he's a new Democrat. I hope he's not sayin' that just to get elected. Even with Republicans in the White House we've continued to creep toward socialism. Are we gonna be takin' even bigger steps toward it now? More and more people seem to want it, though, or at least they think they do. They want government to be a caretaker. We're gettin' away from the rugged individualism that made this country great. But maybe things can't be like that any more. Maybe this's just a natural evolution."

"Deah's nothin' wrawng wit' the govament helpin' people who reahly need it."

"Only thing is, a lotta the people they were supposed to help are worse off now than they ever were. Poverty's increased, not decreased, increased astronomically."

"Ya reahly think he'll get in?"

Ben nodded. Dante's head rolled from side to side in frustration.

"Whattaya tellin' me, Benny? Dis's america. We do things right."

"Most of the time, but that percentage seems to be shrinkin' too. I hope I'm wrong. I'll tell you, though, I don't think his draft status is gonna matter at all."

"It mattahs to me!"

Ben was startled by the vehemence.

"It mattahs to the guys who died aw lost frien's aw lost ahms an' legs."

Ben looked him in the eye. "I know this isn't gonna be what you wanna hear, but I don't think it'd factor into whether he'd be a good president or not. Look at the great work reprobates do in business, the arts and sports. Sometimes it looks like you hafta be a slime to succeed or get things done. And it hasn't even been proven conclusively that he did dodge the draft. And don't forget that this country was founded on dissent: 'Taxation without representation....' I practice dissent every time I'm in Jersey and shop to catch a break on the sales' tax. Where would we be if the founding fathers hadn't raised a stink? Dissent is good. It keeps you thinkin', on your toes. And, if it's right, it makes life better. One of the great things about this country is the multitude of opinions and watchdogs we have. Even groups like the ACLU and ACT-Up, as big a pain as they can be, make for a better society. And don't be surprised if a lotta Vietnam vets vote for him. A lot are so bitter. In fact, you're the only one I've ever met or heard of that isn't bitter. Maybe that's more evidence of liberal bias in the media."

"I'm only bittah about hah everybody thinks'a us. Everybody celabrated when the commies fine'ly went down, but nobody 'cept you gave us credit fuh helpin' bring it awf."

Ben shrugged, apparently not knowing what to say.

"So you'd vote fuh dis guy?"

"I don't trust any Democrat, but the Republicans, especially the ones here in New York, aren't much better, sad to say. Even Ronald Reagan, with all his accomplishments, couldn't whip congress in line. Vietnam was so long ago. You say Clinton caused the deaths of G.I.'s by dissenting, but maybe he saved thousands of Vietnamese lives."

"I'm shaw he did - Nort' Vietnamese, who wound up slaughterin' thousan's'a Sout' Vietnamese afta we bugged out."

"Maybe it's time the country took a world view instead of a strictly national one. The planet's gettin' smaller and smaller. We have to find a way to co-exist, to work together for the survival of us all. That's what the sixties was all about, outside of all the silly stuff that went with it. Maybe that was his intention in dissenting. And isn't that a noble one?"

"Ya mean we shoulda turned the otha cheek, let the commies run wild?"

"No. What I'm sayin' is maybe he isn't guilty of anything but idealism."

"Tell dat to the guys who bought it ova deah."

"Campaign for Tsongas. He's the only one who still has a chance to steal the nomination, slim though it is."

"I thought he dropped out."

"He suspended his campaign, but word is he'll get back in if he takes New York."

Dante seemed intrigued.

"Somethin' really bad about Clinton'd have to come out for that to happen, though. And if there is somethin' bad, my guess is the Republicans'll be holdin' it back for the stretch. You better hurry. The primary's around the corner."

"Maybe I will. I ain't got nothin' to do home."

Any time he spent away from the gloom of the house would be alright by him. It would do him good, he was sure. And it might be fun. He'd never taken an active part in the political process.

"Didn' Tsongas have cansah?" he said, concerned.

"It's in remission, if there is such a thing."

He frowned. "Why'a the pickin's so slim? Dis's the greatest country in the world."

"The real talent goes to work creatin' jobs and wealth, thank God. Without them we'd really be up the creek. You could always vote for Gerry Brown."

He rolled his eyes heavenward. "What planet's he from?"

He hurried home, buoyed by excitement. He would not make the commitment, however, without Jo Jo's consent.

"Go 'head, Daddy," she said happily. "I think it's great. Don't worry about me. Gran'ma'll be around if I need help. And I have the keys to the car. The baby's not due 'till the end of July."

"But the Lamaze?"

"Gran'ma'll come to the classes you miss. She's more excited about the baby than any of us, anyway."

Thrilled, he spun away from her, then turned back, concerned. "You ain't votin' fuh Clinton, ah ya?" He was certain Deanna would.

"I haven't really thought about it. Probably not, though. He's too young."

He stared. "You awways saprise me. He's the good-lookin', slick-tawkin' type guy girls use'ly like."

"I'm not an idiot, Daddy."

He beamed, warmth spreading through him. "No, you ain't - an' it's a miracle, since ya got one fer a fatha."

She did not laugh, although he had, to an extent, been joking.

To his surprise, he was welcomed by the campaign staff. A matronly middle-aged woman took him under her wing. He volunteered for any physical work that had to be done. He feared, should he be asked to speak out on the street in Tsongas' behalf, that he would be detrimental rather than helpful. People might conclude the candidate's appeal was restricted to the lower classes. He let others do the talking, satisfying himself with the distribution and posting of leaflets.

Each evening, he left the convention center, had a quick bite to eat nearby, then went to the campaign headquarters and stayed past midnight. He canvassed streets in Manhattan he had not known existed. He met wonderful people, concerned citizens of various ages. He regretted not having taken part in the process years ago. He believed, or at least hoped, he was contributing to something significant. Given the optimism of everyone involved, he was thinking upset.

By the time he arrived home each night he was so tired he fell asleep almost immediately. He also put time in on Saturday and Sunday. The activity provided exactly what he'd hoped, besides a chance to derail Clinton - a sense of purpose, distraction from his troubles. Jo Jo was fine, physically and emotionally. Despite frequent morning sickness, she seemed to grow more positive each day. Deanna, on the other hand, in the glimpses he caught of her, seemed to have become even more embittered, if that were possible.

Entering the house one night, he heard arguement in the rear.

"Leave me alone," Jo Jo pleaded.

He hurried to the kitchen. As he'd expected, feared, it was not his son but his wife who was causing his daughter distress. He gazed at her coldly and placed his hands on Jo Jo's shoulders. Seated at the table, head bowed, Jo Jo reached up and touched one of his hands.

"Give it up, Dee," he said quietly. "It's ova. Ya lawst. She's in 'er secon' trimesta now. Ya eva see a picksha of a baby dat fah alawng?"

"It's not a baby."

"Ya want me to get one an' show ya? Ya want me to show ya hah dey stick a needle in the back'a the baby's head an' suck the brains out?"

His voice was hoarse with despair. He could not believe such a thing was allowed to happen in America.

Deanna's eyes flared with rage. "You showed those to her? You're no better than the lunatics who blockade the clinics and push fetuses in the face of women trying to get in."

"Afraid to see the trut'? Anyway, I didn' show 'er. I went to the liberry to see fuh myself."

"You learned how to read?"

He felt Jo Jo flinch at the barb. He trembled visibly and let go of her shoulders, as he'd been increasing his grip. "I figyid if so many people think it's right, I mus' be wrawng."

"You are."

He looked at her, beside himself. For the first time, he noted the puffiness of middle age in her face. He admonished himself for feeling sorry for her. "I keahn't believe yous awl. Ya nothin' but savidges. The whole world's goin' nuts. We got a dreahf'-dahjah runnin' fuh president - an' nobody keahs!"

"Tsongas is pro-choice, too, Mister Politics. If you vote for him, you'll be voting for abortion on demand, which is as it should be."

He was jolted by the irony, head bowing, eyes filling with pain. "Ya right. I should be votin' fuh Bush." He wondered if he would ever again do anything right. He lifted his head. "Firs' things firs', though. I'm gonna do anything I can to get dat dreahf'-dahjah atta the way."

"Be a traitor to your own kind, go 'head. Run out on your party like you ran out on your buddies in Vietnam."

Now he was reeling. She knew how to find his jugular.

"Turn the country over to zealots and bigots who'll tell us all how to live, who'll impose their dark ages mentality on us."

"Killin' babies ain't atta the dark ages?" He shook his head, beside himself. "What turned ya inta dis monsta? It couttn't'a been jus' dat sfacheem who dumped ya. Was it a cloud'a raydiashin, aw maybe somethin' ya ate."

She laughed derisively, shoulders sagging. "If it's murder, why aren't you out there assassinating doctors? After all, you went ten thousand miles to kill commies. Then again, you didn't finish that fight, either."

He wondered when he would finally grow inured of these shocks as to be able to simply shrug them off. He must have suffered a thousand of them the past year. Deanna had become a master at psychological warfare, she who had hardly said a word against anyone since he'd known her.

"If I'da known hah dis was gonna turn out, I'da re-upped."

He was appalled at his words. He had two children he loved, one right here at his side. How could he ever regret that? And his marriage had been happy for 20 years. He was amazed at how warped his thinking could be.

"Terrarists kill people to get deah way. I ain't a terrarist. I keahn't stop the wrawng dat goes on outside, but I kin stop the wrawng dat goes on in dis fam'ly." His innards quaked as he realized he'd been unable to prevent his wife's infidelity or his son's whoring. "Aw at leas' try to," he said soberly. "An' I kin work to try to get abawshin on the ballit wheah we kin awl vote on it instead'a havin' judges shove it down ah t'roats."

"Who appointed most of those judges? Men you voted for."

He was stunned, as it seemed he was guilty of collusion in mass murder. "I neva knew hah impawtint it was 'til now."

"I bet if I'd've gotten pregnant you would've wanted the fetus aborted."

Again she'd hit him hard. He was weakening. She was too smart for him, introducing things he hadn't even considered. Why was he arguing? He couldn't win.

"It would've been allowable because it would've been in your best interests. You'd've lived with it like you live with all the killing you did in Vietnam."

"Neva," he said. "I loved you wit' everything I had inside me."

He was pained by his use of the past tense. Had his love for her truly expired? He placed his palms flat on the table to keep himself upright, pinning Jo Jo beneath him. He wondered, were he to witness a murder, if he would go to the police, do his civic duty, even if it might place his family in danger. He thought not, and it troubled him. Wasn't this mafia, Don Corleone, thinking - family above country? He didn't know what was right any more.

"Okay, ya hate me," he said softly. "I kin live wit' dat. But why'a ya takin' it out on Jo Jo?"

"You've poisoned her mind."

"It was my decision!" Jo Jo cried out, "and everything you say makes me see that it's right. Like Gran'ma says: 'A baby's comin' into this world - what's so bad about that'?"

Deanna looked as if she were ready to kill.

"Why ya stayin', Dee?" said Dante, pained. "Stop tawcherin' us. Stop tawcherin' yaself. Staht ova. Make yaself happy. Ya kin come see the kids any time ya want. I'd neva stop ya from dat."

To his dismay, she stayed. And now, realizing the fight was lost, she exacted revenge through pettiness: snide remarks, the piling of dirty dishes in the sink, smoking in their presence, consuming food and beverages she hadn't purchased, leaving pro-choice and Clinton campaign literature everywhere in the house. In retaliation Dante made a poster, a take-off on the call to arms in "Gunga Din": "Rise, my new made sister, and kill. Kill for the love of killing. Kill for the love of Bill-lee."

He rued the ruse all day at work and was eager to get home before Deanna did. He was allowed to leave early but encountered delays on the subway. He found the poster on his bed, shredded.

Upon his arrival from headquarters the Saturday before the primary, he went to the kitchen, longing for his daily ration of beer, only to find the last of the six-pack he'd purchased only days ago gone. He was about to go tear into his son when, through the sliding glass door, he saw his wife in the backyard on her knees, trowel in hand. Each spring she planted vegetables in the small patch of earth that lay between the garden and the stone wall that separated the property from their neighbor's. Surprisingly, given the lifelessness of the soil, the pollutants that fell from the air, and the lack of sun the area received, the vegetables were good. Soon she would be working in the front yard, whose colors and fragrance were admired by all. Dante was unable to pronounce many of the flowers she planted. She loved her gardens. It seemed all that remained of her old self.

Apparently, since she was planting, he assumed she planned to stay. He muttered to himself angrily, more so as he spotted an aluminum can at her side, from which she watered the seeds. No doubt she'd poured the contents down the drain. She wouldn't have drank it, as she hated beer. And it certainly would have occurred to her to use a pitcher or a glass. No, he was certain she'd done it deliberately. And he knew exactly how to get back at her.

He was up and about early the next morning. He spread the curtain to its maximum away from the sliding glass door, and went out to the car, which was parked in the driveway. Spring was late, appropriately, it seemed. Deanna had probably planted too soon. He didn't care. He wanted to make a point. He siphoned gasoline from the tank and into a container, and poured it over the vegetable garden.

"Whattaya doin', Danny?" said his mother sorrowfully.

She was at her kitchen window, from which a clothesline was strung, stretching over and past the garage to a telephone pole.

"Stay atuv it, Ma."

"Ya roonin' even the good she does."

She was right, he knew. He was bent on destroying the last of her old self, the only thing he liked about her any more.

"Go back inside."

Hose in hand, should flames threaten to spread beyond the immediate area, he awaited a sign of his wife, whom he knew would be brewing coffee any minute. As soon as he spotted her, he began singing "Light My Fire"* loudly, then lit a match and tossed it into the dirt. The ground ignited with a vigorous "whoosh" that was so intense it evoked a violent flash in his crotch. He resisted the urge to douse, however, despite the heat he felt on his face. He braced himself as he heard the sliding glass door open.

"What're you doing?" Deanna cried shrilly, storming at him.

He feigned surprise. "Burnin' up dis crab grass yer awways complainin' about."

"Liar!"

She tried to take the hose from him. He held it away from her. Hysterical, she attacked him with fists. Hands occupied, he was late defending himself. She landed several blows before he managed to push her away.

"Whattaya so mad about? De'ah only seeds."

Again she went at him. He was ready this time, dropping the hose and clasping her in a bear hug that rendered her helpless. Pulling her to his torso, he freed a hand, took hold of her hair, pulled her head back, looked into her eyes and said: "Ya know hah much ya hurt me? Ya know hah much ya hurt me?"

Eyes shut tightly, she shook her head in defiance. He released his hold and she ran to the house, wailing. The peace of Sunday morning broken, neighbors were gazing from the corners of windows and from behind doors held slightly ajar. Even people at the rear of the houses on the next block were curious.

"Show's ova!" he shouted, waving his arms.

A woman in the house immediately to his left jumped back from her door. Now that Jo Jo's pregnancy was obvious, many of the neighbors were behaving coolly or tentatively toward the family. One woman had taken to clucking or mumbling disapprovingly. Dante hated all of them. Their families had troubles, too. Who were they to judge? This was the first time in years, since his father had begun to slow down, that the Gentiles had given the block fodder for gossip.

"It's about time," a familiar voice, the last he wanted to hear, said from an upper rear window. "Ya didn' finish it, as useule. Ya shoulda smacked the piss atta her."

"Like Ma shoulda did to you fawty yeahs ago," said Dante without looking up. "Den maybe ya woulda turned out humin."

The basement door opened. "What's goin' on?" said Junior, poking his head out.

"Me an' ya motha wa gard'nin'. We finished. Go back to ya...." He caught himself. Why attack his son and the fool who was giving her body to him? "Go back to bed."

"Ya bleedin'."

The front of his T-shirt was stained. The passion of the moment now abated, adrenaline spent, he noted throbbing in his face. He was exhausted, physically and emotionally. He hadn't felt as drained since the last time he'd come off the line in Vietnam.

Jo Jo, in a robe, was waiting at the sliding glass door, holding a wet dishcloth. Her hands were shaking as she gave it to him.

"Thanks, mommy," he said softly, pressing it to his face.

She looked away. "I know why you did it, Daddy, but two wrongs don't make a right."

He was slammed by the simplicity of this truth. He pressed the dishcloth firmly to his brow, covering his eyes, squelching a sob.

"Go check on ya motha," he whispered. "I gave it to 'er pretty good. She needs somebody right now. I'm okay."

She balked, an angry firmness in her gaze.

"Two wrawngs, Jo."

He sprawled on his bed. He decided the campaign would have to do without him this day. He was now certain Tsongas would lose, despite his own victory today. Soon the hollowness of that victory was reduced to what it really was - defeat.

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