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.

11

In the days that followed, barely a word was said in the house. The occupants ate separately and secluded themselves in their own sectors. Each morning Deanna would wait until her husband had left before emerging from her room. Dante did not know her plans or even if she'd found work. He assumed she hadn't, as she was in her room each evening upon his arrival. He was too proud to speak to her. Strangely, he was only mildly curious about her. At this point he would comply with whatever she decided.

Jo Jo came home only to sleep. She'd taken a job in a video shop so she wouldn't have to ask her parents for money. She spent her spare time with her boyfriend, having broken completely with her girlfriends. Dante hoped she hadn't changed her mind about college. In the emotional state she was in, there was no telling what she might do. He feared she would announce plans to marry.

She received a prompt response from her brother, which she left on the kitchen table. Junior, claiming hardship, was trying to obtain an early discharge. It did not appear that he would be successful, however, although but a month of his hitch remained.

There was joy, at least, in the outside world, as communism was collapsing at a dizzying pace. The cold war seemed finished. Compelling images dominated the print and visual media. Huge statues and sculptures of revolutionary figures were seen being toppled by jubilant hordes. It was the only thing that diverted Dante from his troubles.

Seated on the floor of the convention center at lunch one day, he smiled as he unfolded a newspaper to a section of large photographs. "See dis?"

Everyone looked up, the silence broken.

"You know what it means?" said Ben.

"The devil got knocked back a few steps. Good's winnin'. We kin awl sleep a little betta at night."

"It goes even further than that. You won the war - Vietnam, I mean."

"Get-at," said Sandy, smirking.

"You can make a solid arguement that the hardline in Korea and Vietnam wore down and bankrupted the communist machine."

Dante fell into thought. "Dat's right," he mused. "Dat's right." He got to his knees, thinking further. "Dat's right!" He rose and threw his arms into the air. The paper unravelled, fell from his grasp. "Dat's right!"

"He's jus' tellin' ya what ya wanna heah," said Cheech.

"Dat's right," Sandy mocked.

"We won. It wasn't awl fuh nothin'. Thanks, Benny, thanks."

"Why should dat commie be happy?" said Sandy. "His buddies'a awl atta work now."

"Shut up, eahshole."

"Who ya callin' an eahshole? Jus' fuh dat, you ain't comin' to the titty bah wit' us."

"Who keahs? Who wants'a be neah tits ya keahn't touch aw kiss? Ya gotta be a mammaluke to want dat."

"The girls'a gorgiss! You should see 'im."

"Awl the maw. Why would I wanna tawcha myself like dat?"

"You should see dis one pig." Sandy held his hands a foot from his chest. "Unbelieveable. Tell 'im, Cheech."

Dante made a face. "You like dat?"

"I know what I'd like to do to 'em." He made a lewd gesture. "What's wrawng wit' you? Ya turnin' queah? Ya been hangin' out wit' dat commie Judotz too much. Come. We hadda a pissa las' time. Dey t'rew Cheech out. He wouttn't keep 'is han's awf the merchindise."

"I got somethin' to do."

"Bull. Ya think ya too good fer us now? I ain't neva lettin' ya back in the cahpool."

The others laughed.

At the end of the work day, Dante approached Ben.

"I'm takin' a ride down to Washin'ton Sattaday. I'm gonna make a nice plaque an' put it neah the Vietnam memorial. Wanna come?"

Ben shook his head. "Nooo. That's hallowed ground, for the survivors and the family and friends of the dead. I didn't pay my dues. I don't belong there."

"Whattaya tawkin' about? It's open to the public. Yer a good citizen, a helluva lot betta den mos'."

Ben forced a smile to his lips. "That's a matter for debate. I think what you're doin's great, though. Your wife's workin'?"

He choked back emotion, fought the urge to divulge his woes. He would love to take Deanna there. That was now impossible. He wondered if Ben sensed the worst.

He hurried home from the station and went directly to the garage, which he'd converted to a workshop long ago. His wife, tending to the small patch of garden between the garage and the five-foot high cinder block wall that separated their property from the neighbor's, gazed at him briefly. He ignored her.

From a slab of marble left over from work he'd done in the front yard, he cut a section a bit larger than the front page of a tabloid. Upon it he planned to mount and laminate the headline and photograph that reported the fall of communism. The weight of the stone would prevent its being blown away.

He'd been kept from visiting the memorial by shame. He'd feared the names of the honored dead, especially those he'd known, would jump out at him accusingly, cry out: "Deserter!" And what consolation would he have been to them? What could he have said - that they'd died in vain, unappreciated, scorned? Suddenly everything had changed. There was now reason to be proud.

His mother, who called to him from a rear window, beamed as he told her what he was doing.

"Wanna come?"

"I wish I could, but ya know hah cah sick I get. I'd roon it fuh ya."

His father scoffed, as he'd expected. He was now taking the side of those pundits he despised, who claimed that communism had been bound to fall from its own weight and that defense expenditures had been a waste of resources that would have done far more good allocated elsewhere. Dante would not let this deter him. He awaited his daughter's arrival anxiously. He met her in the living room.

"I know ya mad at me, mommy," he said, avoiding her gaze; "but I need a fayva. Come in the kitchen a minute."

The marble slab and newspaper cut-out were on the table atop an old towel.

"I want ya to write somethin' on dis paper fuh me. I'm gonna take it to the memorial in Washin'ton Sattaday."

Jo Jo's eyes spread with excitement. "Can I come?"

He was flabbergasted, elated. "Shaw!" He prayed he would win back her love. "Whattaya think we should write? How 'bout: 'Thanks, guys, we won afta awl.' Hah's dat soun'?"

"Perfect, but it'd mean so much more if you wrote it."

"Nah. It'd mean even maw to me if you did. An' ya know hah I get. I'd make a mistake, an' dis's the only copy I got. Good thing I kept it too. Who knows if deah's any left? It's gotta be a cahlecta's item. If junk like basebawl cards'a wort' so much, amagine what dis'll be wort' someday. You do it, mommy. Ya write so nice. Do it on the pickcha wit' dis nice paint I bought. Make one letta red, the nex' one white, the nex' blue, an' keep alternatin' 'til ya finish. But don' write ova the whole thing. I want everybody to see the statue fallin'."

Using the artist's brush her father had purchased, she experimented on the other pages of the issue, then turned to the one in question. "Here goes," she said, intent. She worked slowly, carefully. Dante glowed as he watched its progress. Upon completion, Jo Jo straightened and examined her work. Dante put an arm around her and kissed the top of her head.

"It's beautyful, mommy. Thanks. Lemme go show Gran'ma."

"Why don't you call her down so you don't have to hear Gran'pa?"

"Good thinkin'."

They set out before dawn on Saturday morning, while traffic was sparse. Soon they were pointed south, on open road.

"Slow down, Daddy," said Jo Jo urgently. "We'll get there. You're gonna get another ticket."

He gazed at the speedometer and eased up on the accelerator. "Thanks, mommy. I'm so excited I keahn't help it. Keep an eye out fuh me."

"Turn on the radio. Maybe music'll relax you."

He grimaced at the familiarity of the voice that came through the speakers. "Ugh! A bootahna dee-owl." He reached for the dial.

"Leave it. It's a good song."

"You like 'er?" he said, appalled, afraid.

"I like her music. I don't like the way she parades around like a slut."

Relieved, Dante made the sign of the cross, only half-jokingly. His amusement faded as his wife crossed his mind.

"What'd you call her - 'bootahna de-what'?"

"'Dee-owl.' Devil. Don' ask me to spell it. Gran'ma's motha useta say it awl the time, God rest'a soul."

"She's not the devil."

"I hope ya right. I see a lotta girls dressin' like 'er."

"That's stupid, but it's their own fault if it gets them into trouble."

He was surprised, knowing how strong the allure of rebellion was, especially in the young. "Who d'you wanna be like?"

"I useta wanna be like mommy, but not any more."

Dante fell silent. He was glad they were alone. He'd expected her to ask to have her boyfriend come along, and had dreaded it. He would have acquiesced, as he would not have risked alienating her again.

"Den the firs' an' bes' thing ya kin do is quit smokin'."

She looked away, apparently surprised he knew. "Maybe I will."

"Ya motha's a good woman, Jo. She jus' lawst 'er way. She made a mistake, dat's awl. We awl do."

She jerked toward him. "How can you say that after all the terrible things she said to you?"

He shrugged, wondering himself. "I'm in too good a mood right now to be mad at anybody. Dis's the firs' time in a lawng time I loved life."

"Did she tell you she's sorry yet?"

"Dat's between me an' her."

"I take that as a 'no.'" She sat back, gazing blankly out the window, arms folded to her chest. "Then again, how do you apologize for something like that? What do you say?"

For a moment Dante had hope. Had Jo Jo hit on the exact reason for Deanna's unrepentance? It seemed to make sense.

"Then again, she's not sorry. I heard her."

"Ya takin' my side?"

She looked at him. "Why're you surprised? You're not the one who cheated."

"But maybe I wasn't doin' the right thing by 'er."

"Did she ever tell you that?"

He shook his head.

"Then stop blaming yourself. You're the victim, not her."

"I keahn't believe ya takin' my side."

"Why?"

"You two bein' women an' awl, it bein' a mahden world."

"What's that got to do with it? Wrong is wrong. Did you ever cheat?"

He wasn't sure what to say. If he told the truth, it might legitimize infidelity in her eyes. If he denied it, it might make his wife seem even more villainous.

"Yeah," he said, softly, nodding. "When I firs' came back from 'nam. I tol' myself the waw messed up my head, but dat was just an igscuse. Like you say: 'Wrawng's wrawng.'"

"I'm glad you admitted it. I heard you say it to mommy."

Ashamed, he bit back tears. "Den why'd ya ask?"

"I wanted to see if you'd lie."

"I was thinkin' about it, but only to protec' ya. I wish I could protec' ya from awl the bad in the world. An' I'm afraid yi'll think, since me an' ya motha cheated, dat it'll be awright fuh you to. It may be human, but it's neva awright."

"I don't think I could eva do it. I'd feel so dirty."

His innards contracted. He was certain Deanna had once felt the same way, only to fall prey to the temptations of the world. He prayed that Jo Jo was right about herself, that all her sins would be, like smoking, venial.

"You regret it, don't you?"

"I was bein' like Gran'pa."

"He was that bad?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

"Poor Gran'ma. Did mommy know about your fooling around?"

"I don' think so. It wouttn't be like 'er to not say nothin', even afta 'nam. Gran'ma neva said a word to Gran'pa, at leas' dat I kin rememba."

"Why'd she stand for it?"

"She's from the ol' school. Ya stick wit' the han' dey dealt ya. D'ja tawk to ya motha 'bout dis?"

"I'll never speak to her again unless she gets down on her knees and begs you to forgive her. I could never respect her again if she didn't."

He was stunned by her rancor. "Easy, Jo. Not even I expec' dat. Awl's she gotta do is say she's sahry. It's not good havin' awl dat poisin inside ya, mommy. She's still ya motha, an' she loves ya like you'll neva know hah much 'til ya have yer own kids. I'm the one who's got the beef wit' 'er, not you."

"Well, I love you and I'll always hate her for what she did to you."

"No. Hah d'ya know I didn' fawce 'er in some way I don' even undastan' myself? Maybe she tried to tell me an' I didn' listen."

"I don't care. She was selfish. She didn't even do it to get back at you for something. She did it because she wanted to, like some slut. I hate her so much."

Her voice cracked. Tears welled in her eyes as she settled into a sulk. They fell silent awhile. Soon the light of realization came to her eyes.

"That's why you got drunk that night," she said, more to herself than to her father. "No wonder. It was so unlike you."

He stifled emotion. "I hope ya neva hafta go t'rough somethin' like dis. Listen, though - if ya change ya mind an' wanna tawk to 'er, do it. Don' feel like ya shouttn't 'cause'a me. I want ya to tawk to 'er. Some things only women kin undastan'."

"I'll work them out myself."

"Dat's a mistake, Jo. Ya motha's smaht. She kin help ya."

"If she's so smart, why'd she do something so stupid?"

"Jus' 'cause ya smaht don' mean ya stop bein' human. Smarta people den her do it. Maybe dis'll make ya think twice about marryin' young. Ya keahn't get dese days back once de'ah gone. I think dat hit ya motha like a ton'a bricks, alluva sudden. Go to cahlidge, make some money, travel, den settle down. Den maybe ya won' get sick'a ya husban'. Billy's a nice kid, but yer only young once."

He was relieved, having hoped he would have the opportunity to say that. To his dismay, Jo Jo smirked and shook her head.

"You keep making excuses for her. How could she get sick of you? You're so good."

He was stunned. He'd always felt he'd neglected her. How had she come to love him? He feared for her. Her notions about life and love were romantic, and he wouldn't be there to take the hit for her when those notions would be tested, perhaps crushed.

"Ya say dat only 'cause I'm yer ol' man."

"Bull."

He shrugged. "I guess it's like me wit' Gran'pa. Fuh the longes' time I wouttn't let myself believe he was a losah. I awways looked fer an igscuse fuh the way he was. Den I stahted thinkin' dat maybe deah was somethin' wrawng wit' me, not him. You'd'a thought I'd see the light from the way he treated Gran'ma, but blood's so strawng it blinds ya."

"But you're not anything like Gran'pa. If blood had anything to do with it, I'd still be sayin' I loved mommy."

"Ya say I'm good. Meanwhile ya motha's the one who goes to church every Sunday."

"Maybe now we know why. She obviously needs to."

"We awl need to. We awl got dis bug inside us dat makes us do an' think bad. Ya gotta fight it awl the time. I know I'm not good. I proved it too many times. Yi'd neva believe what I wanted to do to Gran'pa sometimes."

"But you didn't. That proves you're good."

"I'm awways afraid I'm gonna snap."

"If you didn't snap in the war, you never will."

He wondered what she would say if he told her what he'd done in Vietnam. A few of the instances had not been a matter of snapping but cold calculation. He would not tell her that truth. He would never tell anyone who hadn't been there.

"It's crazy. Ya even gotta fight dat bug in waw. Ya tell yaself: 'It's waw - anything goes; nobody'll keah.' Dat bug's awways lookin' fuh the lames' igscuse to let ya go awf."

"But you're the best father."

He tingled from head to toe, as he had when his son had said this to him. He would have thought it more likely that they were embarassed by him.

"Let's not go puttin' awl dis on ya motha's head. Dat's not right."

"See how good you are? If my husband ever did that to me and said it was no big deal, I'd kill him."

He hoped she would land one of the fifty percent that were faithful. "Please, babe, no maw. We kin go back to bein' mis'rable tamarra. Meanwhahl, break out the donuts. Whatta we waitin' for? I'm stahvin' heah."

"Can you drive and eat at the same time?"

"Deah's nobody out heah. We'ah in the sticks now."

He felt eerie entering the district of Columbia, as if he were violating the sacred. Here, the greatest government the world had yet to know was housed. What right had he, the most common of men, a terrible sinner, to enter? Oh, sure, he knew that in America no one was common, at least according to its magnificent constitution, but he was unable to shake the feeling that he didn't belong. This was a place for the noble. He would not allow the corruption and viciousness that sullied the political process have him stop believing in America. He realized he felt the same about visiting here as Ben had about visiting the memorial - it was hallowed ground. He thought people strange.

As soon as he entered the grounds, a queasiness arose in his gut. Quietly he strode, marble slab tucked to his left side, right hand holding his daughter's left. Although the sun was shining, he could feel the rising of the darkness of war that resided within him. His lower jaw began to quiver as they neared the monument. Although men, women and children filled the area, it was characterized by a hush this day. His tear ducts swelled as he beheld the memorial's firm beauty. He did not understand why there had been such bitter controversy prior to its opening. How could anyone have been disappointed with such magnificence? Television and magazines did not do it justice.

He wondered how many of those present were honoring the dead, how many were just sightseeing. Legs weakening, he let go of Jo Jo's hand and slung his arm around her for support. Many items: cigarette packages, dolls, photgraphs, tiny flags, flowers had been left along the entire length of the base of the wall.

"All these men," said Jo Jo sadly, stunned.

"A lot of 'em wa jus' boys like ya brotha."

"Then how could you've let him go?"

He wondered if that alone had been the reason for his wife's infidelity. "It was the hardes' thing I eva did, harda even den me goin'. I was young an' strawng den. I wannid to go. I didn' reahly know what I was gettin' inta."

"But you know now."

"A man's gotta stand up fuh what's right, mommy. Ya keahn't stop onnymahls like Hitler an' Stalin an' Saddam wit'out goin' to waw. An' if everybody looked to the nex' guy to do it, we'd get buried jus' like the commies useta say."

Recalling Kruschev's boast, he experienced the same violent flash he had long ago.

Strolling slowly now, scanning the roster of the honored dead, he paused suddenly, tugging at Jo Jo's hand, reeling her to him. He reached out and grazed a particular name.

"Little hick," he choked, tears welling. "Tough little sonuva gun. He crawled down dese tunnels the V.C. holed up in. He got a lotta dem befaw dey got him."

Jo Jo made the sign of the cross and bowed her head.

A few steps further, Dante nodded toward another name. "Motown. He was awways singin' sawngs from the Faw Tops an' the Tem'tayshins, groups dat wa populah back den. He was reahly good too."

Jo Jo offered another silent prayer.

And further on was: "The Capt'in. Bes' man I eva knew. I useta wish Gran'pa was like him. When he got it, I was shaw I'd neva see Brooklyn aw ya motha again."

He came to attention and saluted.

"Let's put it heah, mommy."

He leaned it against the base of the wall, backed away, and burst into tears. Jo Jo embraced him, weeping herself. Suddenly he was ashamed of having been ashamed. Moments later, he gained control of himself.

"Thanks, mommy," he said, kissing the top of Jo Jo's head. "I dunno what I woulda done wit'out ya. Maybe I kin staht puttin' it awl behin' me now."

He wondered, given how long it'd taken him to come to grips with the war, if indeed he really had done so, how long it would take him to accept his wife's infidelity. It had taken a world shaking event - the fall of communism, to convince him the Vietnam bloodbath had not been entirely in vain. He might never have realized it at all if not for Ben. What, however, could have him forgive Deanna? Certainly not a worldwide event. Would time heal the wound? He despaired, realizing that that time was nowhere near the horizon. He was reminded of his first days in Vietnam, of how the end of his commitment always seemed so distant. All he had to do to reach it was to survive. He now felt similarly.

He resisted the temptation to look for the names of those he'd left behind, as if they would not really be dead if he did not spot them. He preferred they live on in his memory.

Hand in hand, he and Jo Jo turned away from the monument. Dante fought the urge to look back.

"Whattaya say we take in the sights while we'ah heah," he said, "see what dis country's awl about?"

"Great," said Jo Jo, a girlish hop in her step. "Can we get something to eat first. I'm starving."

Wiping away tears, astounded at the rapid change of emotions that occurred in his life, he led her from the grounds. He let go of her hand as casually as he could. She wasn't a little girl any more. He didn't want anyone to think he.... Would anyone guess that such a beauty was his daughter?

12

With his son due home for good, Dante converted half the finished basement into an apartment for him. As his relationship with his wife showed no signs of improving, he would not return to the bedroom. He would remain in Junior's room.

The task provided diversion, kept him from plopping down in front of the television the entire evening and feeling sorry for himself. He'd begun a diet and planned to lose 20 pounds. He'd already lost ten while his son was in peril. He hadn't had a beer in a week. He washed his meals down with fruit-flavored seltzer, to the merry derision of his co-workers. He was abstaining from snacks indefinitely. Soon the physical change in him became apparent.

"No wonda ya so grouchy lately," Cheech teased.

He was relieved that no one seemed to have an inkling of the real nature of his discontent. To his dismay, however, while others complimented him on his loss of weight, the person who mattered most ignored him. The fact prompted him to speak to her as she entered the kitchen one evening.

"Ya know, ya still beautyful, Dee. If ya leave, guys'll be flockin' to ya, but not if ya quit watchin' ya weight."

Her stare bellowed of contempt. And just like that his own loss of weight had been rendered meaningless. He'd made an error in judgement, thinking, hoping she'd entered the kitchen wanting to talk. It seemed a reasonable assumption, as she'd avoided him for so long. He decided, from that moment forward, not to speak to her unless she addressed him first.

He was dogged by anger. After months of indifference, he was beginning to miss sex. He was unable to imagine himself with another woman for more than an instant, however. An affair was out of the question as long as Deanna was living at home. Her presence meant that there was a ray of hope, although he still cringed at the thought of making love to her. Although several months had passed since she'd last been with Ryan, she still reeked of him as far as he was concerned. Considerable healing had to take place before he would allow himself to again touch her. And he would not make the initial overture himself. He would not move back into the bedroom unless she asked, nor would he throw her out of the house.

Upon his return, Junior was disappointed that a celebration wasn't awaiting him. This time he'd called in advance, alerting the family of his imminent arrival.

"Ya awready had a pahty," said his father, "an' a parade. What else ya want? Dis's no place fer a pahty right now, anyways."

"No change, huh?" said Junior glumly.

Dante shook his head. "Anyway, I got somethin' betta fuh ya. Come downsteahs. Ya kin go see ya motha in a minute."

"Why would I wanna see her?"

Dante ignored the comment. Apparently, Junior knew everything. Dante wished Jo Jo had been more vague. What had he expected? Why was he surprised?

Junior's eyes spread at the change in the basement. Dante smiled briefly.

"What's dis?"

"From now on dis's yaw apahtmint. I figyid it was time ya wa on ya own."

Junior was speechless, gazing at his father. "Ya crazy. Ya didn' hafta, Da. It was good enough the way it was."

"Nah. Ya need ya privacy. Besides, I needed somethin' to do to keep from goin' nuts. I did it awl wit'out ya motha's help too. She'd prob'bly hate it."

Junior grazed a counter. "Oh, wow, ya made awl the fixchas too."

Dante nodded. "Why not? It's a helluva lot cheapah."

The fixtures surrounded three-quarters of the room. Junior threw himself onto the bed, which slept two.

"I made the bed too. I figyid ya earned it, fightin' fuh ya country an' awl."

"I dunno what to say. Ya blew me away wit' dis."

He again smiled briefly. "I brought awl ya stuff down. I put a new lock on the back daw. From now on go t'rough deah when ya come home late. I soun'-proofed as best I could, but I still want ya to keep the noise down, if ya know what I mean. Ya kin have frien's ova any time ya want, lawng as ya behave yaselfs. Get yer own phone, though. An' as soon as ya get a job I want ya to staht givin' ya motha a hundred bucks a month, keahsh, fuh rent."

"Why should I give it to her? She don' own the house."

Dante was annoyed. "Whattaya tawkin' about? She owns haff. An' if she asks, tell 'er ya payin' two hundred an' givin' the otha haff to me."

Junior smirked and looked away.

"Anyway, she lost 'er job an' I guess she's too proud to ask me fuh money. She must be takin' it atta the bank, an' dat ain't good."

Junior rose from the bed. "I'm saprised she's still heah. Bozo made it soun' like she was on 'er way out the daw dat secon'."

"I'm saprised too. Maybe dat means deah's still hope." He was struck by a feeling of foolishness.

Junior made a face. "Ya still want 'er?"

He looked into his son's eyes. "Ya sista tol' ya everything, den?" Suddenly his pain and shame were again fresh. "I been in love wit' ya motha since I firs' seen 'er. Ya keahn't jus' t'row dat away like it don' mean nothin'. Ya want us to be like one'a dose Hollywood douche beahg couples?"

"But she didn' go wit' the slob jus' once. I'd beat 'er to an inch of 'er life an' t'row 'er out on the street."

Dante struggled to contain his anger. "Don' you deah go tawkin' like dat. You show 'er the same respec' ya awways did, whetha she deserves it aw not, like I do wit' Gran'pa. Yer a man now. Ya been to waw. Ya should know life ain't perfec'."

"I ain't tawkin' to 'er at awl."

"Yes, you ah," said Dante firmly. "Ya want 'er to think I turned ya against 'er? Dat's the las' thing I need. You go up deah an' kiss 'er, aw yaw the one who's goin' out in the street."

Flushed, Junior lowered his head.

"Let's not get awf on the wrawng foot now. A man's awways got do stuff fer 'is fam'ly he don' feel like doin'. Ya might as well staht learnin' dat right now. Ya keahn't fuhget everything she eva done fuh ya 'cause'a one thing, a thing dat ain't even got nothin' to do wit' you?"

"Nothin' to do wit' me?"

Hadn't Jo Jo reacted similarly? he thought. He did not understand why they did not see the obvious. "She might not awways be my wife, but shi'll awways be ya motha."

As Junior was seeing her, Dante poised himself at the edge of the sofa, stomach churning, fearful shouting would occur. To his relief, the visit was brief and quiet. He was surprised at his children's bitterness. It seemed so unmodern, as if the times had had no effect on them. Divorce, adultery were common. Was all the complaining by feminists about a double standard warranted, then, and not just the whining of the gutless? he wondered.

"Now go up to Gran'ma's. She's got chicken cutlets waitin' fuh ya. Den, when ya come down, I wanna tawk to ya."

He propped his feet on the coffee table, sat back, and watched the Mets. He was dozing when his son, tray of homemade cookies in his hand, returned. Junior offered him some.

"De'ah still hot."

Dante declined, raising a hand, rubbing his gut. "I'm on a diet. It's killin' me."

"I noticed," said Junior, amused. "Good. Maw fuh me."

"I was turnin' into a fat bastid. Maybe...." He cut himself short. To his chagrin, he sensed his son knew what he'd been about to say. He'd slipped, kept slipping. He'd vowed not to discuss his marital woes with his children. "Get some milk. I think deah's only skim, t'ough."

"Get at'. Reahly? Dat sucks."

Junior was immersing a cookie into a tall glass as he returned.

"Look at dis," said Dante, annoyed, referring to the action on the screen, where a rundown was in effect. "Look at dis! Make maw den one t'row, ya ain't doin' it right."

A moment later the announcer said the same thing.

"Man, dey do suck," said Junior. "I could hahdly believe it readin' it in the hick paypiz."

"An' I pay extra fuh dis, to give myself ahgihda. Dis's one time Gran'pa's right. It's stupit to pay to watch TV. Deah's just as many kimmershills on cable too. It's a double whammy."

"Keahn't live wit'out it, though."

"We'ah awl pretty sad if dat's the case. We lived wit'out it 'til las' yeah, 'til the politicians figyid out hah to cut up the pie. It's the bigges' rip-awf dey eva came up wit'."

"Ya shoulda cancelled the channel as soon as ya saw dey wa gonna suck. Why'a ya watchin' 'em so late in the season, anyway? De'ah a hundred games out."

"Fawce'a habit, I guess. The shysters chahge fuh keahns'lin' a channel too - to press a little buttin on a kimputah. Dey treat us like mammalukes, an' we go right alawng." He pointed the remote control at the set and lowered the volume. "Listen, kid, I thought about it a lot an' I decided I ain't gettin' ya in the uneyin."

"Aw, Da," Junior groaned, mouth full of cookie.

"You kin do betta. An' I want ya to do things fuh yaself, not have 'em handed to ya. We make nice money, but the job's reahly a joke. We don' reahly do much. We do what dey tell us."

"Everybody does what deah bosses tell 'em."

"It ain't only dat. I'm afraid someday somebody's gonna find out what goes on down deah, an' the spit's gonna hit the fan. We might awl get canned."

"What goes on?"

Dante shrugged. "I dunno fuh shaw. I heah things - ovapricin', takin' way too lawng to finish jobs, no-show jobs. I don' wanna know. Awl's it'll take is one politician wit' bawls lookin' to scaw points."

"He'll wind up in the rivah."

"Dat'd be a shame, even if it cost me my job."

"Whattaya tawkin' about? Yi'd let 'em take food awf ya table? Lemme take ya place if ya don' wanna fight fer it no maw. I will."

"You kin do betta," Dante insisted. "Ya should look fuh somethin' dat'll make ya feel like ya doin' some good in the world. I don' get no satisfackshin deah. I get maw doin' stuff aroun' the house, an' dat ain't good. A man should feel like he's makin' a diff'rence, like he keahn't wait to get to work."

"Staht yer own business. Look at dis place. Everybody who comes in keahn't believe hah beautyful it is."

"Dat's 'cause ya motha has a great eye. She kin look at a pickcha in a magazine an' see igsackly hah to lay it out. I'm only good wit' my han's. I gotta be told what to do. An' I got no head fuh business. If it wasn't fuh ya motha, I'd have nothin' saved up fuh retieyamint. She read up on awl dat stuff an' spread ah money aroun'."

"Least she's good fuh somethin'," Junior sniffed.

Dante despaired at the thought of those resources having to be divided, the penalties, taxes and legal fees that would be incurred - were they to divorce.

"Give it a shot," said Junior. "I'll work wit' ya. Hah d'ya know ya keahn't do it unless ya try? Ain't dat what yer awways tellin' me?"

"It's too late. Yaw jus' stahtin' out. My life's in place, an' it ain't a bad one." Except for the fact..., he thought, pained. "I shoulda tried a lawng time ago, but I was afraid I wouttn't be able to sappawt yous, so I stayed put. I was afraid we'd lose the house. Once Gran'pa went on disabilidy, the mawgage was awl on me."

"Dat's why ya should do it now. Me an' Bozo don' need ya no maw. We kin take keah of ourselfs now. She works."

"She's got cahlidge now. I don' want 'er workin' full time. I don' wanna take the cheahnce, dat's awl. Cawl me chicken, but dat's the way it is. Neva mind me, anyway. Dis's about you. You got ya whole life ahead'a ya. I'd be proud'a ya no matta what ya ended up doin', but I wanna see ya take the fam'ly a step up."

Junior averted his gaze. "I ain't goin' to cahlidge."

"Dat's gonna cut down on the things ya could do."

"I ain't afraid'a derdy work. I jus' came atta the Marines. An' I spent awl dat time eatin' sand."

"Hah 'bout becomin' a cop?"

Junior smirked. "Everybody hates cops."

"Not people who think right."

"I hope ya ain't thinkin' ya gonna scaw points wit' Ma wit' dis. She'd hate it."

He realized Junior was right. He hadn't even considered that. He wondered if, deep down, he were not trying to impress but to get back at Deanna by encouraging their son into law enforcement.

"I bumped into dis guy the otha day - Tommy Manzo. We wenta grade school togetha. He's a Lieutenant now. He has 'is own awfice an' everything. I couttn't believe it. He was worse den me in school. I rememba I almos' died laughin' one day 'cause the teacha couttn't get 'im to say 'oil' right. He called it 'earl.' His fatha drove an' 'earl' truck, matta'a fack."

They laughed.

"An' now who's got the las' laugh?"

"I could neva give people tickets. I could neva be a scumbeahg like dat."

"Ya only give 'em to people who deserve 'em."

"Yeah, right. Dey say deah's no quota, but dey ain't foolin' nobody. Dey screw ya good if ya don' meet it. The city's so cahrupt dat way. I don' want no paht'a dat."

"But ya awways been a feah-minded kid. Ya awways got alawng wit' the minahridees on ya teams. Dat's igsackly what the city's lookin' fuh. It's sinkin'. You kin help save it. Think about it at leas'. If ya reahly think ya won' like it, okay. But it's about the bes' thing somebody who ain't been to cahlidge could do, maybe the bes' thing anybody could do, anyway. Yi'd get a big boost on the tes' 'cause yer a vet'rin. The only thing dat worries me is dat ya might be too quick to use ya muscle aw to take on lawng odds. We got enough'a dose kind awready. Dese chahges keahn't awl be phony."

"Why not? Ya saprise me, Da, ya reahly do. Befaw I left, ya tol' me not to make a careah atta the service. What's the diff'rence between dat an' bein' a cop?"

Dante shook his head, as if the answer should have been obvious. "Yi'd awways be stayshinned heah, dat's what. We might get to see ya once in a whahl, unless ya moved atta the city like a lotta dem do now," he said scornfully.

"Ya gonna tell people wheah dey should live?"

"Yer a city cop, ya should live in the city, not on the Islan' aw upstate. Let ya kids move out when dey grow up an' go to work."

Junior chuckled. "Ya neva change. Ya still get mad about things dat ain't got nothin' to do wit' you."

"Whattaya tawkin' about? Ah taxes pay deah sal'ries."

"Tell me the troot - is you wantin' me to become a cop a way'a you gettin' back at Ma?"

"No! You ain't gotta do nothin' fuh me. I'll be behin' ya no matta what ya do. Right now, take anything. Take a coupla weeks awf if ya need it, den go back to work. It's time ya...."

He was distracted by the action on the screen.

"Look at dis!" said Junior excitedly, rising.

The batter, having run out a routine ground ball, upon touching first base, turned immediately toward the mound and attacked the pitcher, a former teammate and, according to the press, tormentor.

"Kill 'im!" Junior cried , laughing.

The baserunner lifted the pitcher and slammed him to the turf, ignoring the headlock clamped on him and a barrage of punches thrown at his temple. The dugouts and bullpens emptied, creating a mob scene in the middle of the field. The small crowd in attendance was up and buzzing. Dante and Junior hooted and hollered like adolescents. Deanna hurried to the living room, concerned. When she noted the cause of the ruckus, she smirked and returned to her room without a word.

"Least we know she ain't dead," Dante muttered bitterly.

Read More Of KILLING next month here at The Cynic Online Magazine

Return To The Cynic