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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.

19

He was refreshed by the cold night air. His sinuses opened, allowing his head to clear. His blood cooled, the knot in his chest loosened. Soon, however, the benefits he'd gained in being outdoors were negated by the thought that his home had become his bane and not his solace.

He stopped at a phone booth on 18th Avenue. At the other end of the line, a woman with a heavy accent answered.

"Hello," he said, a finger in his opposite ear to block out the din of traffic. "Kin I tawk to Billy Pasquale, please? Dis's Dante Gentile."

There was a pause. He wondered if she'd understood. He tried, in vain, to come up with the proper words in Italian. He feared she would hang up. He breathed more easily when he heard her summon her son, in her native tongue. He wondered if Billy had even told her of the pregnancy. He hoped she, too, wanted him to do the right thing. Maybe all was not lost, after all.

Billy spoke tentatively.

"Listen, kid," said Dante softly, "I know yer a little skeahed an' kinfused right now, but I was wond'rin' if I could come ova an' tawk to ya fer a minute."

Silence ensued, then Billy assented, seemingly without conviction.

"Reahly? Great. I got the address. I didn' say nothin' to Jo Jo. I wanted to tawk to you firs'. I'll be deah in a coupla minutes. I wanna tawk to yer ol' man when he gets home too."

Along the way, he had to temper his optimism, so bouyant was it suddenly. He prayed Billy had been stricken by conscience. He hoped to make the situation right the old-fashioned way - by marriage. And why not? Jo Jo loved Billy. He'd kick his son out of the basement apartment and give it to the newlyweds. He would call in some markers owed him and get Billy a spot in the union. Junior would have to move back into his old room. He himself would sleep on the sofa until Deanna left, which would probably be soon. No doubt she would be against a wedding as well, but there was no sense worrying about that yet. He was getting ahead of himself.

Breathing deeply, urging himself to keep cool no matter what might transpire, he pressed the bottom bell at the bricked front two-story house. No one answered. He tried again and waited. Still there was no reply. Sensing chicanery, he kept his finger pressed to the button. He assumed the Pasquales were hoping he would tire and leave. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction. He was determined, if nothing else, to win this battle of will.

Finally a voice came from the front of the house. "Who's dat?"

Dante stepped away from the door and looked at the picture window, which was dark. "Dan Gentile. I was jus' tawkin' to Billy on the phone."

"De'ah's no Billy heah."

"Don' play games wit' me, pal," said Dante calmly. "Open up an' let's tawk like men."

"He's gotta get some sleep. He's goin' to It'ly tamarra. He's gonna be gone a lawng time."

Dante ignored his instincts, which told him to leave. "Look, I jus' wanna tawk to the kid man to man, wit' you an' ya wife right deah."

"If ya lookin' fuh cash, betta go to the bank."

"I don' wan' ya money, pal. Dis ain't about money."

"Go see some'a ya daughta's otha boyfrien's."

"Dizgrotsyod!" he cried out, rushing at the window and slamming his fist against the sill, then kicking at the house. "Lemme in aw I'll break the daw down."

"Ga'head. I'll put a bullet t'rough ya head."

"Lowlife, skifots. I eva find out what ya look like an' run inta ya on the street, I'll wipe the flaw wit' ya. An' ya betta keep ya son in It'ly, 'cause if mine eva gets a hold'a him he'll break 'is legs."

Mrs. Pasquale, in Italian, urged her husband to keep silent.

"Go home, ya drunk, ga'head. I heard about you. I awready called the cops. Betta hide in the neares' bah 'til dey come."

Recalling Ryan, who'd also sought the intervention of the police, Dante flew into a rage and began driving his shoulder into the front door, in vain.

"Anotha Vietnam psycho," Pasquale taunted, ignoring his wife's entreaties. "Look at 'im, everybody - a whack job."

A crowd had gathered.

"Go home to ya bootahn wife. We awl know who ya daughta takes afta."

Dante bounded from the porch and into the driveway, where he seized a garbage can, hoisted it above his head, and hurled it through the picture window. Mrs. Pasquale screamed. Her son was wailing.

Dante shouted expletives. "I hope yiz awl get AIDS. Don' eva come aroun' lookin' fuh the baby, Billy. I'll shoot ya down like the dawg ya ah."

Neighbors had come out onto porches and front steps. Some tried to reason with him, others ridiculed him and advised Pasquale to shoot if he had a gun. Dante ignored them all. He continued to taunt his nemesis, hoping Pasquale would make the mistake of coming outside, where he would pay for his sins. Pasquale proved a coward, however, like Ryan.

Soon Dante was in handcuffs, riding in the backseat of a patrol car, listening to the same advice he'd heard the first time he was taken into custody. He was not released this time, however. He was booked, fingerprinted and photographed. He used the phone call he was allowed to call his mother.

He was placed in a cell that held more miscreants than he would ever have imagined populated the quiet neighborhood. Most were young and either drunk or stoned. He sat on the floor, arms wrapped around his shins, back to the wall, eyes on the others, ready to defend himself should the need arise. It did not.

He was soon released. The officer in charge, recognizing Mrs. Gentile, realizing the nature of the offense, that it was a first, expedited the process. Almost everyone being held had preceded him there. Dirty looks were shot his way. He wondered if the parents of the youngest were negligent, not at home, or had simply conceded to futility. Burdened with his own troubles, he'd forgotten the thought by the time he reached his mother.

"Lemme call cah service," he said, breaking from her embrace.

"No, let's wawk. Dis way we kin tawk in private."

Strolling along the streets, he related the incident.

"The wah's ova, Danny," said his mother tactfully. "Ya gotta stop fightin' it."

He twisted in place, beside himself. His own mother was starting to fear he was a "Vietnam psycho."

"Fuh twenny yeahs I neva got in trouble - neva. Now alluva sudden it's the wah. Gimme a break."

"Sssh! Keep ya voice down."

He gazed about, miffed that a passerby might have heard. He lowered his head penitently.

"Sahry."

He recalled something Deanna had said during their most recent fight: "This's war too." It was, but it had nothing to do with Vietnam. He was now as divorced from that experience as he would likely ever be. Regardless, he was guilty by association. What was he supposed to do - not fight for the things he held dear for fear it would be construed as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder?

"I don' get it - my wife two-timed me; my daughta's knocked up by some punk who wants no paht'a her - an' I ain't allowed to get mad?"

"Ya go way ovabawd."

"Bull. Ovabawd woulda been climbin' t'rough the windah. I keahn't believe it - you'a awl people. I thought you at least'd undastan'."

"Ya shouttn't'a went deah."

"Twenny-twenny hin'sight now."

"Testotsee Calabrese! Ya so thick-headed."

"De'ah Calabrese, not us."

"Den what'dja expec'?"

"I jus' wanted to tawk to the kid. Jo Jo loves 'im."

"Den why'd ya go crazy like dat?"

"I jus' tol' ya why. The fatha's a sfacheem. I couttn't let 'im get away wit' what he was sayin', 'speshly 'bout Jo Jo."

Pasquale's barbs tore at him once more - to have been labeled a drunk, he who rarely drank at all; to have had his wife's infidelity thrown in his face by a complete stranger, to have had it made public; and poor Jo Jo - to have opened her heart to a lover and been scorned.

"Betta get use' to it," said Mrs. Gentile. "Even though teenagiz havin' babies ain't a big deahl no maw, some people'a still gonna tawk. Ya keahn't fight 'em awl."

He was stunned as he realized his daughter had become one of the statistics he frowned upon when reading the newspaper - that of unwed, teenage mother. The fact that she, unlike many of the others, would not be going on Welfare, was small consolation.

"I tried to do what people useta do when things like dis happened. What's wrawng wit' dat?"

"People ain't like dat no maw, not enough of 'em, anyways."

"The guy has no honah, Ma - the fatha, I mean. The kid's just a kid. I keahn't reahly blame him. Hah kin he do right if he ain't got a fatha to show 'im how?"

"We don' want Jo Jo marryin' wit' onnymahls, anyways. But ya keahn't go t'rowin' things t'rough people's windahs, Danny. Dis ain't the jungle."

"Den why don' dey act like it's not?"

"Don'cha know what people'a like by now," said Mrs. Gentile demonstratively. "What'sa matta wit' you?"

"Is it so hahd to do the right thing?"

"Dat's why dey got courts."

"Now ya soun' like the cops. I don' want the sfacheem's money. I want 'im to act like a man. I want Jo Jo to be happy."

Lips pursed, his mother said: "Ya maw like ya fatha den I thought."

He shoulders heaved upward, then sagged as he controlled his anger. "Thanks a lot, Ma. When did Pa eva go roun' tryin' to make things right? In the wah, dat's it, if he even did den. He acts like everybody owes 'im somethin' 'cause he was deah. Ya didn' tell 'im, did ya?"

"He was awready in bed."

He was relieved. "Whattaya gonna say if he's up when ya get back?"

"I'll tell 'im I was downsteahs, what else." She looked at his forehead. "Hah'd ya get dat bump on ya head? Ya hit yaself wit' the gahbitch keahn?"

He'd forgotten it. Suddenly he could feel it throbbing again. He was too ashamed to tell her the truth. "I dunno. No wonda my head hurts."

"The cops didn' give it to ya, did dey?"

"Nah."

She stared, eyes cold and firm. He looked away.

"Dee did it to ya?"

He did not respond.

"I heard yiz befaw. I almos' came down. Fuh the firs' time in my life I agree wit' ya fatha - t'row 'er out. Ya gave 'er enough time now. Stay home tamarra, pack awl 'er things up, an' leave 'em on the pawch fuh when she gets home. Change awl the locks on the daws. Let 'er go to 'er mothas."

"Now who's tawkin' crazy? An' you wa neva even in a wah."

She smirked and looked away.

"She'll be gone soon, anyway. What's the hurry?"

Days later, as he was seated at the kitchen table eating a cold supper, Jo jo entered, sat, and said: "I decided to have the baby."

He bowed his head as if to pray. When he looked up, his eyes were glazed. "I thought ya had the abawshin awready. We'ah gonna be awright, mommy, yi'll see. I ain't sayin' it's gonna be easy, but yi'll be glad in the lawng run. Yi'll look at the baby an' melt." He leaned back, head poised against the wall. "Thank God. Maybe I'll be able to sleep again now. Ya tell ya motha?"

She frowned. "Not yet. She comes at me every morning, offering to drive me to the clinic."

He ground his teeth to repress anger. It was obvious in his eyes, however.

He waited until Deanna and he were alone in the house one day, and followed her to her room.

"Ya leavin' aw what?"

"Not until I talk Jo Jo out of having the baby," she said coolly, pulling her sweater over her head.

"She made the choice, now leave 'er alone."

"You made the choice, not her." Now she was unhooking her bra. "But there's still time to get through to her."

Although she seemed nonchalant about her bare breasts, he sensed she'd exposed them to mock, torment him. And the tactic worked, as he was uncomfortable, almost as if she were a stranger. He averted his gaze. He felt anger welling within him. He was tempted to bend her over and.... Was that what she wanted? he wondered. The complexity of the situation was killing him.

"I want ya out in a mont'. Enough's enough. If ya still heah, I'll t'row awl ya stuff out on the street. Everybody'll know the bootahn ya ah."

When the time limit elapsed, however, he lacked the resolve to carry out the threat.

20

Jo Jo, although frequently ill, never missed a class or a workshift. She'd assumed an unusually large credit load, knowing she wouldn't be able to devote nearly as much time to study once the baby was born. She received all A's first semester, except in Physical Education. Her father quipped that she wouldn't have to worry about that this semester, as she'd been excused from the requirement. He was surprised at her scholastic accomplishments, given his own ineptitude. Jo Jo pooh-poohed it, claiming it wasn't genuine, given the simplicity of the work. She claimed it was like high school all over again.

She'd taken after her mother, who, although her formal education had ceased upon graduation from high school, was an avid reader. The shelves were filled with books she'd accumulated through the years. Each month she purchased a fresh supply from a store that specialized in secondhand copies. And Jo Jo had followed that example. Dante hoped it would be the only way she copied her mother. Not very long ago he'd prayed she would be exactly like her.

"I ain't seen ya smokin' lately," he said to her at dinner one evening.

She looked at him with surprise. "I'd never do anything to hurt the baby."

He chuckled and shook his head. "But yi'd hurt yaself? When ya get to the paht in ya Psycholihgy dat 'splains hah people think, I want ya to 'splain it to me, 'cause I'll neva figya it out."

The amniocentesis proved negative and engendered a conflict of emotions within Dante. If an abnormality had been found, he would not have stood in the way of an abortion, although he still believed such an act would be murder. To his shame, he realized he'd been hoping for it, an "easy" way out of the situation

As Jo Jo and he were eating dinner one night, Junior climbed the rear stairs and pulled open the sliding glass door.

"Hey, he's still alive," his father chided.

Jo Jo smirked. "He must want something."

"Still a brat, eh Bozo?" said her brother, slapping a headlock on her, from which she pushed free.

"Siddown, have a bite."

"I keahn't. I'm in a hurry. Kin ya loan me twenny, Da? I got caught shawt dis week."

"I told you," said Jo Jo.

"Shut up, jerko. Nobody eahsked you."

Never had the difference between his son's and daughter's manner of speaking been so apparent to Dante. Junior's seemed contemptuous of breeding or erudition. To Dante's chagrin, his son had followed his own example in this.

"The price'a condims go up?"

Jo Jo laughed, body curling. Junior tilted his head away and upward in an effort to convey an aloofness that was betrayed by the rest of him.

"Awright, awright," said his father. "Ya had enough from us. Siddown a minute, though. I wanna tawk to ya."

"I gotta go, Da."

"Wait a minute. Spend awl twenny on 'er, an' she won' mind waitin'."

Smirking, Junior sat between his father and sister, poised at the edge of a chair. Jo Jo went to the stove and added stew to her plate.

"God, Jo," said Junior, "ya betta cut down on the eats aw ya gonna wind up as big as Mommy."

She rolled her eyes heavenward and seated herself.

"Ya sista's gonna have a baby," said Dante quietly, still unable to believe it himself.

Junior stared, eyes moving from side to side, studying the faces that flanked him, as if he were skeptical of what had been said.

"Don' take the cah no maw wit'out askin' firs'. Jo Jo's got dibs now. You get yer own. Yaw workin'."

Junior shrugged. "No problem. I'm gettin' my Hahley dis week, anyway. Dat's why I'm shawt right now. I been puttin' so much money in the bank."

Dante had hoped his son had forgotten that desire, as he had skydiving and bungee jumping. He recalled a couple who'd zoomed past him on Ocean Parkway recently. He imagined the driver had an erection, what with that curvy blonde clinging to him. She wasn't even wearing a helmet. Then again, what protection would a helmet have served during an accident at that speed, which had to have been at least 70. He was so mesmerized by them he nearly ran a red light. As it was, hitting the brake, the car swerved and didn't come to a stop until he'd violated the crosswalk. Pedestrians stared as if he were a moron. The couple seemed to have absolutely no conception of mortality, laughing as they sped. The driver seemed perfectly willing to kill himself to impress the girl. He wondered if drugs had made them fearless. Fortunately, at least as far as he knew, his son did not mix that vice with his recklessness. Dante would not tolerate drug use. He'd drummed the evil of it into his children since they were very young. He thanked God he'd escaped the grief some of the families on the block suffered in this regard.

Moments after he'd left, Junior returned, a puzzled look on his face. "Who knocked ya up - dat little jerg-awf I useta see ya wit'?"

Jo Jo made a face.

"Wheah's he been? Hah come I ain't seen 'im aroun'?"

She lowered her head, now pained, ashamed.

"She's havin' the baby on 'er own," said Dante softly.

"On 'er own? A'you crazy?" He looked into his sister's eyes, in which defiance had now arisen. He turned to his father. "An' yaw lettin' 'er?"

Dante looked at him without a word. Junior looked at Jo Jo.

"Why didn' ya get an abawshin, mawron? Ya didn' hafta tell nobody. I woulda went wit' ya."

"We awready went ova awl dis a thousan' times. We don' need ya two cents."

"An' dis's what yous came up wit'? Ya kiddin' me."

Dante rose and came face to face with his son. "I'll tell ya the same thing I tol' ya sista. If I found out one'a ya bimbos had one, I'd give ya t'ree mont's to find yer own place."

"What kinda crap's dat? It's the law'a the land. The Sapreme Cawt says so. You know maw den dem?"

"It ain't the law'a dis house, an' it'll neva be the law'a dis house as lawng as I'm alive."

Junior looked at his sister. "Ya havin' it 'cause he says so?"

"I'm having it because I want to," she said firmly.

Junior stared, incredulous. Dante could not help but wonder at the fickleness of luck, at how his daughter had gotten caught and his son hadn't.

"What's Mommy say about dis?"

"You'd side with her?" said Jo Jo bitterly, jerking her head in the direction of her mother's room.

"Everybody in the neighbahood's gonna be tawkin' about ya, mawron."

"That's on me, not you."

He slammed his fist against the refrigerator, rattling it. "Wheah's dat little skifots live? I'll kill 'im."

"You'll never know," said Jo Jo venomously.

"Why ya pratectin' 'im? He ran out on ya."

Jo Jo flinched. She had no response for this. Junior stepped toward his mother's room.

"No!" said Dante, following.

Junior ignored him and rapped hard at the door. "Ma!"

Deanna exited immediately, in a robe. From the look on her face it was apparent she'd been listening. Dante turned his back to her and gently placed his hands on Jo Jo's shoulders.

"Wheah's Jo Jo's boyfrien' live?" Junior demanded.

"It won' do no good," said Dante softly. "His fatha sent 'im to It'ly."

"An' you let 'im get away wit' it? Ya shoulda wiped the street wit' 'im."

"He wouttn't come atta the house."

In the ensuing silence, Dante realized he'd made another mistake - having allowed that secret to slip. He felt the eyes of his family upon him. And he'd thought the incident was finished when Pasquale had failed to show up in court. He'd resurrected it through his own carelessness. He was amazed at the shelf life of some sins.

"You went there?" said Jo Jo, crushed, looking up at him.

He nodded, caressing her shoulders as she hung her head.

"Why're you surprised?" said Deanna, smug, arms folded tightly to her chest.

"What's wrawng wit' dat?" said Junior angrily. "Ya shoulda camped out on 'is pawch 'til he came outside."

"Oh, Daddy, how could you?" said Jo Jo, tears trickling from her eyes.

"I did it fuh you, mommy."

"If he's not man enough to come for me and the baby, I don't want him."

His heart went out to her, as it was apparent she'd still been hoping Billy would come to her rescue. "He's just a kid, Jo. He needs help thinkin' an' doin' right, an' he ain't gettin' none."

Deanna scoffed. "When did you get a degree in counseling?"

"Same day you got yaws. Maybe ya got ya Meahstiz from dat cahlidge guy ya wa doin'."

"Is that supposed to be an insult? It isn't. Eat your heart out. Every stupid thing you say convinces me that I did the right thing."

The children lowered their heads, pained for their father.

"Your son has more sense than you do," said Deanna.

"Oh, yeah, he's got a lotta sense - jumpin' atta eahplanes, bungee jumpin', buyin' a mohtacycle. We should awl be goin' to him fer idvice."

Deanna looked at her son with fury and slapped at his chest. Junior fought anger, not pain. Dante felt like a rat, regretted having snitched on his son. Jo Jo ran past them and to her room.

"Whattaya tryin' to do?" said Dante with quiet rage, looking directly into his wife's eyes - "get 'er so crazy she has a miscarriage?'

"If only that'd happen, then I could leave this hell."

Dante groaned and slammed a fist into the wall. Deanna walked away.

"She's right, Da," said Junior softly, only a rapidness of breath betraying his emotions. "She's the bigges' douche beahg goin', but she's right about dis. Yaw wrawng."

Dante looked at him. "I don' wanna see ya in heah again 'til ya apahlagize to ya sista. From now on use the phone if ya gotta eahsk me somethin'."

"Fine. Who needs yiz."

And he strode out.

Dante struggled to seat himself. Had he now lost all three of them? Was doing what was right, moral, correct even if it tore a family apart? Was he being a fool, or perhaps merely vindictive?

He reached for the phone. "Ma? Kin you come down an' stay wit' Jo Jo a whahl?" He paused, listening, numb. "Ya heard? Come down. Please. I'm afraid she might do somethin' to 'erself. I'm beat. I keahn't go in deah right now. Besides, yaw the only one of us she don' hate right now."

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