Читать книгу One by One - Nicholas Bush - Страница 11

Living with my family always feels so off, like something is missing. Looking back, I will know it had a lot to do with the fact that I knew my home wasn’t normal. I mean, I was normal, or at least I thought so, but my home wasn’t and I was powerless to change that, which is enough to drive a person crazy. Every home is dysfunctional if you look at it closely enough, but damn, mine was like a movie and I had to play my part to perfection. There wasn’t love so much as manipulation. To suck up and feign affection went beyond what I was willing to express; I would never bow in that way. But as kids, we had to put on a show for our parents that said, “We like you, we’re friends,” while enduring their impossibly high standards of perfection and absorbing the punishments that inevitably came.

To hold onto my sanity and cope with the stress, I adopt several strategies. First and foremost, I make sure to check in with my siblings as often as I can, to connect with them at a heart level; we all yearn for deep personal relationships. I stick close to Allison and especially Austin, who sleeps on my bedroom floor when I’m home. Sometimes we lie awake for hours. I’ll say, “Ask me questions,” and he will.

“Why do some people in my class never talk? They just never say anything all day.”

“They’re just shy, little buddy.”

Aside from them, I have music and video games. I can sit alone and listen to entire Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin albums, or shoot bad guys in the face all day on PlayStation 1 or Nintendo 64. I also teach myself to play my favorite songs on the drums. I played Jay’s kit so often over the summers that his mom eventually just gave it to me. It’s a Yamaha Stage Custom with total beginner cymbals. I practice in the farthest corner of the basement, wearing headphones and listening to the songs I’m learning on CDs turned up to full volume.

At home, I become a moody, tough, and silent type of guy. My shaky relationship with my parents is a ticking time bomb, always on the brink of exploding. Eventually they will find out what I really think of them, one way or the other, and it will have to be by my actions because I sure as shit can’t tell them anything they don’t want to hear.

One day in the early 2000s, I’m going about my business, chatting with friends on AOL’s instant messaging service, AIM, when some mysterious fucker messages me and begins attacking me. He says he knows all about me and tells me his name, but I’ve never heard of him so I message other people, asking around about him. I learn that he is my age, in my grade, and plays football with me, but isn’t on my team. He’s on the losing squad and it’s pretty clear to me that he’s bitter about this and jealous of me. I wonder how it’s possible I’ve never heard of him, until he says he just moved to Green Bay and joined the team late. These aren’t problems, but what is a problem is when he says he hooked up with one of the girls in my grade who I am enthralled with and trying my best to cajole, but to no avail. He even calls her his girlfriend. My blood boils at this, and when I message the girl to ask, she confirms it. She says he just walked up to her and started calling her his girlfriend, and that’s how it all happened. I wonder if he’s dating her just to piss me off. She isn’t even that hot, so why else?

I message the scummy piece of trash that he’s about to meet his maker, and that I persuaded and arranged with this girl a winner take all Wild West duel of a fistfight for her. It turns out that the guy recently moved from Cicero, Illinois, a suburb of Chicago, to a house just kitty-­corner from my street, next to my suburb’s park, and we arrange to meet there the following day after school. Giovanni Russo and I will fight to the death if necessary, like animals in mating season. That’s my girl, and this is my neighborhood. Or are they now his? No weapons, no other people—just me, him, and our fists will decide.

The next day, I hop off the bus with my teenage boy strut and a familiar fluttering feeling in my stomach as I blare a Slim Shady CD through my Discman. I approach the park on foot and sure enough, there he is, Giovanni Russo. I’m wearing a classic pair of three-stripe Adidas sneakers, carpenter jeans, and a tight white Quiksilver T-shirt. He’s dressed like a skater with thick-soled flat shoes, ragged cargo pants, and a flannel shirt, and it appears as though he doesn’t want to fight. Slowly shifting his weight and walking back and forth, he glances up and to the side in a perfunctory manner, as though contemplating a higher train of thought than my own. It seems to me like he knows something I don’t, which gives me a sense of unease and a need to clarify what is about to take place. Giovanni calmly makes an attempt to reason with me. He takes a step toward me and in a calm voice says, “You know, it’s actually in your best interest not to fight me.” I reply in many cruel and inflammatory words that it’s in my interest to do whatever I have to do to get the girl I like. He seems calm and unafraid and tries to reason with me. By now he’s increasingly throwing me off and it’s alarming. I take a fighting stance, my fists raised and chin tucked, and start walking toward him, my eyes locked and glaring.

I don’t make it half of the twenty feet separating us before I hear, “Vonn-ny!” called out from a distance about two hundred yards ahead of me. I glance and see a woman beckoning with her hand while calling in a friendly and beautifully mesmerizing voice. A man with dark shoulder-length curly hair stands next to her. He’s lurched forward with his hands on a house’s deck railing. They are just beyond the small creek adjacent to the road that hems the park. I stop and tell Giovanni what a coward he is for having his parents interrupt us. He turns to acknowledge them, and I, for some reason that will forever remain unknown to me, am unable to bring myself to rush him and deliver the beatdown necessary in order to ensure the romance with my prize.

Giovanni waves off his parents, and then turns back to me. “Okay, look, how about this . . . I’ll back off Cassie if you just come over to my house.”

The statement is so odd, but his tone is so confident, even friendly. I drop my hands, letting my guard down. Time stands still and we just look at each other: he waiting for me to respond, me confused and not knowing what to say.

In the awkwardness of the moment, a lonely, awful feeling encircles me and wraps around me, growing tighter by the second. Where does my aggression come from? For the briefest of moments, a flood of horrifying suppressed memories flashes through my mind. I’m not sure what he’s doing and it’s messing with me. Is this a trick, or is this what kindness is? Am I so broken by what I’ve endured that I can’t even recognize kindness? Giovanni turns to face me. He motions for me to walk with him to his home. I’m not sure what to do, but I sure don’t want to go back to my house, especially not with the fire that’s building inside me. He then says the kindest word that’s ever been spoken to me, “Please.”

We walk together through a garden, following a pebble-strewn path that blends into the tree line and then curves behind a stream and pond before continuing on. His house is a sprawling two-story red brick building with black trim: nice, normal looking. Another garden, which occupies the entire front yard, is hidden from the street by woods and underbrush. The path feels wondrous and beautiful and continues until we arrive at a wooden archway covered in vines. Past it is a line of flat limestone stepping-stones leading up to concrete stairs that lead you to the front door or the driveway if you veer right. It’s clear the place was thoughtfully designed.

Giovanni and I enter through the main door and make our way into the living room, where he sets down his backpack and I follow suit. He then walks across the white oak floors, going past the fireplace to the left and toward the back of the home. He tells me, “Just wait here.”

I watch him silently disappear around the corner in the silent home and assume he’s going to see his parents who are still out back. While he’s gone I wait uncomfortably, standing alone and noting the strange, foreign artifacts on the shelves that line each wall from floor to ceiling. There are small statues and tall djembe drums, and a wealth of other oddities. I guess the furniture is modern, but I’m not sure if that’s the right description. It’s downright weird looking, straight out of the film Beetlejuice. A curved chair with only one armrest is covered in a black-and-white tiger fur pattern. It looks like a throne for Cruella de Vil.

After standing awkwardly for a full minute, and with the coast clear, I slowly make my way around the living room, continuing to note the strange furniture, strewn about seemingly randomly. Gothic artwork lines the walls, with images of death such as a skull being cradled by a beautiful woman, and other pieces suggesting the contrast between good and evil. I am drawn to one particular item, a long handmade wooden pipe that has bright Mediterranean-colored feathers tied to and hanging off of it. I pick it up and examine it closely. I can tell that it’s functional.

I sit in the only normal looking chair in the room. It’s in the corner and is a soft, deep red, cushioned leather chair with a very high back. A half-second later, a sharp, heavily accented voice says, “That is mine.” Startled, I looked up and see a dark figure peering around the corner at me, quietly drawing closer as I hurriedly stand up and back away from the item. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he says, “Welcome to my home.” No hand is extended with this greeting, but the man, who is surely Giovanni’s father, continues, “We are enjoying the spring sun, step onto my veranda.” The man has the thickest Italian accent I’ve ever heard and emanates a palpable confidence as well as a callous indifference. I’ve never been afraid of anyone, but this man intimidates me—and it’s made worse by the fact that I’m in his home, his space.

I follow the man out of the living room, walking around a large fireplace composed of gray and black stones, seemingly made out of mortar, and enter a room lined with deep red and violet hues mixed with a theme similar to that of the pipe I am for some reason still holding. Bright Mediterranean colors and decor decorate the area. The bright white oak floors continue on into the kitchen, which is furnished with a thick, dark brown walnut table. Its chairs are cushioned with dark red backing and their dark wooden trim is shiny, clearly well polished. On the fireplace mantle, which divides the living room and kitchen, is the giant skull of some large beast, maybe an ox. It has two long curvy horns. Lying horizontally in front of the skull is a very long, winding shofar.

Directly adjacent to the table are two glass sliding doors that make up the wall. When we approach, Giovanni opens them and I step out onto a dark brown deck with black iron chairs surrounding a large black iron table. The table has gargoyle heads woven into its design. On top it is a large and thick glass ashtray with a burning cigarette resting on its edge. There is a crude bench that appears handmade and lines the entirety of the railing that Giovanni’s father was leaning on earlier, and Giovanni goes to sit on it.

The man looks at me and says, “I am Francesco Russo.” You have met my son, Giovanni.” I nod as he refers to himself and then Giovanni with a wave of his hand. “And that is my wife, Greta.” He points and I see a woman rounding the corner of the deck, which seems to surround the whole house. She’s the one who called out to Giovanni right before I was going to sucker punch him; it is clearly his mom. Up close I see how gorgeous she is. She’s full bodied and has sandy blonde hair that waves down just past her shoulders. She wears white sunglasses and a fancy red dress, and as she comes closer I see that she has matching red nail polish on the toes of her bare feet.

When she approaches, she smiles at me and says, “Welcome home, Nicholas.” The words flow from her mouth like syrup from a jar held high, and I melt. Never before have I been so thoroughly and instantly seduced by a woman, and in front of her husband and son! Did she say, “home”? I ask myself. We talk and somehow I stop acting like myself. With her I feel childlike, like a polite little boy.

Francesco points to a chair by the veranda table and says, “Please,” and the three of us sit at the table together. Greta smokes cigarettes and Francesco uses shining silver cutlery to eat from a plate of thinly sliced meat. The meat is decorated with a few olives and accompanied by a large glass of red wine. Giovanni sits off to the side, peering out over the park and into what seems to be the entire neighborhood through the trees beyond.

Somehow, unlike my usual self, I push the conversation at first. I’m not one for conversation and yet now the words have a life of their own. “So, where are you from?” “Are you guys married?” (an odd question). And “How long have you lived in the neighborhood?” The Russos’ attitude is hard to read: a mix of aloof, yet thoughtful, as Giovanni was with me in the park, and somewhat stoic, but kind. Francesco says he is from Naples, Italy, and met Greta in Chicago, which I believe is where she’s from. They had their children, Giovanni and his sister, before their recent move to my neighborhood.

Greta is polite and graceful in all of her answers and although I’m trying to be polite too, I begin to wonder if I’m coming across as overly inquisitive. I slow my questions and then my mind goes blank and I am left with nothing else to say. Moments of silence pass, each one more awkward than the last. Finally, after the moments turn to minutes, I give up trying to catch a glimpse of Greta’s eyes, which I’m sure are beautiful, through her lenses, which are too dark for me to see through.

“So, Mr. Russo . . .”

“Call me Francesco.”

“Sorry, Mr. Francesco, what brings you to the neighborhood? I mean, what exactly do you do?”

Francesco’s fork drops and hits the plate with a clack. He wipes his lips with a white cloth napkin, rests his forearms with their rolled-up sleeves on the table, and leans close to me. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Greta turning her neck, looking away. They’ve answered all my questions up to now, but this time they don’t answer. Instead Greta elaborates on her answer to a different question. She says they don’t believe in marriage and instead have a civil union.

When Francesco speaks again, he also doesn’t answer. Instead he says once again that he knows all about me. In fact, he knows not just about the incident with his son, but much more. He knows my last name, where I currently live, and that I’m from the inner city. He describes me, or at least my actions and persona: flaunting authority, believing myself to be street-smart and untouchable, trying to express a carefree vibe.

And then he says something that hits hard, that he knows I have a troubled home life. This feels like a step too far. I go from uncomfortable to nervous to scared, a part of me even petrified because I can’t figure out how on earth he would know what happens in my home. Again I fall silent, this time because I’m too shocked to ask how he knows so much about me. Francesco continues on and even though I’m entranced, his accent is so thick that at times it’s impossible to decipher his words without having to think really hard about what he’s trying to say. What comes through loud and clear though is his telling me that he and I are at a crossroads, a focal point, and that he wants to make a deal. At one point, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a key, and tosses it in my direction. It makes a ringing noise as it hits the table.

“You can have the girl of my son if you accept this key of friendship.”

My eyes widen at this and I am baffled to the extreme. We’ve never met before and yet not only do they know all about me, they’re offering me what I think is a key to their home. I nervously turn to look at Giovanni and notice for the first time that he has a peach fuzz mustache and dark eyes, just like his father. His spiked hair makes me think of a frightened cat.

“What’s this mean, dude? What do you guys want?” I ask Giovanni, spilling my insecurity all over the place. He is quiet, so I look back at his father. “I can be friends with Giovanni, sure, no problem,” I say, the worlds tumbling out. I just want to leave.

“You don’t make threats to my family without . . . Greta, what’s the word?”

“Repercussions,” she chimes in with such charm that I become enthralled all over again.

There is silence for a moment, and then Francesco clears his throat. “Good,” he says. “If you are friends with one of us, you are friends with all of us.” He holds his arms out wide, gesturing that the friendship will include Giovanni, Greta, and himself.

“What if I don’t want to?” I ask, squirming. The panic that’s been stored in my gut since I arrived is finally releasing.

“Then I take you into the garage and I break your fucking legs with a baseball bat.”

Greta smiles, picks up the key, and holds her hand out to me. I reach for it because they’re all looking at me and I’m not sure what else to do.

She says, “That is a house key, young man, and you can come over whenever you like.”

The instant my fingers grasp the key, Francesco, with a raspy voice and a grimace, asks, “Friends?”

“Yeah,” I reply coolly, though with a tangible feeling of danger, “Friends.” I begin to hate everything that’s led to this moment.

Time passes and somehow I agree to join them for dinner. I think I have to. I’m certainly keen on staying far away from Francesco and his baseball bat. Besides, while I’m utterly confused and pretty freaked out, I’m also very curious. And then there’s the fact that I can avoid my parents while I’m here.

Once seated at the dining room table, Greta serves dinner: meatballs floating in a large rectangular dish with some sort of balsamic vinegar and red wine sauce; two metal trays of grilled sliced vegetables, kinds that I’ve never had, stuff like eggplant with parmesan sprinkled all over; a bowl of cheese-stuffed ravioli pillows mixed with spaghetti noodles; a napkin-laden basket with sliced Italian bread, which is steaming; and bowls of red and white sauce for the pasta. Everything is homemade, even the noodles, and smells so good. “What’s that stuff?” I ask as I point to a cutting board with several types of meat sitting next to a knife.

“Shark, alligator, and iguana,” Francesco answers, and then, “Want olives?” He passes me a bowl of gigantic olives. I ask if I can try the mysterious meat and when he asks which one, I tell him I don’t know. He laughs and says, “You want all of it.” Then he turns to Greta. “I like him, he’s very brave, not afraid to try something new.”

While we’re eating, they say that they’ve been fascinated with me and indicate that they think I’m respected in the neighborhood and at school, which is weird. Giovanni must have told them everything he thought of me, and then some. “With respect, a man can do anything, and without it, he’s got nothing,” Francesco says. “You can do anything you want and get away with it.”

I try to normalize the conversation, complimenting the food as the best I’ve ever even caught a whiff of, let alone eaten, and they pour me a glass of red wine, which I’ve never had before. Then Francesco and Greta tell me that if there’s anything at all that I ever want, all I have to do is ask one of them for it. I’m confused, but nod thank you and let them continue to lead the conversation. Francesco looks at me and asks, “Do you ever ask questions in your mind?”

I have no idea what he’s talking about, so I mutter, “Uh, yeah, I guess,” and then what he says gets even harder to follow. The conversation, if you can call it that, quickly becomes impossible to make sense of, as if they’re speaking a different language. Eventually, I’m so lost that I can’t help but ask what they’re talking about. Francesco answers vaguely, his accent so thick that his words become even more unintelligible. I can make out only that he’s suggesting I can talk to the universe—that I can talk to the universe and the universe will answer me. I nod, but my body recoils and I start to feel repulsion sinking in. Under the table I crumple a napkin in my sweaty palms. I can tell that they’re deep into some spiritual shit. I’m now thoroughly creeped out—yet captivated.

The supper culminates with Francesco chuckling at me and speaking with Greta in Italian. Then, as if they have eyes everywhere, he says, “Pick your hands up from under the table and put your balled up sweaty napkin on your plate. Why don’t you go downstairs and get to know Giovanni better?” His words are more a directive than a suggestion.

Once downstairs I tell Giovanni how I feel, even though I barely know him and it’s his parents I’m talking about. He tells me not to worry about anything at all, and shows me his drum set and guitars. He has a Tama kit, an upgrade from my Yamaha starter kit, and assorted Sabian and Zildjian professional grade cymbals.

From this day forward, my life is never the same. Giovanni and I hang out at school and then I head home with him and we play music and eat the most delicious food. Soon, I’m going to the Russo home after school every night for dinner and spending every weekend with them at their house. I even get my own room there. They buy me clothes and take me on family outings to places like the movies or a theme park. I even learn how to cook a bit because it means I can spend time in the kitchen with Greta. For the first time in my life, I’m being treated with love, perhaps even spoiled. I mostly tune out Francesco when he speaks about his brand of new age universal philosophy, though I act as if I’m listening politely. I know that if I play my cards right, this newfound family will see me as a second son.

Being treated like a son is all I’ve ever wanted. At my house, I am treated like a dog. There’s no other way to say it. My father must see me as a dog-man because he beckons me with, “Come;” calls me to dinner with, “Sit;” and tells me, “Eat,” if there is still food on my plate, and it’s always been like this. My sisters are treated like pretty young girls, which they are, and my younger brother is told in front of me, “You’re the good son. Everything I have is yours, do you understand?” I may as well own the hard labor chores of the home because they are all mine. I’m the only one who has to do them.

Looking back, it will be clear that this period of my life is when the Russos took control of me. I even began dreaming about them on most nights, especially Greta. I get to know Giovanni’s sister too. Adriana is three years younger than me and we develop a friendship that will have a certain romantic quality to it over the years. To be perfectly honest, though, I never seriously pursue her out of a fear of disrespecting her family and ruining my friendship with them.

Never with the Russos does it feel like there is a sinister motive behind their treatment of me. Never do I think there could be some sort of catch yet to be revealed. But this doesn’t make their behavior any less weird. One night, Francesco gives Giovanni a book about how the mafia started and tells us to read it. It’s all about how the mafia, or La Cosa Nostra, started back in Western Sicily at the turn of the nineteenth century. Ultimately, it reveals how important it is to be the boss of your territory, your family, and your life.