Burning Second Street Park

A Novel

by Tom Bessette

Copyright 2009 BessetteBooks

Chapter 11
Jimmy Yoder

I saw who did it.  I saw the guys who murdered my father.

The two Nolette’s.  The big one and the quiet little one. Nosal, he of the wicked mouth.  Gilly Beauchamp, mossy teeth and attack dog attitude.  And, Nutso Kozinski.  Lunatic.  Partner in crime, destroyer of men.

I don’t hate them.  He deserved it, the jerk.  I feel free, now.  Like the world suddenly got better.  Like the sun finally came out, like the chains were cut off my legs.

I looked at him lying down there, unmoving, senseless, my mother sobbing over his lifeless body. I felt such blessed relief that I thought I could float through the air.  I even felt tenderness to my mother.  As much of a brute as he was, she loved him and would miss him terribly.  I decided to climb down and comfort her; a strong son standing by his mother, showing concern. People would see.

As I walked down the unending stairs, I thought of that enigma that was Kozinski.  On the one hand, he was a totally insane boy who should be put away before he could do any more harm.  On the other hand, I felt I owed him my freedom.  In one fell swoop of lunatic behavior, he had freed me of my albatross.  I wanted to embrace him and help him, if I could.

Mrs. Mason had gone to my mother.  Both women were crying, holding on to each other, drenched in tears.  Comfort in a time of need.  I approached; they were oblivious.

My father lay next to them. It was hard to recognize him through the blood that covered his face.  His nose was squashed and there was a trickle of blood coming from his ear.  He wasn’t moving at all, and it looked like he wasn’t breathing. He lay there like a stone, lifeless. It was beautiful.

Mrs. Mason looked up at me.  “Where are the police?  Are they here yet?  He needs help!”

I looked back at her, willing the police not to come, to give him a chance to die.  “They’re on their way,” I assured her.  Sure.

Then came the sirens, racing down Main Street.  The police, coming to make good. 

They had come to our call last night, when Kozinski the avenger had attacked us in our own home.  He had followed me home after inflicting damage.  He had come straight into the house, breaking through the flimsy door.  He had wrested the phone from my mother as she called for help.

The police had arrived long after he had escaped out the front door and run off into the night.  The police came into my home and questioned me.  Questioned me!  In my own home!  Had I started fires, had I abused children?  Me!  No!  I would never do such things.  I swear!  Swear to God!  On my mother’s life!  Never!

My mother crying next to me.  Damn the police for upsetting her.  In our own home!  She told them!

“He was right here, officer.  The whole time.  Home all evening with me, watching Jackie Gleason, Gilligan, Mr. Broadway, and Gunsmoke.  Every one, on channel 10. We fell asleep together on the couch during the local news and only woke when that maniac was screaming outside our door.”

“You were together all evening, you swear?”  The policeman seemed doubtful.

“All evening,” my mother answered.  “Together, the whole time, I swear!  Then that ruffian broke in our door.  See!  The window is shattered and the hinges popped.  And my husband out working overtime to support his family.  Where were the police then?”

The policeman looked me over.  “Why is your son bruised and bleeding if he was here with you all night?”

“The intruder beat Jimmy with his fists when Jimmy tried to keep him away from me.  He was crazy acting, I tell you. And where were the police then?”

The policeman walked close to me and stared right at me.

“We talked to some people tonight that claim that you threw rocks at the Nolette’s house and then lit a pile of newspapers stored under their porch.  Windows were broken and the fire department had to be called.  They lying, you suppose?”

My mother broke in.  “Officer, I’m telling you he was right here the whole evening.  They are mistaken.  My Jimmy would have no reason to bother the Nolette’s anyway. He doesn’t even know them or play with their children.  I never heard of such a thing!”

“Why don’t you let young Jimmy speak for himself,” the policeman said.  How old are you son?”

“Seventeen.”

“Little old to be hanging around with ten year olds, aren’t you?”

My mother said, “I told you, officer, he doesn’t play with the Nolette boys.”

The cop was looking at me seriously. “What about an Emil Rainville?”

“I don’t know any Emil Rainville,” I said.

“How about Matthew Kozinski?”

“I don’t know him either. I mean, I know who he is.  He’s Ricky Kozinski’s younger brother, but I don’t hang with any of them.”

“And the older Kozinski is the one who attacked you here tonight?”

“Yeah, that’s him. If anybody’s setting fires and hurting people, it’s him!”

The cop looked like he had me.  “Maybe he was here looking for his kid brother?”

“Why would he look here?’ I asked.
“He’s missing, isn’t he?

“Is he?  I didn’t know.”  This might be trouble.

The cop looked like he thought he was real smart, now. “So, you weren’t with them all down at the old factory that burned behind Congress Street earlier today.”

“No,” I said. “I mean I went out after supper for a while to watch the fire and saw some of those kids then, but I wasn’t there earlier.”

“And you didn’t light that fire?”

“That’s enough!” my mother said.  “Either you arrest him or leave this house.  I won’t have you terrorizing my son with these crazy accusations. He spent the day doing good deeds yesterday.  He’s a good boy. Come back with an arrest warrant or leave, now!”

I had never seen her look so tough!  Maybe there was something to her after all.

“The cop looked at me hard and long.  “Good deeds, huh? We’ll be back, you can be sure of that.”  And he left.

We watched through the front window as he got into his car and drove off down Main Street.  As soon as he was gone, my mother burst into tears and I had to hold her up before she fell and hit her stupid head.  She looked up at me through streaming eyes and said, “Oh my God!  Jimmy!  Oh my God, what have you done? Oh my God.”

“Nothing.  Like you said, I couldn’t have, I was right here with you all night!”

“Jimmy, now tell me true. Have you been with little boys again?”

“No, mother!”

“Jimmy!”

“What?”

“Answer me! Have you been seeing little boys again?  Like those Rainville and Kozinski boys the officer was talking about?  Like happened before, back home?”

“Sure!  Don’t believe me!  I said I didn’t, didn’t I?  Why don’t you ever believe me?  I’ve been good. I’ve been PERFECT!  Give me a break, why don’t you? Goddam you!” 

I was getting really mad, now, and she saw it.  She backed away from me with her hands outstretched, like she expected to have to hold me away.  She wouldn’t look at me.

“I’m sorry, honey,” she said. “I don’t know what I was thinking.  Of course I believe you. It’s just that the policeman made me so nervous, like he just wants to make trouble for us.  Let’s get you cleaned up and bandage some of those cuts and then we’ll have some warm milk and get to bed.  What do you say?”

I looked at her like the cop had looked at me, but she still wouldn’t look at me.

“That would be fine,” I said.

She got a warm washcloth and some soap and cleaned my face and arms.  She put some of that Bactine crap on the worst places. It stung, like she said it would, but not too bad.  Not bad enough to make me mad at her again.  She knew better than to do that.  She knew that when I got mad, I could be dangerous.

She didn’t threaten me with telling my father.  She wouldn’t have lasted until he got home.  She might not anyway, but I was feeling like letting her live a bit longer, because she came in handy for food and taking care of me.  I’m not kidding. She stops doing what I want and she’s done. Period!

We went to bed at the same time.  Mom in her empty room and me in mine.  Later there were sirens in the distance and I knew that there was a fire not too far away.  I could even smell the smoke, or maybe it was left over from the fort fire earlier.

I thought maybe I would slip out and go see what was burning.  Maybe Nutso had done what we planned to Mim’s anyways, even though I wasn’t there.  Was he crazy enough?  Maybe, if he thought he was playing army.

I wondered about old Slug.  No one had mentioned him until the cop asking me if I knew him. Nobody said anything about finding his body.  I wondered if maybe he had escaped and told people.  Told them about doing business and the fire. I know that stupid little faggot Frecks had talked.  He had told Bobby, who probably told his mother and it when on from there.  Telling everybody about my business.  I’d show them all. Bastards!

My face hurt.  That goddam Nutso punk going off on me like that, thinking he’s in the army or something.  I should have killed him there and then, but I didn’t think of it.  I could only think of getting right home.  Make friends with somebody and that’s how they do you, every time.  Fuck them all.

I must have fallen asleep because it was broad daylight, next I knew.  I woke up hearing my stupid bastard father clomp up the stairs like he didn’t care who was asleep.

“Irma,” he yelled, “get your skinny ass out of bed and get me some goddam breakfast, why doncha?”

Of course he thought my mom should be up and all ready for him the minute he got home, whenever that would be, the stupid jerk.  Hot breakfast ready, listen to his bitching and moaning about his stupid, crappy jobs. Crab at me that it was all my fault we had to move to this piss town. Then he’d want to take her into the bedroom and make the bedsprings squeal and groan, and then fall asleep like the dead.  I wished he was dead, I really, truly did.  I hate him!

I figured he’d come and get me if she told him a word about last night.  He’d come and knock me silly and tell me what a useless faggot I was and how he should have sent me to the military academy so they could drill some sense into me.  Send me off to war in that Viet Nam place they were starting to talk about.  Do me good to get all shot up.  Well, It would do me good to see him all shot up.  I could see him, running in slow motion, bullets popping dust in his jacket, head twisting with pain, blood spurting.  Machine gun fire stitching him throat to groin.  Falling, falling, spilling blood and guts and spit, dying painfully, finally aware of what a bastard he was, knowing he was going to burn in hell for all eternity.

Phew, that one gave me a boner just thinking about it.  Weird!  Feeling all hollow and warm inside.

I guess she didn’t tell him anything because he wolfed the breakfast she made him and in no time I heard the old bed next door doing it’s morning dance.

Just as it was slowing down, there was a loud knock on the door.

“Police!  Open up!”

Son of a bitch!  Cops!

“What the goddam hell is this?” I heard my father yell.  He never liked getting interrupted doing anything, especially doing my mother.  And he really hated the police.  The idea that the cops would ever need to come to our house was a terrible thought to him.  He hated me because he blamed me for the times they had come back in Albany.  At least that was one of the reasons.

I heard him clomping around in their bedroom, saying, “Irma, you know anything about this, goddam you?”

I heard her voice but not what she said. But, I could imagine it clear enough.  She’d be using her scared, mousy voice and saying something like ‘No dear, I can’t imagine!”

The knocking came again, and another “Open up!”

He was bamming across the living room by this time, saying, “I’m coming, goddam it, hold your horses!”

I could hear him yank the front door near off it’s hinges.

“What the goddam hell do you mean knocking at my door when I’m tryina get some sleep?”  He didn’t care about any stupid cops!

“You John Yoder?”

“What’s it to you, huh?”  And he never answered a question straight, never.

The cop said again, “You John Yoder?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Your son James Yoder?”

No answer.  I could picture my father there, glaring at the stupid cop like he was a jackass.

“I’m gonna ask you one more time, and I want a straight answer! Do you have a son named James Yoder?”

“Yeah, what’s he done now?”

Yeah, good, father dear, thanks for the support!  You could always depend on him to bluster all over the place until it got tough for him.

I quickly and quietly got dressed and went and stood near the door.  They weren’t going to take me alive.  I’d jump out the window as soon as I heard them coming for me.  I’d run like the wind and go out in a blaze of glory.  They wouldn’t know what hit them.

Goddam cops.  Wish they would just mind their own business.  This was not right.  They had sent them. They had called for justice.  They who knew not what justice was.  My tormentors.  The list was long.  Nolette’s, Kozinski’s, Boulerice’s, Molinari’s, all of them.  Going to hell on earth, today.  Dead, already, and didn’t even know it yet.  Dead and gone and good riddance!

The cop was in the living room, now. Same one as last night?  I couldn’t tell.

“Is your son James home now?”  Tough voice. I realized my father didn’t know if I was home.

“Irma?  He home?”  My father would give me up to the police in a minute!

“No, officer, he went out early this morning to play baseball with his friends.”

She lied pretty good when she wanted to.  Better than the stupid old man.

“Whataya want with ‘im?” my father asked.

“We have a Bench Warrant for his arrest,” said the cop. Same thing they said last spring in Albany.  Ready to run!

“What’d he do?”

“We have witnesses that claim he has abused a few local young boys.  He is also a suspect in both the factory fire yesterday afternoon behind Congress Street and also the Manette fire on Second Street late last night.”

My mother jumped right in.  “Officer, I told the officer last night that Jimmy was home with me all night. He couldn’t have had anything to do with any fires last night. He’s a good boy and helps people and doesn’t play with young boys, and certainly doesn’t do bad things with them.  He gets high grades in school and reads everything in the library. John, do something!”

it has come to this, I thought.  Beset on all sides by heathens. Tormented, hated, misunderstood.  A tortured soul, driven to violence and a violent end.  So be it.  My destiny.

“Shut up, Irma,” my father said.  “You know he’s done bad things in the past.”

“John!” she yelled.

The cop said, “Ma’am, we talked to the Albany DA this morning.  We know what happened in Albany.”

“Lies!” my mother said. “All lies about my poor boy!”  I could hear her voice breaking.

“Them records were supposed to be sealed,” my father said. “Nobody is supposed to know this stuff. He was treated as a juvenile.  The judge suspended the sentence!

“Well, sir,” the cop said, “that’s all done, now.  The fact that he may have done the same thing here cancels all that out.”

“That little son of a bitch!” said my father.  Talking about me, his cherished son.

“John!  Stop!”  My loving mother.

“Can you tell us where he is, ma’am?”

“I don’t know, maybe Second Street Park, maybe behind the cemetery, maybe that park up at Lansing’s, I don’t know for sure.”

“And you’re sure he’s not here?”

My mother yelled, “I said he wasn’t! Now, go away!”

My father said, “Listen, he’s not here.  Go do what you gotta do, but, goddam it, leave us be.”

“You understand that if you are hiding him, you are aiding and abetting a criminal?”

I could almost feel my father get mad.  “You goddam son of a bitch stinking cop!  We said he ain’t here. Now get out!  Leave us alone, goddam you, ain’t you upset my wife enough?”

The cop said, “You’ll hear from us again real soon. If you see your boy, call us. It‘ll be best for everybody.”

“You don’t hurt my baby!  Don’t hurt my boy!” wailed my mother.  Like the cop cared, huh?

I heard the door slam and the cop’s footsteps on the front stairs.  There was silence in the house for a minute. I was just heading over to the window to get away when my bedroom door flew open and my goddam old man jumped into the room and grabbed my arm.

“You goddam faggot son of a bitch,” he yelled in my face, “whataya, stupid?  Fuckin’ with pissant little boys again?  Burnin’ shit?  What the goddam hell’s the matter with you, ya stupid piece a shit?”

Before I could even say anything, he popped me one right in the face, right on top of where stupid Nutso hit me last night, for Christ’s sake.  I spun to try to get away, but he shoved me to the wall and I hit my head and ended up on the floor.  My mom was screaming and trying to pull him away.  He shoved her with the back of his arm and she went flying out through my door into the kitchen, landing up against the cupboard. I could hear glasses crashing inside.

The old man, picked me up and slapped my face back and forth about eighty times until I couldn’t even see anymore.

“Goddam son of a stupid bitch bastard, shit-assed punk.  Ya fuckin’ ruined this family, ya goddam jackass. I oughta kill ya myself, goddam it!”  He slammed me against the wall so hard that I bounced back right to him. He caught me flush on the chin with his fist and I went down and out.

My mother had gotten up and came back in holding a knife.  She swung it at him waist level and he just barely sucked his gut out of the way.  The knife whistled by and he grabbed her arm and twisted the knife out of her hand.  He stuck it into the wall next to my dresser and, as he pulled his hand away, slapped her so hard she flew right onto my bed.

He yelled, “Goddam you, woman.  This is all your fault.  Raisin’ him so namby-pamby, he turned into a goddam queer!  Fondlin’ little boys; a son of mine!  I oughta kill the both a ya. I should, goddam it!  Now the cops are here lookin’ at me like I’m some kinda degenerate. It’s all your goddam fault, goddam bitch!”

He turned around and kicked me where I was lying.  I couldn’t feel a thing.  Kick away, bastard!

Mom said, in a muffled voice, “Please stop. Oh, please stop.”

“Shut Up!”

He walked out of the room and I could hear his bedroom door slam.  I heard the bed shake under his weight as he flopped himself on it.  I heard him start crying.  Like a mule whinnying.  Stupid!

I lay there, unable to move. My father.  Evil, cruel, malicious! I hated him. Hated him!  If only he would die!

My mother kind of rolled off the bed and crawled over to where I was on her hands and knees.  I was just starting to be able to move again.

“I’m so sorry, honey,” she whispered, are you OK?”  Like this was anything new.  Like he had never beat the stuffing out of us whenever something pissed him off, the bastard.

I still couldn’t talk.  I just looked at her. The tenderness brought the tears into my eyes. She saw them and she buried her face in my shirt and cried.  “Oh my poor boy, my poor little baby.  You were such a beautiful baby.”  Make me puke, huh?

I was slowly starting to feel my legs and arms again.  In a minute I was able to sit up.  I pushed her away.

“I gotta get outa here,” I croaked.

“Yes, honey,” she whispered. “Run! I have some money hidden that he doesn’t know about.  Run away to a new place and start fresh.  That’s the answer!  Go!  Run! Get away!”

She got up painfully and went to the door.  He was still in their room making stupid mule sounds, like he was really crying, the stupid jerk.  Like that fooled me.  She went into the kitchen and reached up behind the cabinet and brought out one of those brown envelopes.  She came back into my room and grabbed my knapsack from the closet and started throwing clothes into it.

Right then was when we heard the idiots calling for me outside.  We listened for a minute; maybe they’d go away.

They called again and I heard my father get up.

“Goddam it, what now” he yelled.

“They’re on the back porch!” my mother said, fear in her eyes.

“I’m gonna put a goddam stop to this right now!” my father said and he wrenched open our already broken back door.

He was yelling and we heard clomping noises on the back stairs.  Was that Gilly, the stupid little punk?  Nosal?  What the hell were they trying to do?

My father yelling his hard voice again. Pissed off anew.  Clomping down the back stairs, dragging something.  Gilly screaming.

Then, screaming in the yard.  My mother, now, getting up and limping out to the back porch.

“John, John!  Oh my God, John!”

I get myself to my feet and totter out back. It takes me a long time.  I lean on the railing and see the guys tear-assing off down the towpath.  My father a bloody mess in the yard below.  He’s dead!  They have saved me.  I can die in peace, now.  Stupid little Frecks looks back at me from way down there.  I smile and point back at him.  Good job, little buddy.

Once I am with my mother in the yard, as the sirens sound in the distance, I look down at my father. He has deep cuts in his skull, blood and hair matted around them, seeping. I want him to die. Die, for God’s sake, die!  His breath is ragged and his face, beneath the blood, is white as snow.  He is sweaty and his eyelids flutter.  His breath rattles out his mouth and his body seems to shrink into the ground.  Yes, he is now dead.  I am sure of it.

I feel a warmth that I have never experienced before.  Stronger than when I was with the little ones, doing business.  I feel myself growing and tautening, an explosion imminent. It is almost too much to bear.  This is it.  This is what it is all about.  This is what life is for, what has been hidden from me all this time.  To experience someone else’s death.  That is life!

I stand up quickly.  My mother is sobbing uncontrollably.  Stupid, crying over such a worthless being.

I look at Mrs. Mason, kneeling there with my useless mother.  The sirens are getting close, now.

“I gotta go,” I say, in my human voice.  I start towards the towpath, towards the retreat of my saviors.

“Jimmy, wait,” she says. “Stay with your mother.  She needs you now.  Let the police handle it.”

“No, I have to go.”  I am trying to keep the police from handling it.  I want to handle it.  A blaze of glory.

I am still sore from the beating, but my legs are working.  I force myself into a trot and head down the towpath.  I’ll be out of sight before the police get to the house.  Like my parents said, I’m not home.

The gang is well out of sight, now, gone back to Second Street Park. My saviors have retreated to safety.  The safety of play, of innocence, of goodness.  Horsie Swings and Sandboxes, Teeter-Totters and Merry-Go Rounds.  An old fashioned baseball diamond and the stable presence of those gigantic Silver Maples guarding. Creak of swings, grind of spinning metal platform with peeling circus decorations and shiny steel grip bars.  The crack of bat on ball, and the yell, ‘Yer Outa there!” The essence of a safe childhood. 

 I follow the towpath a ways and then see the remains of the Cavalry Fort off beyond the canal bad.  I was there yesterday and I did what I had to do. It is becoming ever more clear to me, what needs to be done.

I am standing with my back to the hill known as Whitney’s Hill.  They say it is a wonderful hill on which to sleigh ride in the winter time.  The winter time that I will never experience.

I hear a scream behind me, blood-curdling, like an animal in a rage bearing down on me.  I spin around and see nothing and hear only silence.  Perhaps a dream, but something seems wrong.  I feel a prickling on my neck, as if my body senses imminent danger.  There is a dip to the left of the towpath, that drops down to a gulley; Whitney’s hill rising beyond that gully to it’s summit at Main Street.  Still, nothing, but a feeling.

I look back towards the old fort and see a solitary figure sitting on a log, not far from the entrance, quite near the dirt road.  I recognize the figure.  Young Molinari, sitting, hands to face.  Unfinished business there.  Business that was meant to be, business not yet completed.

There is a path leading down through the brush and dumped household stuff to the dirt road.  Kids on dirt bikes have created winding pathways among the piles of garbage.  I can feel the hum of electricity overhead.  High tension wires, powering the city, strung between Eiffel Tower monuments, marching along the old canal bed.  I feel the power in the air, setting my teeth on edge and causing my arm hairs to quiver in excitement.

The solitary Molinari needs to be dealt with now.  I start the trek to his location, stepping carefully between tires and broken bikes, between musty couches and televisions, between discarded headless dolls and shade-less lamps, trailing electrical cords.  I pick my way steadily, through the history of the houses along Congress Street, reading the truth of people’s lives who have left behind once treasured possessions.

The feeling of being watched arises. I spin around and think I have seen movement at the brink of the towpath ridge, but am not certain.  If someone is following me, they are staying low.  If they want me, they are being patient.  Good training and discipline.  Disguise and concealment.  I have to stay focused, stay with what I have to do, what is important.  I will die, I know I will die, but need time to meet my destiny.  Business with Young Molinari, and as many others as I can manage.

Five minutes or five hours later, I come up silently behind the target of my wrath.  That young innocence, relieved of terrible duty, unaware of the hatefulness of life.  That small town punk, who knows nothing of the evil that lurks around every corner.  I have come as the instructor, as the teacher, and as the executioner.

I consider my duties.  I will subdue the target and carry it to the inner sanctum.  I will set it down at the altar where the Young Kozinski was lain.  When it awakes, I will show it the ways of evil as they have been taught to me. It is important that I show no emotion, that I keep focused on what needs to be done. It is important that the target’s experience is rich and correct. It will learn.

There is time now.  The target is unaware of my Godly presence.  I kneel to be closer to the earth, to gather strength and holiness, to feel as one with the creator.  My saviors have released me from servitude, and I will now release the target from the terrible horrors of its life.

I rise swiftly to my feet.  A small noise alerts the target of the intruder in its midst. It turns to face its master and a look of supreme horror passed over its countenance.

“Yoder!  Er, I mean, Jimmy, what’s going on?”

There is no time to recreate the act of speaking as the targets speak, of blending in with the idiocy of these creatures.

“You must learn,” I speak.

“Huh?  Learn what?  Whacha mean?”

“The horror,” I speak.

“Huh? What’s hore-ers?”

“Pain, and hate, and suffering,” I speak.

“Yoder, c’mon! Stop it.”

The target started backing away, afraid to understand the truth.  I advanced, according to the word, according to the book of truth.  So far at a time, so close to the target, letting it play out.  Letting it become what it was to become.

In my holiness, I could read the emotions on the target face.  First, uncertainty, then concern, then slight fear, then horror.  Horror!  The knowledge that one is about to learn the ultimate truth and experience the ultimate experience. My over-speak was confusing the target.  I must remember to speak on its terms.

The target spun and ran, into the charred entrance of the edifice.  This was also part of the plan.  I was to give chase slowly, not to catch immediately, but to tenderize the meat, to let the adrenaline of fear course through the target system.  To bloody the meat, to soften the bone.

I allowed five minutes or five hours to pass and then entered.  I heard and saw nothing, but the truth would not lead me astray.  I would walk unhesitatingly to the target and consummate this experience, and thus my duty to the truth.

I knew just where and how to go.