Burning Second Street Park

A Novel

by Tom Bessette

Copyright 2009 BessetteBooks

Chapter 2
Gilly Beauchamp 

We got to Robinson’s Store all outa breath an’ hadda get a soda real quick inside us to help us rest up.  I wouldn’t’ a run but those two sissies Baby an’ Frecks would never be able to keep quiet to the cops like I could.  They wasn’t good at hard stuff to do like what I was.  I don’t care about no cops or firemen, just like I don’t give a rat’s ass for my old man, the stupid jerk.  Bobby, I mean, Baby, is always worried he’s gonna get caught doin’ stuff, an’ so doesn’t do neat-o stuff much, unless I talk him into it, like the smokin’ stuff today.  You should a seen ‘em runnin’ their little legs off through the woods, squashin’ the rubbers an’ roaches into the mud, the mooks.

Anyways, we got our sodas.  Me an’ Frecks had no money, so Baby bought our cold ones, an’ I sucked the Tru-Ade down like it was water, wishin’ it was somethin’ stronger, like Royal Crown, or somethin’ good like that. But old man Robinson wouldn’t sell good stuff to you when you wasn’t even eleven yet, like we wasn’t. 

Baby would always buy me a soda.  He got money from his old man for doin’ chores, like make his bed an’ clean dishes an’ pinch his old pip’s ass.  Hah!  I didn’t have no bed to make, even, just slept on a pad on the floor. Pull my old man’s old army sleepin’ bag over me an’ I was all set, an’ didn’t have to make no bed.  I didn’t gotta do no chores, an’ wouldn’t anyway, cause my stupid old man didn’t have any money his own self, an’ wouldn’t’ a give it to me anyways if he did.  He had to buy his beer alla time.  An’ like he said, why bust your ass doin’ stuff for free, anyways, that’s what I wanna know?

Heck, my mom hardly never even had any food to cook anyways, ‘cause my old grandma could only give us enough money for rent an’ food only some of the time.  Sometimes the stupid priest would bring some, but he was alla time better at takin’ money than givin’ it, ‘specially to us, ‘cause my old man was a sinner, so he said.  Father DuFresne was the number two priest at our church, after Father Archambeault, an’ he didn’t like sinners like my old man too much, which I couldn’t blame him, ‘cause my dad was a drunk an’ didn’t make no money, ‘cept sometimes, but why couldn’t he give no money an’ stuff to my mom an’ me an’ my stupid little sister, we ain’t done nothin’ wrong, like sinnin’, or nothin’.  The stupid priest kept tellin’ my mom that she had a cross to bear, or somethin’, whatever, an’ that she hadda do better about us childrens, the way we was runnin’ around wild an’ all, cause that was the sign of leadin’ a good Christmas life or somethin’.  He was alla time tellin’ everybody how to be an’ do alla time, an’ he could, too, ‘cause he had a rich house there, next to the church, an’ cookin’ ladies an’ cleanin’ ladies, an’ even ladies that kept bringin’ him pies an’ cookies an’ other stuff alla time.  In fact, I had figured out that sometimes these ladies would leave the stuff on his doorstep when he was out gettin’ money from poor people, an’ I could pick the pies an’ cookies up real easy an’ get behind the shrine out back of the church an’ eat all I wanted.  Hey, what he didn’t know he got, he couldn’t miss, right?  Father Archambeault was real old an’ wouldn’t ever even come to see us, ‘cause he was real close to God, being a Monsieur or whatever, an’ had better things to do than worry about people like my mom an’ me. So, he sent stupid Father DuFresne instead.

So, here we was, drinkin’ our sodas an’ all, when we heard the fire whistle go off up there on Main Street, an’ we wondered what was on fire an’ wanted to see, cause seein’ fires was way neat-o.  Maybe somebody’s house was burnin’ down an’ we’d get to see it, an’ maybe people on fire runnin’ out screamin’ an’ stuff.  That would be boss, to see someone on fire runnin’ around an’ burnin’ up. Maybe I should light a fire in our house so my stupid old man would get on fire. Neat-O!

The fire trucks came rushin’ towards Third Street, an’ we all run back up the hill to see where they was goin’.

Bob…, I mean Baby, said, as we run up the hill, “Gilly, do you think it’s the weeds burning from our cigarette?”

“You shut up about that, Baby! If it was, it wasn’t us what done it, right?”

“I didn’t mean I’d tell, or anything, it’s just what if?”

Frecks said “Wow! Maybe we lit up a fire, huh, guys?”

“You shut up too, you!  Anybody says anythin’, they get a knuckle sandwich from me, ya got it?”

“I won’t say nothin’, Gilly, honest.”

Frecks just didn’t think alla time, ya know? 

Sure enough, the fire trucks drove down Third Street an’ we could see the smoke behind the church, an’ sparks comin’ out of it, all dangerous lookin’, like.  A whole bunch of firemen guys jumped offa the trucks an’ grabbed their hoses an’ stuff an’ ran towards the fire, which was comin right from the hidin’ spot where we was havin’ our smoke.  There was a whole buncha people watchin’ ‘em, all of ‘em pointin’ an’ yappin’ their stupid mouths off.  There was cops too, askin’ people questions an’ stuff, I didn’t know what.

Just as we got to the fire trucks, a lady pointed at us an’ said:

 “Officer, those three young boys came running out of the woods, yelling, just a few minutes before we saw the smoke.”

Baby turned white like a ghost an’ only stood still with his stupid knees shakin’, an’ Frecks spun around an’ started runnin’ all his might back down towards Robinson’s.  I sure didn’t like it when stupid ladies pointed at me, ‘specially when cops was around, ‘cause I knew what always happened then.  I turned around to run an’ one of the cops grabbed me by my arm an’ held me tight.  I spun an’ swung on him, but he only ducked back an’ laughed an’ held me even harder. I tried to squirm my arm loose but then he started twisting my arm until I got quiet, figuring I wasn’t getting away this time, stupid cops.

The stupid cops took me an’ Bobby into the stupid cop car an’ put us in the back seat, told us not to try anything, an’ locked the door.  Then they went back to the stupid lady what had snitched on us to talk some more.  Bobby started blubberin’ like the big baby he was an’ kept saying “My dad’s gonna KILL ME” over an’ over again. Why can’t he stop for cripes sakes?  You could tell he was never in a cop car before an’ I kept tryin’ to tell him to shut up, this was nothin’, an’ to stop bein’ a baby alla time.  We was too little to go to jail an’ all they’d do was to bring us home an’ talk to our parents, an’ who cared about that, I’d like to know, huh?

I gotta say that the cop car did smell a lot like puke, probably drunk puke from last night that they didn’t never clean up yet.  Maybe it was even my stupid ol’ man’s puke, even. Or maybe it was the cops that puked all over the place, even maybe they was drunks too.  Most of the grownups I knew was drunks, or lived with drunks, or at least was sometimes drunks.  Even Bobby’s dad hung out at Borelli’s bar on Jefferson Street after work on Fridays an’ could drink up as much beer as my old man when he got goin’.  Bobby thought his old man was such a good guy an’ all ‘cause he made money an’ even brought some of it home to Bobby’s mom to spend on food an’ clothes an’ all.  An’ gave him money for soda an’ candy an’ all. But I knew, from my dad, that Mr. Nolette blew wads of his money on beer an’ card games an’ that their family wasn’t as holy as they made out.  My old man said there was some weeks that old Mr. Nolette hardly brought any money home at all, an’ that my old man had lent him food money plenty of times.  I don’t know where he would ’a got it, but that’s what he said.  I never knowed my stupid old man to ever give no money to anybody, though.

Pretty soon the head cop came back an’ pulled us hard out of the cop car an’ shoved us against the side of the car.  Bobby was still whimperin’ an’ shakin’ an’ Geez Marie, had peed his pants, the big baby. Prolly got the cop seat all wet, too.

The cop said “Um, before we start talking about this, I’m telling you both that we know who you are, uh, an’ we know your fathers, so don’t go trying to lie about this, now, UNDERSTAND?”

Bobby the baby started cryin’ for sure now, an’ told the cop again that his father was goin’ to kill him, which was as good as admitting that we set the fire an’ all, the stupid jerk.  That’s the problem with tryin’ to help babies, they always tell on you when they get caught.

The cop kept talkin’ “Now, um, what were you two kids doing back in those weeds, there.”

I figured he knew that the big kids drank beer an’ kissed girls in there, an’ stuff, an’ maybe already figured that maybe it was big kids that started the fire after all.

I told him “Me an’ Bobby an’ Frecks was just walkin’ through there, takin’ a shortcut to Robinson’s, an’ there were big kids smokin’ cigarettes behind the church an’ we had never been in there before an’ they chased us out an’ then lit the fire an’ ran the other way.”

I figured this told the cops how we was seen runnin’ out yellin’ an’ all, an’ that they would believe us, them already thinkin’ that it was the big kids what done it anyway, since they knew the big kids went in there a lot.  The cop said to us to wait there an’ went back to the old lady an’ told her stuff an’ she crunched her shoulders up an’ held her hands up, like saying she didn’t know, or somethin’.  Then the cop came back an’ said he’d take us to our houses, an’ we better stay outa them weeds from now on ‘cause the big kids was dangerous an’ troublemakers an’ all.  I started figurin’ that I was still in trouble, ‘cause my old man would be real mad that I had stole his cigarettes an’ ran away while he was layin’ in the driveway an’ all, an’ asked if they could drop me off at Bobby’s. ‘cause my folks weren’t home.  The cop looked at me funny an’ that said he understood why I didn’t wanna go home, so I guess he did know my old man like he said, an’ knew that I’d prolly get whacked to kingdom come if the cops took me home.

Bobby blubbered his stupid head off the whole way home in the cop car, an’ his pants stunk like pee, an’ he just wouldn’t shut up no matter what me or the cop said, for cripes sake.  The cop kept telling him it was OK, he didn’t haveta be scared no more, nobody was mad or nothin’, but Bobby couldn’t shut up for nothin’.  The cop parked the cop car in front of Bobby’s house an’ there was his old man an’ old lady standing on the front porch, all worried lookin’, like the cops had called ‘em already an’ told them that they were bringin’ their long lost lambs home, or somethin’.

The cop walked Bobby up to the porch an’ his old lady took his hand an’ said to his old man “I told you this type of thing would happen if he played with that riff-raff”. I didn’t know what riff–raff was but figured I better not say nothing to find out. Maybe it meant all the rubbers an’ beer cans layin’ all over the place in the sumacs where we had our smoke.

The cop said “it’s OK, Mrs. Nolette, they weren’t hurt, uh, only a little scared.  Um, I think they, uh, learned their lesson today”.

The cop got into his cop car an’ drove off an’ I started walking to the side of their house to head off to the park when Bobby’s old lady said “You come back here right now, young man”, in that voice she used when she was about to act real mad or somethin’. I was gonna run, but Bobby’s old man was too close an’ would a caught me anyways, so I stopped an’ listened.

Bobby’s old lady said “You bring young Gilbert home now, Pete, his poor mother is waiting for him, an’ he has a lot to answer for.” She looked at Bobby’s old man kinda funny, like she knew some kinda secret or somethin’.

Then she turned to Bobby an’ said, “As for you, young man, I’ll deal with your part in this myself.  Now get in that house, NOW!”

Bobby started up his blubberin’ again an’ hunched into his house with his old lady right behind him, like she was gonna whack him on his hiney, or somethin’.  His old man grabbed my arm an’ started walkin’ me down Main Street towards Second Street.  I wanted to run but he had a hard grip on me.  Why did grownups always haveta hold your arm so hard it got sore after?  He held me so hard that I kept trippin’ on the sidewalk where the tree roots had pushed parts of it up crooked.

“You know, Gil, your father was hurt pretty bad this morning an’ had to be taken in the ambulance.”

I thought: he wasn’t hurt; he was just fakin’ it, the stupid jerk, an’ liked it when everybody waited on him hand an’ foot like he was a stupid king or somethin’.  But I didn’t say nothin’.

“Your mother was crazy with worry about you an’ had people looking for you.  When she saw the fire, she was crying so much because she thought you were hurt, too, since everybody saw you run off that way.”

Now I started to get sorry.  I sure didn’t want my mother to cry, ‘cause my old man gived her a bad enough time alla time as it was. I didn’t care if he died tomorrow, screamin’ in the devil’s own pain, the stupid jerk, but my old lady did her best an’ kept him off me a lotta the time, getting smacked herself instead.  After he’d whack her a couple times, he’d slam the door an’ head off to Borealli’s or someplace, to spend the last of our food money on beer, prolly, an’ she’d sit on the floor with her arms around me an’ cry an’ say that we just hadda keep living as best we could. I’d get her a cloth when her blood leaked out from her mouth an’ bring an ice cube if the freezer part was working, which it usually wasn’t, in which case I’d run to Granma’s. I wanted us to all run away, maybe without my dumb sister, but knew that the stupid priest had told my old lady that she couldn’t, it would be a sin.  Let’s see him get slammed by my old man an’ see how he liked it, the stupid jerk. But I couldn’t talk to Bobby’s old man about how stupid the stupid priest was, that’s for sure!

“What happened in your house this morning to make your dad chase you out like that?”

Nothin’ new, I thought, we was alla time runnin’ from my old man.  He was alla time mad about somethin’, no tellin’ what would get him mad no more.  I felt so bad about us aluva sudden that I started cryin’ just a little bit, but not too much.  Darn Bobby’s old man, though, he saw me cryin’ an’ told me that it would be alright. Yeah, like he could do anythin’, ya know?  What is it with grownups who alla time think they can make it all better just by sayin’ so.  My life was real good, anyway.  I didn’t haveta make my bed, an’ I could stay out as late as I wanted to, especially when there was no supper an’, except for when my mother got smacked alla time, it was pretty much OK.  I didn’t gotta watch my sister or anything like some guys did, an’ I could skip school all I wanted, nobody never said nothin’. I could stay away from my old man alla time if I wanted to, he never cared, but I hadda help my mother in case he might kill her, for real, some day.  But there’s no way Bobby’s old man would believe that my old man would really kill my mother.  Grownups never believed stuff like that, even when it was true. So, it was best to just say nothin’, anyways.

The stupid jerks.

We got to the corner of Second Street where ol’ stupid, crazy Nutso lived an’ walked down to my house.  Bobby’s old man knew my Granma an’ always stopped to say hi. He was like that, always sayin’ hi to people.  When I said before that he was as bad as my old man, I was really just kinda jealous of Bobby, ‘cause his family was quieter than mine an’ the old man did bring home some money.  I don’t think my stupid old man ever loaned money to Bobby’s father, or anybody, ever.  I think he just lied about it alla time to make his self look good, ya know? Like, he thought if he said it, people wouldn’t think he was just a stupid mean-o bum who smacked his family around an’ threw up on his shirts alla time.

“Gilly here is being pretty quiet, today. I think he’s worried about his dad, you think?”

Granma said, “Dat no good Bum, dey should trow him in da hoosegow, dat’s what I t’ink.”  She looked real mad an’ fierce, her chin hairs shaking an’ all.  “Dey takes ‘im to da horspital, when dey should drag ‘im out back an’ give ‘im to da dogs to eat.”  Granma always alla time hated my dad, ‘cause she said he ruined my mom’s life an’ all, an’ smacked her around an’ never brought home no money or nothin’.

Mr. Nolette just nodded like he agreed, but didn’t say nothin’, cause he knew there was no arguin’ with Granma when she got goin’.  She could out argue even my old man, the stupid jerk.  I mean, he’s the stupid jerk, not Granma.  She done what she could for us, but she was on the social severity an’ so didn’t have much money herself, anyways. 

We left her still talkin’ an’ walked around into the driveway to our house in the back.  My mom was sittin’ on the bottom step of the stairway with my sister Ginny on her lap, just huggin’ Ginny while Ginny sucked at a powder candy straw, as usual.  When she saw us, she jumped up an’ just about dropped my stupid, snotty sister on the ground, an’ run over to us an’ grabbed me up an’ said “Thank God, Thank God, Thank God.  Oh, Mr. Nolette, thank you so much for bringing him home, I thought he’d be in the hospital too.  I just don’t know what could have gotten into my husband to chase the poor kids out like that, an’ I’m sure he’ll want to apologize as soon as he gets home.” 

Yeah, like who was she kiddin’?

Mr. Nolette just nodded like he couldn’t think of nothin’ to say an’ said “well, people do funny things sometimes, an’ I’m sure the kids weren’t being total angels, you know.”

My mom smiled an’ said “You’re probably right; I’m sure Gil would never want to hurt anybody, he loves the kids so…” Gil was my stupid jerk old man’s name, an’ all. I was named after him, which PO’d me no end. Mom stopped talkin’ an’ just stood there with a stupid smile on her face. Like she was hopin’ that Bobby’s old man would believe her.  The two of these grownups here, just chattin’ each other up with all this bullcrap, like they believed each other, an’ no one knew that my old man was such a jerk. I figured this was why grownups never helped kids out with their problems, because they never wanted to admit anythin’ was true, or nothin’.  They just smiled an’ lied through their teeth like there was no tomorrow, an’ jerks like my old man kept drinkin’ up food money an’ smackin’ their kids an’ wifes all over the place.  Screw ‘em, I’d take care of myself come hell an’ high water.

This was when I didn’t like my mom much, when she talked like my old man was a normal guy or somethin’.  She would never talk to the cops, for sure, because the one time she tried it, they just laughed at her an’ told her to go home an’ make dinner, or somethin’, that Gil Beauchamp was a good guy, an’ she should do a better job makin’ him happy , or somethin’.  The onliest thing that would make him more happy was if she poured beer direct in his mouth while he laid on the couch watchin’ the TV.  An’, maybe got a job overnight while he was sleepin’ off his beer, so she’d be home to get him stuff when he woke up.  He was always crabbin’ that he didn’t have as much beer money as he needed an’ she better get some dough from her battleaxe mother next door, if she knew what was good for her.

Just as Mr. Nolette turned to walk back home, my mom touched his arm with her hand an’ asked, all shy like, if Mr. Nolette knew a way to get us up to the new hospital, which was way up on the hill almost two miles away, an’ too far to walk, ‘specially with my stupid sister.  I knew right away what she was really saying.  She was saying that Mr. Nolette had a car an’ could he drive us up.

I said right away – “Ma, I don’t wanna go see him, let’s just stay home an’ forget about him an’ all, an’ maybe play a game or somethin’.

Mom said “Don’t be ridiculous, sweetie, of course you want to see your father, you know, to be sure he’s alright.”

What a buncha bullcrap!  Here she was, all talking smart in front a Mr. Nolette, like she never talked to us home, when she ever said anything anyways.  She sounded like a regular mom when she talked that way.  If my stupid old man had heard it, he would a smacked her to hell an’ back just for makin’ her look better’n him.  I guess she thought that Mr. Nolette would think we were all high class or somethin, even though our clothes was all dirty an’ sewed up an’ she had dirt on her face an’ crummy teeth an’ all.

But here he was, sayin’ “I’d be delighted to take you up to the hospital to see Gil.”  ‘Delighted’!  Get a load a him, now, who around here ever said ‘Delighted’, anyways! He went on: “Of course you all want to see him.  I’ll walk back an’ get my car an’ be back here in about ten minutes.  You be ready.”

Cripes sake, I wanted to run.

Ma took us upstairs an’ looked around for some clean clothes, mumblin’ all about how you hadda be dressed your best when you went to the hospital to pay a visit, an’ all, an’ she just tore through the house tryin’ to find somethin’ we could wear that didn’t look like we was livin’ in it for our whole lives or somethin’.  Which we pretty much was, anyways.

So Mr. Nolette came back with his car an’ he also had Bobby with him.

“I thought Bobby should come too, since he was partly responsible for Mr. Beauchamp’s accident.”

Bobby looked pretty quiet an’ didn’t wanna talk none.  He had some different dungarees on. He sure looked like his old lady had gave him the what for.  He could hardly look at me, like it was my fault or somethin’.  There I was tryin’ to help him be a man, an’ stuff, an’ he looks at me like I’m a jerk, or somethin’.  HE wanted to try the cigarette.  We couldn’t just go buy some from Mr. Robinson, could we? So what did he expect me to do, huh?  Steal them from HIS dad?  Actually, Mr. Nolette smoked Lucky Strikes, which didn’t have no filter on ‘em, an’ were even more harder to smoke than the Pall Mall’s like what my old man had.  I tried a Lucky Strike once; so I knew, boy, you got tobacco pieces on your tongue an’ it felt like a piece of fire, or somethin’.  The smoke for sure burned on the way in ‘cause you had no filter or nothin’ to keep out the bad stuff. If we had stole them from Bobby’s old man, then we prolly wouldn’t have to be goin’ to the hospital to see my old man now.  I think.

Anyways, it turned out that my mom couldn’t find any other clean clothes, so we three of us, including my stupid snot nosed sister, were still in our regular clothes an’ mom said they would have to do, maybe nobody would notice anyways.  I think most people didn’t care anyways what nobody wore alla time ‘cause they were too busy alla time worryin’ about what they looked like their own selfs.

So now we all got into Mr. Nolette’s Belvedere with the push button shifter an’ he drove us back up to Main Street, took a right past the new firehouse to Fourth Street an’ turned up it, went under the tracks, an’ all the way up to the hospital right near the end of town where it turns into Latham.  I ain’t never been in Latham ‘cause it’s pretty far to walk, an’ we ain’t got no car, but Bobby says he’s been there lots ‘cause his father has his sales job up there, the one that he needs this nice car for.  I hoped to go to Levi’s Playland sometime with them, ‘cause they had bumper cars an’ a roller coaster an’ a ice cream place where you could get chocolate an’ vanilla all twirled together in one cone!  They never did ask me yet, though.  But I know they went sometimes.  I figured if I showed Bobby how to smoke, he could get his old man to take me, maybe.  Now, that was all messed up ‘cause Bobby couldn’t hold his smoke in, the stupid baby, so I guess I’ll haveta wait some more. Cripes!

The ride to the hospital was real boss.  Mr. Nolette drove fast an’ beeped at the other cars to get ‘em outa his way alla time, an’ they beeped back, too. It was a long ways up there, but he made it pretty darn fast.  My mom was in the front seat with him an’ she kept holdin’ on to the dashboard to keep herself steady.  I don’t think she never rode in many cars at all.  Me an’ Bobby an’ my stupid sister was all in the back seat, an’ we bounced around like mad, an’ my stupid sister kept fallin’ all over Bobby an’ he kept pushin’ her away with a yuck look on his face.  She was pretty smelly an’ dirty an’ sticky alla time, so no wonder. It was sorta like bumper cars, I think, without the bumpin’ into things.

I saw my mom’s face in the rear mirror thing an’ she was actual smilin’, like I don’t think I hardly ever saw before, almost.  She had cleaned her face up an’ combed her hair, an’ didn’t look so broke down as usual.  She an’ Mr. Nolette were talkin’ about grownup stuff, like how hard it was to raise kids right an’ all.  I think she was havin’ a good time, an’ Mr. Nolette wasn’t yellin’ or calling her bad words or nothin’.  Seemed weird.  Hey!  Maybe if she an’ Mr. Nolette got to likin’ each other, maybe we could go live with them an’ get away from my stupid old man for good.  But, I figured I better not say nothin’.  Ya never knew how grownups would answer back when you said neat things like what that was.

When we got to the hospital, we went into the emergercy room where my old man still was, an’ it was so crowded in there you could hardly think, or anythin’. On Saturdays, like today, lotsa guys were alla time breakin’ their legs, an’ stuff, from playin’ baseball real hard an’ fallin’ outa trees alla time. There was lotsa people around, lotsa ‘em screamin’ an’ yellin’ at each other about whose fault stuff was, an’ all.  They was doctors an’ nurses runnin’ back an’ forth, tryin’ to stick guys with needles an’ stuff, an’ moms cryin’ an’ yellin’ at fathers that they should’n a oughta let little so an’ so climb that dangerous tree, an’ all stuff like that. It was a real mess, for sure.

Hey, there was Billy Belmont, the one everybody called Bird.  He was Bird ‘cause he was alla time fallin’ outa trees an’ stuff, an’ was always havin’ to get took to the hospital in ambulances an’ stuff, ‘cause he kept breakin’ his bones every time he done it, which was alla time.  He was a little older than us, maybe thirteen or fourteen, or even, maybe sixteen, I don’t know, just way older.  He played cards with the other big guys in the park, like Baby’s brother, Bummer, an’ Nosal an’ those guys, an’ they bet money, too.  They played draw poker an’ bet lotsa nickels an’ dimes, even sometimes whole quarters, an’ alla time fought over guys cheating, an’ stuff. But he was champion at fallin’ outa trees; nobody could do it like he could.

A doctor an’ a nurse was puttin’ a big cast on his arm an’ shoulder, like they done alla time before. You just knew old Bird would want everybody he ever knew to sign on it with their name, those who could write, anyways.  Bird’s old lady was just shakin’ her head, like I seen her done lotsa times at him, an’ his old man was there sayin’ he didn’t know how he was expected to pay for this every few times a year like he was, this cost good money.  Prolly the hospital wouldn’t take bad money, so that made sense, what he said.  Bird just kept sayin’ he didn’t mean to done it, an’ it just alla time happened, an’ stuff, like. His mom just kept on shakin’ her head, sayin’ Billy, Billy, Billy, an’ his old man just kept wonderin’ who was goin’ to pay for it this time, an’ all.

I saw Moose an’ Doodles Boulerice watching Billy get his cast put on, an’ Jimmy Yoder, too, that bastard.  Yoder had somethin’ goin’ on in his head, I think.  Somethin’ like he was gonna go crazy alova sudden an’ start killin’ guys or somethin’.  Just let ‘im try it on me anyways, he’ll see. Moose an’ Doodles and Yoder musta got drove by somebody’s old man or somethin’ so they could watch old Bird getting’ his cast on. Moose an’ Doodles was good friends of Bobby, an’ Bobby right away walked over to see what was goin’ on, though he kinda walked wide aroun’ ol’ Yoder. Like he was all diseased or somethin’.  I think Bobby an’ Billy Belmont was cousins or something, but Bobby didn’t climb trees so good or play poker, so they didn’t hang out together too much.  Moose was a real baseball nut an’ was always tryin’ to get everybody to play games in the park, an’ other places too.  He was a real nut for the Beach Boys surfer group, too, an’ alla time had all their records an’ stuff to play on his record player.  Sometimes Mr. Boulerice had to buy the same records all over again ‘cause Moose an’ Doodles an’ Bobby played them so much that they wore out an’ got all scratchy.  Doodles liked best to go in the woods across the tracks, like maybe to catch frogs an’ stuff, but whenever Moose wanted to play ball, Doodles did it, like he hadda, or somethin’. Jimmy Yoder was one tough kid, a few years older, like Billy Belmont, but you didn’t give no nicknames to him, no sir.  He had moved to First Street after school got out from Albany or someplace an’ was used to fightin’ Negroes, an’ that made anybody plenty tough. He said, anyways. I only ever saw him beatin’ on little guys, but he looked like he could whale on anybody. I ain’t never seen no Negroes, ‘cept on the TV once, but I heard they could beat up anybody, even grownups. You just try walkin’ down some street in Albany one time, an’ you’d see.
Bird hadn’t fallen outa no tree this time.  This time he had run into Jimmy Yoder at home plate in a baseball game in the park that they were playin’ when we were settin’ fire behind the church.  Yoder kept sayin’ it wasn’t his fault, that he was just tryin’ to get Billy out an’ Billy run right into him, see?  Moose said, “Yep, that’s it, alright, it wasn’t anyone’s fault, it just happened, like these things do sometimes.”

Moose kinda always talked a bit like a grownup.  I think guys would beat him up for it if he wasn’t such a good baseball player an’ had so many Beach Boy records, an’ was friends with tough Jimmy Yoder an’ all. Moose also had lotsa money alla time, ‘cause his dad had a real good job as a teacher, an’ another good job drivin’ trucks at night, an’ give Moose lotsa money for mowin’ their lawn an’ stuff.  Moose also was the best baseball card collector around. When he got his allowance, he would walk to Robinson’s or Galarneau’s stores an’ buy a whole box of cards, a WHOLE BOX, all at once, an’ if you followed him while he opened the packs to see who he got, he might give you the gum that came with them.  One time, when he bought a box from Robinson’s, he had a whole buncha guys followin’ him home, an’ as soon as he got home, he turned around an’ went right back to the store an’ bought ANOTHER WHOLE BOX again, an’ more guys followed him home. He always did like a whole buncha guys around him, followin’ him home an’ stuff. His father saw the crowd an’ made him take the box back to the store.  Mr. Robinson didn’t wanna give back no money ‘cause the packs were all open, but Mr. Boulerice told him he should’n a oughta sold so many cards to a ten year old kid without checkin’ with his parents.  Mr. Boulerice was real big an’ had played baseball for a major league team, I didn’t know which one, an’ finely Mr. Robinson give Moose his money back without no more arguments.

I looked around an’ saw my mom talkin’ to a nurse woman for a few minutes, an’ then she came over an’ got me an’ said that my stupid old man was in a operation to fix somethin’ in his leg what broke when he fell off the stairs.  They said it would prolly be a while ‘til he could even walk again, the stupid jerk.  He can rot on the couch for all I care, but my mom looked sad, a little bit.  Mr. Nolette was standin’ around lookin’ like he was wonderin’ what to do, like maybe he thought he was in the wrong place, or somethin’.  Stupid Ginny was cryin’ about bein’ hungry, but I knew her; she just wanted some candy straws.  The nurses told us to go wait in a waitin’ room over there someplace an’ somebody would maybe come an’ tell us about my stupid old man when they had fixed him up.  Like I cared, right?

So, we went to the waitin’ room an’ sat in the chairs they had there, an’ there were real old medicine an’ Reader’s Digest magazines, an’ also machines that sold sodas an’ candy an’ stuff, an’ Mr. Nolette said he could buy me an’ Ginny a drink an’ somethin’ to eat, if it was alright with my mom.  She said she couldn’t take advantage of his fine friendship that way, but he said he ‘insisted’, talkin’ in that same ‘holier than thou’ voice that they had both been talkin’ in the whole time, an’ sayin’ that “it was no trouble, to be sure.”  They could talk anyway they wanted if I got a soda outa it!  He only gimme a Tru-Ade, though.  An’ my mom said “Say thank you.” Rats.

We sat forever.  Nobody never came out for a long time, until a older lady came out with a buncha papers an’ pens an’ stuff an’ said that my mom hadda do the paperwork for payment.  My mom looked all confused an’ said we hadn’t got no money, an’ the lady said we hadda do the paperwork anyway, maybe the hospital would pay it, or my dads work, or somethin’.  Yeah, that was a big laugh; my stupid old man didn’t have no work.  I guess they didn’t know who he was, here, huh?  I alova sudden thought that it was weird that the cops knew who my stupid old man was, but these here hospital people didn’t.  But they didn’t know me neither, so I guess there was nothin’ to it.

Mr. Nolette helped her fill all the papers out an’ told her what things meant an’ all.  My mom hadn’t got hardly no education at all, so she didn’t read so well, or nothin’.  She hadda quit school after the fourth grade to help out Granma take care of her sick old man when he got hurt.  He was a drunk just like my old man, an’ she said that he use to really lay inta her, lots more than my old man ever did.  He use to smack around Granma too, which is why she hates drunks so bad, like my old man.  My mom said it had got so bad that when she was sixteen an’ my stupid old man showed up, an’ made her all kindsa promises about houses an’ jobs an’ money, an’ all, that she ‘jumped at the chance’, so she said.  Even I could see that THAT didn’t work out.

My mom was only twenty-six years old an’ already looked like a old lady.  Not old, so much, as all tired an’ wore out. She was kinda skinny from not eatin’ an’, like I said, her teeth was never cleaned, an’ didn’t look white like Mr. Nolette’s. She looked dirty, like me an’ Ginny, an’ never had no nice clothes like a lot of the other moms around.  I guess we was, like they say, dirt poor.  I was just starting to figure that some people was poor ‘cause their old man didn’t work or have no money for food, an’ drank beer, an’ stuff.  An’ others, like we was, was that kinda poor, AN’ we also never much stayed too clean, too. I didn’t wanna be poor, an’ I think my mom didn’t wanna either, ‘specially dirt poor, but didn’t know how to not be any kinda poor. It sure looked like she thought it would be nice to talk to Mr. Nolette about it.  They sure did have their heads close together there, figurin’ out the papers.

Pretty soon, a doctor came through the doors an’ asked if anybody was Mrs. Beauchamp. It was only me an’ mom an’ Ginny an’ old Mr. Nolette there, so he musta needed glasses, or somethin’. My mom stood up an’ said she was.  The doctor said that my stupid old man had broke his stupid leg in the fall an’ would be laid up for awhile, getting better.  He said that my stupid old man hadda stay in the hospital for around two days or so, depending, but that he, the doctor, thought that he, my stupid old man, would be able to be back at work in a few weeks or so.  Mr. Nolette let out a little laugh when the doctor said that, but cut it short right away an’ told my mom he was sorry, he didn’t mean anything, please don’t take offense.  Me, I didn’t care an’ started laughin’ my head off.  I rolled on the floor, it was so funny, what he said about my old man bein’ back to work in weeks. Yeah, like that would ever happen.

My mom, shushed me an’ said to the doctor that my dad was temporary between jobs an’ so would be able to devote his energies to getting’ better. Whatta crock of bullcrap that was, ‘specially her sayin’ it in that high an’ mighty voice again.  I didn’t like my mom for a minute, again.  Why couldn’t she just talk like normal, huh?

The doctor said we could go see him but he wasn’t actual awake ‘cause of the antiseptic they had given him for the operation.  Maybe if they had given him lotsa antiseptic, maybe he wouldn’t wake up no more an’ we’d be free.  He could just go an’ die right now for all I cared, an’ I’d tell him to his face, too, the bastard.

I didn’t wanna go see him, like I already told my mom back home, but she took my arm an’ said he was my father an’ I hadda.  I told her I hoped he hurt a lot an’ was screamin’ an’ cryin’ about how much it hurt.  I said I’d kick him an’ smack him where his broke leg was an’ make him hurt so much he’d die of it.  My mom said I shouldn’t talk that way about my poor old dad. Yeah, fat lot she knew.

So, we all walked in the room, ‘cept Mr. Nolette who got to stay out in the hall.  Lucky him.

My stupid old man was layin’ there with his leg in a white cast all hooked up over the bed to some wires, an’ stuff.  He sure looked about dead, an’ I wished they was somethin’ I could think to do to make him dead for sure, so that he never came home again an’ drank alla our money, an’ stuff. But I knew I’d get took to jail an’ only eat bread an’ water for a year, until my bones showed through my skin an’ all, an’ then I’d get a trial an’ a judge an’ then get put in a stupid dungeon to rot. It just didn’t seem right, somehow. I know I talk alla time about wishin’ my stupid old man would die, or somethin’, an’ I did really actual wish it, but I didn’t wanna haveta do it.  Maybe he could rob a bank or somethin’ to get beer money, an’ the cops would have a shootout an’ blow his brains out on the street, like gangsters was.  That would be neat to see, an’ get rid of my stupid old man in one fell swoop.  Maybe I could think how to get him to rob a bank. It just might work.

The doctor come in with us an’ said that my stupid old man had also hit his head an’ was waking up an’ goin’ back to sleep over an’ over again, one after another, an’ if we waited, maybe he would wake up again an’ talk at us. It could be good for him.  They was afraid he was gonna slip on a comma or somethin’, whatever that meant, an’ I figured anything bad for him would be good for us, so go ahead an’ slip away.  I think commas are in writing or somethin’, though, so who knows what the heck the doctor was talkin’ about, for cripes sakes.

We all stood there for a couple hours or somethin’ while some stupid machine said beep at us an’ my stupid old man just lay there lookin’ dead.  After a while, the doctor said we may as well go home an’ rest, ‘cause this would be a long hall, I don’t know why, an’ we’d need our strength.  My mother was cryin’ a bit. It was just like her to want my stupid old man to be OK, like she couldn’t remember getting’ whacked around an’ havin’ no money or clothes or nothin’.  Moms are so weird an’ stupid sometimes.

I started thinkin’ now that if the doctor an’ nurse would have to go to the bathroom or somethin’, I could flick the machine off or yank out some wires, or somethin’, even maybe pull the electric plug thing outa the wall, cause I could see it.  We had a lamp at home, that had one a those plug things, an’ you could make it light at night when it was plugged in the place in the wall.  Maybe this worked like that too.  But then, I thought, they’d know it was me what done it, an’ I’d be back in the hoosegow again, just like I said before.  That wouldn’t be good for my mom, who would need me to get stuff for us, like money an’ food an’ clothes, an’ stuff.  Rats.

My mom didn’t wanna leave, figuring, I guess, that she better be here if my stupid old man woke up or died.  Mr. Nolette said he would stay to watch over her an’ help where he could, an’ if the Belmonts were still here, maybe they or the Boulerices could take us home, me an’ Bobby an’ my sister.  That was fine with me, I didn’t wanna see my stupid old man at all anymore.  Maybe he could die an’ be done with it, even without me doin’ anythin’ to help it.  Mr. Nolette said whoever took us to home could bring Ginny to my Granma’s an’ me an’ Bobby could go up to the Boulerices an’ listen to Beach Boy records, an’ stuff.

Everybody else walked outa the room while I was thinkin’ all this stuff.  I was gonna go too, but I saw my stupid old man open his eye an’ see me there.  I was ready to run, but remembered he was all hooked up an’ prolly couldn’t get up, so I was OK.  We looked at each other hard.  He tried to talk, but looked like he was real tired.  Then he said in a quiet voice like he never did before, “You wait.  I’m gonna fuckin’ kill ya. I’ll get outa this bed an’ cut your dick an’ nuts off an’ make ya eat ‘em , ya little fuck.”   The nurse runned over an’ said he must be out of his mind, or somethin’. Well, cripes, I could a told her that.

Mr. Boulerice, sure enough, was out there in the parkin’ lot an’ said sure he’d take the children home, meaning us.  So, me an’ Bobby an’ my sister piled into the old Rambler with Moose an’ Doodles an’ Mr. Boulerice. I don’t know where ol’ Yoder had went, an’ didn’t care, anyways. Mr. Boulerice turned his key in the dash, an’ the car said Ru-hur-ru-hur, for about two hours until it started up an’ we drove outa the hospital an’ back down Fourth Street.  The Rambler didn’t wanna stay goin’ straight at all.  Instead it liked to wave in the street, sometimes, bumpin’ off the sidewalk an’ sometimes takin’ aim at the cars comin’ at us.  Mr. Boulerice was just smilin’ like he was eatin’ pie, an’ tellin’ us all about how he use to play baseball for the Brooklyn Dodgers before they was moved out to Lost Angeles.  I think Lost Angeles is in the Pacific Ocean, that’s what I heard, anyways.  Moose talked too, all about Sandy Koufax an’ Don Drysdale, about how they were the best players ever, though Bobby kept sayin’ that Harmon Killebrew was a good homer hitter.  Me, I wanted to talk about Mickey Mantle an’ Roger Maris, ‘cause they played for the Yankees, an’ like my stupid old man said, the Yankees was the greatest team that ever played.  I mean, look at Baby Ruth an’ all them players that were Yankees alla time.  Who could argument with that, I’d like to know?

I was thinkin’ baseball with the guys, but alla time I was also thinkin’ about how to keep my stupid old man from cuttin’ off my nuts.