arm? Those things always give me the creeps."
"I dunno, I didn't ask. When he wakes up I guess. Hey, the union covers for this kinda stuff, right?" Tommy asked.
"I don't see why not. Whyncha call Joe Ginsberg when we get upstairs?"
"It's a tough fuckin' life, Chub."
"Yah kid's in the hospital?" the cabdriver piped. "What's he got?"
Tommy and Chubby exchanged looks. "Tonsils," Tommy answered.
"No sweat." The cabdriver shrugged. "He'll be back in two days."
When the cab stopped in front of their building Stony strode ahead of his father and uncle into the lobby. He shouldered a kid who crossed his path. When Chubby and Tommy entered, Stony was already in the elevator. The door began to slide shut. Tommy stuck his arm in in time. Stony stood rigid in the corner of the car.
"Thanks for holdin' the goddamn door." Chubby was puffing from the short sprint.
"Leave him alone, Chub," Tommy said.
When the elevator opened Stony pushed open the apartment door and marched into the dinette. Marie sat at the dinette table in the approaching evening darkness. She was still wearing the raspberry bathrobe. Her eyes were circled in black and her hair was unkempt. Phyllis sat next to her, one arm protectively around her shoulders. Cups of coffee sat in front of them, but no steam rose from the cups. Stony stared at his mother.
"What'd you do to him?" His voice was flat.
Marie raised her eyes.
"What'd you do to him?" Stony repeated louder.
Marie sat up as if stung.
"What'd you do to him, ya fuckin' bitch!" Stony lunged over the table, snagged the collar of his mother's bathrobe with one hand and smashed her in the face. She fell backward, cracking her head on the rear wall, a whiplash of blood from her nose splattering the table.
Phyllis screamed as Stony leaped on top of his mother. He pummeled her blindly through his tears until Tommy and Chubby burst in and dragged him away. "What'd you do to my fucking brother, you fucking cunt bitch!" he screamed as they hauled him into the living room. Chubby sat on his chest, crushing his back into the burnt orange carpet, and his father pinned his flailing arms. The last thing he remembered before blacking out was his father's chalk white, horror-stricken face.
8
S TONY LAY IN BED that night, hands behind his head, trying to make out the titles of books in the dark. Some he knew from their shape on the bookshelf, others were too uniform to identify. The row of books reminded him of the New York skyline. He could still feel Chubby's knees digging into his shoulders. The fat fuck. He got out of his bed and crawled into Albert's. The sheets smelled like his brother. After a few minutes he sat up, took his cigarettes from his shirt hanging over a chair and lit up. By the light of the match he identified some of the books he couldn't make out earlier.
Hamlet, Robinson Crusoe, Brave New World, David Copperfield, 1984, Animal Farm, Silas Marner
—all paperbacks, all required high school reading. All bullshit boring.
Stony ditched the cigarette and got dressed. He took down his suitcase barricaded on the top of the closet by the old games he or Albert hadn't touched in years—Video Village, Parcheesi, Stratego, a Gilbert microscope, two shoeboxes of baseball cards, Careers, a Nok-Hockey board and a big crumpled bag filled with the pieces of half a dozen never attempted jigsaw puzzles.
He threw in underwear, socks, a few pairs of dungarees and a couple of shirts. He slipped quietly into the bathroom, collected his toothbrush, his hot comb and his razor, dumped this stuff in and snapped the suitcase shut. Amsterdam. You pick them out of the windows, Cleanhead had said. Ten bucks a throw. Nice blondes. They'd go for him too. A guinea stud with New York soul. Cleanhead said everybody spoke English there, but even if they didn't all you had to do was throw in some ooks and icks every few words and you could make out O.K.
Stony took out his bankbook: 638 dollars and 41 cents.
Amster, Amster,
"I dunno, I didn't ask. When he wakes up I guess. Hey, the union covers for this kinda stuff, right?" Tommy asked.
"I don't see why not. Whyncha call Joe Ginsberg when we get upstairs?"
"It's a tough fuckin' life, Chub."
"Yah kid's in the hospital?" the cabdriver piped. "What's he got?"
Tommy and Chubby exchanged looks. "Tonsils," Tommy answered.
"No sweat." The cabdriver shrugged. "He'll be back in two days."
When the cab stopped in front of their building Stony strode ahead of his father and uncle into the lobby. He shouldered a kid who crossed his path. When Chubby and Tommy entered, Stony was already in the elevator. The door began to slide shut. Tommy stuck his arm in in time. Stony stood rigid in the corner of the car.
"Thanks for holdin' the goddamn door." Chubby was puffing from the short sprint.
"Leave him alone, Chub," Tommy said.
When the elevator opened Stony pushed open the apartment door and marched into the dinette. Marie sat at the dinette table in the approaching evening darkness. She was still wearing the raspberry bathrobe. Her eyes were circled in black and her hair was unkempt. Phyllis sat next to her, one arm protectively around her shoulders. Cups of coffee sat in front of them, but no steam rose from the cups. Stony stared at his mother.
"What'd you do to him?" His voice was flat.
Marie raised her eyes.
"What'd you do to him?" Stony repeated louder.
Marie sat up as if stung.
"What'd you do to him, ya fuckin' bitch!" Stony lunged over the table, snagged the collar of his mother's bathrobe with one hand and smashed her in the face. She fell backward, cracking her head on the rear wall, a whiplash of blood from her nose splattering the table.
Phyllis screamed as Stony leaped on top of his mother. He pummeled her blindly through his tears until Tommy and Chubby burst in and dragged him away. "What'd you do to my fucking brother, you fucking cunt bitch!" he screamed as they hauled him into the living room. Chubby sat on his chest, crushing his back into the burnt orange carpet, and his father pinned his flailing arms. The last thing he remembered before blacking out was his father's chalk white, horror-stricken face.
8
S TONY LAY IN BED that night, hands behind his head, trying to make out the titles of books in the dark. Some he knew from their shape on the bookshelf, others were too uniform to identify. The row of books reminded him of the New York skyline. He could still feel Chubby's knees digging into his shoulders. The fat fuck. He got out of his bed and crawled into Albert's. The sheets smelled like his brother. After a few minutes he sat up, took his cigarettes from his shirt hanging over a chair and lit up. By the light of the match he identified some of the books he couldn't make out earlier.
Hamlet, Robinson Crusoe, Brave New World, David Copperfield, 1984, Animal Farm, Silas Marner
—all paperbacks, all required high school reading. All bullshit boring.
Stony ditched the cigarette and got dressed. He took down his suitcase barricaded on the top of the closet by the old games he or Albert hadn't touched in years—Video Village, Parcheesi, Stratego, a Gilbert microscope, two shoeboxes of baseball cards, Careers, a Nok-Hockey board and a big crumpled bag filled with the pieces of half a dozen never attempted jigsaw puzzles.
He threw in underwear, socks, a few pairs of dungarees and a couple of shirts. He slipped quietly into the bathroom, collected his toothbrush, his hot comb and his razor, dumped this stuff in and snapped the suitcase shut. Amsterdam. You pick them out of the windows, Cleanhead had said. Ten bucks a throw. Nice blondes. They'd go for him too. A guinea stud with New York soul. Cleanhead said everybody spoke English there, but even if they didn't all you had to do was throw in some ooks and icks every few words and you could make out O.K.
Stony took out his bankbook: 638 dollars and 41 cents.
Amster, Amster,
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