Pins: A Novel (29 page)

“Not even a year ago–”

“You know what I mean.”

Mike whispered, “They’re gonna send you to boot camp.”

“No, they’re not. Shut up.”

“I don’t have to shut up.”

“Shut it!”

His mother’s voice: “Joseph, are you listening?”

The boys froze.

His father’s voice: “Come down here, young man.”

Not a word was uttered until he sat, both his parents hovering about the sofa, not sure where they were supposed to stand.

His dad looked up the stairs. “Michael, go.”

Joseph heard the ceiling creak as Mike padded off to his room, shut the door.

His mother’s arms were crossed tight across her, then not crossed, her fingers picking a piece of something off the top of a new chair. “We think it’s best if you go back to parochial school.”

“I already graduated,” he shot back.

His dad charged toward him but stopped, satisfied with just a good flinch from his son.

Marie countered, “There’s other Catholic schools.”

“You’re gonna transfer me?”

“We’re still discussing it,” his father gritted through his teeth. Joseph wasn’t sure, but Dino seemed more upset with Marie than him.

“Well, I am against it,” Joseph tossed in. “That’s my discussion. I won’t go.”

“Excuse me but you are still my son and not even able to drive a car–”

“Yeah, but when I do–” he stopped.

“Yes?” his father asked. “You’ll what? What are you gonna do? Tell me now what is in that thick head of yours,” his father’s hand loomed, ready to smack. Joseph didn’t even raise his arm to defend. “Because I’d much rather–”

“Dino.”

“–know right now then have to come and pick you up again at the–”

“I’ll kill myself,” the boy muttered.

“Do you know what I have had to go through–”

“Dino! I am talking here!”
 

He was silent, but by the look in his father’s eye, Joseph figured things were going to be very noisy in their room that night. Then she’d go back to Newark for a few days. That’s right, it’s Friday, Joseph remembered. Pizza night, or what was pizza night.

Marie adjusted herself into the next-to-the-sofa chair while Dino stood silent, arms crossed. “We think it would be a good thing for you, to get away from everything that happened, those boys picking on you. We think not having some more closely watched supervision, but also, listen, listen, we just don’t think public school is good enough for you.”

“But.” He waited for silence, a nod, permission to speak.
 
Then he said, slowly, softly, “Please…don’t…do this. Don’t just make me disappear. I done that.”

“You can make new friends,” she said, switching gears with a hint of fake hopefulness.

“I got friends already.”

“They’re in jail,” his father popped. Joseph glared back, dropped it, but noticed his mother wasn’t pleased with his dad for interrupting her nice approach.

“It seems like the right thing to do,” she said.

“But they don’t have wrestling at St. Dominic’s.”

“Well, maybe that’s something you’ll have to give up for a while.”

He stared at his mother as if she were a complete stranger.

“Ma. It’s not wrestling that made this happen. It’s not wrestling that got me in trouble–”

“I’m not saying that–”

“Marie–”

“I just think you ought to have friends outside–”

“Who, Ma? Girl-friends? Is that what you’re talking about? Huh? Some church lady’s blind daughter?”

“That’s enough.” His father that time.

Joseph waited, then softly,
 
“I got good grades. I promise ya, please, please don’t, don’t do this. It’s. . .it’s. . .” A Miss Pooley word. He couldn’t find it. “I am very stressed now, okay?”

“It’s not having any faith that did this,” she muttered to herself.

“Did what? Did what, Ma?”

She could accuse, but wouldn’t name it.

“Ma. I’ll go to Mass. I’ll go every Sunday. I promise. I’ll light a candle for Anthony every day and pray for his soul, awright?” He thought of going down on his knees, but that would have been overdoing it.

The seriousness of his pose lost its import when his father said, “It’s two blocks closer than the public school. Figured you’d wanna go for a change.”

His mom was about to start up again, but his father must have given her some secret look. “If you promise to be more responsible.”

“I promise. I’ll clean my room. I’ll do the dishes. I’ll take out the garbage.”

“You already do that,” his mother reminded him.

“I’ll do it better.”

“You promise?”

“Promise.”

They looked at each other, at him, at the walls.

14

Whatever he did in the basement, it worked.

A letter from the school board arrived, saying that after a review, it was decided he would be allowed back on the wrestling team, on a probationary period.

They impersonated Back to Normal very convincingly. It was a team effort.

But by Advent, the blocks and “oops” trips were getting to him. Every night before bed, what felt like a knife in his knee, or his elbow twinge, or that damn knuckle that Troy really didn’t mean to step on, or even more annoying, just a sliver of pain from where he chewed a nail too short; every shooting arrow of pain accumulated, throbbed.

“What is it?”

“The neck.” He couldn’t move it without jabs from what felt like a swallowed fork.

Icepacks were produced. He was assisted to a corner, eased to a soft wall.

Practices had moved on, but the team wasn’t its former self. Assistant Coach Fiasole never spoke about the little incident of “misguided affection.” Fiasole rarely spoke to him, and never alone.

Coach Cleshun kept up the drills, coaching with an intensity bent on eradicating any misbehavior. Still, the team had a consistent losing streak.

Some people still came to the home matches, out of a morbid curiosity, perhaps, but a losing team, no matter how notorious, is still a losing team.

After one too many falls from helping Ricky Ponzell practice an ankle ride, Joseph fell on his back, stayed there.

It did not take many by surprise. Ricky apologized immediately, remaining by his side. He waited for Coach Fiasole to come hovering over him.
 
Cleshun came instead.

“Get him an ice bag.” Somebody walked away, retrieved one.

Joseph winced as Ricky helped him sit up.

“I’m sorry.”

“S’okay.”

Cleshun said, “Is this the same. . .”

“Yeah.”

“How long have you been in pain?”

Joseph smirked. “Good question, sir.”

Walt stood up on a bench, pulling his pants up, casually said, “So, ya hear from Dink?”

“Huh?”

“Heard he’s livin’ with his dad in Passaic.”

“Oh yeah,” Joseph bluffed. “Um, actually, yeah, he called me.”

“How’s he doin’?”

“Pretty good.”

Walt nodded back.

“Considering he’s livin’ in Passaic.”

Walt laughed. So did Joseph.

“Hey, Neech, you okay?”

“Breathin, dude.”

The neck put him out for a week that time. He still had lunch with a few guys. It was still mostly Walt, The Shivers, Troy, some other jocks. Since the court proceedings, Joseph was interesting again.

He figured a couple of them as half-queer. Ever since losing Dink he began to remember his lines, his hints. Joseph began to see clues; earrings, lisps, looks, T-shirts. He saw girls who didn’t seem like the dating type. He saw everything differently. Everyone was a candidate for love or treachery.

He also saw the difference between himself, his family, others in this new town that he learned to be cautious of. This was not like Newark street fear. These were mostly richer kids than his family. Some of them had big houses, houses his father worked in, people Dino worked for.

That topic, strangely enough, came up out of the blue.

“So, Neech, what does your father do?”

Joseph chewed a big hunk of a thing the school menu called Wiener Winks; he thought they were just lousy cheesedogs.
 

He noticed everybody on Jock Row leaning in, watching him chew, waiting for his response. Most of them had cars, stacks of abandoned video games, college plans.

Raul mentioned something else to change the topic, but a little muttered comment about his dad “layin’ pipe” from Troy cut Raul off, then Troy said, “Don’t blow chunks, man.”

Giggles, snorts, smirks continued as Joseph held the food in his mouth, slowly swallowed it down, wondering how much longer he was going to be able to keep from opting for a projectile food fight, until the laughter died down. He kept on grinning like a fool, blushing, waiting, just like Grampa telling the funniest, big-laugh story to end Christmas dinner so everybody could get up from the table, relax, have some coffee, relocate. Joseph waited, knowing they would laugh, not with him, but at him, so he delayed the inevitable humiliation. Then, in a deft Grover impersonation Sophia always went wild for, Joseph, not only to brush off their attempts at ridicule, but demean them, diss them right back for thier childishness, chirped, “My daddy is a plumber.”

Everybody exploded with laughter, except Joseph.

Troy nagged him to tell the nun and the priest and the camel joke again, but he only smiled, nodded no.

Besides, nobody was drinking milk.

15

By mid-March, practices were geared toward regional finals, a competition Joseph knew was out of his reach. It had been, in the words of Coach Cleshun, “a difficult season.”

He didn’t move as fast, what with his collective injuries, other guys’ elbows, heads, shoes beginning to collide more often with his body. It wasn’t anything on purpose. Guys were just wrestling. It was either Joseph trying to overdo it, or not at all, wavering.

Practice was only an hour, just a review of what Coach Cleshun hoped the boys would remember for the Belleview match that night. Everybody was a bit edgy.

In the practice room, Troy told just the punch line of some joke Joseph didn’t get.

“What?”

Troy said, “Nothing,” to which Raul Klein added, “It was at the Passaic match.”

“So, tell it.”

“You had to be there,” Troy shrugged it off, as if he wasn’t worth explaining it to. “And you been outta commission.”

“What? What is wrong?” Joseph was getting sick of their distance. “What the hell is with you guys?”

“It’s not you, man,” Raul said, trying to soothe him. Joseph had passed beyond Dink’s old weight, moved up to Troy’s slot at 135. That bit of information had been common knowledge for a week. Raul seemed relieved at first that he might be bumped down, but Troy was different.
 

“It’s just…”

Joseph had asked to be adjusted in weight class. Coach Cleshun had said, in front of several other boys, that they would have to compete for it.

Troy puffed his chest up, claiming turf.
 
“It’s just that you remind us of a ghost.” Troy stared. The other guys stretched out, but listened, ears alert for a fight.

Joseph almost backed down. “Why don’t you just leave it alone, man. He’s dead.”

“Yeah, just a dead fag.” Troy thwapped Joseph’s chest with a finger. “Just like you. Soon. And you know, I don’t think we oughtta have to share a locker with your kind.”

“What?”

“Homo …thalo …moose.”

“You’re a confident little Christian, aren’t you?”

“Call ‘em as I see ‘em.”

“Call yourself challenged.”

It was, to say the least, brutal as a holy war, but with two armies of one; not the sort of match some people care to watch. It was a good thing that it happened in the practice room, under watchful, if not refereed, supervision.

It would have been a good warm-up if it hadn’t nearly killed him. Dizzy, exhausted, throbbing with pain, tied with Troy after an overtime, he refused to give up, and would have lost, but Troy tripped, Joseph grabbed his leg, yanked, jumped, pinned.

That night, Joseph Nicci moved up to 135. Troy was cast down to manning the video camera. Assistant Coach Fiasole gave a little talk about “fairness” for the length of the bus ride.

Joseph was not pumped because he had a fresh haircut, or that it was their last duals match of the season. He was not pumped because he had gulped a cup of coffee, nor because he enjoyed seeing a certain member of his team pop a half-chubby in the showers.

He was pumped because he had beaten Troy off the record, and Troy would never forget why.

Belleview’s team came barreling out of their locker room with a rush and a thunder of fans clapping and stomping to the tune of “Eye of the Tiger.”

“How original,” Lamar muttered.

Dino sat among the few dozen Little Falls family members. Dino’s Colts Boosters jacket matched a few other errant fathers amid the rest of the Pumpkin Squad, a tiny cluster of orange and black amid the Belleview sea of blue and white.

Joseph’s opponent was a squat pimply-faced Asian kid, Something-Pak. The back of his sweatshirt read PAK-MAN. He appeared to be Belleview’s hot dog. When they shook hands, he smiled like an old friend. As he moved in on the mat, the smile disintegrated into a snarl.

Joseph suffered a contusion to his temple that made his ear bloat up. His headgear slipped off twice. He re-strained his neck injury, which required an ice pack. He got so nauseous after the match that he hurled. Nothing came up.

But he won.

His dad hugged him, talked with other parents, all of whom had come to the match.

Joseph felt himself relax as his father passionately armchair-described his match, the drama, the moment when, five points behind, he’d merely waited for the right moment, grabbed the boy’s hand, yanked, flipped him on his back and pressed.

As an icepack numbed his neck, he remembered it as reacting to some pretty awful hits, grabbing at anything, ignoring all pain, just plain refusing to lose.

But that wasn’t the victory that mattered to Joseph. His occurred afterward. Troy was bent over, fumbling with extensions cords, the team equipment that had strangely gone “out of whack” during Joseph’s toughest match. He stood over Troy, out of earshot from anyone else, muttered, “Pretty good for a dead fag, huh?”

“Don’t open it,” his mom said. “It’s not done re-heating.”

Joseph and his dad checked the oven as the lasagna cooked. Just the smell alone made him feel better.

He trotted out of the kitchen as if nothing were wrong that day, as if he were just going off to the tub to take a bath, maybe get some chores done for “gimme some slack” points.
 
He’d held out through the season, needed to hibernate, lick some wounds.

But Marie cut them off at the stairs.

“Michael came home with a black eye today.”

“Just one?”

“He got in a fight. Why do you think he got in a fight?”

Dino and Joseph exchanged glances, shrugs. “I blame professional wrestling.”

“It was about your other son,” Marie scolded. “Some boys were saying he… They were calling him names and talking about him and Mike just started swinging. I had to go to St. Dominic’s today, walk down there and why doesn’t that secretary in your office tell me where you are when I call?”

Dino put a reassuring arm on his wife’s shoulder. “They only got two cell phones. I gave the other one to the foreman on the site.”

“Why didn’t you call home before you went to his match? I had to go to that school with Soph. Irene’s not home.”

Joseph scooted out of range, but his mother caught him with a “Wait a minute.”

“What?”

“Did you hear what I said?”

“What part?”

“Don’t get smart.”

He stood still, holding back a grin, his arm up, holding his icepack.

“I want…I want to know what to tell your brother.”

“Tell him to try a crossface next time.”

Dino laughed at that one.

“Hey!”

“What, Marie?”

“I want to know what to tell him.”

“Tell him that his big brother just won another match, awright?”

“Not that.”

“About what?”

“About you,” she said.

What was her problem, Joseph wondered. What had he done this time?

And then he got it. About you, the Household Homosexual. “Oh, man,” He turned away to leave the kitchen.

“Well, he asked me and I thought I should–” The phone rang. His mother didn’t answer it.

“Oh, great, I’m sure what you’d tell him would make him think–”

But she stopped, waving him away. He retreated into the kitchen while she stood by the phone, listening to his father fend off another intruder. He wondered if that included members of the Khors family.

His mother returned to the kitchen.

“Who was that?” he asked.

“No one.”

They looked at each other. She opened the oven, withdrew the pan of lasagna. He saw his mother looking, or sensing the space outside the house, as if someone were waiting.

“I’ll talk to him,” he said.

“Your father’s first. Listen, I don’t think you should–”

“I’ll talk to him, awright?”

“Eat first.” He sat. She scooped out lasagna, set his father’s plate on the table.

“Don’t tell him those things that people like you–”

“Whaddaya mean, like me?” His voice had a tendency to squeak when raised.
 
“You think I’m, what, a freak or something? You think I’m out struttin’ around, tellin’ everybody?” He shoveled in lasagna, determined to eat her excellent food, no matter how much she wanted to argue.

“You did in the court room.”

“Igh was ebivence!”

“Eat. Chew. Then talk.”

He swallowed. “Whaddaya think I been gettin’ at school? At least, at least at Little Falls I know who my enemies are there. Every day, I’m like waiting for it. Every day.”

“Awright. just …calm down, awright?”

“Awright.”

She watched him eat. He scowled.

“Where’s Soph?”

“Asleep.”

He wiped his plate with a slice of bread.

“You want more?”

He nodded.

“Gimme a hug first.”

He stood, his fork still in his hand. It was formal, cold, but they did it. The pain was not soothed. It was amputated.

Dino entered, sat at the table, ate and retold Joseph’s match in proud proportions. But Joseph wasn’t proud at all. It had been his worst match. The guy had hit him, scraped him. He’d been all angles and jabs. In defense, Joseph had used rage instead of technique.

“Where’s Mikey?”

“In his room.”

After starting some hot tub water, he knocked on Mike’s door.

“Hey.”

Mike sat on the floor in his pajamas, amid a pile of dinosaur toys. Among them shone, in its new presence, the thing, the horse, the monster; Evil Pegasaurus, in the house.

Mike looked up. A bluish mark below his left eye resembled a smudge. Marie must have gotten the toy to make him feel better.

“Hey, look what you got.”

Mike turned away.

“Wonder what you get for a broken arm.”

More silence.

“Heard you beat up the whole school today.”

“Nobody beat me up. Mark Piselli said you were a fag and I hit him. This is from his elbow.”

“Gotta watch those elbows.”

 
“Brother Brian whacked me. In front of everybody.”

“Bummer.” Joseph sat on Mike’s bed, slowly to avoid another neck twinge.