Paul did penance by clearing the table and rinsing the dishes for the washer. He sat on the front steps and waited for his friends. The block gradually came alive with the sounds of summer: children laughing, the clash of bicycle chains, the pop of bat striking rubber ball, firecrackers in the distance, girlish screams echoing in the schoolyard around the corner, revving engines, screeching tires. Teenagers passed continuously on the way to the small park at the corner to his right, where he'd gone to junior high. His parents' tenants, a young couple, returned from work. He struggled to conceal his lust for the petite, red-haired woman. He avoided looking at her, certain she - worse, her husband, would read his thoughts.
Soon the battered Bonneville cruised up the street.
"Where's Mitchell?" said Paul.
Richie made a face. "Can't ya at leas' say 'hi' first?"
"Cut the crap."
"I couldn't get a hold of 'im. I called three times. Nobody answered."
"At the store?"
"Yeah. I never call his house. Maybe it's some Jew holiday."
"Let's start settin' up. If he's not here by the time we're finished. I'll call him."
Mike, who lived around the corner, arrived on foot.
"Don' leave the van in the driveway," said Mr. Ranga from behind the screen door. "I don' wanna hear Ann tonight."
Paul parked it in the street and joined the others on the front steps. John drove up in a Monte Carlo and parked before the fire hydrant that stood at the curb before the house next door, which was joined to the Ranga house.
"Figures he'd pull up when all the dirty work was done," said Mike.
"Hoe d'ya sweet talk every chick into lendin' ya their car?" said Richie with awe.
"Talent."
Darkness fell and Mitchell had yet to appear.
"Call 'im again," said Richie, peeved.
"You worried too?"
"Maybe he's still shacked up wit' that actress," said Mike.
"That must be it," said Paul, relieved, jealous.
"Hey, Mikey," said Richie, "that yer ol' man on the stoop? I hardly recognize 'im no more."
Mike looked away. "He lost a lotta weight since he quit boozin'. The heart attack scared 'im. I hope he didn't see me. I don' wanna go over there. I took the long way aroun' so I wouldn't hafta pass the house. We ain't got nothin' to say to each other."
"Don' it bother ya?"
"I could care less."
His expression seemed to belie the statement.
"Really? Not me. No matter how much I fight wit' my ol' man I pray for the day we get along." He craned his neck. "Here's Mitchell, in 'is ol' man's car, no less."
Mitchell approached slowly, apparently self conscious.
"Mitchell mus' be in love," Mike teased, "hung up on a horny actress. He don' even call to say he's gonna be late."
"Maybe he's goin' by Israel time," said Richie.
"You're just jealous, fat boy," said Paul, leading them down the driveway. "You gonna have enough energy to play?"
Mitchell did not reply.
"Look at him. He must be in love. He's lost his sense of humor. Don't tell me you had a fight already."
It required an inordinate amount of time to tune the instruments. Paul sensed that practice would not be good, that they would suffer a letdown after the high at Marino's. He dreaded pulling down the garage door. He stopped it two feet from the ground.
"I gotta put in a bigger bulb. It's too dark in here."
"Any gigs lined up?" said Mike.
"Susan's takin' care of that from now on, and I haven't heard from her."
"Can't ya at least set somethin' up at Ronnie's in case we don' get nothin'?" said Richie.
"Then what'll we do if somethin' comes up?"
"Play the better one." "What about our reputation?"
What about payin' the rent?"
"Get another job."
"I did. Ya think I sponge off my mother an' father like you. I'm workin' at a fruit stand on Eighty-Sixth Street."
The others howled.
"Perfect," said Mitchell, shaking his head.
"Then what're you worried about?" said Paul.
"I don' wanna work for a livin'. I wanna play."
"Then let's shut up and get down to business."
Although the pace was swift, they lacked intensity. It seemed their main objective was to finish as quickly as possible. Paul did not complain. He sensed the majority of the practices would be like this from now on, as they were familiar with the material and little could be done to refine it. He just hoped to keep the band from getting sloppy between gigs, and that could be avoided only through practice, no matter how tedious it became. He hoped there would be more gigs and less practice.
As they neared the end of the set, John's voice wavered. He gazed about, puzzled, distracted by a harsh sound that rose above the music. One by one the others ceased playing, and the sound became louder. Paul was the last to detect it, pulling out his earplugs and asking what was wrong. The others, except John, laughed. Paul stifled a guffaw as he gazed at the bottom of the garage door, where thick legs were standing in the night and chubby hands appeared at intervals, as if the person were bowing continuously in obeisance.
"That's enough! That's enough!" the piercing wail cried. "That's enough!"
"Okay, Ann," said Paul, raising the door.
The large, sturdy, white-haired, bespectacled woman stood before them, scowling. "Every night, every night," she said wildly, approaching the rickety back porch of the house next door. "Stop it awready."
When she was inside Richie leaped out from behind the drums, positioned himself just outside the garage door, and imitated her, bowing and whispering: "That's enough!"
"Mimic ya mother," came Ann's gravelly voice out of the darkness next door.
The others struggled to suppress guffaws.
"Where's Michael?" said Richie softly in Ann's voice, a tone amusing for its absurdity rather than accuracy. "He's dead. 'Deaaaaad.' 'Poleece!' Poleece!'"
Mike doubled over, face flushed. "Stop," he pleaded, breathless.
Paul turned to John. "That was the legendary Ann the Pollock. You were lucky to catch her in rare form."
"I thought it was your mom. I can't believe she penetrated the music."
"She shoulda married my ol' man," said Mike. "They'd've been perfect for each other."
"Michael's her adopted son," said Paul. "He disappeared. He's not dead. We added that. He's down south somewhere. That 'Police!' nonsense is somethin' she made famous."
"She brawled with 'er husband every day," Mike interjected excitedly. "Every cop in the precinct knew 'em."
"She's been the primary source of entertainment around here for as long as I can remember. She's nuts. She abused Michael. It's a miracle he's still alive."
"They gave 'er another kid once," said Mike, "a little four-year-ol' greaseball just off the boat. They took 'im away fast. She burned 'is fingers with boilin' water or on the stove. I guess they figured Michael was too far gone or they woulda took him too. He got almost as much abuse from us as he did from them."
John stared. "I don't see what's so funny. I guess some kids are better off in an orphanage."
The others fell silent.
"I know it's sick to joke about," said Paul. "We just didn't realize how ugly it was when we were kids, and it just carried over. Somehow it never seemed real. It was more like theater of the absurd or 'Raging Bull.' We useta peek through the window when they were wailin' on Michael."
"It's my turn," said Richie in Ann's voice. "Michael's dead, I tell ya. He died in the torture chamber in the basement."
"Stop. You saw the picture he sent. We wanna make a movie about them. We know exactly who to cast. Shelley Winters'd play Ann. Richard Thomas'd play Michael - he looks just like him. And Buddy Ebsen'd play Mike the Drunk. He died of cirrhosis about five years ago."
Richie seized a milk box, set it upon his shoulder, and limped along. "He bought a case of beer a day. He limped from gettin' hit in Korea.."
"We saw a lotta bizarre things. I know it must not sound funny, but you probably woulda reacted the same way if you'd been here. Even Mitchell laughs, and he missed the golden years before Michael ran away. The cops were here every day, car Eight-thirty-nine."
"Remember that 'coon?" said mike, face twisted sourly.
"He brought a West Indian girl home with him for a while. Sure enough, Ann caught 'em one day. They clubbed her with a bat and ran away. She sat on the front steps and wailed. She thought it was a big disgrace that he was seein' a black girl, as if anything could disgrace that family. Every time she has a fight with a neighbor she puts up a 'For Sale' sign and threatens to sell the house to blacks."
"She kisses the little kids on the block an' gives 'em candy," said Richie. "She helps ol' people, then alluva sudden she'll snap."
"I can imagine what went on in her childhood. She doesn't have tenants any more. She let the house go to pot. See the backyard? The weeds're four-feet high and the fence's rotten. I can imagine what the inside looks like. The aluminum sidin' hides the outside, 'cept for the windows. Listen to the bugs."
Their buzz was loud, constant.
"That's what happens to old rock 'n rollers," said Mitchell. "Too much noise, too many drugs, too much sex."
Paul laughed. "He's only jokin', John. I hope we didn't open any old wounds. I don't want you to think we're insensitive to child abuse. We just learned to deal with her madness by laughin' at it, like you would at the characters in one of Martin Scorsese's movies."
"I'm sure Michael's not laughin'."
Paul lowered his head, pained, miffed that he was more concerned that John might quit rather than play with such louts than he was about John's feelings.
"Wait a minute," said Richie, gazing at John. "I knew you reminded me of somebody. Say he shaved the beard an' cut 'is hair? It's Michael in disguise! Maybe he's gonna kill us in our sleep some night."
Mrs. Ranga called from the back door. "Telephone. It's Susan. Hi, boys."
The others, except John, who had yet to be introduced to Mr. Ranga, returned the greeting.
"Hi, John. You can call me Phil."
Minutes later Paul burst out of the house. "She got us a coupla gigs in the city, seventy-five apiece."
The others cheered.
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