A Hero Grows in Brooklyn Page 3

  During a commercial, as Marie goes into the kitchen to get something to nibble on, Steve gets two pink rubber balls and a baseball and tries to juggle. As he tosses one ball up and then the second, he observes that he is already too late to catch the first because it is about to hit the floor. He tries again and again.

  Marie comes back into the living room with a large bowl. The aroma of fresh buttered popcorn enters Steve’s nostrils. He puts the balls down, goes over to the sofa, snuggles with his mom, and together they munch away on the soft, fluffy treat.

  “Steve, what was all that commotion I heard in here while I was making the popcorn?”

  “I was trying ta juggle, Mom. It’s kinda hard. I’m gonna practice a little everyday till I get it.”

  The show drifts by. Marie recalls the quarrel she had with Mike before he left for the bar. He had promised to defrost the refrigerator today, and it hadn’t gotten done. Oh, if this had been the only unfulfilled promise of Mike’s she would have said nothing, nothing at all. But time and time again!

  Aching memory after aching memory drift through her thoughts as Dean Martin croons his way through That’s Amore. Then Marie looks over to her son. She sees the golden highlights of his dark brown hair, his beautiful face, his sweet lips, the sparkle in his eyes… and as she gazes at him waves and waves of joy flow through her.

  The show comes to an end. Steve begins to yawn. It’s been a long day.

  “Come on, Steve, it’s time to go to bed,” says Marie.

  When they get to Steve’s bedroom, Marie tucks Steve in with his teddy bear. “I love you, Steve,” she says as she leans over and kisses him on his forehead.

  “I love ya too, Mom.”

  Snuggling with his teddy bear, Steve closes his eyes. His mind drifts here and there. After awhile, he begins to dream of one day becoming the next great Yankee centerfielder.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Mom, you’re getting fat,” Steve tells his mother on an early spring day shortly after he turns six.

  “Thanks, Steve,” Marie replies while squeezing back a wave of tears. “That’s just what I needed to hear. Look, Steve, when a mother is going to have another child, she gets fat to make room for the baby she’s carrying.”

  “Yeah, Nick’s mom got pregnant and boy did she get fat!”

  “Steve, why don’t you go out and play.”

  Steve heads out into the street and quickly gets into a game of punch ball with him and Nick Charo taking on Dave Olinsky and Rich Turzilli. Nick and Steve are up. Home plate is a manhole cover in the middle of the street. The boys have drawn the other three bases using white chalk.

  Steve bounces the ball, catches it, tosses it about a foot in the air and punches it with all his might. It flies by Dave in the infield, and Rich, playing sixty feet further back manages to knock it down, holding Steve to a single.

  Now it’s Nick’s turn to step to the plate. Built like a little army tank, Nick carries himself with a tough, no nonsense demeanor. He tosses the ball up in the air and whacks it with his fist. The ball bounces a foot in front of Dave and a yard to his right. He reaches for it but it tips off his hand and bounces toward Rich.

  “It’s fair!” yells Nick as he hustles to first while Steve dashes toward second.

  Rich, seeing he has to hurry to pick up the ball if he’s to get to second before Steve for the force out, leans over to his right. In his rush to pick up the ball, he loses control of it and it bounces away.

  When Rich gets to the ball he sees Steve has not only reached second, but he’s already rounding third and heading for home.

  Dave, who has rushed to home plate to take the throw, hollers: “Hurry Rich! Throw it! Throw it!”

  Rich reaches back and hurls the ball with everything he’s got, sending it way over Dave’s head. Steve steps on home, quickly followed by Nick.

  After Dave retrieves the ball, he and Rich return to their positions.

  The game turns out to be a nail biter. Every time one team gets a lead, the other team fights back and ties it up. Now Steve steps to the plate determined to smash one past Rich when his dad, coming home from work tired and hungry, notices them. “After this inning, Steve, come in the house and wash up for dinner!” he hollers.

  “We just got two more innings, Dad,” Steve responds. “We’ll be done in a little while.”

  “Don’t talk back ta me, Steve, or I’ll come over there and give ya plenty!”

  “But we’re almost done, Dad!”

  Suddenly, Steve’s dad dashes after him, and when he gets a hold of Steve by a dark gray Buick a quarter block up the street, he wallops him across the face with the back of his hand.

  Nick, David and Rich look into Steve’s eyes, and then Mike’s. “Ain’t no call for something like that, Mr. Marino!” yells Nick.

  “You mind your own business, Nick, or I’ll have a good talk with your dad!” Mike yells back.

  Steve runs up the steps to his apartment, flings its door open, darts down the hallway, then through the kitchen, and when he reaches his room, he slams the door, pulls the shades down, and spends the evening staring at the darkness above his bed. From time to time, tears stream down his cheeks.

  “Where’s Steve?!” Mike demands to know when supper is on the table. “Where is he?!” His great booming voice easily penetrates Steve’s bedroom door.

  Steve, trembling uncontrollably, covers his head with his blanket.

  “He’s still in his room, Mike,” says Marie. “He’s real upset the way you hit him in front of all his friends.”

  “I’ll give him something to be upset about!” Mike hollers as he gets up from his chair.

  “Give the boy some time,” Marie implores as she quickly moves into position to block Steve’s door.

  “You let the boy get away with this kind of crap, Marie, there’s no telling what he’ll turn into. My dad always said, ‘A boy gotta be forced to do as he’s told, even if ya gotta whip him ten times running. Break his will, in order that his soul may live.’ That’s what he always said. He knew how to raise kids, I can tell ya that!”

  “Give the boy a little time, Mike,” Marie repeats, tears now beginning to well up in her eyes.

  Usually Mike would have shoved Marie aside. But she is now eight months pregnant, and when Mike looks down at her waist, and then, back up at her watery eyes, he ends up walking away while hollering, “You’re gonna turn Steve into a gad damn momma’s boy!”

  CHAPTER 7

  Steve, along with his mom, dad, and new baby brother are all sitting beside the lake in Brooklyn’s Prospect Park. Behind them and off to the left, gentle hills, large granite boulders and twisting paths give way to this pleasant lawn and lake area where the family is relaxing and breathing in the fresh fragrances of the new season. To the right is a grove of trees wearing their pale green spring outfits.

  Seeing his mom and dad are completely absorbed with his little brother, Steve walks over to a leafy lilac bush a few yards away. It has a sprinkling of white and purple where the flowers are ready to open. Up in the sky, dark clouds are beginning to gather.

  “I thought it’d be fun havin’ a little brudduh,” Steve complains. “He don’t do nuttin’ but sit there.”

  “Look how cute he is,” says Marie as she takes little Pete’s hand and waves it at Steve.

  Mike leans over to Pete and smiles. “Hello little guy,” he says as he gives his pinkie to Pete to grab onto. “Look, Marie, he grabbed my finger. Wow, what a strong grip! He’s got strong hands, Marie, don’t ya think so?”

  “I think he’s got beautiful hands,” Marie answers.

  Mike leans over and gives Pete a big kiss on the forehead, and then he turns to his wife and says, “I do love you, Marie.”

  “I… I know,” says Marie sadly, “and… and I love you, Mike.”

  “We better have a catch now, Dad,” says Steve. “It looks like it could be raining soon.”
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br />   Steve and his dad get their mitts and after moving a few yards away from their blanket, Steve reaches back and hurls the baseball to Mike.

  “Don’t throw so hard at first, Steve,” says Mike as he tosses the ball back to him. “Ya gotta loosen up first so ya don’t get hurt.”

  “My arm’s fine Dad,” says Steve, who then returns the throw pretty hard.

  “Don’t be a wise-ass Steve or I’ll come over there and give ya plenty,” Mike says clearly annoyed. “Go slow at first, ya hear me!”

  “Okay, Dad. Okay.”

  Father and son toss the ball back and forth a couple of more times, and then Mike accidentally throws the ball over Steve’s head. Steve hustles after it, picks it up, and fires it back.

  “Gad damn it!” yells Mike. “I just told ya to start off slow! Why don’t ya listen to me, gad damn it?!”

  “My arm’s fine, Dad.”

  Mike’s blood boils as a powerful urge grips him, an urge to run over to Steve and whack him. Glancing over his left shoulder, Mike sees Marie and Pete playing together. The image of mother and baby slams against his violent impulses. The sound of Steve talking fresh to him resounds in his ears. “That’s it Steve!” cries Mike. “I ain’t playin’ with ya!” and he walks back to his folding chair, throws down his mitt, sits down, lights up a cigarette, and takes a long drag. “The boy don’t know how to listen,” says Mike to Marie. Then he takes another long drag of his cigarette, and relaxes to the swimming nicotine consciousness.

  Steve tosses the ball up in the air, catches it, and looks over at his dad.

  Mike takes another long drag of his cigarette, leans over to where Pete is sitting on Marie’s lap, blows the smoke out of the corner of his mouth so as not to get most of it in the infant’s eyes, and begins to tickle him with his fingers. Pete blinks a couple of times, looks into Mike’s eyes, and breaks out into a big smile.

  “Come on Dad,” says Steve. “Have a catch wit’ me.”

  “Ya gonna listen to me and warm up slow?” asks Mike.

  “Sure Dad. Sure.” As Steve gives this answer, he feels like he’s got something caught in his throat that he can neither cough up nor swallow.

  Mike takes another long drag from his cigarette and then flicks it away. “All right. What’d I do wit’ my mitt? Here it is.”

  After moving a good distance from Marie and Pete, Mike throws the ball to Steve.

  Softly, Steve throws the ball back.

  When Mike thinks Steve is good and loose, he calls out, “How’s your arm feel, Steve?”

  “My arm’s fine Dad,” Steve replies.

  “Okay, let’s see what it can do,” says Mike as he tosses the ball high and way over Steve’s head.

  Steve digs hard for it and just catches it over his right shoulder. Then he spins around and whips the ball back to his father, who catches the ball chest high. “Did ya see that play, Mom?”

  “I can’t believe you caught that, Steve,” cries Marie. “That was amazing.”

  “Dad!”

  “Well done, Steve!” Mike exclaims. “Well done!”

  “Throw me some grounders, Dad.”

  Mike throws a hard grounder to Steve’s left. Steve gets to it, but the ball hits the heel of his glove and bounces away.

  Steve hustles after it and throws a bit wide, but Mike moves well to his left and hauls it in.

  “That was a tough play, Steve,” says Mike. “Try again.”

  After a while, Steve is catching the hard grounders pretty smoothly.

  As Steve continues to have a catch with his dad, he calls over to his mom. “How old ya think Pete’s gotta be before he can have a catch, Mom?”

  “Well, Steve, you were five when you started to catch pretty good, but that’s a bit unusual. Maybe six or seven.”

  “That’s a long time, Mom, ain’t it?”

  “It’ll go by real fast, you’ll see,” says Marie.

  “Ya think so, Mom?”

  “Oh, I’m sure it will, Steve,” answers Marie. “I’m sure it will.”

  Up in the sky the clouds have begun to lighten at the edges. Only way off to the east are there a few heavy clouds and some faint rumbling. For today, the storm has passed.

  CHAPTER 8

  Steve is now nine years old. There is a chill in the December morning air that seeps through his poorly sealed window. Marie drags herself out of bed clutching her long, pink bathrobe.

  In the bathroom she runs the hot water tap in the white porcelain sink and looks up into the mirror. “Mother of Mary, will you look at those bags under my eyes? Oh, my hair is a fright! I look like hell!”

  In the kitchen she gets a pot of coffee going. Hmm, let’s see now, what should I prepare for breakfast? I’ll check the fridge first. Will you look at this, Mother of Mary! “Hey, Mike, there’s practically nothing in here.”

  “What are you talking about, Honey?” He goes over to the refrigerator to check for himself. “Marone! Look at this for Christ's sake! Jesus, where does it all go?”

  He shuts the refrigerator's door, puts his hands on his hips, and shakes his head. “Well, okay, today’s Friday—payday. When I get home tonight we’re gonna go to a fine, fine restaurant. After that we’re gonna go to the supermarket and we’re gonna buy out the store—steaks, donuts, ice cream—the works.”

  Steve’s still in bed when he hears these words. Images of possible restaurants come to him while he salivates. There’s the Greek diner on 86th Street with the huge menu, the Spanish place on 8th Avenue with the great chips and salsa, the Chinese restaurant around the corner...uh oh, it’s dad’s Friday poker game. With this image he shudders.

  * * * *

  That evening, six p.m. arrives, and then seven, and then eight—yet no Mike. At nine, Marie prepares dinner—peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on stale white bread.

  As she, Pete and Steve eat, the radio plays softly. There is no conversation—just wrenching disappointment in the pits of their stomachs.

  Ten p.m.—bedtime. Marie tucks her boys in and kisses them goodnight.

  It’s well past midnight when Mike finally arrives home.

  Peeking through the small opening in the slightly ajar door from his bedroom, Steve, whose anger kept him sleepless, sees his dad’s face contorting into anguish vacillating with rage.

  After stumbling about the living room and putting on the black and white TV, his dad sits in his armchair—the TV light shining onto his face, accentuating its awful gray-white pallor. He just sits there staring blankly. Then, quietly, in comes Marie. She sits down on the carpet beside her husband’s chair. She looks up at him and she knows, and he knows, but still she says it mournfully, over and over again. “You lost your whole pay. You lost your whole pay. You lost your whole pay…”

  * * * *

  The summer Steve turns ten, his parents have their twelfth anniversary. In addition to a dozen roses, Marie receives the following original collection of words from her husband.

  It’s Still Really There, 8/29/60

  Me and Pete are on the porch resting our feet.

  Where is strong Stevie? Oh, I hear him

  Cheering for the lousy Yankees on the TV.

  He’s lost in his dream, a damn Yank he’ll be.

  Marie, you’re in the kitchen making something sweet.

  I’m wondering what you’re making, what special treat.

  “Look! There’s a moon up there,” cries our little Pete,

  As he points to the hazy white globe out tonight.

  A soft puffy cloud in silvery moonlight

  Is peacefully rolling along without any will.

  Rolling along, this cloud eases the moon out of sight,

  Creating darkness.

  “Where go?” says little Pete.

  “Did it disappear in thin air?” I inquire.

  “Where go?” asks Pete once again.

  “Somewhere out there,” I say,
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  “Somewhere high, high, high above that cloud

  The moon’s still really there, though you can’t see it anywhere.”

  “There it is!” cries Pete, as it eases out again.

  The moon—symbol of love and warm passionate romance.

  I can see you, Marie, in my mind;

  You and I under the softly lit sky;

  You and I lost in each other’s arms.

  Love is like the moon easing in, easing out;

  Though sometimes it can’t be seen anywhere,

  Marie, I want you to know,

  My love for you is still out there.

  Even when you can’t see it anywhere,

  And though it doesn’t always seem very fair

  When you want to see the moon and it’s not there,

  I go on loving you, beautiful you,

  Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful you.

  “Look! There’s a moon up there,” cries Pete.

  “Come on,” I say. “Let’s get your mom.

  She likes to look at the moon too.

  Let’s show it to her and give her a great big hug.

  Let’s tell her we love her always.

  Yeah, let’s tell her there’s a moon out tonight.”

  With all my love,

  Mike

  * * * *

  Sitting on the stoop in front of his house with his mom, eleven year old Steve is clenching his fist. “How come we gotta move?” he wants to know.

  “Well,” answers his mom, “with your dad in prison, well, his bosses can’t pay him if he can’t come to work for six months. Even with my secretary’s pay and Uncle Ricky helping out a little, well, we still can’t afford to keep this place.”

  “I don’t think it’s fair that Dad went to prison,” says Steve. “The guy he had a fight wit’ broke Dad’s nose and nuttin’ happens ta him while Dad’s gotta spend six months doin’ time. It’s not fair.”

  “The judge decided Dad started it Steve and it didn’t help any that Dad got into three other fights in the few months before that.”

  Sitting there, feeling lousy, Steve thinks things over.

  “Boy, I’m gonna miss this stoop, Mom. Where we’re movin’, in that big apartment buildin’, they ain’t got no stoop at all.”