Heartless

HE HAD ARRIVED unannounced, skulking into town like a stranger under the cover of night. But Joey D’Agostino was no stranger to these parts; in fact, he could trace the footsteps of his past on Ambrose Avenue to beyond the cradle, having been born in the heart of this Italian-American enclave, in an upstairs bedroom at 119 Ambrose—his restless nature present from the very beginning. Now he was back at the beginning, on the outside looking in, shivering from the gusts of a raw November night that would soon carry snow. He could hear his mother’s voice calling him as he gazed at that upstairs window, a caring, worried voice that had grown increasingly disapproving over the years. That voice would always be with him. The house would be gone by Christmas.

Joey yanked up his collar and pulled both sides of his leather coat together so they overlapped, wrapping his arms around himself to keep it closed. He huddled against the icy wrought iron fence, his chin just inches above the rusted spires. Then a flash of movement raised his attention up to the corner, at Nolan’s Market. It was well past closing, but some of the store’s lights were still on, drawing him up the street. He caught a glimpse of a man coming out from behind the cash register, but it wasn’t the familiar and easily recognizable shape of old man Nolan, whom everyone called “Norge” because he was built just like the old icebox. Joey went over for a closer look.

He peered through the barred windows for a minute and saw nothing. He saw another flash of movement in one of the store’s aisles, which prompted him to knock on the glass. A face peeked out from the aisle, saw there was someone in the window and yelled, “We’re closed!” Joey pounded again, which brought the face out again, this time for a little longer. It was Jimmy Nolan, Norge’s son, who told the pest at the window—this time with more authority and an expletive added to get the point across—that the store was indeed closed.

Joey pounded on the glass again and took off his hat. 

“Jimmy! Hey, numbnuts, it’s me, Joey.”

Jimmy walked slowly to the window to investigate. A faint expression of recognition came over his face as he drew closer, followed by another expletive, though for different reasons. He turned the key and opened the door.

“Christ, numbnuts, wudja think—I was gonna heist the joint?” Joey said.

“Wouldn’t be the first time now, would it, Joey? Jimmy grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him into the store. “What the hell are ya doin’ here? Hey, Dad!”

“Norgey’s here?”

“Whadda you think? Smell. Dad!”

“Yeah, yeah,” a voice grumbled from the back of the store.

The air was thick with garlic and onions and tomatoes and spices. Joey took in the swirling aroma, bringing back memories of crisp fall Saturdays, when kids from all over the neighborhood were sent to the market to pick up Italian sausage for their mother’s sauces, already on the stove for Sunday dinner. Even from the street, the whole neighborhood smelled like an Italian restaurant. Norge always made a big pot of minestrone on Saturdays, and you could help yourself to a cup while you waited for your order.

An approaching shuffle of footsteps and chafing polyester echoed from one of the aisles. A block-shaped shadow appeared in front of the counter.

“Yeah, yeah, where’s the fire?” the shadow said.

“We got a ’lifter,” Jimmy said.

“Put ’im on the hook with the others.” Norge turned the corner. He looked at Joey and stopped in his tracks. “What the . . . Joey?”

Joey turned and stage-whispered to Jimmy, “Tell ’im the linguine diet ain't makin’ it. Oh, hiya, slim.”

“Still too fast for you, smart-ass,” Norge said. “Whaddaya doin’? C’mere!” He charged over and threw his arms around Joey, pummeling his back with his catcher’s-mitt hands. “Joey, Joey, Joey—how ya doin’, kid?” He released him from the bear hug and held him at arm’s length. “Hey, hey, sorry about your pop, kid.”

“Thanks, Norgey,” Joey said. “Hey—whatcha got brewing in back?”

“Whadda you think?”

“Well, lead the way, slim.”

“C’mon, boys.”

        Norge led the way down the aisle, with the boys—even at forty years old, they would always be boys to Norge—bringing up the rear, walking together. At five feet six and 260 pounds and still counting, Norge’s width practically took up the entire aisle.

“Christ, Norgey, you’re gonna have to go sideways pretty soon.”

“Don’t push it, light-fingers,” Norge said, never letting Joey forget the time he caught him shoving a rope of cherry licorice down his shirt when he was about ten. “Ain’t gonna matter come Christmas anyway.”

“I thought you and Mike’s were staying?” Joey said.

“Yeah,” Jimmy said. “But we’re not.”

“You movin’?” 

“I’m hanging her up, Joey. The last of it is up on the shelves.” Norge pointed to the sparsely stocked shelves that Jimmy kept filled, straightened, and priced since he needed a step stool to reach the top shelf.

“Sold!” Jimmy called out like an auctioneer, “to Sum Dum Fuc—”

“Cut it,” Norge said sternly.

The three walked silently the rest of the way.

The boys sat down at a corner card table behind the meat counter. As Norge ladled the piping hot soup into three insulated cups, Jimmy got up to check a grocery cart brimming with dented can goods. Even with his back turned, Norge knew what his oldest son was doing.

“Just put ’em out in the cart at fifty-nine,” he said.

“Even the twenty-eights?” 

“The lot. We didn’t get shit for the inventory.”

Norge brought the steaming cups to the table, with three plastic spoons jutting out between his fingers. Joey warmed up his hands before taking a sip, wrapping them snugly around his cup. Jimmy came back to the table, reaching over Joey for a couple packets of saltines from a large wooden bowl. Then he grabbed the pepper, putting a few healthy shakes in Joey’s soup before doctoring his own. Since they were kids, the boys put pepper on just about everything.

“There’s pepper in there, you know,” Norge said to no avail, as his son piled it atop his crumbled saltines. Joey mixed his in with his spoon before taking a sip.

“Never enough for us, Norgey,” Joey said. He took another sip and chuckled, “I mean, I don’t even like minestrone that much. My sisters make it and it tastes like beef stock; Ma’s tastes like tomatoes. Mine tastes like peppered shit.”

Jimmy spit out a few cracker crumbs. “Don’t,” he struggled to get out, hurriedly gulping down what was in his mouth.

“It’s comin’ out your nose, numbnuts.” Joey always tried to make Jimmy laugh when they were eating or drinking as kids. “I’ll getcha, milk-nose.”

“You bastard.” 

“Yeah—a cheese-headed bastard now,” Norge said. “What the hell you doin’ livin’ up in Wisconsin? Delly was in, said you’re living up in, where—Fire River or somethin’?”

“Iron River.” 

“Iron, fire, tomato, tomahto—you don’t get this up there.” Norge waggled a finger at Joey’s soup.

“Boy, you got that right. So I go—”

“Here we go . . .” Jimmy said.

“Hey, I’m talkin’ here, numbnuts.”

“Delly says you got issues.”

“I swear, right out your little frickin’ nose. So I . . .” Joey paused, waiting for Jimmy to chime in. “So I—”

“Got issues and can’t shut up—”  

Joey threw a packet of crackers at his head. 

“What? Christ, spit it out already.”

“So I . . . So I go to the meat market to pick up some Italian sausage, right? And, I mean, it says Italian sausage on the label, so I’m thinkin’ some fresh bread, sausage and peppers, a couple of beers and I’m a happy boy, right? So I go home and fry it up, and I’m like, what the hell . . . I start smellin’ maple. I mean, it’s like I got Jimmy fuckin’ Dean frying in the pan here. Can ya believe that shit? Here I was thinking sausage and peppers and now I’m thinkin’ about fucking pancakes. How messed up is that? And the bread—oh, madone, the bread—”

“Stop him, Dad,” Jimmy said. “The bread’ll take at least an hour.”

“Ah, Joey, Joey August . . . still a mile a minute,” Norge said with a laugh. “Haven’t changed a bit, have ya?”

“Neither has this,” Joey said, taking another sip. “God, this is good—just like I remember. You still got it, Norgey.”

“So what brings you back?” Norge said, his arms open wide, alluding to the neighborhood.

“I’ve been following it in the papers,” Joey said. “I get the state edition of the Dispatch up there, and they ran a picture of it in yesterday’s metro. I mean, it looked like the guy took the picture from our front yard, you know, facing St. Mike’s. I could see the fence and the yard, but not the house. Branca’s, Frattalone’s . . . I mean, they’re gone . . . Guess the picture kinda hit home, so I just had to see for myself. I hopped in the car and headed down the highway.”

“Nice, ain’t it?” Jimmy said. “Stick around—they get to work on our side of the street next week.” He paused for a few seconds, looking at Joey. “After they take yours.”

“How many times have you seen Delly since it started?” Joey asked.

“Oh . . . a couple times a week, I guess,” Norge said. “She always stops in for coffee when she’s around. Sometimes alone, sometimes with the kids, showing ’em around. She’s takin’ it pretty hard, kid. She always loved that old house.”

“Yeah, that’s Delilah—always the nostalgia merchant,” Joey said. “Even when she was a little kid, you couldn’t get her face out of those old photo albums.”

“She always said she was gonna buy that house, remember, Joey?” Jimmy said. “She was gonna live in it forever. I mean, she was what, eight, nine years old? She was always playin’ house.”

“Yeah . . . that’s my sis. Always tried to make the house look like It’s a Wonderful Life at Christmas—and got mad as all get-out if you didn’t get it right.”

“Hell, she’s Donna Reed incarnate,” Norge said. “Heart on her sleeve . . .” He shook his head and laughed. “Din’tcha even buy her pearls one year?”

“Yeah,” Joey said. “Fake ones.”

“Well, ya always were a cheap bastard,” Jimmy said.

“And your ma got her the matching earrings, right? Norge said. “God, she used to come into the store with ’em on—she couldn’t have been more than nine or ten, remember? She had that little pink dress on, with a little lipstick and mascara, sayin’ she had a little ‘pin money,’ clopping around in your ma’s high heels. God, she was a cute little kid.”

“Still is,” Jimmy said.

“And you still got the torch, don’tcha, Nummy?” Joey said. “Hey, Norgey—did I ever tellya why I call your boy here ‘numbnuts’?”

Norge looked at his son and chuckled. Jimmy, already blushing, leaned back in his chair and rolled his eyes.

“Enlighten me,” Norge said, winking and smiling at his son.

“Remember that summer Delly went to camp?” Joey began. “Well, it was the summer she turned thirteen, so she was gone most of June that year, and you guys went to the Grand Canyon that year, remember? And Nummy here went camping after that, so he hadn’t seen her all summer, right? Well, Delly hit a major growth spurt that summer and, I mean . . . she like, really filled out. So she walks into the store after school one day—and she’s squeezed into her little catholic skirt and blouse so tight, the buttons are about to fly off—and I’m talkin’ to Nummy here, who was pricin’ or stockin’ or whatever else the hell he does around here, and he sees her . . . for like the first time in three, four months. And his mouth is hangin’ open, he’s droppin’ cans on the floor . . . I mean, Norgey, you shoulda seen him—it looked like he just got zapped with a frickin’ cattle prod. So he’s stumblin’ and fumblin’ all over the place just so he can go wait on Delly, and suddenly I’m the invisible man. He’s been ‘numbnuts’ ever since.”

“Oh, your poor pop, God rest his soul,” Norge said. “Cheech musta had fifty heart attacks over that girl until she got married. But I’ve never seen a guy happier than your dad was on her wedding day. Ten years he worried to death over that girl . . . then he got sick. That was the last wedding at St. Mike’s, too—it was the last time everyone was together. Then your pop died, and everyone started droppin’ like flies.”

“It was the beginning of the end—it was the beginning of all this,” Jimmy said, motioning with his arms just like his father.

“Pop, Auntie Mary, Flemmy—all within a year,” Joey said.

“Father Ricci, Carmello brothers, Donny and Sam Del Fiacco, Jimmy Angelo, one right after another,” Jimmy continued. “I musta been to over twenty funerals in the last ten years. And once the old timers were gone, the houses started to go. The kids already had kids, so they were long gone to the suburbs—so here comes the future slumlords of America, rollin’ right up Ambrose Avenue, lookin’ for easy Section 8 money straight from the source, so they don’t even have to knock on the doors for the rent. Pretty soon, the street’s littered with spent 40s and shell casings, and they’re taggin’ St. Mike’s. I mean, it’s a church, ya know? And we’re barring up the windows and talkin’ about bulletproof glass.”

“Sounds like Delilah isn’t the only one takin’ this hard,” Joey said.

“It’s affectin’ all of us,” Norge said. “And how could it not? It’s like watching your past—your history, your family—being torn down right in front of you.”

“It’s not just the houses,” Jimmy said. “In fact, of all the old neighborhood kids I’ve seen over the last couple weeks—I mean, almost every day, right, Dad?—nobody’s that broken up over the houses. In fact, most of ’em are glad to see ’em come down instead of watching them slowly rot to hell. It’s—”

“The neighborhood,” Norge said. “It’s the people.”

“Remember what Fran Garofolo said?” Jimmy said, looking to his dad.

“An act of mercy,” Norge said. “Nothing but a mercy killing.”

“And you,” Jimmy said sternly, pointing a finger at Joey. “Don’t tell me none of this bothers you—you’re feelin’ it just like the rest of us. I mean, you’re here, aren’tcha? And by the way, you cubbyhole chicken, I gotta little payback comin’ your way . . .”

“You wouldn’t,” Joey said.

“Oh, sure he would,” Norge said. “You boys have been tit-for-tat since you were three years old. You bloodied his nose one week, he bloodied yours the next. Hmm... ‘cubbyhole chicken,’ huh? Sounds interesting. I’m in.”

“Hey, no gangin’ up,” Joey said.

“It’s the only way we can get a word in edgewise, motormouth,” Jimmy shot back.

“Watch it, Nummy . . . I got Father Ricci’s wine story on deck. I swear, projectile vomiting at its finest—and with the church’s blessed wine. And all over your nice altar boy’s uniform.”

“Have a little trouble with that first kiss, Casanova?” Jimmy countered. “Dad? I swear—first, he chickenshits out of the cubbyhole with Mary DeLoia, right? So what does this ding-dong do? He tries it again in Frattalone’s oak tree the next day—and he woulda had it—but the dumbfuck falls out of the goddam tree.”

“Truce!” Norge shouted, his jowls and shoulders shaking with silent laughter. “Geez, Joey, how’d you ever survive your wedding night?”

“Don’tcha know, Dad?” Jimmy said. “That’s why Lil and him never had any kids. He probably fuckin’ missed.”

“Hey, how is Lil doin’?” Norge said, still trying to contain his laughter. “You two still talkin’?”

“Do ya talk to anybody anymore?” Jimmy cut in, his sarcasm suddenly taking on a mean-spirited tone. “Seen your ma yet? I bet nobody knows you’re here, do they?”

“Hey—take it easy,” Norge said, trying to nip the shift in tone. “Christ—will you two ever learn when to quit? And you,” he said with a scolding look to his son, “give ’im a chance to answer, wouldja? Starting with mine: How’s Lil?”

“Still gotta ref for us, don’tcha, Norgey?” Joey said with a forced smile, still stinging from what Jimmy said.

Joey looked downward, pausing to compose himself. 

“Lil’s doing pretty good. We still talk a couple of times a month. It’s funny . . . she’s kinda goin’ through the same thing we are. Hell, I guess everybody’s got to go through it sooner or later. Her folks are old and not doin’ too well, in and out of hospitals with one thing or another, all her aunties and uncles are goin’ one by one—and all her brothers and sisters are bickering about who has the busiest lives and who’s gonna take care of the old folks. At least her old neighborhood’s still in one piece—at least for now. But the houses are old and falling apart, and there’s been some talk . . . so who the hell knows? Maybe this is all part of the natural cycle. But, then again, look at all the old towns and neighborhoods in Italy or France—been standing for hundreds of years. I don’t think anyone’s gonna come in and bulldoze them to put up some lousy townhomes or a strip mall.”

“Ya gotta problem with capitalism? You sound like a commie,” Jimmy said.

“Last time I checked, they were democracies, Jimmy,” Joey said, trying to be cool, but now fully irritated with Jimmy’s comments.

“Yeah, yeah—ya always were a bleeding heart. How ’bout that socialized medicine? More welfare, anyone?”

“Sounds like you should lay off O’Reilly and Rush. And what’s with all the cracks?”

“Boys—”

“What cracks? Am I lyin’, Joe?”

“Boys—”

“No, you’re not lying, junior—in fact, I think the truth is finally coming out. What cracks, Jimmy? How ’bout ‘Sum Dum Fuc’? How ’bout that nice link you made about welfare and ‘slumlords’ and ‘40s’ and ‘shell casings’ all over the place? I think your biggest problem with the neighborhood is its color.”

“Unbelievable,” Jimmy scoffed. “I mean, get a clue and cry me ‘Old Man River.’ Tellya what, Joey—why don’tcha hang around for a couple days and I’ll give ya a tour, then ya can hit me again with that ivory-tower, rose-colored pap. What’s next, Joe—ya gonna tell me it’s nothin’ but da man keepin’ all the brothers down? Gimme a fuckin’ break and take a look around.”

“Ah . . . you miss the good ol’ days don’tcha, Jim?” 

“Goddam right I do.” 

“You know, it’s funny you mentioned Fran Garofolo before,” Joey said. “I remember him tellin’ me one time how you were an ‘old soul,’ that you always loved the ’40s—the ‘good ol’ days’—the great big bands, the hard-boiled lingo of Chandler and Hammett novels, the old neighborhoods. You know—and I can see it’s tearin’ you up—back when you could freely call ’em gooks and niggers.”

Jimmy sprang from his chair to go after Joey, but was quickly jerked back by a tug from his father. He kept his thick hand tightly clutched around his son’s shoulder to keep him there.

“Cut it! Both of yuz!” Norge barked. “God, you two—it’s a wonder you haven’t killed each other yet. Maybe it’s time to leave, Joey.”

“I’m sorry, Norgey,” Joey said. “Maybe you’re right. But I don’t wanna leave like this . . . Look, I love both you guys and it’s been great seein’ ya again. And yeah, Nummy, I said both you guys. Look, Jimmy, I’ve known you for almost forty years and, yeah, we’ve always fought like cats and dogs. But you should know by now that I’m not gonna stomach all the racist cracks—”

“Hold it,” Jimmy said, his eyes creased and jaw set in tense anger. “Did you hear me once—once—say those words? Huh? I didn’t think so. They came out of your mouth, pal, not mine.”

“Look, Jimmy, just because you didn’t say the exact words, doesn’t make what you said any less offensive. You were perpetuating racial stereotypes—”

“God save me!” Jimmy pleaded theatrically.

“Don’t bet on it, numbnuts.”

“God, couldja be any more full of—”

“Boys!” Norge screamed at the top of his lungs, a reverberation of white noise echoing off the ceramic walls. Then he abruptly got up and walked away. He came back ten seconds later with two large butcher knives and slammed them on the table. He quietly slid a knife in front of each of the boys. “There. Just kill each other and get it over with. I got work to do. Then I want to enjoy a peaceful retirement.” He walked away.

The boys glared at each other for a moment, then a smirk came over Jimmy’s face.

“His is bigger,” he shouted toward his dad.

“No,” Joey said. “Mightier.”

“The only thing mightier is your mouth.”

“Mighty Mouth?”

The glares slowly softened, finally giving way to some under-the-breath chuckling. The two shared a good laugh, disarming their heated moment—merely the latest in a lifetime of heated moments that was the hallmark of their volatile relationship, an antagonism that began at the tender age of three, and one that was a lock to continue until the grave.

“Hey, does that thing have any film left in it?” Joey said, pointing at a Polaroid instant camera that was hanging next to a bulletin board full of snapshots.

“Yeah, I think so,” Jimmy said. “Ya wanna add your picture to the lineup? We’ve been taking pics of some of our regulars over the last couple weeks. Hang on—I got an idea. Dad!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Norge grumbled from a distance. A click of footsteps and the chafing of butcher’s whites approached. “Didja kill ’im yet?”

“Here, take a picture,” Jimmy said to his dad, handing him the camera. “C’mon, Mighty Mouth, up with ya.”

Jimmy pulled Joey to his side. Then he put his hands around Joey’s neck and mocked a strained, contorted pose, as if he was really strangling him. He didn’t have to ask Joey to do the same. They both squeezed each other’s necks with more force than was necessary for the picture.

“Perfect,” Norge said.

Click.

“How many pictures left, Norgey?” Joey asked.

“Ah . . . two.”

“Can I have one of you two in front of the store?”

The three walked toward the front of the store in the same order in which they came to the back. They went out into the cold, and Joey centered them in front of the barred picture window, with the hand-painted Nolan’s logo—which hadn’t been touched since it was painted in 1947—just above their heads. Norge put his arm around his son and pulled him closer, with Jimmy following his lead. They were an odd contrast in terms of body shape—Jimmy’s tall and slender frame somehow defying the genetics of his stout parents—and anyone who didn’t know them would be hard-pressed to identify them as father and son. But their unprompted pose belied any unlikelihood; their chins lifted in pride, their gaze straight and sure. They knew who they were in the truest sense, and were comfortable in their skin. Joey always envied this about Jimmy. He never struggled with his identity or career choices that most people face. From the time he was ten or eleven, and sweeping up the store after school, he knew what his future held. But even with uncertainty on the horizon, Jimmy showed no signs of worry. It would be dealt with in due time. Jimmy was in this right to the end.

Click.

“Ya mind if I take a picture of something with your last one?” Joey asked. The Nolans shrugged that it was okay. “Got a flashlight?” Jimmy told him there was one behind the counter, and Joey rushed in and grabbed it. “I’ll be right back.” 

Joey ran across the street to St. Michael’s Church and disappeared into a cubbyhole on the side of the building. The story Jimmy told about him trying to get his first kiss was unfinished, and Joey finally remembered the ending to the story. It was truly a case of the third time being the charm, and it happened right where he was now standing, on a hot August night in 1983. Joey was so impassioned and proud of that moment, he documented it on the old wooden door, carved into a heart-shaped frame:

JD & MD ’83

Joey carefully scraped the barnacled layers of browning green paint with the casing of his father’s old Zippo, checking his progress after each one-inch swath. Slowly, sections of the long-ago etching began to reveal itself. With each scrape and sweep of the glove, the rough-hewn curves of the perimeter began to connect. Joey completed the connection by gently tracing the border, followed by even gentler strokes through the middle.

Fearing he would damage the etching with further scraping, he brusquely rubbed out the area with his glove—furthering the restoration with some spit and polish. He brought the light in closer, then reached for his keys to retrace the engraving. He traced the jagged outline of the heart quickly, anxious to go to work on the initials inside and get his shot. He picked up the flashlight with his left hand and zeroed in on the year he inscribed after their initials—’83. Unable to make out the numbers clearly, he scratched at the area with his fingernails, removing a few more chips of paint: 

JN & DD ’88

Joey broke from his tense crouch and sat back on a pile of dead leaves, shining the light on the interloper’s initials. The boyhood memory that he summoned so easily and vividly just moments ago now seemed light-years away. He stared at it for a moment, then got up and brushed himself off. Oh, what the hell . . .

Click.

He watched the picture develop as he walked back across the street. As the crudely hacked initials became discernible, Joey began running the names of neighborhood kids through his mind, curious to know the identity of the initials. It didn't take long. He knew of only one DD:

His sister.

Joey gave a couple of courtesy taps on the glass door before entering. Jimmy was leaning back on the front counter, his arms folded, waiting.

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

“You son of a bitch . . .”