of the corner and up the hill behind the Y.M.C.A. The summer Ronald Reagan lost his legs, I spent the long, hot, muggy days with Ralph and George MacCann. It was exciting being with them because they were Protestants, they smoked, and they were tough.
Both were pale from cards and cigarettes and never leaving the house for very long periods of time. They didn’t play sports and every time I suggested a game, they’d say, “Sit down, for Chrissake and have a cigarette.” Ralph would turn the record player on and we’d sit in the half dark of the house listening to Dick Haymes, Perry Como and Bing Crosby. Every once in a while one of them would get up from a broken chair and silently slip into a back bedroom and stay there for about ten minutes and then come out saying nothing except, “Gimme a butt.”
The scene was repeated over and over again and was a mystery to me throughout the summer until the day my mother gave me twenty-five cents for a haircut. “You’re fourteen-years-old, it’s about time you started grooming yourself.” The only grooming I knew was for racehorses in movies like National Velvet. I took the twenty-five cents across Washington Street, up to Rats Alley. George went out and bought the “Old Golds” and Ralph gave me the haircut. He was good, too. He didn’t use a bowl. He just tore on through the thick, black Irish hair and when he was finished, he professionally shook the oilcloth he used for a cover, right out the door.
“What d’ya think?” he smiled, shaking his head. “Pretty good for an Irishman. Ever hear of an Irish barber? Only the Italians cut hair, maybe I’ll be the first Irishman to be a barber.”
That always bothered me when he called himself Irish. He wasn’t even a Catholic, so how could he be Irish?
He handed me a cigarette but not before he tapped it against the pack, both ends like Zachary Scott when he was staring into the eyes of ‘Lizbeth Scott—without the “e”—I used to think that’s why she was so sexy.
As he scratched the match across the closed cover into yellow flame, a cigarette hanging from his lips, a kind of rustling and squeaking came from the back bedroom. His eyes opened wide and his black eyebrows knit tightly. “Here, hold my butt,” is all he said, and he opened and closed the bedroom door behind him.
I felt suddenly, strangely out of place. Maybe I didn’t belong here. Maybe they weren’t my types of friends. What did we have in common? I had a nice, clean house, a duplex that we didn’t own but we had grass and a backyard and a neighborhood where I knew everybody. I had a mother. They didn’t. Everyone was Catholic and Irish except for three Italian families who owned their homes and covered up the clapboards with brick, cooked with garlic and made dandelion soup.
Here, the MacCanns were like fugitives in a Class B movie you’d see on a Saturday afternoon before the main feature. I had met these two tough and sinister brothers while I was caddying, and I was strangely attracted to the differences in our lives. Being with them was a kind of flirtation, a walking on the edge of a cliff over boiling surf or hanging onto the bumper of a car as the driver unknowingly carried you over dark, snow-packed streets.
The door opened and Ralph came out. “Gimme a drag. I can’t smoke in there.”
I didn’t ask him why. I thought maybe he had gasoline or explosives in there and I didn’t want to be a part of it.
Just then George came with another pack of Old Golds. “It’s all set. We’ve got enough for one ticket. I saw Stretch Magni down the Corner. He’ll meet us at ten minutes of one. He’ll buy the ticket because he’s the tallest. He’s taller than you, Sully, isn’t he?” George pulled a long, red cellophane strip from the pack, pulled out a cigarette and lit it.
“Oh, yeah, sure,” I said, not knowing what size had to do with buying a ticket.
“Good. So, Stretch is our man on the inside. Say, your haircut looks good. Your old lady will never know. Nice job, Ralphie. Anything new here?”
“Yeah, go in and check it. I think it’s O.K. But I just want a double check.”
“Oh, sure. Here, hold my butt.”
The scene unraveled one more time and to break the awkward silence brought on by this arcane ritual we were both left with, I put on a Frank Sinatra record and began impersonating Sinatra while dragging on a cigarette and singing with my jaws sucked in. I liked seeing the smoke come out with the words of the song.
George came back shortly. “It’s O.K. Everything’s O.K. What d’ya say? Want a cup of tea, Sull? Then we’ll go to the show.”
“Sure, George. O.K. with me.”
He opened a dirty, round canister and put his hand in. Then he turned it over. “Son of a bitch, Ralph. Don’t we have any teabags?”
“If they’re not in the canister, we don’t have any. It’s as simple as that.”
“Son of a bitch. Bastard. Goddamnit to hell.”
I had never seen him so angry before. “Geez, George, it’s not that important to me. Honest.”
“Chrissake, Sully, I don’t give a damn about you. Ralph!” And he turned to his brother who was smoking furiously. “Go over to Mrs. Blanchard’s and ask her for the loan of a dozen teabags. I’ll get some after the show. Tell her we’ll pay her back right away—tonight.”
Ralph nodded and was gone. Now, I felt really awkward in the midst of this major calamity of teabags.
A horn honked outside, but the vehicle did not stop. George raced to the window and pulled the dusty curtain back. The window was as dirty as the curtain.
“That son of a bitch is going down the hill without stopping. I gotta get him.”
“Who?” I blurted.
“The friggin’ milkman.” And he was off, racing after the truck as it rumbled and shook.
I was alone and my eyes traveled slowly around the kitchen. It seemed everything was gray and what wasn’t gray was black. The torn linoleum was gritty under foot. Nothing was out of place. There was no clutter. It was just that nothing had a shine to it. The kitchen was like one of those dull, gray August days that hung over you until nighttime finally hid it from you.
I looked over at the bedroom door and my heart thumped. As much as I knew I shouldn’t open that door, I already had decided I would. I looked out the window first. Ralph was still climbing the hill to what I assumed to be Mrs. Blanchard’s, and below the hill George was gesturing and waving at the milkman. I had time and I didn’t waste any. I went to the bedroom door, turned the knob and opened it. The door swung open and I stood with the short hair of my new haircut tightening on my scalp.
Before me, on a gray bed, lay the bones and wasted skin of a gaunt, gray man. His balding head was turned away from the door. A respirator bubbled and choked and gasped by the bed. A rubber mouthpiece dangled limply from the exposed hand that cupped the mouthpiece into the mouth every once in a while. The sound of sucking and wheezing filled the room.
I closed the door softly and backed across the room, lit a cigarette and stood in the doorway waiting for George, who was running back up the hill with a quart of milk clutched in his hand. A broad smile covered his face.
“He’s not such a bad guy,” he said almost apologetically. “We paid electricity this month. Should have paid milk.”
“Mrs.
