with his blood. Birdy’s not listening, he’s on his way.
Well, my mother comes to the door. She never shows much on her face but she doesn’t smile. I’m hanging back on the porch step. Birdy asks if he can talk to my father. My mother lets him in. I run around the block to the back and let myself in by the cellar. I come up through the kitchen. My mother’s still ironing in the doorway. I can hear them in the living room.
‘Whaddaya mean you want your car back?’
‘You had no right to sell that car, Mr Columbato. That car belongs to Al and me. We did not want to sell it. It is worth much more than a hundred dollars.’
‘Get outta here, kid; that car was in my name and I could sell it to anybody I want. Go ’way. I’m tryin’ ta read my paper.’
Birdy doesn’t move. I can tell my old man is getting mad. He’s jiggling the top leg he has crossed. That’s a bad sign, like a cat twitching its tail. My mother stands the iron up on end and watches.
‘Mr Columbato, would you tell me the name of the man who thinks he bought our car?’
My old man just ignores him. His leg keeps jiggling. Birdy stands there. I’m expecting all hell to break loose. My mother turns and tells me to get Birdy out before my father does something. I can’t move. Birdy keeps standing there. My old man, without looking up, says, ‘Look, kid. You’d better get outta here or I’m gonna call the cops!’
‘Thank you, Mr Columbato. I was going to do that myself. I want to report a stolen car.’
That does it! The old man throws the paper down and jumps up! Birdy doesn’t back off an inch. The old man isn’t very tall, not much taller than Birdy, but he’s at least twice as thick. He shakes his fist in front of Birdy’s face. He shakes so hard, his hair, which is slicked back with Wildroot, jumps up and down in back.
‘You callin’ me a crook? You sayin’ I stole that junk heap?’
Birdy looks him in the eyes, right through that fist. I wonder if my father can hit him. Birdy isn’t even moving. He stands there like a stuck feather.
‘I think you made a mistake, Mr Columbato. You sold a car that wasn’t yours. You didn’t understand. If you will tell me the name of the man you sold it to, I can tell him what happened and give him his money back.’
For a minute, my old man can’t say anything. His eyes are bulging. I know he wants to pick Birdy up and throw him out the door but he’s beginning to get suspicious.
‘I’m tellin’ ya, kid. The guy that bought that car ain’t never goin’ to give it back. You give him any trouble and you’ll wind up in a concrete shirt at the bottom of a river somewhere.’
Birdy acts as if he doesn’t even hear him.
‘If you would just give me his name, Mr Columbato, I can contact him directly and I won’t have to go to the police.’
My father starts his jabbing routine. He can hit so hard with the point of his middle finger just on the soft part under the collar bone, it’s like a bullet going through you. Birdy stands there taking it. He doesn’t move. I can’t believe the old man’s using his full force. He stops and stares at Birdy; I can see he has his hand down at his side now itching to give one to Birdy. I’m beginning to think it’ll be the old immovable object and the irresistible force.
‘You see, Mr Columbato, Al and I have a signed receipt of purchase for that car from Mr Schwartz. It is officially our property.’
This is pure bullshit. We don’t have anything from Schwartz.
‘You agreed to have the automobile officially inspected and registered, so it’s in your name, but you are not the official owner; you have no evidence of purchase from us. It is still our property. Now, if you will just tell me the name of the man who bought the car, I can explain this to him.’
The old man sits down. I can’t believe it. Birdy’s still standing there.
‘I’m sure the man who bought the car would rather not have the police investigating this. It could be embarrassing for everybody.’
The old man is actually breaking out in a sweat. There are beads of water across his forehead and over his lips.
‘Why you want to be such a hard nose, kid? Look, I’ll do you a favor.’ He tilts, reaches into his pocket and pulls out the roll. He peels off another fifty bucks and holds it out to Birdy. Birdy doesn’t move. The old man waves the money.
‘That’s all I got for it, kid. Take it and get outta here. Leave me alone, huh?’
My mother’s moved into the room. She takes the money from my father and grabs hold of Birdy’s arm. He comes with her and she leads him back to the kitchen. Birdy’s face is chalk white, his lips are blue, and his whole body is shaking. My mother talks English to Birdy.
‘Boy, you take the money. I get more from Al’s uncle, my brother. Don’t make trouble. How much money you want?’
Birdy looks at her. Tears are coming into his eyes. He takes the money from her and hands it to me. He shakes his head and goes down the cellar steps, then on out the back. I try to follow him but my mother stops me.
When I finish telling this story to Renaldi he sits there, looking straight into me, listening. All along he’s nodded his head or let me know other ways that he’s listening and interested. I find it hard to go on with the story sometimes because I fill up. My nerves still aren’t quite right.
So, my mother gives me another hundred dollars about a week later. She really forces me to take it and swears she got it from her brother. Her brother’d give her ten thousand dollars if she asked for it and he wouldn’t even ask what for.
I give it all to Birdy and tell him Nicky’d kicked in with two hundred. You see, Birdy’s still sore. He figures the car is worth at least three hundred and he’s been checking things out to find who bought the car and he’s going to call the cops. He’s even written to the department of motor vehicles to find out what name the car is registered in. I tell him they’ll kill him but he couldn’t care less. When Birdy’s got his mind on something, especially when he’s pissed like that, it’s hard to turn him off.
It must be almost three weeks later when I go over to his place and he’s working out with his wings, flapping in his back yard. I see giant black and blue marks on his chest. It takes me a few seconds to realize that’s where the old man gave him those finger pokes. The old man wasn’t holding back; Birdy was just pushing forward on each poke. He was probably practically breaking the old man’s finger.
I stop. I’m tired of telling about it. I don’t think Renaldi’s getting what I’m talking about anyway. I’m not even so sure myself.
‘Gee, Al. You really ought to tell Weiss this stuff. Maybe he could understand some and be able to help Birdy. I don’t think Weiss even knows he’s called Birdy. That should mean something to him. You owe it to Birdy.’
‘Not me. Don’t you tell him either! I’d rather Birdy stay crazy than have a shit like Weiss bring him back. If I came back from being crazy and saw somebody like Weiss standing there in front of me, I’d probably cry the rest of my life.’
That’s where I should’ve
