COMES HOME TO FIND MOTHER IN THE PARLOR, READING THE Bible to Daddo. His brothers are out. For the moment they’re someone else’s problem. With a sigh of relief Willie pulls a chair next to Mother, rests his head on her shoulder. The Fels smell. It makes him feel safe and sad at the same time.
The late fall of 1911.
Mother skips back and forth from Old Testament to New, slapping at the crinkly pages, murmuring, demanding an answer. The answer. Each pause gives Daddo a chance to tap his cane and offer commentary on the sublime wisdom of Jesus. Now she lands on Genesis, the story of Joseph and his brothers. Willie’s mind floats on the lilt of her voice, the soughing of the potato sack curtains. And when they saw him afar off, even before he came near unto them, they conspired against him to slay him. And they said one to another, Behold, this dreamer cometh. Come now therefore, and let us slay him, and cast him into some pit, and we will say, Some evil beast hath devoured him: and we shall see what will become of his dreams.
Willie lifts his head from Mother’s shoulder.
And it came to pass, when Joseph was come unto his brethren, that they stript Joseph out of his coat, his coat of many colours that was on him; And they took him, and cast him into a pit: and the pit was empty, there was no water in it.
Willie puts his hands over his face, shakes with sobs. Mother stops reading. Daddo tilts his head. The boy, he says, is moved by the Holy Spirit.
Maybe he’ll be a priest, Mother says.
The next day she pulls him from P.S. 5 and enrolls him at St. Ann’s.
Photographer is peeking in the rearview, driving fast. Peeking faster, driving faster. Reporter, trying to make notes, can’t keep his pen steady. He turns to Photographer. Why are you driving like someone is chasing us?
Because someone is chasing us.
Reporter looks out the back window, sees a TV news van riding their bumper. How the hell did they find us?
We haven’t exactly been inconspicuous. Maybe somebody witnessed a certain bank robber fainting in the middle of the street …?
Photographer mashes the gas, runs a red light. He spins the wheel to the left, swerves to avoid a double-parked truck. Sutton, tossed around the backseat like a sock in a dryer, tastes this morning’s champagne, last night’s whiskey. He realizes that he hasn’t eaten solid food since yesterday’s lunch at Attica—beef stew. Now he tastes that too. He puts a hand on his stomach, knows what’s coming. He tries to roll down a window. Stuck. Or locked. Converted cop car. He looks around. On the seat beside him are Photographer’s camera bag and cloth purse. He opens the camera bag. Expensive lenses. He opens the cloth purse. Notebooks, paperbacks, The Autobiography of Malcolm X, Norman Mailer’s The Armies of the Night, a plastic baggie full of joints—and a billfold. Sutton touches the billfold.
He sees the pink box of donuts. He lifts the lid, feels the contents of his stomach gathering on the launchpad. He shuts his eyes, swallows, gradually fights back the rising wave of nausea.
Photographer makes a hard right, steers toward the curb. The Polara fishtails. Squealing brakes, shrieking tires. They screech to a stop. The smell of scorched Firestone fills the car. Reporter kneels on the front seat, looks out the back. They’re gone, he says to Photographer. Nice job.
I guess it pays to watch Mod Squad, Photographer says.
They sit for a moment, all three of them breathing hard. Even the Polara is panting. Now Photographer eases back into traffic. Tell me again—what’s our next stop?
Corner of Sands and Gold. Right, Mr. Sutton?
Sutton grunts.
Sands and Gold? Christ, that’s a block from where we just were.
Sorry. Mr. Sutton’s map is kind of tough to read.
I was hitting the champagne pretty hard when I made it, Sutton says.
The Polara hits a pothole. Sutton’s head hits the roof, his ass hits the seat.
You don’t need to drive like a maniac anymore, Reporter says.
It’s not me, Photographer says, it’s these roads. And I think this Polara is shot.
Willie is shot, Sutton rasps.
The Polara hits another pothole.
One-sixth gravity, Sutton mumbles.
We’re almost there, Mr. Sutton. You okay?
Just realized something kid.
What’s that, Mr. Sutton?
I’m in the back of a radio car without handcuffs. I think that’s part of what’s got me on my heels this morning. That’s why I don’t feel like myself. I feel—naked.
Handcuffs?
We used to call them bracelets. The neighbors would say, Did you hear, they dragged poor Eddie Wilson away in bracelets?
Sutton holds up his wrists, stares at them from different angles. The purple veins, bubbled and wormy.
Photographer grins at Sutton in the rearview. If you want handcuffs, brother, we can get you some handcuffs.
Two classmates at St. Ann’s become Willie’s friends. William Happy Johnston and Edward Buster Wilson. That’s how newspapers will most often refer to them. Everyone in Irish Town knows, Willie is the smart one, Happy is the handsome one, Eddie is the dangerous one. Everyone in Irish Town knows, you better watch your step around Eddie Wilson.
He used to be such a sweet kid, Irish Towners say. Then his aunt and uncle took ill. The lung sickness. They had to move in with Eddie’s family—it was either that or a pesthouse. In no time their doctor bills wiped out Eddie’s family. This was just after the Panic of 1907, the country spiraling into a Depression. Irish Town passed the hat, saved Eddie’s family from being put on the street, but Eddie felt more embarrassed than relieved. Next, Eddie’s old man lost his job as a driller. Again the neighborhood passed the hat, again Eddie cringed. Finally Eddie’s mother got the lung sickness, and there was no money left for a doctor. She and Eddie were especially close, neighbors whispered at the funeral.
Overnight, everyone agrees, Eddie changed. His royal blue eyes turned stormy. His eyebrows drew together into a permanent V. He looked wounded all the time, ready to fight. When the Italians started to encroach on Irish Town, Eddie decided it was his job to hold them off. He was forever muttering about them Eye-ties, them fuckin Dagos. Every other week he was in another hellish battle.
The first time they meet, Willie sees only Eddie’s courage, not his pain. Something about Eddie reminds Willie of polished, martial steel. Also, he seems equally loyal and lethal. And Eddie sees Willie through the same rosy lens. Assuming Willie’s many bruises
