Now I sit here, asking myself what I have to do next.
My first order of business is to not finish the meatballs. I only watch Ma on her wonderful date. It's quite obvious that the two of them have been here before. The waitress knows them and stops for a brief exchange of words. They're very comfortable.
I try to be bitter about it, and angry, but I catch myself. What's the point? She is, after all, a person, and she deserves the right to be happy just like everyone else.
It's only soon after that I understand exactly why my first instinct is to begrudge her this happiness.
It's nothing to do with my father.
It's me.
In a sudden wave of nausea, I see the absolute horror, if you will, of this situation.
There's my ma, fifty-odd years old, hightailing around town with some guy while I sit here, in the prime of my youth, completely and utterly alone.
I shake my head.
At myself.
The waitress takes away my meatballs and brings out the Doorman's lasagna in a cheap plastic box. He'll be very happy with that, I expect.
As I slip to the counter and pay, I look back at Ma and the man, cautious not to be seen, but she's totally engrossed in him. She stares and listens with such intent that I don't even bother trying to hide myself from view anymore. I pay up and get out of there, except I don't go home. I walk to Ma's place and wait on the front porch.
It smells like my childhood, this house. I can even smell it from under the door as I sit here on the cool cement.
The night is alive with stars, and when I lie down and look up, I get lost up there. I feel like I'm falling, but upward, into the abyss of sky above me.
The next thing I feel is someone's foot nudging my leg.
I wake up and find the face that belongs to it.
"What are you doing here?" she says.
That's Ma.
Friendly as ever.
I rise to an elbow and decide not to dance around this. "I came to ask if you had a nice time at Melusso's."
An expression of surprise falls from her face, though she's trying to keep it. It breaks off and she seems to catch it and fidget with it in her hands. "It was very nice," she says, but I can tell she's stalling to go through her options. "A woman has to live."
I sit up now. "I guess that's fair."
She shrugs. "That the only reason you're here--to grill me about going out to dinner with a man? I have needs, you know."
Needs.
Have a listen to her.
She steps past me toward the door and inserts the key. "Now if you don't mind, Ed, I'm very tired."
Now.
The moment.
I nearly give in, but tonight I stand up. I know full well that out of all of her offspring, I'm the only one this woman won't invite into the house in this situation. If my sisters were here, she'd already be making coffee. If it was Tommy, she'd be asking him how university's treating him, offering him a Coke or a piece of cake.
Yet, with me, Ed Kennedy, every bit as much one of her kids as the others, she steps past and refuses friendliness, let alone an invitation to come in. Just once, I'd like her to be even the slightest bit affable.
The door's nearly shut when I stop it with my hand. The sound of a slapped face.
Her expression swells as I look at her.
I speak, saying the words hard.
"Ma?" I ask.
"What?"
"Why do you hate me so much?"
And now she looks at me, this woman, as I make sure my eyes don't give me away.
Flatly, simply, she answers.
"Because, Ed--you remind me of him."
Him?
It registers.
Him--my father.
She goes inside and the door slams.
I've had to take a man up to the Cathedral and attempt to kill him. I've had hit men eat pies in my kitchen and lay me out. I've been jumped by a group of teenage thugs.
This, however, feels like my darkest hour.
Standing.
Hurting.
On my mother's front porch.
The sky opens now, crumbling apart.
I want to hammer the door with my hands and my feet.
I don't.
All I do is sink to my knees, felled by the words that could deliver such a knockout blow. I try to make something good of it because I loved my father. Apart from the alcoholic section, I think it can't be totally shameful to be like him.
So why does this feel so awful?
I don't move.
In fact, I vow not to leave this shitty front porch until I get the answers I deserve. I'll sleep here if I have to and wait in the scorching heat all day tomorrow. I stand back up and call out.
"I'm not leaving, Ma!" Again. "You hear me? I'm not leaving."
After fifteen minutes the door pulls open again, but I don't look at her. I turn around and speak to the road, saying, "You treat everyone else so good--Leigh, Kath, and Tommy. It's like..." I can't allow myself to weaken. I pace. "But you speak to me with complete disrespect, and I'm the one who's here." Now I turn and look at her. "I'm the one who's here if you need something--and each time, I do it, don't I?"
She agrees. "Yes, Ed," but she also pounces. She assaults me with her own version of the truth. The words cut me through the ears so hard that I expect blood to ooze from them. "Yes, you're here--and that's exactly it!" She holds her arms out. "Look at this dump. The house, the town, everything." The voice is dark. "And your father--he promised me that one day we'd leave this place. He said we'd just pack up and go, and look where we are, Ed. We're still here. I'm here. You're here, and just like your old man, you're all promise, Ed, and no results. You"--she points at me with venom--"you could be as good as any of them. As good as Tommy, even.... But you're still here and you'll still be herein fifty years." She sounds so cold. "And you'll have achieved nothing."
Fade to silence.
"I just want you"--she breaks it--"to make something of yourself." Slowly she makes her way to the front steps and says, "You have to realize something, Ed."
"What?"
Carefully now, her statement comes out. "Believe it or not--it takes a lot of love to hate you like this."
I try to understand.
She's still on the porch when I go down to the front lawn and turn back.
God, it's dark now.
As dark as the Ace of Spades.
"Were you seeing that man when Dad was still alive?" I ask her.
She looks at me, wishing she didn't have to, and although she says nothing, I know. I know it's not only my father she hates, but herself. That's when I realize she's got it wrong.
It's not the place, I think. It's the people.
We'd have all been the same anywhere else.
I speak again. One last question.
"Did Dad know?"
Long pause.
A pause that murders, until my mother turns away and cries, and the night is so deep and dark that I wonder if the sun will ever come up.
"Ma?"
"Yeah?"
I look down at the Doorman, who's eating his lasagna with what can only be described as the ultimate ecstasy. It's 2:03 a.m., and I hold the phone receiver against my ear.
"You okay, Ma?"
The voice shivers back but answers the way I expected.
"Yeah, I'm okay."
"That's good."
"Except you woke me, you useless--"
I hang up but smile.
I'd wanted to tell her I still love her, but maybe it's better this way.
I can't help thinking about all the things Ma said last night.
It's Sunday morning, and I've hardly slept. The Doorman and I each have a few coffees, but it doesn't wake me up much. I wonder if I'm done with Clown Street and my mother, but my feeling tells me I am. She needed to tell me those things.
Of course, the fact that my mother thinks I'm a complete loser is not pleasant.
The fact that she
also considers herself one isn't much comfort, either, even if it should be. In a way, it has woken me a little. I realize I can't be a cabdriver all my life. It'll drive me crazy.
For the first time, a message has touched part of my own life in some way.
Who was it for?
For Ma or me?
Then I hear her words again. It takes a lot of love to hate you like this.
I think I saw some relief cross her face when she told me that.
The message was hers.
The Doorman and I go to the church to see Father O'Reilly, and he still has a fairly generous congregation.
"Ed!" he says excitedly afterward. "I was worried you weren't coming back. I've missed you the last few weeks." He pats the Doorman.
"I guess we've been busy," I say.
"The Lord been with you?"
"Not really," I answer. I think of last night and the idea of my mother committing adultery, hating my father for broken promises, and despising her only child who remains in town.
"Ah," he affirms. "Everything has its purpose."
I can only agree with that. Nothing has happened without reason, and I focus on the next message.
There's only Bell Street now, and I go there in the afternoon. Number 39 is an old, jaded cinema that you walk down into. There's an old terrace house above it, where a board sits glued to the awning. Today, the lettering says Casablanca 2:30 p.m. and Some Like It Hot 7 p.m. As you walk down, there are posters of old movies displayed in the window. The paper is yellow on the edges, and when I walk in, there are more inside.
The smell is of stale popcorn. It seems empty.
"Hello?" I call.
Nothing.
This place must have died years ago when the new Greater Union was put up across town. It's deserted.
"Hello?" I call again, louder this time.
I look into a back room and see an old man sleeping. He wears a suit and bow tie, like an old-style usher.
"You all right, mate?" I ask, and he jolts awake.
"Oh!" He leaps from his chair and straightens up his jacket. "What can I do for you?"
I look at the board above the counter and say, "Can I get a ticket to Casablanca, please?"
"God, you're my first customer in weeks!"
The lines around the man's eyes are enormous, and he has tremendously bushy eyebrows. His white hair is combed to perfection, and although he's balding, he doesn't execute a comb-over. His expression is genuine. The man's delighted. Quite frankly, he's chuffed to bits.
I hand him ten dollars and he gives me five change.
"Popcorn?"
"Yes, please."
He thrills himself as he scoops it up and puts it in the box. "On the house," he says, and winks at me.
"Cheers."
The cinema itself is small, but the screen is massive. I have to wait awhile, but the old man comes in at about 2:25. "I don't think anyone else is coming. Would you mind if we started early?" He's probably scared I'll piss off on him if I have to wait too long.
"No worries."
He rushes back up the aisle.
I'm sitting almost exactly in the middle of the theater. If anything, I'm a row closer than further back.
The movie begins.
Black and white.
A while through it, it cuts out and I look back up to where the projection window is. He's forgotten to change the reel. I call up.
"Hey!"
Nothing.
I think he's asleep again, so I walk out and find a door that says Staff Only and go in. It leads to the projection room, where the man snores quietly, leaning back in his chair and against the wall at his side.
"Sir?" I ask.
"Oh no!" he shouts at himself. "Not again!"
He's visibly upset, rushing around to get the new reel, castigating himself and apologizing.
"It's okay," I tell him, "calm down," but he won't have any of it.
He tells me over and over again. "Don't worry, son, you'll have your money back and I'll even give you a showing for free. Your choice." He continues on fervently. "Any movie you want."
I accept. I have no other option.
He rushes forward and says, "Now if you hurry down, you'll be there in time not to miss anything."
Before I head back to the theater, I feel compelled to introduce myself. I say, "My name's Ed Kennedy," and hold out my hand.
He stops and shakes it, looking into my face. "Yes, I know who you are." Momentarily, he forgets about the reel and looks me directly in the eye with total friendliness. "I was told you were coming."
He carries on with his work again now.
I stand there.
This keeps getting better and better.
I watch the rest of the movie and tell myself, I'm not walking out of here until I find out who informed the old man I'd be coming.
"Enjoy that?" he asks as I come out, but I don't allow him any room for that kind of discussion.
I say, "Who told you I was coming?"
He tries to shrug away.
"No." He's almost panicking. "I can't." He's moving off now. "I promised them, and they were such nice fellows...."
I pull him back now to face me. "Who?"
He appears even older now, inspecting his shoes and the carpet.
"Was it two men?" I ask.
He looks at me like yes.
"Daryl and Keith?"
"Who?"
I try another angle. "Did they eat your popcorn?"
Again a yes.
"It was Daryl and Keith," I confirm. The greedy bastards. "They didn't hurt you, did they?"
"Oh no. No, they were very nice. Genial. They came in about a month ago and watched Mister Roberts. Before they left they told me a guy named Ed Kennedy would be coming and that you'd get a delivery when you're finished."
"And when am I finished?"
He holds out his hands. "They told me you'd know." His face tilts, almost in sorrow. "Are you finished?"
I shake my head. "No, it doesn't feel like it." I look away and back at him. "I have to do something for you. Something good, I'd say, in your case."
"Why?"
I almost tell him I don't know, but I refuse to lie. "Because you need it."
Does he need a good turnout like Father O'Reilly?
I doubt it. Not twice.
"Maybe"--he comes closer--"you'll finish when you come back to see that free movie."
"All right," I agree.
"You can bring your girlfriend," he suggests. "You got a girl, Ed?"
I indulge the moment.
"Yes," I say. "I got a girl."
"Well, bring her along." He rubs his hands together. "Nothing like just you and your girl in front of the big screen." A mischievous laugh jumbles from his mouth now. "I used to love bringing the girls here myself when I was a kid. That's why I bought this place when I retired from building."
"Did you ever make any money out of it?"
"Oh, Christ no, I don't need it. I just like putting them on, watching them, sleeping a bit. The wife says if it keeps me out of strife, why not?"
"Fair enough."
"So when you think you'll make it back?"
"Tomorrow, maybe."
He gives me a catalog the size of an encyclopedia to look through and suggest a movie, but I don't need it.
"No, thanks," I explain to him. "I know what I want."
"Really? Already?"
I nod. "Cool Hand Luke."
He rubs his hands together again and grins. "Lovely choice. A great film. Paul Newman's outstanding, and George Kennedy, your namesake--unforgettable. Seven-thirty tomorrow?"
"Beautiful."
"Great, I'll see you and your girl tomorrow then. What's her name, this girl of yours?"
"Audrey."
"Ah, lovely."
I'm about to leave when I realize I have no idea of this man's name.
He apologizes. "Oh, I'm very sorry, Ed. My name's Bernie. Bernie Price."
"Well, n
ice to meet you, Bernie." I make my way out.
"Same here," he says. "I'm glad you came."
"Me, too."
I step out into the hot air of late afternoon and summer.
Christmas Eve's on Thursday this year, which is when everyone's coming over for cards, turkey, and Marv's big kiss with the Doorman.
I ring Audrey about tomorrow and she cancels a date with the boyfriend. I think she could tell by the urgency in my voice that I needed her to come out with me.
As soon as we've sorted that out, I go for a walk to Milla's place, on Harrison Avenue.
She opens the door, and it seems frailty has overcome her in the past weeks. It's been a while since I've visited, and she glows upon my arrival. She stands crookedly at first but straightens when she sees my face.
"Jimmy!" Her voice soars. "Come in, come in!"
I do as she says, and when I enter the lounge room, I see she's been trying to read Wuthering Heights on her own, but she hasn't made it far.
"Oh yes," she says when she comes in with the tea. "I've been trying to read it without you, but it's not quite working."
"You want me to read you some now?"
"That would be nice." She smiles.
I love that old woman's smile. I love the patches of human wrinkles on her face and the joy in her eyes.
"Would you like to come to my place on Christmas Day?" I ask her.
She puts the tea down and answers. "Yes, of course, I'd love to. It's"--she lets herself look at me--"it's getting lonelier and lonelier without you, Jimmy."
"I know," I say. "I know."
I put my hand on hers and rub it gently. It's times like this I pray that souls can find each other after death. Milla and the real Jimmy. I pray for that.
"'Chapter six,'" I read. "'Mr. Hindley came home to the funeral; and--a thing that amazed us, and set the neighbors gossiping right and left--he brought a wife with him....'"
Monday is a full day working in the city. I pick up a lot of people and seem able to weave nicely through the traffic for once. Often my goal as a cabdriver is simply not to annoy other drivers. Today it's working.
I'm home just before six, eat with the Doorman, and pick up Audrey around seven. I'm wearing my best jeans, my boots, and an old red shirt that's faded to orange.