[Before final edit.]
I was in love with a girl named Sharon, and I’d been on a mission to save our relationship, a love I thought was solid enough to endure. I’d driven from my home in Somerville, a city in Greater Boston, to her parents’ home in South Plainfield New Jersey to work things out. I had been confident that if I showed my commitment by making the five-hour drive, even her parents would realize Sharon and I were made for each other, and she would fall into my arms and return home with me.
She informed me instead, quite firmly, that our ‘thing’ was over. As Richard Prior used to say, It’s not so bad they leave you, they have to tell you why, and it was like Sharon had waited her whole life, or all of our nineteen months together anyway, for her chance.
My first car, a green VW Rabbit, decided to quit not too far into my way back. It had happened before. The engine would cut out, leaving me stranded on the side of the road for an hour before it would restart. I stood sweating in the hot August breeze, watching the flames from the refineries next to the New Jersey Turnpike where it passes through Elizabeth. The smell hit me like a slap from a hand wearing a dirty glove, leaving a maddening itch in back of my throat. I didn’t see anyplace that might have a phone, but the thing would usually start after about an hour’s rest and previous episodes suggested it might even make it all the way home after that.
It was about a half hour later when the big black Cadillac slowed and pulled up next to me.
The front passenger’s window hummed all the way down, revealing a youngish woman with bright white hair and very red cheeks and lips. Then a man’s wide face swelled enough to fill the space, and the fleshy lips said, “Hey, kid, wanna ride?”
“I…my car won’t start; it takes it a while, I…”
“Yeah, right. Look, kid, this part of the turnpike, no-one helps. Once these vultures spot you, the car’s going, or just the wheels if you’re lucky; they come back for the rest later. Either way, it’s better you’re not here when they stop by to do their thing. They’re not nice about it, know what I mean?” I’d seen a burned-out wheel-less carcass on the Major Deegan on the way down, and was dreaming about insurance. Without waiting for an answer, the massive face receded and swiveled toward the back, and the helpful voice turned hard. ““Hey, Irene, shove over, let the kid in, will yah?”
“Aaah,” a high voice floated from the back seat, thin but musical, like Paul Simon.
When the back door swung open, the woman in the front spoke for the first time. “Hey Frankie, whatta we got, all fuckin’ day sittin out in this rotten stink? Come on, kid, get the fuck in—now. Geez!”
I could have run, but where? I suppose I could have waited them out. The thing is, I was curious. I had to get a look at the mysterious Irene, she of the somewhat heavenly “aaah”. So I bent down without getting any closer and had a peek into the back. Still, I can’t say what it was about the skinny girl I saw leaving me a grudging foot and a half of her seat. She could have conveyed desperation, or need, or something more flirtatious, but she didn’t. Maybe she was as curious as I was. Anyway, when she snuck a peek, the little smile that flashed me before she stuck her nose up and snorted, it did something to me. I got the fuck in.
She stayed in the middle, or maybe a little on my side. When the closing door smushed me up against her she didn’t seem to mind, but she didn’t seem thrilled either.
“Got a name?” Since that first look she kept her eyes forward.
The car pulled away. It was cold, the AC cranked up, I guess. Maybe that’s why she was sitting all scrunched up on herself. She had on a dress and heels, like something you might wear to a wedding; elegant, but frilly, almost like a little girl’s dress.
I told her. “Ralph Feinman.” I could have just said yes. I was proud I left that out.
“You a fine man, hah Ralphie?” I liked the way she said it, playful. She was looking at me again, a shy smile.
“Irene…” came the voice from our driver, needlessly harsh to my ears.
Irene turned her face to the front, but seemed to shrink into herself. She seemed so sad. I reached over and touched her arm but she didn’t seem to notice. No one said anything for a while.
“Good to meet you Ralph,” said the cigar guy. “Frank Robustelli, my wife Arlene and our, uh, daughter you already Boston .”
Now that the windows kept out most of the refinery stink, the car smelled of cigars, perfume, and male sweat. We took the next exit. At least I had the sense to make a note of the name: Rahway/Carteret. I’d never been there, but then, why would anyone ever go? The road was straight and flat. There was a giant refinery belching smoke and flame on one side and a swampy field with rusty things sticking up through the reeds on the other.
Frank’s voice broke my reverie. “Hey, Ralph. You look like you could use a good meal.” Irene huffed and rolled her eyes next to me. “I know a nice place in Linden, not too far from here.”
“That’s where we were headed anyway,” put in his wife, “one of Frank’s favorite places; the old-guy waiters, they always make a fuss over him.”
“Yeah, like Jesus fucking Christ.” The girl’s voice was so soft next to me, I didn’t think anyone else could hear.
“What’s that, Irene?”The menace in the man’s voice was back, but the girl didn’t seem to care, she just huffed and looked past me out the window.
The back seat was a vast expanse of burgundy leather, but the girl stayed in the middle. She seemed careful not to look at me, and maintained a sullen silence, which Frank filled from the front with questions for me.
“So, you from around here?”
“Jamaica, in Queens.”
“Funny, you look kinda pale for that.” South Jamaica was one of The City’s three biggest black neighborhoods.
“My neighborhood’s called Briarwood. It’s near where the Van Wyke expressway starts off the Grand Central.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it; the Jews are down around there.”
“Come on Frankie, give the kid a break.”
“Yeah, Feinman, I get it. No offense kid. I grew up in Newark; we useta have Jews too. Still, it was a tough fuckin place in those days; worse now. We got a nice place in Scotch Plains, lotsa trees. Quiet.”
“Might as well be nowhere,” said the girl next to me. “It’s all big fancy houses full-a stuck-up assholes. Anyway, the kid don’t give a shit.” Who you calling kid, I wanted to say, but there was something cute about her when she spoke.
“Hey, they got good schools, right? Better than where I found you, but he don’t want to hear about that either, and I’m not going into it. Just don’t fucking push, not today.”
“Arright Frankie,” said the woman in the passenger seat, “let’s find the weather on the radio. You guys are giving me a headache.”
I’m not sure how long it took us to get through all the turns on little and bigger streets, but we ended up at this storefront in a village kind of street with stucco and brown beams above the windows. Martucci’s, the sign said. We went around the corner and up an alley to a little lot in back that said Private, No Parking with the usual threat to tow. When we all piled out and I stood next to Irene, I realized she wasn’t over five feet, and her arms were like sticks. I had her figured for mid-teens, but now I noticed dark smudges underneath her eyes that made her look older. Not much makeup. Little strappy heels on her feet.
Walking in, you might have thought we were royalty. The guy at the register in front turned and yelled, “Mario, it’s Mister Robustelli.” He came out and wiped his hands on the towel on his shoulder before shaking both Frank’s hands. Then, with an actual bow, “Mrs. Robustelli, lovely as ever. Great to see you. And who’s this lovely young woman you got here?”
By then, others in the place were calling Frank’s name and Irene, the girl, was looking down, clearly embarrassed. Another man came out through a door in the back of the narrow room, presumably the kitchen, since he wore a white apron, and pulled Frank into a big hug with lots of mutual back slapping and appreciative grunting, followed by more polite doting over the wife and daughter until the first man, Al, showed us to a booth on the side. Irene slid in first, and I followed her, which earned me a side-glare and a humpf. Frank slid in opposite Irene while Arlene went “to powder my nose.” Women still said things like that in those days, though none in my generation.
There was no problem keeping the conversation going. When he wasn’t being interrupted by middle-aged men coming over to glad-hand him, he told me about how long he’d been coming here—since he was eight—and how the menu hadn’t changed, and how it used to be one of many good Italian joints, but now it was the only place for miles and miles. He talked about how Mario had been working the kitchen the past twenty-five years, how his son was going to take it over, but was wounded in “Nam” and hadn’t been “right in the head” since. When I spoke up that I worked in mental health, thinking to shame him out of his crude language, he said “smart,” pointing to his head. “The Jews got that locked up, and good for them. No shortage of nuts these days.” He could see Irene cover a smirk with her hand. The rest of the meal involved listening to Frank’s stories, which made little enough sense to me then that I can’t recall any of the details. I do remember Irene bumping her knee into mine a few times, but it could have been accidental; she never looked my way, but she let me steal a peek at her smile.
The food was northern Italian, though I didn’t know it then, and the ordering was worked out between Al and Frank without any input from the rest of us. It’s not like I’d never been to a New York Italian restaurant, but I have to say it was amazing, starting with the antipasto and eggplant rollatini appetizer, through veal Marsala and osso bucco and ending with a lavish pastry tray and espresso. When Frank asked me what I thought, I had to admit it was the best meal I could remember.
This led Frank to yell to everybody in the place, “Hey, the Jew kid liked it,” which raised a ragged cheer from the other tables, raised glasses of red wine, and waves of apparently sincere good wishes toward me.
Since the plan was to bring me back to my car, or so I thought, I figured I’d better hit the bathroom before we left. To get there, I had to go through part of the kitchen and ask Mario for further directions.
“So, you a friend of Frank’s? Irene?”
What to say—he picked me up on the side of the road? I went for close to the truth.
“Yeah. I was having car trouble and he helped me out.”
“Great guy, that Frank. Beautiful family.”
I thought there was a hard look with that, but it could have been my imagination. This seemed to be the heart of Frank’s fan base right here.
When I got back to the table after managing to pee in the ancient and tiny but clean toilet, I could tell something had happened. Irene looked upset, and Frank’s jaw was set.
“All right,” he said, a bit loud, even for him, “let’s hit the road.”
Irene was squirming in the back seat, as if trying to keep from exploding. Then, she stopped trying.
“You can’t do this. It’s not fair, to anyone. Have you talked to Carmen?”
“It’s fair if I say it is. And Carmen ain’t family.”
“Well, neither am I, then. Shit! This is fucked up.”
Irene had been loud, but Frank was louder now, as they wound through the streets.
“What’d I say about that language? Never from you, never in my presence! You forget where you were, what I done for you.”
“And I done for you too, Frankie.” I hadn’t heard her call him that, and I could see him twitch to hear it. “Right Arlene? Don’t I do for him, all these years?”
“You better watch your fucking mouth Missy,” snapped the woman in the front seat. Her usual high, cultured voice had gotten low and raw. “You don’t bring me into your little problems, and don’t go getting above yourself either. You’ve had a nice deal going all this time, better than most.”
“What,” screamed Irene, her face red and contorted, “what haven’t I done? I do my share, and I don’t get treated like the Goddamned Queen of Sheba. Anyway, I got school, supposed to graduate next year. What’s the fucking rush?”
To my relief, by this time we were on the Turnpike, approaching my little car, still safely sitting on the side of the road, though with a sign stuck under the windshield wiper. I was thanking him, ready to climb out and get on with my life, when Frank’s voice came from the front.
“Arright, outta the fuckin car, Irene. I told you before, I don’t put up with that shit. Out! You can keep the kid company, maybe he’ll have better luck!”
“Aw, come on Frankie,” said Arlene, “don’t go flying off the handle. I know she’s a brat, but she’s sixteen…”
“Seventeen! I’m fuckin’ seventeen! Jesus!”
“…and that’s how they get. You just ain’t home to hear it all day.”
“Yeah,” he growled, “lucky me. And you too, now, so don’t fucking complain or you can get out with her. It’s about fucking time’s what it is.”
I didn’t know what the fight was about, but I also didn’t realize how sad I was to see her go until she climbed out after me, brushing tears off her cheeks with the back of her hand. I went over to pull the orange notice off my windshield, something about towing, when I felt the grit from the Cadillac’s tires sting my legs as it pulled away, and we both started coughing from the dust and the stink.
Irene’s shoulders were shaking, but she had turned away from me and I couldn’t hear any crying over the noise from the road and the nearby refinery. I hadn’t thought it through, but I knew I should comfort her. Even my light touch on her arm made her jump. I figured maybe I could drop her somewhere, assuming the car decided to start, which it usually did after resting an hour or so. I just had to hope it would get me home.
Standing on the side of the busy highway wasn’t getting us anywhere, and when I suggested we go, she didn’t object, but climbed into the front seat next to me. Of course, my little honey started right up, so I asked her where I could drop her. She looked up from staring at her lap, then looked around in a panic and started crying. I tried to calm her down the best I could and decided that wasn’t going to get us anywhere, and anyway I wasn’t in a hurry for her to get out of the car, so I just headed for home and figured… I don’t know what I figured, I just started driving.
After a while I managed, “What was that all about?”
Having something to explain seemed to calm her down. “Oh. Well, Frankie—my uncle—he’s not that happy with me right now. He’s nice though. He saw you stopped on the side—I guess he was looking for somebody, so I wouldn’t be out here alone—and he said, ‘This guy looks harmless enough. Think you can handle him?’”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I suppose I was offended, Frank saying this little girl could handle me—little did I know.
“So, what he said about my car?”
“Bullshit. The patrols’ll come by and see if they can start it. If not, they’ll tow it somewhere. Woulda been better if you’d stayed with it; you got lucky it’s still here. I was a little surprised you fell for that line, I mean, Frankie always was persuasive, but then you got in, and I’m thinkin, Jesus, this guy.”
She wanted to know where I lived and then what brought me to New Jersey, and I gave her a quick version of my visit with Sharon.
“You are a sad fuck,” she giggled.
It was kind of sweet, the way she said it. I couldn’t think of a come-back, so I just enjoyed the moment, driving along. It’s hard to explain now, but I wasn’t thinking about dropping her off. I suppose I wasn’t thinking much at all.
“I should talk,” she went on. “I got no friends to call. He’s not really my uncle, Frankie, I mean, family friend, I guess you could say. I’ve been living there, in his house. My ma owes him money, for years now, so…” She sighed, shrugged.
“You mean Arlene?”
“Nah, she’s not my mom, thank God.”
“And he dumped you out here?”
“Well, with you. I got tired of it, I guess. Like I need to branch out, have friends my own age, you know? My ma’s like, whatever, just goes along with everything, like that’s all there is. I want my own life. Frankie’s got other ideas.”
I didn’t want to think about what that could mean.
“You deserve better.”
“Ah, you’re not so bad,” she said, with a little chuckle. Was that what I meant? Well, it was still nice. “Anyway, I ain’t crawlin back, not this time.”
The look she gave me… Our eyes Boston and I almost killed us both. The car was the only thing I managed to get under control. It was one of those things you do when you’re young and stupid. Now that it looked possible I could take her home, I wasn’t going to screw it up asking questions. And she made it easier for me.
“Look, uh, mister good man,” like she wasn’t sure of my name, “I can’t. I can’t go back, you know, with Frank.”
Not go back with Frankie; it’s hard to say how I felt about that. I could have wondered what that meant, for her, for me, for us, but it’s not like I was able to think things through. All I could think was if I took her home, I might not see her again, and I knew I didn’t want that, so it made me happy that she was staying with me, that we had longer together.
For once the car came through for me and it, along with the four hours of old Motown hits we sang together, got us all the way to Massachusetts. By the time we got to the street in front of my apartment, Irene was asleep on my shoulder. And if there’s more, it was going to be our secret, and I’m not ready to tell that story.