David R. Surette Favors: A Novel (an excerpt

Favors: A Novel (an excerpt)

david r. surette

Palm Sunday 1981

1

The black Trans Am idled at the curb, gray exhaust, the tip of a cigarette glowing, “More Than a Feeling” soaring out the car stereo. Georgie Dolan lit a cigarette, opened the front door, and stood behind the screen door, waiting. The engine rattled to a stop, a last cough, stopping Brad Delp at “I see my Marianne.” A large man leaned out. A familiar silhouette to Georgie. He stepped into the sun; in color, he was untamed red hair and freckles. A nose like a curved hockey stick. He opened the chain link gate, closed it behind him, a squeak and a click, and skipped up the steps, surprisingly graceful. He pulled the screen door open and shoved a palm branch into Georgie’s chest, Georgie’s back smacking into the door. He stepped past Georgie into the hallway.

“Got that for you in case you didn’t get to mass. Not that you earned it. That’s one long mass. Crowded too. Me and my mom almost had to stand. The Guineas love the big holy days. Just wait until Easter. Damn. No seat for us Micks. Nice place, Georgie.”

Does he ever shut up? thought Georgie, and it wasn’t a nice place. It was a museum. His grandparents’ shit all still here. Family photos going back to people he had never heard of, crucifixes everywhere, seemed like at least five Sacred Hearts of Jesus, a couple JFK’s: the one on his boat and the presidential portrait. Some paint by numbers of ocean scenes. A map of Ireland. Cardinal Cushing (not Medeiros) and Pope John II. Prayer cards and cheap rosaries stuck behind and hung from every picture frame. Hummels standing in dust on multiple shelves. Were they holy figures too? Could he just smash them? Some nun was supposed to have made them, so he didn’t know. Bulky furniture, antimacassars yellowing atop them, the rug filthy over hardwood floors he meant to expose and stain but hadn’t. The wallpaper curled at their seams, yellowed by the decades of smoke, which killed the both of them: gran, lung cancer; pop, a coronary, probably would kill him too. In the corner, some toys, puzzles, picture books, a corner for Georgie’s daughter when he could get her away from the mother and her mother.

“How about a beer, Georgie boy?” “George. We’re not twelve anymore.’ “No, we aren’t, Georgie boy. This place smells like old people.”

“My grandparents . . . ”

“Okay, dead people.”

“C’mon.”

“That was low. Sorry, man.”

They walked into a kitchen needing updating, the appliances wheezing in surrender when used. No big deal, Georgie didn’t cook much, the fridge just needing an extra push to seal.

“When is this going to end? You’re bleeding me broke,” said Georgie.

“Not my problem.” He chugged the beer, crushed the can. “Larry Bird from downtown,” he announced in an awful Johnny Most impression, the can bouncing off the kitchen counter, binging off the faucet, settling in the sink. He was aiming for the barrel.

“Nice shot.”

“Thanks. We were more hockey players, am I right?” He went to sit but popped up. “What’s that noise?”

“TV.”

“I just passed it. It was off.”

“It’s in the basement.”

“You got a TV in the basement? You don’t have a wife. Who are you escaping from?”

“My grandfather’s set up. His tool shop is down there too. “

“My granddad’s got the same. Those guys were made small by the world. They needed to get away, build shit. Our dads too.”

“I got a new big-screen Panasonic.”

“Let’s see that sucker.”

The cellar door already open and the siren call of the TV drew the big guy to duck and skipped down the stairs sideways, followed by Georgie, watched by his grandfather’s garden tools hanging from the stair walls, covered in ghostly cobwebs. Georgie thought he might garden someday, but why bother when Foodmaster had plenty of vegetables, and he got most of his greens from subs. Pickles were a vegetable, right?

The big guy turned in a circle, scanning the room. “This your love den? Bachelor Pad. Big TV. Bar. Pretty slick. Nice couch.”

He plopped on the couch.

“Beer.”

George turned to the mini fridge and grabbed a Miller. He handed the beer over, turned his back, pushed play on the VCR. Pretending to arrange some books over the tv, he pushed record on the hidden camera. Paused then turned, hoping the TV’s volume masked the whir of the camera. It had worked before. The visitor plopped onto the couch, scanned the shelves over the tv, books in varying positions of repose, covered in dust.

“Books? You got any Hemingway. I’ve been reading him lately. I kind of skipped the reading part in school, but you know.”

Georgie wanted to ask sarcastically, “Izzy, you can read?” Instead, “They’re my grandfather’s books. Mostly about war.”

“That’s cool.”

“I’ll get you the cash.” The big man turned to the TV unaware he faced the camcorder humming along to the VCR playing the taped tv show.

“Mork and Mindy’s on?”

“VCR. Taped it. Latest Hitachi.

“See, you got plenty of money.”

“It fell off a truck . . . TV too.”

“Lot of that going around.” Izzy concentrated on the show for a few minutes. “I don’t get that guy. He looks like an asshole. And Mindy. Too skinny.”

“My daughter likes it. I record it for her.”

“Does that thing play skin flicks?”

Georgie slid open a drawer and exposed the tapes, spines up He tossed one, Debbie Does Dallas blurring as it spun to him.

“This the real deal?”

“Fell off a different truck.”

“Can I keep it?”

“Be my guest.”

Izzy tossed it back. “I don’t watch this shit. Money?” He turned to watch Mork, his hand still in the air, waiting to be filled.

Georgie squatted behind the couch, grabbed what he had hidden earlier, popped up, the barrel of the gun snug against the back of the big guy’s neck.

“Georgie?” In that second, Izzy knew Georgie wasn’t going to shoot. He got a word out, the name, he was fine. Georgie was serious he should have already put one shot to the back of his head. Georgie walked around the couch to face him. Now Izzy knew he was fine. Once there was conversation, there’d be no shooting. Georgie didn’t have it in him. Going about it all wrong.

“Why couldn’t you just leave me alone?”

“Business, man. Just business. We’re buddies besides, ain’t that right? We’ve known each other forever.”

“Come on. Every week it’s more money. You take my trucks. Bring them back all screwed up. I should tell my father.”

Now Izzy really felt safe. What kind of guy threatens you with their father then shoots you? Even if his father was a cop. No kind of guy.

“He’d be thrilled to hear who you’re in business with. Proud you hang with the bad guys.”

“Just lay off, okay.”

“You’re an easy touch. It’s your own fault. Better to catch a beating than just give in. I would have got tired of beating you up, breaking your shit, and moved on. But you just hand it over.” His confidence grew; it was way past shooting time. “And sorry about what I said about your daughter. She’s just a kid. I wouldn’t hurt her.” Izzy started to count in his head from 10, 9, 8, 7. At one, he’d stand, grab the gun, and pistol whip the little shit. “Now, when she grows up” . . . 6, 5 . . . . “Look at you. You’re pissing your pants, and it’s me facing the gun,” 4, 3 . . . . A sharp report, then a red blossom on his chest. 2, 1, but he didn’t stand. He coughed up blood, choked and felt his heart seize then quit. From being wrong to being dead. He shot me. Go figure.

Georgie wanted to reach out and touch the wound, maybe help the guy, take back the bullet, take back the moment. Too late for that.

Georgie folded down onto the floor and sat Indian-style in front of the big man. Izzy. Dead Izzy. He felt relief and fear and disgust and relief. He hadn’t thought of what he had to do next. The blood-stained the couch, the Trans Am sat at the curb. The gun. The body. The dead body. The camcorder buzzed behind the books. The TV still playing.

He turned his head to the TV screen. Nanu Nanu.

2

Judy skipped mass.

A junior in high school, old enough to decide about going or not going to church, especially Palm Sunday, the longest mass of the year. Her mother had gone to the early service, already placed the palms behind the framed picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. The mother busy in the kitchen, her father’s snores filling the house like an odor.

She grabbed her guitar, a notebook, and stepped out to a warm spring morning. She escaped to Beebe Hill, ten minutes from her house, looming over her old junior high school, a park bench, the guitar on her lap and an open notebook. Sunday quiet. It was like most bits of nature in a city: a hill, trees, grass, acorns, squirrels, then cigarette butts, candy wrappers, maybe a used condom makes an appearance, well-worn shortcuts in the turf like no one wanted to walk where the city had paved paths. Down below her, an armed soldier from the Spanish American War guarded the entrance.

She lit a cigarette and blew out a gray cloud. She squinted against the smoke and played a chord that led to another then back and back again. She sang a line, pulled the cigarette from her mouth, and crossed out the last word, and exchanged it for another, determined to have a new song for next rehearsal. She wore black jeans and a Clash t-shirt, a jean jacket dotted with band badges. Her blonde hair, finger brushed, hung to her shoulders. She, so slight, disappeared behind her guitar, a face mostly eyes, green, marked off by mascara.

She breathed in and sang against the chords in a clipped voice allowing only a hint of prettiness to the last syllable of every line, a sound too large to emanate from this tiny person. I’ll sing the way I want, but I can sing, she claimed for herself.

Traffic buzzed down below her. She lost track of time and place and didn’t see the boys approaching. A kid in an Aerosmith shirt sat down next to her.

“You’re sitting on my bench,” he said.

The other in a Kiss shirt stood behind. “Don’t you know smoking is bad for you? Give me one.”

“Who do you think you are, Johnny Vicious?

“Yeah. Sid Rotten.”

She sat still, the fuck you loaded into her voice box.

“Your singing sucks.”

“Why don’t you sing some real music: Floyd! Led Zep!”

“Yea. Robert Plant. You know, he wrote all his lyrics for his dying wife.”

“It’s probably what killed her,” she said.

The guy next to her spun the notebook off her lap into the dirt, and she sprung up, holding the guitar by the neck, cocked like Carl Yastrzemski in his latest batting stance. “I fuckin’ hate you.”

“Don’t do it, girly.”

“Do you kiss your mommy with that mouth?”

The one behind reached to grab the guitar, and she spun towards him, but the moment had passed, the boys tired of the game, deflated, a little ashamed of themselves. The Kiss guy grabbed her notebook and tossed it back to her.

She gathered up her stuff and walked away, carrying her guitar case, lighting up another

cigarette.

“I told you they’re bad for you.”

They watched her walk away.

“She lives behind me, you know. I didn’t recognize her from before. We are such assholes,” said the one in the Aerosmith shirt.

“Speak for yourself,” said the other, and he was rewarded with a smack upside the head. The two plopped onto the bench and watched her retreat, adding another girl to the list of never-get-to-kiss. They both admired a black Trans Am idling at the red light below the hill, but they couldn’t see the driver but no matter. They didn’t know Georgie Dolan. Judy crossed in front of it, Georgie too distracted to even look at her.

3

“Hey, Mike. What’s with the smile, man? You got no teeth. Smiles don’t work for you,” said Charlie Regan from behind a bottle of beer.

“Just heard I’m going up to the bigs. Couple of injuries.”

“Reason to smile, man.” Charlie raised his bottle.

“You should be too. You’re the better player.”

“Not how they’re built. You’re perfect for them.”

“I will fight anyone.”

“You can play plenty too, man. You know it.”

The night before, Charlie Regan sat, post-game, head down, sweat dripping from his forehead, creased where his helmet had sat, his body buzzing from fatigue. His forearm ached from a nasty slash in the first period. He feared his bones would dissolve like wet particle board. He looked around the room and wondered what the others were thinking. Season over, eliminated in the first round of the Calder Cup. He saw a couple of guys probably stuck in the AHL, maybe one or two going to the NHL. Too many, including himself, going in the wrong direction. Some guys kept playing because they weren’t ready to stop. What else could they do? Was he going to be one of those guys? What else could he do?

He had scored twice that night. The first a breakaway, a tilted shoulder to the right, then a slipped puck, blocker side low when the goalie leaned with him. The second was classic Charlie Regan. He had picked up speed at center ice, and both defensemen assumed he was going to split them. He turned his edges like he was going to do exactly that, then shifted, slipping the puck through the left defender’s skates, and before the goalie set his angle, fired it far side above the catching glove. The red light flashing on. A couple of drunk fans banged on the glass. He circled the net in celebration.

Isn’t this what I’m supposed to do? Don’t goals mean wins? He took a long pull on his beer. I led the league in goals. Again. What more could I do to earn a second chance? This toothless thug’s going up?

Charlie swallowed down his beer and the feeling this was it. He looked at the guys sitting at the bar with him, most of the team, one more time drinking before heading out to wherever they go after the season, mourning an end to a season, 19 years old to 29, all somewhere in the hope of going up to the big time. It was no longer a dream, dream too

fluffy a word for the way your guts wrapped around the need to be noticed, to get some kind of credit for all the hard work, to touch the edge of your talent, to push it past that edge became harder and harder. He stood.

“Listen, you losers. On your feet. Mike’s going up to play with the big boys. He’s going to pull on the sweater. Cheers.” Whatever was in their glasses or bottles raised and drained, another round ordered. Cigarettes and cigars lit up. A cloud of gray.

Maybe I’ll go home. It’s been years, Charlie thought. Wow. Where the hell did that come from? Home? Six years gone. Who was he there? Another almost been? Or was he just forgotten?

Charlie walked to his car, pretty drunk, but hockey player drunk. Not a worry. He sat behind the wheel and turned the key, a cough then a sputter. Tried again, a backfire but no turnover. Then just the click of the solenoid not catching. He slammed the steering wheel with the palms of his hands five times. Tried it again, Nothing. The piece of shit, his 1975 Mustang Cobra bought to celebrate his first pro contract, a flashy car for a flashy player, was dead. The boys piled out of the bar.

“Need a push?” Charlie got behind the wheel, the door open, one foot on the pavement. “Where to?”

“Don’t care.”

“The river!” his teammates shouted in unison.

With that, Charlie turned the wheel, and the guys pushed until it teetered on the bank, Charlie jumping out, letting the car slide into the inky water that ran behind the bar. It rested there, the hood half submerged among the detritus of every shuttered mill town: tires, shopping carts, fast food wrappers, even an armless mannequin. A cheer went up.

“I’ll buy you a new one when I sign the big deal,” Mike promised, and all, except Charlie, squeezed back into the bar, thumping each other on the back, the car punctuation for their losing season.

How was he going to get home now, not local home, but home home, back to Massachusetts? Georgie. It had been years, but Georgie, yeah, sure. He’s got vans. I’ll have him move all my shit. Get out of this town. Georgie. We were friends, once, right? Best friends. He wondered what Georgie was up to, unable to guess that at that moment, Georgie was rolling Ziggy into a carpet and stuffing him into the Trans Am’s trunk.

Charlie Regan walked back to his apartment remembering it was Palm Sunday, and he hadn’t gone to mass, hadn’t gone in years, spent the morning recovering from the game the night before and Sunday night dedicated to a farewell drunk.