Author’s Note: This is Part 7 of a series of posts serializing my novella 38 Years Old (Never Kissed a Girl). For more information on the origins of this novella, including all disclaimers, and a complete chapter list, please see the announcement regarding this series.

 

Chapter 7

The knock at the door shattered the still of the night, startling me from my sleep.

“Michael Mallory, are you in there?” said a gruff voice. “This is the police. We need to talk to you.” I sat bolt upright in bed.

“Just a sec.” Mikey responded from the porch. I dropped down off my bed and ran towards my door, nearly colliding with Tony and Ricky. The light in the kitchen switched on at the same time we all arrived, momentarily blinding us. Dad emerged from his bedroom, wearing nothing but a tee-shirt and a pair of boxers. Mom wasn’t far behind, cinching her frayed, quilted robe around her waist.

“What the hell’s going on?” Dad reached for the handle of the porch door. Mom watched as we spilled into the kitchen and gave us a quick point.

“Back to bed! All of you! Now!” she snapped. We quickly closed the door and hid behind it, ears to the wall, listening for what we were sure would be a major confrontation.

“What’s this all about?” Dad demanded.

“We need to talk to Mike, Mr. Mallory.”

“At this hour? What the hell for?”

“Johnny McAllister got himself beat up this afternoon, Mr. Mallory. Witnesses said they saw Mikey and Billy Ferguson nearby shortly after it happened.”

“Michael, what did you do?” Dad dug down deep in his chest.

“Nothin’, Dad.”

“We’ll need to take you down to the station. Mike.”

“Now?” Mom spoke for the first time. “Can’t it wait till morning?”

“No, ma’am. It can’t.”

“You come stormin’ in here after midnight, wanting to take my son because some punk-ass kid got a little roughed up? Son of a bitch. What the hell is going on?” Pop’s voice rose far above what he ever used on us kids. I was glad I wasn’t on the other end of his anger.

“It was more than a little roughed up, Mr. Mallory. Johnnie McAllister’s dead.”

Author’s Note: This is Part 6 of a series of posts serializing my novella 38 Years Old (Never Kissed a Girl). For more information on the origins of this novella, including all disclaimers, and a complete chapter list, please see the announcement regarding this series.

 

Chapter 6

I was in bed when I heard the unmistakable stomp of Mikey’s boots coming up the sidewalk. The screen door squeaked a little more loudly than normal.

“Thank God,” my mother sighed. My parents had been sitting at the kitchen table, not speaking for over an hour when they sent the rest of us to bed. From the sound of the chairs sliding on the floor, I guessed they were still there when Mikey came in.

“Where ya been, Michael?” Dad sounded tired, like he, himself, had been beat, and he wasn’t going to fight anymore, not even with Mike.

“Out with Billy.” The icebox opened with a rattle of glass milk bottles. There usually wasn’t much left in any of them at this point in the weekend, so Mikey was probably drinking right from the bottle. He did that a lot.

“Out where? You had us worried sick.”

“Just out.” Mikey set the bottle down in the sink. The tap ran for a moment. Water sloshed around inside a bottle.

“What happened to your hand?” My ears pricked up.

“I banged it, that’s all.”

“On what?”

“Billy and I were horsing around. Hit it on the side of the truck.”

“How many times?” From the sounds of it, it must have been pretty bad.

“A couple.”

“Damn it, Mike. We needed you here today. We needed you here—not out there, screwing around.” Whatever energy Pop had left, drained as he spoke.

“I had stuff to do.”

“Your sister’s lying in the hospital, and you had stuff to do?” Mom’s voice rose, her patience thin.

“Yes. How is she?”

“Doctor said she’ll be okay in a few months. She’s going to be in a lot of pain for the next few weeks though.”

“Son of a bitch.” Mikey didn’t swear too much in the house. This was a tired, aching curse. Mom didn’t say a thing. She didn’t seem worried about the little stuff like that tonight.

Mikey’s boot shuffled across the kitchen floor. A chair scraped across the wood. Silence filled the house. Ricky shifted in his bed. He wasn’t sleeping either.

“Have you eaten?” Mom asked after a minute or two passed.

“Not hungry. I think I’ll sack out.” Another scrape of a chair moving.

“G’night, Mike.” My parents spoke in unison, a long practiced habit. The porch door opened, and closed. Outside, crickets chirped in the darkness. I laid there and listened to the quiet for a while, said a silent prayer for everyone, and a double prayer for Cathy, before drifting off to sleep.

Author’s Note: This is Part 5 of a series of posts serializing my novella 38 Years Old (Never Kissed a Girl). For more information on the origins of this novella, including all disclaimers, and a complete chapter list, please see the announcement regarding this series.

 

Chapter 5

Mom and Dad pulled back into the driveway hours later, exhausted and silent. The tension in the room rose as they walked in the door. Mom broke down crying as soon as she scooped me off the floor.

“Is Cathy going to be alright?” Brenda had been helping Aunt Doris prepare dinner, and came out of the kitchen when she heard them drive up.

“They’re going to keep her for a couple of days.” Dad sat wearily in his chair at the table, and pushed has hair back from his face. His Sunday-best suit looked like it had been left in a corner for three weeks under a load of other laundry. His bleary eyes were ringed with red.

“Can I get you anything, Les?” Aunt Doris emerged from the kitchen, toweling off her hands.

“Tea, please, Doris.” It took him a moment to register. “Where’s Mike?”

“He went off with Billy around noon,” I reported. Dad looked at Doris for confirmation. She nodded slightly. Dad’s jaw flexed. His hand slammed down on the table, rattling the silverware and sloshing the water in the glasses. The sound stopped everyone in their tracks.

“Damn it. I told him not to leave the house.” Dad got up and went to the phone, and dialed Billy’s house. The phone didn’t ring long before it was picked up.

“Hi Karl. It’s Les Mallory. Is Michael there?” He paused while he got the answer, which was apparently “No.”

“If you see him, tell him to get his ass home, now. Thanks.” He slammed down the phone, then dialed another number, and checked with Mike’s on-again off-again girlfriend. She hadn’t seen him all day, but had heard about Cathy. She kept him on the phone for a moment, and he hung up gruffly.

“Dad, what happened to Cathy?” Ricky stayed at the far end of the room, leaning up against a door jamb, thumbs shoved into his pockets.

“We’re not sure, Ricky.” Dad’s hand slid down the wall next to the phone. “Someone beat her up last night, and left her down by the high school. Mikey found her down there this morning, and took her to the hospital.”

The high school had two famous make-out spots on the weekend: the back parking lot, which was surrounded by trees, and a courtyard in the center of the U shaped building. The cops patrolled it once in a while, but it wasn’t in a high-crime part of town, so it wasn’t a regular beat. With the long weekend and all, most of the cops were on the road, picking up drunken teens closer to the water.

“Who did it, Dad? Why would they beat her up?” Brenda’s eyes filled with tears again. I was having a hard time comprehending what ‘beat up’ meant, when taken to this extreme. Ricky and Tony sometimes beat me up, but if it ever crossed the line to even so much as a black-eye, Dad would have skinned them alive.

“We don’t know.” Dad may have been telling the truth, but his eyes said he was lying. “The police are looking into it.”

Mom set me down and put a hand on Dad’s shoulder. They weren’t going to tell us anymore. Not tonight. “Get ready for dinner kids.”

The subject was closed.

Author’s Note: This is Part 4 of a series of posts serializing my novella 38 Years Old (Never Kissed a Girl). For more information on the origins of this novella, including all disclaimers, and a complete chapter list, please see the announcement regarding this series.

 

Chapter 4

Mass never moved as slowly as it did that day. The choir droned on for what seemed like hours, through the longest hymns they could find. Father O’Connor spoke for at least twenty minutes on fish and loaves. The crowded church grew hotter by the minute. The heat, the wooden bench, and my wool slacks conspired to make my butt itch. The communion procession took forever. I was too young for communion, so that left me alone in the pew as everyone squeezed by. More than a few people stared at me as I watched them return from the altar. Normally, people would walk head down, hands folded in front of them, but many had noticed the Mallory family, abandoned by their parents and left to fend for themselves. I wanted to tell everyone that I didn’t know what was going on, or why my parents had left, but instead, I sat there and returned their gaze. Then I wondered if they knew something I didn’t. Maybe they were looking at me because I was the only one who didn’t know what everyone else knew. Ricky and Brenda shuffled back down the aisle, obviously uncomfortable as well.

As the closing hymn finished, and Father O’Connor and the altar boys walked the length of the center aisle, Tony flashed Ricky a quizzical look. Ricky motioned for him to keep steady, and tipped his head towards Mr. O’Brien. Mr. O’Brien must have given him a gesture as well, as Tony nodded to him, and followed the priest out the back of the church, and then back into the vestibule. As the last notes of the hymn faded, Mr. O’Brien set his hand on gently on my shoulder.

“Donnie, isn’t it?”

I nodded.

“Let’s just wait for your brother. When he gets back, we’ll go and get some ice cream.”

I nodded again, though extremely confused. Ricky looked at Mr. O’Brien, and then at his sons, Sean and Ray. They weren’t at the top of Ricky’s wish-list to hang around with on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, but something was really up. Not only were we going home with people we barely knew, they were taking us out for ice cream. Ricky was the first to speak.

“Mr. O’Brien, what’s going on? Where’d Mum and Dad go?”

“Don’t worry, Ricky. They just needed to take care of something. We’ll head over there in a little while.”

“Is everything okay?” Tony arrived from changing out of his altar-boy robes.

“Everything is fine. You did a wonderful job up there today, Tony. How about we go to the store and I’ll set you up with a round of milkshakes. How does that sound?” Mrs. O’Brien put her hand on Brenda’s shoulder and directed her towards the exit.

I didn’t believe them. Everything wasn’t fine. Even a six year old knew that. I thought about objecting, and making a fuss, but I didn’t want word to get back to mom or dad that I’d gotten upset in church. That was a quick way to even more church. And besides, what six year old could pass up a milkshake on a Sunday, before noon even? I was sure I would never have another chance at that.

We spent the better part of an hour at the pharmacy, slurping on the incredibly thick shakes. Mine was chocolate, of course, as was Ricky’s. Tony and Brenda had strawberry. Mr. O’Brien watched us nervously, and kept looking at the phone. He smiled and whispered a few words to his wife, who did her best to be pleasant to these kids she had never really met before. The O’Brien boys sat at the far end of the counter, sipping their own shakes, and keeping quiet under the stern gaze of their father. They didn’t seem to know any more than us about what was up, but they were aware that something unusual was happening. Mr. O’Brien wasn’t usually known as the most generous person in town, and giving away four free shakes was pretty much unheard of.

The phone rang a little past noon. Mr. O’Brien grabbed it on the first ring. I couldn’t hear much of the conversation, but it was mostly “Yes, of course.” and “Uh huh.” He set the phone down gently in its cradle, and walked back over to where we were spooning every last drop of the shakes into our mouths.

“I’m going to take you home now.”

“Is everything okay, Mr. O’Brien?” Ricky spoke for all of us.

“Your brother will explain it to you all when we get to your house.” He nodded to Mrs. O’Brien and grabbed his fedora from the hat rack by the door. “Come along now.” He motioned for us to get moving. As much as I wanted to know what in the world was going on, I also knew that sitting there, on that stool by the ice cream freezer, allowed me to be a little bit oblivious to whatever was happening with Mikey and my folks.

The car ride home was short. Ricky sat in the front with Mr. O’Brien; the rest of us squeezed into the back. There wasn’t much I could see, sandwiched in between Tony and Brenda, but I knew basically where we were by the trees out the window. Rosemont Avenue had huge maple trees down one side. Buckley Boulevard had a pair of gigantic oak trees on one corner that Tony and I always tried to climb on the way home from school. Seeing these familiar places, from a car with unfamiliar upholstery, with a different man, who wore a different hat, behind the wheel, felt strange.

Mikey greeted us at the curb as we arrived. Mr. O’Brien pulled him aside for a moment, and talked quietly, before shaking hands. We stood nearby, wanting to ask Mikey what was going on, but knew enough to wait until he was done talking.

“Did you thank Mr. O’Brien for the ice cream?” Mikey gave us a look perfectly copied from our mother. Guiltily we all offered our thanks to Mr. O’Brien, then watched him get in the car and drive away.

“Mikey, what’s going on?” Ricky barely waited for the car to leave the curb.

“Where’s Mom?” Brenda questioned.

“Where’s Dad?” Tony asked.

“Where’s Cathy?” I asked. Mikey hesitated before answering the flood of questions. Mine caused him to take a deep breath. His eyes flashed through a series of emotions so quickly. Anger. Sadness. And then back to the calm he had shown a moment earlier—a calm I immediately knew was a lie.

“Cathy’s in the hospital. Mom and Dad are there now.”

“What!” Brenda gulped. Tears welled up in her eyes. Brenda had always been the emotional one in the family. She cried at everything. Mikey had to stop her quick, before it became a full-on torrent. Only Mom could stop those.

“She’s okay. She’ll be okay. Not to worry.” He knelt down in front of Brenda and hugged her, hugged her as tight as he had ever hugged anyone.

“What happened, Mikey?” Ricky held it together, but barely. He could read the signs as well as I could, if not better. He had seen Mikey’s eyes, too. Everyone knew Mikey’s eyes did his talking. It’s what the women swooned over, and the teachers graded him on. He was a terrible poker player because of those eyes, and a terrible liar, too. I could tell he had been trying to think of what to say since before he called Mr. O’Brien.

“She was beat up. She’ll be okay. The doctors said it wasn’t anything they couldn’t fix.”

“Beat up? What? Who?” Ricky wasn’t usually very intense when it came to family issues. He typically played like he didn’t care. But he had a look on his face at that moment that I had never seen before. He changed from a happy-adolescent, to a pissed off teenager with a chip on his shoulder, right there before our eyes.

“Who did it? Where is he? Cops have him?” Ricky’s eyes betrayed the fury of a tenth generation Scottish Highlander.

“Calm down. We don’t know. Sis isn’t saying too much right now. Why don’t we all go inside.”

“We aren’t going to the hospital?” Brenda asked.

“We can’t. Cathy’s in surgery right now. Mom and Dad will call us when she’s out and awake.”

“Surgery?” It was the first word I’d spoken since I’d asked the critical question. I was fairly sure I knew what it meant, but I wasn’t exactly sure.

“Yes. She has to have some things fixed, but when she’s done, she’ll be good as new.”

“I want to see Mom.” Brenda lost her battle at keeping the tears in.

“She’ll be home in a little while.” Mikey grabbed Brenda’s hand and led us up the walk to the house. Brenda ran to her room. Mikey sat down in his chair on the porch, and lit up a cigarette. His hands shook as if he had spent the day running a jackhammer on the road crew. Tony and Ricky sat on the floor against the wall. I stood by the front door, not sure what to do.

“What were they operating on?” Ricky asked.

Mikey took a deep drag from his smoke, and the stubbed out into the ash tray by his elbow. His face contorted with emotion. The anger roared back, and this time it stayed a little longer. He chose his words carefully.

“Her jaw was broken.” He stared straight ahead. “Her cheekbone, too.”

“Oh my God.” Ricky didn’t seem worried about swearing on Sunday today.

“Doctors said she would have to have her jaw wired shut for a while until it heals.” Mikey said. He wiped a tear from his eye. He looked at us, surveying us. Today would change us all.

“How’d it happen, Mikey?” Tony fought back his own tears. I stood by the door, frozen in place.

“I don’t know,” Mikey dismissed Tony’s question, but we all knew he wasn’t telling the full truth. He shifted in his chair. He made a fist with his right hand, and clenched it until his knuckles went white, then pounded it on the arm of the chair. “Damn it!” He rose from the chair, and brushed past me as he went inside. He picked up the phone, and dialed.

“Hi. It’s Mike. Something’s happened. Can you come over and watch the kids for a while? Thanks, I’ll explain when you get here. Appreciate it.” He hung up, and dialed another number.

“Hi. Could I speak to Billy, please? It’s Mike.” Billy was Mikey’s best friend. He lived three blocks over with his parents. A pause. “Hey Billy, wanna go for a ride? Yeah, I’ll pick you up in ten minutes. See ya in a bit.” He hung up the phone and turned back to us.

“Aunt Doris is coming over to baby-sit until Mom and Dad get back.”

“Where you going, Mikey?” Ricky asked.

“Just out for bit. Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon.”

“Can I come?” Ricky didn’t feel he needed babysitting.

“No, you stay here.”

“I want to come.” Ricky said more forcefully.

“No. Stay. I want you all here and on your best behavior today. Mom and Dad have enough to worry about today, without worrying about you guys.” He ran his hand over the top of my head as he passed by, then bent down to pick up his jacket, his smokes and his keys.

Aunt Doris only lived a few houses away. She came waddling up the sidewalk as Mikey finished gathering his stuff. He met her by the street. She covered her mouth as he explained, just like my mother had done. Mikey started to walk away, and she grabbed him by the jacket. She raised her voice, and we could hear snippets though the screens.

“Mike, you need to calm down. Think this through.” We couldn’t hear Mike’s response, but he gave her a look I had never seen him give another member of the family. Aunt Doris recoiled as Mikey ripped his sleeve out of her grasp. He jogged over to his pickup, got in, and started the engine. He glanced at us as he pulled away, rolled down the window, and flashed me a salute. Mikey was taking care of business, and we all knew it.

Author’s Note: This is Part 3 of a series of posts serializing my novella 38 Years Old (Never Kissed a Girl). For more information on the origins of this novella, including all disclaimers, and a complete chapter list, please see the announcement regarding this series.

 

Chapter 3

Cathy didn’t come home that night. When breakfast rolled around Sunday morning, her chair remained empty. Brenda tried to cover for her, saying that she thought she went out early. Dad shook his head at Mikey, like he had given up on her, once and for all. Mikey downed his coffee in a single swig and grabbed a piece of toast off the pile. He shoved the slice into his mouth as he pushed back from the table.

“I’ll go find her, Pop.” He grabbed his denim jacket off the hook by the door, and pulled his tar-stained work boots on, not bothering to stop and tie the laces. He pushed a crumpled pack of smokes into the front pocket of his jacket, gave me a quick wink, then tousled Brenda’s hair on his way out the door. Brenda offered a mock groan of complaint and tried to fix the damage he had done without getting up from the table. Ricky and I laughed. Even Dad smiled at that one.

Mom bit her lower lip, rubbed her forehead, then cast a long, concerned glance at Pop. Mikey was twenty. Mom was thirty eight. You do the math.

Sundays were, of course, the day to go to church for most families in our neighborhood, and in that respect, we were no different than any other family. There were three masses at St. John’s Catholic Church starting at 8:00, 9:45 and 11:00 AM. The 8:00 AM was for those who couldn’t stand the singing of the church choir. There were no hymns, just an extra psalm or two. The 9:45 mass was for the commoners like us who were used to getting up early, but not too early on the weekends. The 11:00 mass was for the richer city folk who were used to sleeping in till all hours of the day. These weren’t actual rules—anyone could attend any of the masses—but it seemed to be generally accepted. Myself, I liked to go to the 8:00 mass. Sure it was early, but without the singing, it was a good 15 minutes shorter, and I never had to worry about getting stuck next to some tone deaf geezer who loved to belt out ‘Amazing Graze’ at the top of his lungs, apparently trying to make up for years of sinning by showing how good a Catholic he was now. If God was smart, he’d tell St. Pete to kick his ass back out the door when it came time for judgment, to spare the angels their hearing.

With the long weekend came the big crowds of tourists at the 9:45 mass. Which meant we had to get there early, or be stuck standing along the side until our legs gave out. Dad hated to stand, and as a regular church goer who gave his proper tithing, he believed it was his right to sit. So on this weekend, we were there by 9:15, meaning an extra half hour of sitting on those wooden pews. Well, not all the time was spent sitting. Since we had that extra time, Mom thought it was appropriate to pray a decade of the Rosary. And for Tony, Brenda and Ricky, they had the special treat of going to confession and professing their sins to the priest. I was pretty sure Mom went to confession once in a while too, but I never saw or heard of Dad going. He paid his money. That was what counted.

Sometimes Tony was an altar boy—something everyone in my family did, including me, at least for a while. There was a schedule, but this wasn’t Tony’s week, at least not to be one of the primary two. But since the church was getting full, and there was room up on the altar, Tony asked Pop if it was okay for him to go up and be an alternate. That basically meant he stood there and did nothing, but it did get him out of the crowded pew, and the extra Hail Marys. Pop nodded. Ricky gave him a little punch in the ribs as he slid through, for which Mom made him say another decade of prayers. I smiled at Mom, being the good little boy I was. I could be a suck up when I wanted something, and Sunday was as good a day to suck-up as any. Sometimes we’d stop by the Discount Corner Stop and get some penny candies. I could do a lot of sucking-up for a dime’s worth of candy.

The hymns were barely started when Mikey showed up and tapped Dad on the shoulder. Mikey still wore his jeans and work boots, a definite no-no when it came to entering the Lord’s house back then. He held his baseball cap over his right hand. Mom gave him a stern look as she judged his attire, and his whispering into Dad’s ear. Dad’s eyes widened a bit, and his jaw tightened. He nodded at Mikey, and leaned over to whisper to Mom. It only took a second, and I couldn’t overhear it, but Mom’s hand went to her mouth. She looked at Mikey, who nodded to her and made a motion with his head towards the door. He took Mom’s hand, and led her out. They walked quickly away from us, heads down, trying to avoid the stares which came with leaving church before it started.

I was only six, but I knew my mother. Running out of church in front of everyone in the neighborhood would only happen if something was really wrong. I glanced up at Pop. I could see he was torn, trying to decide what to do. He looked back towards the door, but Mikey and Mom were already gone. He bit his lip, and looked down at Ricky, Brenda and me, before turning to the O’Brien’s behind us. Mr. O’Brien was little more than a casual acquaintance for us. They ran the neighborhood drug store, and had two sons, around Ricky’s age, who were always bragging about the amount of ice cream they had the night before. Dad motioned for Mr. O’Brien, and he whispered a few words into his ear. O’Brien nodded. Dad turned to the three of us.

“Stay put. Be good. Mr. O’Brien will take you home after church.”

I nodded, and Dad turned and left. I watched him go, feeling more than a little uneasy. I turned to Mr. O’Brien. He smiled nervously, and pointed towards the front. Ricky and I exchanged a quick glance. Something was wrong, very wrong, and we all knew it.

Author’s Note: This is Part 2 of a series of posts serializing my novella 38 Years Old (Never Kissed a Girl). For more information on the origins of this novella, including all disclaimers, and a complete chapter list, please see the announcement regarding this series.

Chapter 2

In May 1955, I had just turned six. Mikey was twenty—a big spread in ages these days, but not back then, especially with four brothers and sisters in between. I was the youngest in the Mallory clan. Tony was nine, Brenda eleven, Ricky fourteen, and Cathy seventeen—well spread out, but we were still pretty tight.

Mikey had finished school, and spent his days working road construction—flagging cars most of the time, and spreading tar the rest. He had been too young to fight in Korea, and housing was short now that most of the boys were back, so he was still living at home. He had his own room, which was about as cool as could be, even though it was just the old porch Pop boarded up for him. We packed the walls full of straw and newspaper to keep it warm in the winter, and opened it up in the summer to let the breeze blow through. I used to sit under the big maple tree as the sun went down at night, watching the glow of a cigarette move slowly behind the screen. Mikey would lay there for hours after work, sometimes reading, sometimes laying there, puffing smoke rings around the mosquitoes. He was the epitome of cool, and my brother.

I shared a room with Tony and Ricky. Cathy and Brenda had one too, and, of course, so did my mom, Anne, and Dad, Lester. Whenever we had company, I’d sleep with my parents and Tony and Ricky would sleep in the living room, which was fine with them, because they could stay up until the adults went to bed, then turn on the radio real low and listen for the stations out of Toronto and Buffalo. Reception was usually better at night. Sometimes we could get New York City.

Mikey drove an old beater Ford truck, and was always tinkering with it—not to soup it up or anything, just to keep it running. We were always short on cash for one reason or another, so Mikey had to make do with what he could for spare parts. Sometimes he and I would take trips down to the junkyard on the weekend and I’d help him scrounge the parts he needed. He says he brought me because I had small hands and could get stuff he couldn’t, but I always thought he liked having me around. Tony and Ricky were always picking on me, and Mikey was my bodyguard. He’d carry me around on his shoulders when we went downtown, even if there were girls around—especially if there were girls around. Mikey was a looker, tanned from his time on the road crew, and pretty strong. He didn’t need my help in picking up the chicks, he said, but I didn’t hurt, as long as I kept my mouth shut when he was working on one. I learned a lot sitting on those shoulders.

Not that Mikey was a playboy—far from it actually. He was one of those nice, quiet guys; the kind the girls could bring home to papa and papa would love. But girls, they’re kinda funny at that age, even back then. He wasn’t dangerous enough for them, and for all his talking to them, I know for a fact that he’d never gone farther than second base. Mom and Dad were pretty strict about that kind of thing, and Mikey was too damn responsible to get a girl pregnant. Dad would’ve skinned him alive.

When I really think about it, Mikey knew me better than anyone else in the house. Tony and Ricky only paid attention to me when they were beating me up, and Brenda was mommy’s little helper. Cathy was always kind of distant, and drove my parents crazy. She was rebellious enough for all of us, and there were plenty of heated debates between her and my folks. It became this nightly ritual. We were all required to be home for dinner, and for as long as I can remember, dinner was at six o’clock sharp. And every night, she’d be five minutes late. I have a feeling that sometimes she waited outside until she was sure she was late, just to press Dad’s buttons. I never had the nerve to press those buttons. Dad was a scary man when mad. Trust me—I got into enough trouble unintentionally that I didn’t need to test him on purpose. He had a voice like a double-barreled shotgun, and a hand like a two-by-four. I got some pretty good paddling when I was young—like the time I got caught throwing stones at the side of the house. My pride ached for hours, but my ass was sore for days.

But the summer of ‘55 changed us all, and it started the May 24 weekend—Victoria Day weekend to you non-Canadians. It was the biggest party of the year and the first long weekend of the summer. Most of the kids headed down to Picton to the beaches for a blowout party. Those who hung around were either too young, or had to work. Or were grounded.

Cathy was one of the grounded that weekend. She’d missed her curfew the weekend before, and Dad was determined to not let that happen again. Mikey was working overtime on the widening of Highway 15, and getting double-time for holiday pay. The rest of us were a wee bit young to be out partying, so we had a fairly quiet Saturday at home. The weather was finally warming up after a particularly brutal winter and wet spring. I spent most of the day helping my dad pull weeds out in the community garden. Tony and Ricky were playing soccer down at the Legion Hall, and Brenda and Mom were doing a little fabric shopping for some summer clothes. Brenda was pretty good with the push-pedal Singer, and Mom had a knack for designing clothes that didn’t always look like they were homemade. We preferred to think of them as custom-tailored. Of course, with three older brothers, I got a lot of custom-tailored hand-me-downs.

I was on my knees between the new rows of peas, pulling the weeds that had sprung up since we planted a few weeks before, when Cathy came out the back door of the house, and glanced towards the garden. I don’t think she ever saw me. Dad was turning the compost pile in the corner with Charlie Rogers. When she was sure dad wasn’t watching, she hurried down the split between our house and the neighbor’s. A few seconds later, an engine, loud and powerful, roared. I knew it was Johnny McAllister’s Ford. Johnny had souped up a ‘46 Ford Pickup, painted a red flame down the side, and added a blower to the engine that made it hum like a jet engine. Mikey said that if Johnny ever stepped on the gas real hard with that thing, the torque would tear the block from the engine mounts. I was always waiting for that to happen. Johnny’s family had a little more money than most people in town, and every cent Johnny had went into that truck.

Dad never heard the engine, or if he did, he didn’t look up from his conversation. I said nothing. I had learned a long time before that being a tattle-tale wasn’t good for anyone, especially me. Not with three older brothers.

That was about two o’clock on Saturday afternoon. Mikey came home around 4:30, looking every part the road crew he was, with tar splatters on his boots and oil on his overalls. His hands and face were black from the dust and grime, but he smiled like a man who had put in a hard day and was glad to be home. And he was in a good mood. His crew boss had told him that by the end of the summer he would probably be driving one of the trucks instead of flagging or slagging tar. Not only was driving an easier job, it was also better pay. His tan would suffer a bit, he said, but he’d cope.

It was dinner time when Cathy’s absence was first noticed. Like I said, Cathy was always late for dinner, even if she was in her room. I remember Dad’s face. It wasn’t anger he showed, or frustration—more disappointment than anything. He sent me to find her, and it took me only a minute to prove that in fact she wasn’t in the house, which I already knew, but I wasn’t about to let on that I already knew that. I was six, but I wasn’t stupid.

We said grace, and listened as Tony and Ricky described their soccer games, like they were both stars. Mikey listened attentively, and gave some pointers. He had been a good player back in high school. Tony was a good listener, but Ricky had too big of an ego, and kept butting in with his stories. I watched Dad’s eyes as we ate. He kept looking up at the clock on the wall. 6:15 passed by, and 6:30 was coming quick. Mom and Brenda were clearing off the table, and we men were pushing our chairs in when the screen door opened.

“Where the hell have you been?” Dad’s fuse had been lit a while, and the spark reached the powder in no time.

“Out,” Cathy said simply. She had a look of defiance on her face. No apology, no excuse. If someone had dropped a pin, you could’ve heard it for miles.

“Come on boys.” Mikey recognized the signs and gave my head a little push towards the door. Ricky and Tony followed. We knew better than to be in the same room when those two squared off. We crowded onto the front porch. Mikey lit up a smoke, and we all sat down, with me on the floor. We held our silence. We were out of harms-reach now, but we weren’t about to miss the entertainment. It was morbid, and we all had a little grin on our face. The only light in the room was Mikey’s cigarette. The porch faced east and the sun was setting, so we all hid in the shadows and waited for the next words.

“You had your mother and I worried.” The emotion in Dad’s voice dropped.

“You shouldn’t be.” She practically spat out her words. All she had to do was apologize and it wouldn’t have been so bad. But Cathy was a free spirit.

“Damn it, girl. Don’t you take that tone with me.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“You’re seventeen years old. You can’t take care of spit.” Dad’s language rarely crossed into the vulgar range when Mom was around. But the point was understood, by everyone but Cathy.

“That’s right, I’m seventeen. You married mom when she was only eighteen.” Cathy had a point. It wasn’t something that was normally brought up, but even I had done the math with a little help from Brenda a few months before.

“Seventeen is not eighteen, young lady. When you’re eighteen, you can go and make your own stupid decisions. But as long as you are living under my roof, you will abide by my rules.” I’m sure every parent has said that line at least once in his or her life. It’s an old standard. And every kid has a reply for it. Cathy’s wasn’t that original.

“I can’t wait. Three months and I’m outta here. And you won’t be able to stop me.” No matter how many nights these arguments occurred, I was still amazed that Cathy had the balls to talk to Pop that way. And I’m still astounded that Pop took it. If any of us boys had talked like that, even Mikey, there’d be a swift backhand coming real quick. But with Cathy it was different. It was as if Pop knew that she was unlike the rest of us and that kind of tactic wouldn’t fly with her. There was a line with her that even he couldn’t cross.

“Where ya gonna go? You gonna shack up with that no-good punk, McAllister? You think I don’t know about him? Them McAllisters are all the same. You stay away from them, girl. They’re no good.”

“Johnny treats me right. He shows me respect, which is a hell of a lot better than what I get around here.” Even though I wasn’t in the room, I knew that the sudden silence indicated a glaring match between Pop and Cathy. It was Mom who always stepped in at this point.

“Cathy, go to your room.” she said somberly. We listened as Cathy shuffled to her room and slammed the door. There was silence in the kitchen. Those of us on the porch looked at each other and knew it was over—for now. Mikey took a long drag on his cigarette and finished it off, stubbing it out in a half-full ashtray, and blowing a stream of smoke out the screen.

We sat and talked quietly about our days until Mom came to get me to give me my bath, then tucked me into bed around 8:00. She didn’t say much that night. She tucked me in and gave me a kiss on the forehead. I didn’t see Pop that night, but I could hear him in the kitchen, fiddling with the radio, trying to pick up a new radio station we had heard about from friends. As usual, it took me a while to get to sleep. I’m pretty sure I was the only one who heard the window open, but I didn’t get up. I knew who it was, and I knew what was happening. But I still knew better than to tattle.

Author’s Note: This is Part 1 of a series of posts serializing my novella 38 Years Old (Never Kissed a Girl). For more information on the origins of this novella, including all disclaimers, and a complete chapter list, please see the announcement regarding this series.

 

Chapter 1

Kingston, Ontario – Spring 1973

Punching metal parts for a living wasn’t much of a career, but it paid the bills. Pop got me a job at Falcon Steel right out of high school. I did a lot of shit jobs the first few months before getting my union card: cleaning the grindings out of the presses, oiling the rollers, scrubbing the toilets—crap like that. But a card was everything in this town back then, and you did whatever it took to get one. Sure, you could work the ferries and the tourist shops in the summers, but that barely covered beer, let alone food.

Operating the presses wasn’t as bad as cleaning them. You set the steel, backed away and hit a button. Thirty-thousand pounds of hydraulic force pressed the sheet into twenty or thirty of whatever it was you were jigging, and then slid back up the rail. Old Harry Wright used to call it the tightest pussy he’d ever seen. I don’t know of anyone who ever got caught in it at our shop, though we were always hearing about accidents at the plants down in Hamilton. Those were much bigger operations—just as noisy, but a higher throughput, and shit happened a lot faster there. White collar folks in the plant got paid on Thursdays. Guys on the floor got paid on Fridays—safer that way. Last thing you wanted in a metal shop was some hung-over bastard falling asleep at one of the machines, and getting himself hurt, or worse, hurting someone else.

Falcon Steel kept fifteen of us busy, ten hours a day, five days a week, and a kept another four or five hopping all night long on maintenance and cleaning jobs. We worked seven to five, with fifteen minute breaks at 9:45 and 2:00, and lunch from 11:30 to 12:30. Most guys kept pretty tight with that schedule—we were paid by the certified piece, not by the hour. It usually took more than two or three guys to finish a piece, so a slacker wasn’t tolerated. Not usually, anyway. But in the summer of ’73, Jimmy Tolliver was the exception to the rule. His father was good friends with McGlaughlin, the foreman, and together they had somehow weaseled Jimmy’s way onto the floor full-time—without a card.

Jimmy was a royal pain in the ass. He was twenty-one, three years younger than me, and skinny as a rail, with a yap that never shut up, even when the machines were running and everybody had their earplugs in. Pop used to wonder how come Jimmy never lost his voice. The boy could talk. Worse, he didn’t know nothing about nothing, and butted into conversations he shouldn’t have. That Friday was one of those days.

“Hey, Donnie, you going down to Chappie’s tonight?” Davey asked. We sat in the lunch room at the plant, sipping on our third cups of coffee for the day, and pulling on some greasy Player’s cigarettes Davey had bought from the vending machine.

“Naw, man. I got something to do tomorrow. Gotta be up early,” I said. Davey and I had hung out since grade school. Except for Jimmy, we were the youngest carded workers at Falcon.

“Not even for a couple of brews?”

“Naw. Not tonight.”

“You sure, Donnie? Becky might be there,” Davey teased.

“Becky’s always there.” Becky Petersen and I had been flirting for two years, but nothing had ever come of it. She was always seeing someone when I was available, and I was always seeing someone when she was available. We’d get drunk together once or twice a year, and try to get something going, but it never worked out.

“What’s up tomorrow?”

“Going to see Mikey. It’s his birthday.”

“Oh.” For Davey, that was enough to know. He would change the subject without me even asking.

Jimmy, of course, was another story. He’d been lounging a little way down the table a second before, but purposefully slid towards us as he heard a topic that interested him.

“How’s Mikey doing?” he asked casually.

“Fine.” I took a deep pull from my smoke, and tried to get Davey to say something quick to stop Jimmy from talking. But Davey had also been taking a pull, and needed a second to get enough breath to speak.

“How long’s it been? Sixteen… seventeen years?”

“Eighteen.” I said as I turned my face away from the table, and released a long puff of smoke. “Just over eighteen.” I shook my head. Had it been that long?

“Long time to be locked up.”

“Go away, Jimmy,” Davey ordered. It was loud enough that guys farther down the table heard it. It wasn’t the first time that day somebody had said it, but tone meant everything. Everyone knew what that tone meant. Everyone, but Jimmy. Davey had one of the quickest fuses I have ever seen, and there were certain things you never asked about. Pestering me about Mikey was one of those things. And Davey had been looking for a reason to pound on Jimmy for months now.

“Aww, come on, Davey. I’m just concerned, that’s all.” If he had been at all sincere, and then walked away, everything would have been alright. But he smiled that little piss-ant smile of his, and Davey didn’t even get up. He lifted his elbow off the table and swung it fast and hard, right into Jimmy’s teeth. Jimmy’s head snapped back. He flipped backwards off the bench, cracking his noggin on the cement floor. The thick carpet of burned-down cigarette butts padded the impact slightly. The lunch room quieted so quickly, we all heard the second bounce of his head. Davey didn’t wait for Jimmy to recover. He flicked his cigarette onto Jimmy’s chest, and rose from the table, while massaging the tip of his elbow. The room watched to see if Jimmy would counterattack, but he just curled up into the fetal position and protected his bloody face with his arms. Davey shuffled away.

Every man in the room knew that sooner or later Jimmy was going to get it, and it wasn’t surprising that Davey had done it to him. As Davey and I left the room and headed back to the machines, we were sure we heard a little applause mixed in with the laughter.

But as we resumed pressing and shaping the steel, all I could think about was Mikey. Eighteen years. I’d been alive for twenty-four years. And for eighteen of those years, my brother had been in prison. I saw him as often as I could—maybe once or twice a month—though Mom and Pop seemed to go every weekend. He was, after all, still in the same city, up the road a bit from Falcon at Millhaven Maximum Security.

Every once in a while, I’d be working on a job, and see the work chit, and find out it was something for the prison. Steel bars. Steel Plate. A deadbolt assembly. I was helping to build the prison for my brother. I don’t think I’ll ever come to terms with that.

But I knew full well, that had I been the older brother back then, and seen what Mikey had seen, I would have done exactly what he had done. Had I not been so young, I would have been the one in that jail cell, instead of him.