DANNY: Pop?
(He has never called his father Dad. There is something effete in the word, he believes. He feels, too, an inadequacy in the word Pop. It does not express to him the father-son relationship he desires. He would like a word that expressed warmth and companionship and man-to-manness. “Dad” does not do that, and “Pop” is somehow lacking. He has thought often of calling his father Johnny. This, he thinks, would establish something between them. But he knows that his father would not like it, even though he has never discussed it with him. He knows intuitively that his father would not like it. And so, rejecting the word expressing a false relationship, eliminating the word for the relationship he desires, he has settled upon “Pop,” which fills but does not satisfy the need.)
DI PACE: What is it, Danny?
DANNY: Is it true?
DI PACE: What?
DANNY: That we’re moving?
DI PACE: Oh yeah. It’s true. Would you hand me that ball of twine?
(Danny hands his father the twine, watching him as he works on the bush. He would like to help his father. He can remember wanting to help his father ever since he was a little kid. When his father was painting, he would come out and ask if he could paint, too, and his father would invariably say no. He could understand this somewhat. His father is a careful and fastidious worker, and he does not like a child slowing down the work or making a mess. But still he wished he could have helped his father sometime.)
DANNY: Where... where are we going?
DI PACE: To Harlem.
DANNY: Where Grandma lives?
DI PACE: Near there. Yes. Give me that scissors.
(Danny hands him the scissors. He recalls that on the few occasions he did help his father it was always in the capacity of the person who handed him things or held things. In his mind, he has created a fantasy wherein he and his father are painting the side of the house, sitting on the same scaffold. He calls his father Johnny, and they crack jokes together and laugh together, and at lunchtime they sit on the scaffold and eat sandwiches Mary has made, and then Johnny says, “Well, back to the salt mines,” and they begin painting again. Occasionally, as they work, they begin singing. The song is spontaneous, and it stops just as quickly as it has started, usually ending on a laugh. At the end of the day, they lower the scaffold and then they back away from the job and, paint-smeared hands on dungareed hips, they survey their work. And Johnny says, “That’s a damn good job, son. Let’s go up to the center and get ourselves a couple of sodas.” It is a nice fantasy. It has never happened. It will never happen.)
DANNY: I don’t like Harlem much.
DI PACE: Well, you’ll get used to it, Danny. Your mother and I think it’s best for us to—
DANNY: I saw a beating there once.
DI PACE: When was this?
DANNY: When Grandpa died. When we went to the funeral. I was walking with Christina. We were going to get some ice cream pops.
DI PACE: You never told me this.
DANNY: They were chasing this colored kid. A whole bunch of them were after him. He tried to climb onto a car that stopped for a light. He tried to get away from them that way. But the car had no running board, and he hung to the door handle when the car started, and lifted his feet off the street, trying to hang on. But the car sped up, and he dropped off, and they surrounded him. They hit him with an ash can. I can remember him laying in the street, and the kids kept lifting up this ash can and throwing it down on his back, and the colored guy just kept laying there with his hands covering the back of his neck while that ash can went up and down, up and down, passing from hand to hand. Then the cops came.
DI PACE: You never told me this.
DANNY: And later, when I was walking with Christina, we were behind one of the kids, and he said, “Man, did you see me hit that jig? I musta split his head wide open with that ash can.” That was what he said. And he laughed. And the kid with him laughed, too. That was when Grandpa died. We went back to the funeral parlor then, and Grandpa was laying in the coffin. I began crying, don’t you remember? I didn’t cry for Grandpa up until that time. But I cried then.
DI PACE: I didn’t see you crying, Danny. I didn’t know my father meant that much to you.
DANNY: Pop, I don’t like Harlem.
DI PACE: Well, I haven’t got a job here any more, Danny. And this shoe store...
DANNY: Pop, do we have to move to Harlem? Pop, I really don’t like it. I’ve got friends here and—
DI PACE: You’ll make new friends there.
DANNY: I don’t want to be friends with kids who hit a colored guy with an ash can.
DI PACE: All the kids in Harlem aren’t like that.
DANNY: Pop, listen to me. Can you stop working on that bush for a minute? Can you listen to me?
DI PACE: What is it, Danny?
DANNY: I don’t want to live in Harlem, Pop. Please. I don’t want to live there.
DI PACE: It’s not as easy as that, Danny. I’ve lost my job.
DANNY: Well, for Christ’s sake, why’d you lose it?
DI PACE: I don’t like that kind of language.
DANNY: I’m sorry, but why’d you have to lose your job? Why couldn’t you hang on to it? What’s the matter with you, Pop?
DI PACE: They cut production, Danny. It’s not my fault.
DANNY: I don’t want to live in Harlem!
DI PACE: (with some anger): You’ll live where we have to live!
DANNY: I don’t want to live there! I don’t want to live where guys—
DI PACE: Danny, we’re moving and that’s it. I don’t want to hear anything more about it.
DANNY: Pop, please, don’t you see? I couldn’t live there. I’d be... I’d be...
DI PACE: You’d be what?
DANNY: I’d... I’d...
(He turns and runs out of the yard. His father stares after him for a moment and then goes back to tying his bush.)
“He never finished the sentence?” Hank asked.
“No,” Di Pace said. “But the other night, thinking about it, I knew what he was trying to tell me.”
“And what was that?”
“He was trying to say he’d be afraid. Afraid.” Di Pace paused. “And I wouldn’t hear him.”
Eleven
With the trial only three days away, with his face still covered with adhesive plaster even though he’d been released from the hospital, Hank received a call at the office that Friday.
“Mr. Bell, this is Lieutenant Canotti.”
“Hello,” Hank said.
“I’ve got that report you wanted.”
“The report? What report?”
“On those knives.”
“Oh, yes. Yes, of course. I’d almost forgotten.”
“What’s the matter, Bell? Losing your pep? You were ready to go in to your boss on this, remember?”
“I remember.”
“So where’s the fighting assistant district attorney now?” Canotti paused. “That street beating take the starch out of you?”
“I’m busy, Canotti,” Hank said. “Make it short, and make it sweet, and cut the bull. I don’t know you well enough to start a feud.”
Canotti chuckled and then said, “We ran a lot of tests on these knives. No good latent prints because they got smeared when this Rugiello girl handled them. But there was something else that was interesting. At least, I think it was interesting.”
“What was that?”
“Well, you’ll see when you get the report. I’m sending a copy over together with the knives. Don’t forget to sign for receipt, will you?”