Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [115]
“I’m using your bubble bath,” Dead-Eye said. “That okay with you?”
“You can get some in your eyes and it won’t burn,” Eddie said. “But don’t get any in your mouth. Okay?”
“I won’t,” Dead-Eye said with a smile.
Eddie walked the length of the tub, dragging his hand through the water, making motor sounds with his lips. When he turned and came back up toward his father, his pajamas were wet to the length of the sleeve, four fingers cupped across the front of his face to hide the giggles.
“Take your jays off and come on in with me,” Dead-Eye said, sliding the zipper down to the edge of Eddie’s right thigh.
Dead-Eye waited until his son stripped off all his clothes and then grabbed him around the chest as he moved feet first into the tub. Eddie eased himself gently into the water and rested his head against his father’s chest, breathing quietly, watching as the bubbles floated off to his side.
“Do you miss Grandpa?” Eddie said after several slow moments.
“Very much,” Dead-Eye said, running a hand through his son’s hair. “He was my best friend. Even though he wasn’t always the easiest guy in the world to talk things over with.”
“Like when you told him about being a policeman?” Eddie asked.
“That was not the best of days to talk to Grandpa,” Dead-Eye said. “He was pretty upset.”
“He told me you were a great policeman,” Eddie said, gazing up at his dad. “But he didn’t know why you wanted to be a great policeman.”
“That’s the Grandpa we all loved,” Dead-Eye said.
“Would Grandpa be happy you were a great doorman?” Eddie asked, squeezing water out of a closed fist.
“I guess,” Dead-Eye said, leaning his head back against the tiles and closing his eyes. “I think he’d have been happy with anything I did so long as it was honest work.”
“Would Grandpa be happy you’re an Apache?” Eddie said, still playing with the water.
Dead-Eye lifted his head and opened his eyes, looking down at his son. “How do you know about that?” he asked.
“I heard you and Mommy talking,” Eddie said. “I was in my room. Sleeping.”
“Try sleeping with your eyes closed next time,” Dead-Eye said. “You won’t hear as much.”
“So?” Eddie said.
“So what?”
“Would Grandpa be happy?” Eddie sat up and looked at his father. “About you being an Apache?”
“Yes,” Dead-Eye said, running a hand down his son’s back. “I think he would have been happy.”
“I’m happy too,” Eddie said, turning his attention once again to the now-lukewarm water to play with what was left of the bubbles. “Now there’s just Mommy left to make happy.”
“Let’s take it one war at a time,” Dead-Eye said.
“Which one first?” Eddie asked.
“The one I can win,” Dead-Eye said.
• • •
REV. JIM SAT on the park bench, his legs stretched out, hands inside his pants pockets. It was dark and the buzzing streetlamp above offered little light. He pulled a hand from his pocket and ran it alongside the bench, feeling the chipped wood, the names carved in it, the rusty screws holding it in place. It was where his mother had sat on the night she died, waiting to pay off a drug dealer with borrowed money. He hadn’t been back there since that night. Rev. Jim wanted very much to cry and shout out his mother’s name. But too much had been ripped out of him over the years. He had no tears left to shed. Instead, he sat in the silent darkness and kept his hand over the wood of the place where a woman he loved once sat.
• • •
PINS WATCHED THE eight-year-old boy grab a bowling ball from its slot, crouch into position, and throw a hard spin down the center of the lane. Pins smiled as the ball curved its way to a strike.
“All right!” Andrew said, pumping a fist in the air. “I’m going to beat you tonight, Pins. I just know it.”
“We’ll see,” Pins said with a smile. He stood up, took a high-five from the boy as he walked past him, then reached for his ball.
There were many boys who made use of the open afternoons at the alley, but none more so than Andrew. The boy didn’t talk much, reluctant to bring up a home life that revolved around drugs, beatings, and shouts in the