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Authors: Roland Merullo
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did it all boil down to what Zelda had said? Were these guys out here, and these women walking the streets at night in their short shortsand halter tops, these kids shooting each other in Fultonville and Hunter Town—was it all an elaborate dramatization of the fact that they had no “esteem” for themselves, as she put it? Did the drunks drink, and the whores go out on the sidewalk, and the high school girls smoke another chunk of crack just to prove to themselves—or to their parents—how worthless they were? And the people who understood they weren’t worthless—the Amelia Simmeltons and Alba Seuniers and Steven “Stab” Thomases of the world—how did they get that way?
I did not know. I did not know. I did not know.
THIRTEEN
On days when I knew I would be driving down to North Salem to see my mom and dad, I always awoke with a mix of feelings, as if anticipation, love, and anxiety had been blended together into a lotion, overnight, and some mysterious spirit of the dream had applied it to my skin from hairline to toenails. And that was before an ordinary visit. Imagine what it felt like to add an engagement announcement to that (they had never met Zelda). And then, of course, on top of everything else, there was what I thought of as the Jesus Stuff.
Adding to the fun was the fact that Dukey McIntyre, Ada Montpelier’s boyfriend and the reputed father of her child, had been assigned to my security crew by Jesus himself, had called to introduce himself, and was already making me crazy. Thrilled by his new responsibilities, he’d taken to phoning the condo every ninety minutes with progress reports. He had friends in the Panthers, a local motorcycle “club” (supposedly enlightened, we’d done a story on them; they had refreshing rules like Members Are Not Allowed to Punch or Kick Their Girlfriends; Members Are Not Allowed to Sell Drugs to Kids in Grade School), and they’d agreed to park their bikes in a ring around the center of Banfield Plaza, with openings for “VIPs” to come in and out. An hour and a half later he called with more news: The guys at Dermott’s, a rough bar on Versifal Street, had chipped in time and money to build a stage for Jesus to stand on when he spoke, and they would be “taking up positions” on all sides to make sure no “punks” gave our candidate any trouble. And so on.
Though she had not yet met Jesus, Zelda told her clients she’d be taking an indefinite leave of absence. This was traumatic for her, naturally: she’d built up a successful practice over the years, and felt almost a parental responsibility to the people she counseled. Later that day, she’d met with Wales and, on his instructions, started contacting press outlets. Zel told me that the major newspapers, TV and radio stations, and national magazines were being appropriately cautious. No stories would be printed or aired for another day or so, until they’d had a chance to check out the accounts of the miracles, get corroborating witnesses. They knew that once this particular cat was let out of the bag it would instantly mutate into a thousand prowling tigers, and no one, no trainer with a whip and a piece of steak, was going to be able to get them back in. During my years in the business I’d developed a kind of sixth sense about these things, and now it was as if I could hear a million voices whispering to each other in a circle that kept expanding outward from Banfield Plaza.
Zelda and I did not say much about it, but something was different between us, expectation tinged with fear. I liked it, when the fear part wasn’t too strong. I think she liked it, too. We had new meaning to our lives, not to mention the engagement, of course (no ring yet, but I’d given her a pair of sapphire earrings to make her feel better about suspending her practice, and she loved them).
But it wasn’t all joy and fun. Getting dressed on Saturday morning before heading out to see my parents, I found that my
I did not know. I did not know. I did not know.
THIRTEEN
On days when I knew I would be driving down to North Salem to see my mom and dad, I always awoke with a mix of feelings, as if anticipation, love, and anxiety had been blended together into a lotion, overnight, and some mysterious spirit of the dream had applied it to my skin from hairline to toenails. And that was before an ordinary visit. Imagine what it felt like to add an engagement announcement to that (they had never met Zelda). And then, of course, on top of everything else, there was what I thought of as the Jesus Stuff.
Adding to the fun was the fact that Dukey McIntyre, Ada Montpelier’s boyfriend and the reputed father of her child, had been assigned to my security crew by Jesus himself, had called to introduce himself, and was already making me crazy. Thrilled by his new responsibilities, he’d taken to phoning the condo every ninety minutes with progress reports. He had friends in the Panthers, a local motorcycle “club” (supposedly enlightened, we’d done a story on them; they had refreshing rules like Members Are Not Allowed to Punch or Kick Their Girlfriends; Members Are Not Allowed to Sell Drugs to Kids in Grade School), and they’d agreed to park their bikes in a ring around the center of Banfield Plaza, with openings for “VIPs” to come in and out. An hour and a half later he called with more news: The guys at Dermott’s, a rough bar on Versifal Street, had chipped in time and money to build a stage for Jesus to stand on when he spoke, and they would be “taking up positions” on all sides to make sure no “punks” gave our candidate any trouble. And so on.
Though she had not yet met Jesus, Zelda told her clients she’d be taking an indefinite leave of absence. This was traumatic for her, naturally: she’d built up a successful practice over the years, and felt almost a parental responsibility to the people she counseled. Later that day, she’d met with Wales and, on his instructions, started contacting press outlets. Zel told me that the major newspapers, TV and radio stations, and national magazines were being appropriately cautious. No stories would be printed or aired for another day or so, until they’d had a chance to check out the accounts of the miracles, get corroborating witnesses. They knew that once this particular cat was let out of the bag it would instantly mutate into a thousand prowling tigers, and no one, no trainer with a whip and a piece of steak, was going to be able to get them back in. During my years in the business I’d developed a kind of sixth sense about these things, and now it was as if I could hear a million voices whispering to each other in a circle that kept expanding outward from Banfield Plaza.
Zelda and I did not say much about it, but something was different between us, expectation tinged with fear. I liked it, when the fear part wasn’t too strong. I think she liked it, too. We had new meaning to our lives, not to mention the engagement, of course (no ring yet, but I’d given her a pair of sapphire earrings to make her feel better about suspending her practice, and she loved them).
But it wasn’t all joy and fun. Getting dressed on Saturday morning before heading out to see my parents, I found that my
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