.... "
Peter stares at him, thinking of Victor Kopec. The
same thought seems to occur to his uncle, but in a different way. "I
wonder if that house is still for sale, now the guy’s dead."
He comes the rest of the way down the stairs and goes
into the kitchen for another beer, and Peter hears his father’s car
in the street.
The car backs into its parking place. The engine
stops, the lights go out. Peter starts for the door, but his uncle
comes back into the room and stops him.
"Hey, where you goin'?"
"It’s him," he says.
"He don’t want you runnin’ around outside
this time of night. He’ll be here in a minute."
Peter stands at the door and waits for the sound of
his father’s shoes on the steps. He wants to tell him something
before he gets inside. He doesn’t know how to say it but he would
step through the door and try—he is not afraid to disobey his
uncle—if his uncle were not there at his side. It is about his
uncle. He is here to hurt him.
The door opens and his father steps inside, and it is
too late.
"Charley," his uncle says, "where you
been?"
His father does not answer him. "You get
something to eat?" he says to Peter.
He nods.
"Go on upstairs," he says, "lemme talk
to your uncle."
He nods again, but he doesn’t move. His father
waits; Peter waits. He waits for him to understand why he isn’t
moving.
"You didn’t hear me, or what?" his father
says.
"He’s just like you," his uncle says, "he
don’t listen."
Peter holds the spot as long as he can and then
starts up the staircase. "Go on," his father says. "And
I don’t want to look up the stairs and see you sittin’ at the
top."
He goes into his room and closes the door. He stands
in the middle of the floor, in the dark, holding himself still and
listening. He hears a prayerlike mumbling at first and then, as he
accustoms himself to the quiet, he begins to hear the words.
"He ain’t that pissed," his uncle says,
"but what he wants, he wants you to sit down with some people,
explain what this Gypsy motherfucker did. That’s all, just explain
to these people, cool them down so this don’t come back and hurt us
.... "
It is quiet a moment.
"It don’t have to be tonight," his father
says.
"There you fuckin’ go. It’s gotta be tonight
because he says it’s tonight."
"Constantine don’t decide everything."
"He ain’t unreasonable about something like
this, your family was involved," his uncle says. "He
respects you for it; that’s what he said, God as my witness, ‘I
respect what the man done.’ But what he wants now, what he’s
sayin’, let’s get together with some people tonight, before the
police do a number on us all, and explain how it happened."
It is quiet a long time downstairs; Peter hears the
television set, Chester whining at Doc.
"It ain’t like he’s askin’ you to
apologize," his uncle says, " just explain where everybody
understands people ain’t started taking people out . . ."
It is quiet again.
"Where is he?" his father says.
"He’s waitin’ for us right now. We go over
somebody’s house and sit down and talk. That’s all."
"Whose house?"
"A guy’s house Constantine knows. What fuckin’
difference does it make whose house?"
They
are quiet again and then Peter hears his father on the stairs, and
then the door opens and his father is there in a wash of light.
"I got to go back out a little while," he
says. He leans in the doorway, his feet still in the hall. His face
is troubled, as if something in the room were out of place.
Peter feels himself beginning to cry.
"What’s wrong with you tonight?" his
father says, staying in the doorway.
Peter shakes his head, denying it. "Nothing,"
he says.
"This takes maybe an hour, I’ll pick up a
pizza."
He doesn’t answer.
"You don’t want a pizza?"
"He’s funny today," Peter says, looking
downstairs. He hears himself say the words.
His father peers at him from the door, framed in
light. "Phil’s always funny," he says.
Peter
Peter stares at him, thinking of Victor Kopec. The
same thought seems to occur to his uncle, but in a different way. "I
wonder if that house is still for sale, now the guy’s dead."
He comes the rest of the way down the stairs and goes
into the kitchen for another beer, and Peter hears his father’s car
in the street.
The car backs into its parking place. The engine
stops, the lights go out. Peter starts for the door, but his uncle
comes back into the room and stops him.
"Hey, where you goin'?"
"It’s him," he says.
"He don’t want you runnin’ around outside
this time of night. He’ll be here in a minute."
Peter stands at the door and waits for the sound of
his father’s shoes on the steps. He wants to tell him something
before he gets inside. He doesn’t know how to say it but he would
step through the door and try—he is not afraid to disobey his
uncle—if his uncle were not there at his side. It is about his
uncle. He is here to hurt him.
The door opens and his father steps inside, and it is
too late.
"Charley," his uncle says, "where you
been?"
His father does not answer him. "You get
something to eat?" he says to Peter.
He nods.
"Go on upstairs," he says, "lemme talk
to your uncle."
He nods again, but he doesn’t move. His father
waits; Peter waits. He waits for him to understand why he isn’t
moving.
"You didn’t hear me, or what?" his father
says.
"He’s just like you," his uncle says, "he
don’t listen."
Peter holds the spot as long as he can and then
starts up the staircase. "Go on," his father says. "And
I don’t want to look up the stairs and see you sittin’ at the
top."
He goes into his room and closes the door. He stands
in the middle of the floor, in the dark, holding himself still and
listening. He hears a prayerlike mumbling at first and then, as he
accustoms himself to the quiet, he begins to hear the words.
"He ain’t that pissed," his uncle says,
"but what he wants, he wants you to sit down with some people,
explain what this Gypsy motherfucker did. That’s all, just explain
to these people, cool them down so this don’t come back and hurt us
.... "
It is quiet a moment.
"It don’t have to be tonight," his father
says.
"There you fuckin’ go. It’s gotta be tonight
because he says it’s tonight."
"Constantine don’t decide everything."
"He ain’t unreasonable about something like
this, your family was involved," his uncle says. "He
respects you for it; that’s what he said, God as my witness, ‘I
respect what the man done.’ But what he wants now, what he’s
sayin’, let’s get together with some people tonight, before the
police do a number on us all, and explain how it happened."
It is quiet a long time downstairs; Peter hears the
television set, Chester whining at Doc.
"It ain’t like he’s askin’ you to
apologize," his uncle says, " just explain where everybody
understands people ain’t started taking people out . . ."
It is quiet again.
"Where is he?" his father says.
"He’s waitin’ for us right now. We go over
somebody’s house and sit down and talk. That’s all."
"Whose house?"
"A guy’s house Constantine knows. What fuckin’
difference does it make whose house?"
They
are quiet again and then Peter hears his father on the stairs, and
then the door opens and his father is there in a wash of light.
"I got to go back out a little while," he
says. He leans in the doorway, his feet still in the hall. His face
is troubled, as if something in the room were out of place.
Peter feels himself beginning to cry.
"What’s wrong with you tonight?" his
father says, staying in the doorway.
Peter shakes his head, denying it. "Nothing,"
he says.
"This takes maybe an hour, I’ll pick up a
pizza."
He doesn’t answer.
"You don’t want a pizza?"
"He’s funny today," Peter says, looking
downstairs. He hears himself say the words.
His father peers at him from the door, framed in
light. "Phil’s always funny," he says.
Peter
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