smile on his face.
“It’s got a name,” he said, offering me the gum.
“What?” I asked, declining with a shake of my head.
“The shelf trick you and your buddies pulled. It’s called keepers. I played it when I was your age. Never could get the whole shelf down though. You must be pretty good at it.”
“Father,” I said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Maybe I’m wrong,” he said, still smiling. “Maybe I got wind of the wrong information.”
“Sounds like you did,” I said, shifting my weight. “Well, I’d better get going.”
“I’ll see you later tonight,” Father Bobby said, turning away and walking toward the corner.
“What’s tonight?” I asked.
“Going to drop off some books and magazines around the neighborhood,” he said. “You know, for the elderly and disabled. People who can’t get out on their own. I checked with your mother. She said you’d love to help.”
“I bet she did.”
“She wants you to be a priest, you know,” he said as he wedged the slice of Juicy Fruit into his mouth.
“Do you?” I asked.
“I just want you to stay outta trouble, Shakes,” Father Bobby said. “That’s my only wish. For you and your friends.”
“Nothin’ else?”
“Nothin’ else,” Father Bobby said. “I swear.”
“Priests shouldn’t swear,” I said.
“And kids shouldn’t dump a row of books on a librarian,”he said, waving and turning the corner, heading for church.
Summer 1964
6
W E HAD FOUR bath towels spread across the hot black tar of the roof. A cooler filled with chunks of ice and a six-pack of 7Up rested against a slate-gray chimney. A portable radio played Diana Ross, singing soft and low. Clotheslines, crisscrossing rooftops and bent under the weight of laundry, supplied the only shade.
“It can’t get any hotter,” John said, his eyes closed to the sun, his upper body lobster red.
“Let’s go swimming,” I suggested, sitting next to him, the sun baking my back.
“We just got here,” Michael said, lying down on the towel closest to the edge, an ice cube melting on his chest.
“So?” I said.
“I’m with Shakes.” Tommy left his towel for the cool of the clotheslines. “I feel like an egg up here. We could get us some buttered rolls, a few more sodas, and head down to the docks.”
“I’m still on my burn,” Michael said.
“And Mrs. Hudson hasn’t come home from work yet,” John said.
“Nobody
can leave without seeing her.”
Mrs. Hudson was a part-time secretary for a midtown travel agent. She wore short dresses and high heels in the summer and no bras the year round. She was married to a Pepsi-Cola truck driver who had two largehawks tattooed across both shoulders. She had a brown cat named Ginger and a loud wing-clipped parakeet who sat perched near her living room window and tweaked at the street traffic three stories below.
She left work every day at three-fifteen and headed straight for her apartment. During the hottest months she would strip off her clothes and sit by an open window, trying to catch a breeze. When her mood was light, she would look up at the roof across the way, smile, and wave.
Mrs. Hudson was the first naked woman any of us had ever seen.
Most days, she crossed the bedroom to the bathroom and washed her hair in the sink. She then returned to the open window and brushed her dark brown hair in the warmth of the sun.
As she brushed, we focused on her breasts. They were probably average size, but appeared massive to our youthful eyes. Whatever her motives, Mrs. Hudson seemed to enjoy this summer ritual as much as we did.
“Here she comes!” Tommy shouted. “Right on time.”
Within seconds, the four of us were perched by the edge of the roof. Mrs. Hudson was making her way down 51st Street, dressed in a black halter top and a black skirt cut at the thighs. Her pumps were white, the heels adding several inches to her height.
“I can’t believe her husband lets her outta the
“It’s got a name,” he said, offering me the gum.
“What?” I asked, declining with a shake of my head.
“The shelf trick you and your buddies pulled. It’s called keepers. I played it when I was your age. Never could get the whole shelf down though. You must be pretty good at it.”
“Father,” I said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Maybe I’m wrong,” he said, still smiling. “Maybe I got wind of the wrong information.”
“Sounds like you did,” I said, shifting my weight. “Well, I’d better get going.”
“I’ll see you later tonight,” Father Bobby said, turning away and walking toward the corner.
“What’s tonight?” I asked.
“Going to drop off some books and magazines around the neighborhood,” he said. “You know, for the elderly and disabled. People who can’t get out on their own. I checked with your mother. She said you’d love to help.”
“I bet she did.”
“She wants you to be a priest, you know,” he said as he wedged the slice of Juicy Fruit into his mouth.
“Do you?” I asked.
“I just want you to stay outta trouble, Shakes,” Father Bobby said. “That’s my only wish. For you and your friends.”
“Nothin’ else?”
“Nothin’ else,” Father Bobby said. “I swear.”
“Priests shouldn’t swear,” I said.
“And kids shouldn’t dump a row of books on a librarian,”he said, waving and turning the corner, heading for church.
Summer 1964
6
W E HAD FOUR bath towels spread across the hot black tar of the roof. A cooler filled with chunks of ice and a six-pack of 7Up rested against a slate-gray chimney. A portable radio played Diana Ross, singing soft and low. Clotheslines, crisscrossing rooftops and bent under the weight of laundry, supplied the only shade.
“It can’t get any hotter,” John said, his eyes closed to the sun, his upper body lobster red.
“Let’s go swimming,” I suggested, sitting next to him, the sun baking my back.
“We just got here,” Michael said, lying down on the towel closest to the edge, an ice cube melting on his chest.
“So?” I said.
“I’m with Shakes.” Tommy left his towel for the cool of the clotheslines. “I feel like an egg up here. We could get us some buttered rolls, a few more sodas, and head down to the docks.”
“I’m still on my burn,” Michael said.
“And Mrs. Hudson hasn’t come home from work yet,” John said.
“Nobody
can leave without seeing her.”
Mrs. Hudson was a part-time secretary for a midtown travel agent. She wore short dresses and high heels in the summer and no bras the year round. She was married to a Pepsi-Cola truck driver who had two largehawks tattooed across both shoulders. She had a brown cat named Ginger and a loud wing-clipped parakeet who sat perched near her living room window and tweaked at the street traffic three stories below.
She left work every day at three-fifteen and headed straight for her apartment. During the hottest months she would strip off her clothes and sit by an open window, trying to catch a breeze. When her mood was light, she would look up at the roof across the way, smile, and wave.
Mrs. Hudson was the first naked woman any of us had ever seen.
Most days, she crossed the bedroom to the bathroom and washed her hair in the sink. She then returned to the open window and brushed her dark brown hair in the warmth of the sun.
As she brushed, we focused on her breasts. They were probably average size, but appeared massive to our youthful eyes. Whatever her motives, Mrs. Hudson seemed to enjoy this summer ritual as much as we did.
“Here she comes!” Tommy shouted. “Right on time.”
Within seconds, the four of us were perched by the edge of the roof. Mrs. Hudson was making her way down 51st Street, dressed in a black halter top and a black skirt cut at the thighs. Her pumps were white, the heels adding several inches to her height.
“I can’t believe her husband lets her outta the
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