Brooklyn Valentine

Chapter Two Park Slope/President Street After dropping Terry off at the Marriott, Sal headed home. It was eight o'clock. He had planned to work even later, but changed his mind. Driving in rush hour traffic always knocked him out. He thought about Terry and tried to put it all together. She sure as hell seemed like a snob at first. But there was something tough about her too. A rough edge. A woman in real estate probably had to be tough. And it had to be high-end real estate if she was rich. Sal’s Uncle Eli used to do that kind of thing down in Brazil. It was a fluke. He wound up there as a young guy in the Merchant Marine and went looking for a synagogue to say Kaddish for his father. The few Jews down there took him in immediately. Somehow one thing led to another, and before long he was helping them get loans from banks in America and keeping a small percentage. But, like his mother used to say, "A small percentage of a lot of money is still a lot of money." And then Eli invested in real estate. Maybe Terry was as rich as Eli? Nah. She definitely didn't give that impression. If she was rich, why didn't she have a limo waiting for her at the airport? Why was she wearing such ugly clothes? He took the FDR south to the Brooklyn Bridge and headed home, to Park Slope. Bennie should be in his PJs by now. Hopefully, Pop hadn't had any trouble giving the kid his bath and washing his hair. "Hey! Where are you guys?" he called as he walked in. The downstairs was dark and quiet. A ray of light from the streetlight outside made its way in the front window and illuminated the old brick fireplace with its crowded mantel full of photos, toy cars, Lego blocks, and a small Lladro statue his mother had loved. He lingered a moment, considering the still life on his mantel and the scraps of red and pink construction paper strewn about the floor. Bennie must've been making valentines. He walked into the dim living room, to the mantel, picked up the statuette of a mother and her child, and ran his hand over it. It was still so smooth. He used to love to touch it when he was a kid. It hadn't been on the mantel since his mom died, fourteen years ago. Pop must've set it out recently. "Up here," his father called out. Sal slowly walked up the long, steep staircase. The banister was loose again. He'd have to fix it again. The truth was, the whole house needed work. An old brownstone like this needed more attention than a child. "Hi," he said, as he walked into the large old bathroom, warm and cloudy with steam. "Look, Papa, I'm at the car wash," Bennie said as he buffed his bare behind against the bath towel his grandpa held around him. Bennie had a thing for car washes. For brushes of all kinds, actually. "Pretty neat," Sal said as he sat down in the barber chair his dad had installed in their bathroom after he retired. Sal had protested, but Joe had insisted. He planned to make a little extra money cutting hair at home, and he did just that. Eventually, Sal had to put the kibosh on it, though. Somehow, instead of having fewer customers after closing the beauty parlor, Joe soon had more. People loved to come to his house, drink wine or tea, and chat with him. It was more a social occasion than a business, and there were just too many people coming through the house for Sal's comfort. Joe liked the company, but it made Sal nervous. Now Joe only cut the hair of a few old men he had known for years. It was better this way, Sal felt. Safer. Especially with a little kid around. "Shake the towel, Grandpa," Bennie ordered. "Make it like the car wash." Joe slowly moved the towel back and forth. "Some kid, huh?" he said with a smile. "Today we saw … how many Bennie? Four or five sweepers?" "Six! We saw the little one by the hospital too!" Bennie was obsessed with street sweepers. Since he was three he got excited watching them, and if he saw one off in the distance he made Sal chase it. "Did you ever see that little one by the hospital, Papa? It only has one brush." "Nope." Joe put down the towel. "That's enough, Bennie Boy. Grandpa's too tired now.” Then he turned to Sal. “He won't let me give him a haircut," he said, gently grabbing Bennie's bangs in one hand and making a snipping motion with two fingers of his other hand. "Two snips! One, two, and it's over," he said. But the boy pulled away. "What's the matter? You don't like Grandpa to cut your hair anymore?" "It tickles," Bennie complained. "So, I'll use powder," Joe offered. "I think he's allergic to the powder, Pop," Sal said. "You don't look so good, Sweetheart," Joe said to Sal as Bennie dashed out of the bathroom, completely naked. "I’m a little tired." "Did you eat any dinner? I made a nice sauce." Sal stood up. "I'm not hungry. I'll put Bennie to bed. You go rest." "You could use a haircut too," Joe said. "A haircut? Look how short it is!" "Not a real haircut. A shape. A style. Or something," he gestured at his son's head, indicating disapproval. "You're using conditioner, like I told you?" "It doesn't make any difference," Sal said. "Now you're the barber in the family? Here, let me do something," he said as he approached Sal, reaching for his head. "Hey! Not tonight, okay? It's late." Joe backed off, but Sal could see he wasn't happy about it. There was no way Sal was going to let Joe at his hair again. Lately, every time his pop took the scissors to his head, Sal wound up with some kinda Johnny Mathis look. "You want me to tuck him in? I thought you'd want to study a little," Joe offered. "I'm too tired to concentrate. Go watch your nature shows." Joe went downstairs and turned on the television. Sal knew how exhausting it was for the old man to care for his son every day after school. It was only on Wednesday afternoons, during Bennie’s Hebrew School, that Joe got a little break during the week. At seventy, he was incredibly spry, but still no match for Bennie. It wasn't the physical work that exhausted Sal, though. It was the emotional work. The listening. The explaining. The constant thinking about what the little boy was doing and feeling and needing. He remembered his mother saying to him, just after he got married, that to a child, a parent is the sun, moon, and stars. And if you couldn’t be as constant and predictable as that, then it was better to wait until you could be. So he waited until his relationship with Angela would be like that. Only it never happened. Sometimes being the sun, moon and stars to Bennie overwhelmed him, so he didn’t really understand why he wanted another child. But even through his fatigue and frequent self-doubt, he knew he did. Badly. "I'm cleaning up the bathroom, and then I'm coming right in to tuck you in. Okay?" he called out from the bathroom. No answer. He waited. Then repeated himself. Still, no answer. He walked into Bennie's room. It was dark and there was a lump under the covers. The little boy was hiding. It was an old game they played and, though Bennie still loved it, Sal sometimes found it tiresome. Still, he hadn't seen the boy all day and he’d missed him. Obviously, Bennie felt the same way. "Boo!" Bennie shouted and leaped out from under his blanket. Sal scooped the skinny little kid up into his arms, taking in the delicious smell of his clean wet hair and powdered body. He was small for eight, his skin was still the virginal soft skin of a baby, his forehead still wide, his nose still the small button he was born with. And his eyes. He had Angela's large, luminous blues. "I didn’t know ghosts were ticklish," Sal teased. Bennie jumped back into his bed. "Papa, I know there's no such thing as ghosts, but," he paused, with a serious look, "what happens if a dead person wants to come back for a little while just for a visit?"