Raising Jake Part 36

I start to laugh, still gripping the handlebars. The kid looks scared.

"Mister-"

"Do you believe in miracles, kid?"

"Huh?"

"Miracles. Do you believe that miracles happen?"

Clearly, n.o.body has ever asked him this question before. He has to think about it. "No," he finally decides. "No, I don't."

I can see that he's one of those sad, serious kids who works harder than he should for a boss who doesn't appreciate it. He also thinks I'm nuts.

"Mister, I gotta get back."

"I know you do." I release the handlebars. "I used to have your job, delivering for Napoli's."

His eyebrows rise. "No foolin'?"

"Swear to G.o.d. Like thirty years ago, maybe more, when the real real Napoli owned the joint." Napoli owned the joint."

"Jesus, it's been around that long?"

"Yeah, and so has this bike. This was my delivery bike."

"You're s.h.i.+ttin' me."

"I'm not."

I show him Bob's name on the back of the seat. "You want to hear the story about this bike?"

"Sure."

I tell him everything that happened to me that night-the bachelor party and the stripper and the bicycle theft, and losing my cherry to Fran, and the way she gave me her ex's bike. The kid listens to my story the way you hope kids will listen to stories, but I guess that makes sense, one old delivery boy telling a war story to another. By the end of my tale he's smiling, his teeth a radiant white.

"Great story," he says, "but I'm not sure I'd call it a miracle."

"You wouldn't?"

"Nah. It's just an old bike that's still around." He climbs aboard, spins the pedals around to getaway position. "Take it easy, man."

"What's your name?"

"Paul."

"Paul what?"

"Paul Fishetti."

Oh man. This can't be, but on the other hand, it can't be anything else.

"Is your father Alonzo Fishetti?"

"Hey! How'd you know that?"

"I went to school with him a long time ago. He was the coolest kid in the cla.s.s."

Paul laughs out loud. "My "My father was cool? Gimme a break!" father was cool? Gimme a break!"

"I'm telling you!"

"Bulls.h.i.+t!"

"What's he doing these days?"

"He's a plumber."

"Yeah? What else is he up to?"

"He watches TV and he argues with my mother.... What was so cool about him?"

I tell him how his dad used to sneak cigarettes in the schoolyard, and how he busted his ankle that time he fell from the ledge.

Paul is fascinated. "Why'd he climb out on the ledge?"

"He wanted to peek into the girls' changing room. Wanted to get a look at Margaret Thompson. We were all in love with a girl named Margaret Thompson."

Paul puts his head back and howls. "Oh man," he says, "that is pretty wild."

"What is?"

"Margaret Thompson."

"What about her?"

"She's my mother."

Paul is beaming now, and suddenly I can see his mother in his face-the perky ears, the hint of green on the outskirts of those brown irises, the playfulness. I have to grip the handlebars again to keep from falling.

"You okay, mister?"

I catch my breath, straighten up, release the bike. "You got brothers and sisters, Paul?"

"Yeah, there's four of us."

"You the oldest?"

"Youngest. My brother Richie's wife just had a kid."

So there it was. Margaret Thompson, the great unrequited love of my life, married the toughest kid in the cla.s.s, and now she's a grandmother.

I want to ask Paul all about his mother, of course, but you can't ask a boy if he thinks his mother is pretty, and if she's turned fat and embittered I really don't want to hear about it.

But there's one thing I do do want from this kid, and I amaze myself by actually asking for it. want from this kid, and I amaze myself by actually asking for it.

"Listen, Paul. Mind if I take a little ride on your bike?"

He looks at me as if I've lost my mind. "A ride? ride? Are you serious?" Are you serious?"

"Just around the block. Come on, I'm not going to steal it."

He looks at his watch. "I'm already late gettin' back, man."

I hand him a ten-dollar bill. He sticks it in his pocket and says, "Don't change the gears, they're all f.u.c.ked up."

I jump aboard the bike and started pedaling as if I've just robbed a bank.

"Just around the block!" Paul yells at my back. My s.h.i.+rt billows like a sail as I pick up speed. It still rides straight and true, Fran's ex-husband's ex-bike, so I am able to take my hands off the handlebars and hike my arms to the sky on the straightaways.

I have things on my mind and a million responsibilities, but I have never, ever felt so G.o.dd.a.m.n free.

I'm good to my word, returning the bike to Paul after one turn around the block. He climbs aboard and races off to Napoli's.

"Tell your parents Sammy Sullivan says h.e.l.lo!" I shout, but I doubt that he hears me.

Back in the house my son and my father are working on their second slices.

"What the h.e.l.l took you?" my father asks.

"Just having a little chat with the delivery kid," I reply. I could tell them more, but I don't want to. I've emptied out all my secrets today, shared all the stories I've got to tell, but this one's all mine.

We polish off both pizza pies, and though we don't speak much while eating, it's not an uncomfortable time. We're three soldiers in the same foxhole, chowing down to stay strong for whatever's coming next. And we would do anything for each other.

My father gets our clothes from the dryer. Jake and I get changed, and I realize we should get going to rest up for tomorrow's big battle.

My father accompanies us to the sidewalk, along the dug-up trench that soon will be a cobblestone path. He tells us he's going to wait until next weekend to lay the stones, and Jake tells him he wants to help. Just like that, they have a date for next Sat.u.r.day morning.

"Gonna teach him about stonework," my father says. "A trade that could come in handy, now that his formal education is over."

"Actually, Danny," Jake says, "I'd like to think that it's just starting."

He grabs Jake in a rough embrace, full of giggles and tickles. "See you next weekend, kiddo."

"Okay, Danny."

My father turns to me and extends a hand. I grasp it just as I used to all those birthdays and Christmases ago, and we both squeeze hard. My father releases the pressure first and I think it's over, but as I'm slipping from his grip he startles me by pulling me against him in the same kind of embrace he's just shared with Jake.

"Be strong tomorrrow when you see Doris," he whispers in my ear. "Don't do what I did. Be there. Don't bail out."

"I won't."

"What do you think this plan of Jake's is all about?"

"I have no idea."

"If you like it, back him up. Back him up all the f.u.c.king way."

"I will."

He releases his grasp, pulls back to look at me. "It was good to see you," he says, and I think I'm imagining it but in fact I am not when he presses his dry lips to my cheek in what could only be called a kiss.

"I'm sorry we lost all those years, Dad."

He shrugs. "I'm glad we've got whatever's left." He thumps himself on his bony chest. "I ain't plannin' on checkin' out any time soon, I can tell you that."

He turns and goes back inside while Jake and I, br.i.m.m.i.n.g with beer, walk toward what I hope turns out to be Francis Lewis Boulevard, and the stop for the Q-76 bus. We both have to stop and p.i.s.s into somebody's hedge on the way, and in the midst of it Jake's cell phone goes off and of course it's his mother, saying she'll be catching an earlier train than she was scheduled to take and will be home tomorrow by noon. High noon, you might say.

We find our bus stop. You'd think a father and son might have a lot to say to each other after such a day, but you'd be wrong. We are all talked out, and I am in a state of awe over the way this magical day has unfolded.

My son has saved me. There's no other way to look at it. Suddenly I realize there's one more thing to say, one more thing to do.

"Jake, we have to stop in the Village before we go home."

"The Village? What for?"

"You'll see."

We reach Matt Umanov's guitar shop on Bleecker Street half an hour before closing time.

"Oh no, Dad."

"Pick out the one you want."

"You don't have to do this."

"Did you hear what I said? Pick out the one you want."

"Are you sure?"

"Just promise me you won't set it on fire."

Jake confers with a bushy-haired clerk before selecting a honey-yellow acoustic guitar, made in Spain. It's just under seven hundred dollars, including the guitar case, and it's far and away the best money I've ever spent.

"Dad. I don't know how to thank you."