Mourning Kill - Stories - Goobiegirl

Story added on 10/26/02

The blood colored sign that read “Fantasy Lingerie” was flashing on and off in a heatbath of sweat and distilled urine as my father decided to pull his rusty blue Ford pickup in the discreet driveway. I could hear the broken glass crackle underneath my feet and then a large pop! as my father swung along side a tree that had heavy branches of sorrow sweeping now across the front windshield, as if this could camouflage him. I knew what was coming next. He would pull out his black, barber plastic comb, a few ridges missing, and pull it through the thin gray strands that were remaining. Then he would put out his cigarette, still dangling from his paper thin lips, and take a quick shot of Fresh mint spray while buckling his pants and tucking in his worker’s shirt.

“WHERE’S MY GODDAMN GLASSES APRIL?” hollered my father as he felt underneath his seat and along the dashboard.

I knew my father kept his glasses under the drink tray where two empty cans of Miller’s Lite now rested, and I reckon he thought it would be easy to try and look put together if ever pulled over by a cop if he could just reach down and prop on his glasses as if that would ever disguise the way he looked. I knew you could never disguise the mean red of a drinker’s eyes, but I reached down and handed his glasses anyhow.

“Here Vinnie,” my hand dangling out the window.

“WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS HIDING MY STUFF ON ME! DON’T YOU KNOW BY NOW THAT WHEN I GOTTA FUCKIN SEE, I GOTTA FUCKIN SEE?”

“Yeah, I know. I forgot Vinnie, go ahead. You look good,” I mumbled while sticking my head out the window for some air and relief.

My grandmother told me once that my mother had named me April because it was the one month in their short lived relationship where she saw my father sober. I imagine it must have been the month my father was trying to court my mother because he always cleaned up his act a bit when he’s interested in a new girl. I don’t know much about my mother now except that I have a half brother who she took with her and she moved to a town called Esperance in a different state. I was left with my grandparents and father in a 2 bedroom house on Clemont St. still bundled up in my newborn blankets and the smell of pink baby lotion. I’ve been Vinnie’s kid ever since.

“WELL I’M ABOUT TO GO INSIDE AND VISIT MY FRIENDS FOR A BIT. YOU JUST STAY HERE AND PRACTICE YOUR CARD TRICKS, OKAY?”

“Yes Vinnie, I’ll be right here when you get back,” I muttered while trying to pick the scab off my left knee.

My father, only 45 but going on 62 years old, hobbled down the driveway towards the beaming red light. I looked up once to see if he was going to do his traditional spit right outside the store’s front door. It was this gurgling hack that could last over 10 seconds, and probably announced his presence to the women inside. He always had to drag me everywhere with him, even to these kinds of places. I hated going with him because there was always nothing for me to do but wait, and a few times, I had even been left behind in bars, in homes, in restaurants where neon lights “Cocktail lounge” screamed across the room and lured my father into their spell. Some places I was lucky enough to sit on tall barstools and watch late night trash tv while eating popcorn and peanuts. I’d get the protective watch from the bartender of the night who knew my father all too well. They’d look at me, probably feeling sorry for me, and sometimes they’d make me a Shirley Temple with extra cherries even though my father never gave them any tips. One blond haired waitress named Shirley would braid my hair if she was working that shift and my grandmother could tell where my father had dragged me the night before by the time we were having our oatmeal breakfast the next day.

There were certain nights though that my father would get so lonely, and I’m not sure it ever had anything to do with the drinking. He would get into one of those moods where he couldn’t be by himself, not even for a minute. He’d go through the house looking for me in all my secret spots and even if my grandmother protested, he’d still tell me to grab the Roy Orbison cassettes and get in the truck. My grandmother, thick in her Long Island accent, would say:

“Jesus Vinnie! You can’t keep dragging this girl with you everywhere! She’s gonna get a heart condition just trying to keep up with you! A bar is no place for a young girl!”

To which he would reply: “ SHE’S MINE, AND I GOT ALL THE HEART SHE NEEDS!”

As a young girl, I never quite understood this because as far as our Jewish doctor, Dr. Severenko was concerned, my father had not only a heart murmur, but a loud boisterous thud to his heartbeat that made it difficult for him to even detect a heart! Each time we’d go to the doctor’s, I would see my father lying in a multitude of positions so that the doctor could try and hear a consistent beat. Usually the doctor would ask me to leave and behind the closed door, I could still hear the doctor ask my father a list of questions concerning his drinking. It was the only place I remember anyone asking my father about it.

So with my father’s bad heart, a collector’s set of Roy Orbison classics, and a couple of beef jerky sticks found on the car floor, we usually set out together to the various locations my father frequented. My father would always start the night out with a question to ponder:

“APRIL, DO YOU THINK THAT BETTY FRIEDMAN FROM THE ORANGE GROVE BAR WAS EYEING ME THE OTHER NIGHT?”

“I don’t know Vinnie. I think she was just checking to see if you had two of the same shoes on this time. Remember last time? You showed up wearing two different shoes, and everyone thought you were crazy drunk already.”

“YEAH, BUT I THINK SHE LIKED ME ‘CAUSE SHE KEPT GIVING ME THE ROLLING EYES, SWEET AS BUTTERCUPS THEY WERE...,” he replied while lighting up a Marlboro.

I could tell my father was getting excited at the thought that some half-wit cocktail waitress was actually paying him some attention. Even though I was only 12 years old, I could tell when my father would get excited by the sight of women’s behinds or the back of their necks. I’d always turn red with embarrassment whenever he took me somewhere and he’d start flirting with the girl behind the counter, behind the bar, in the supermarket line. For about 10 seconds, my father could be perceived as having some charm, but it usually wore off just as soon as it had come. They’d see me, and think how good it was that my daddy took me everywhere with him. If they only knew where.

So it came to be that on one of my father’s more lonesome evenings, with thoughts of buxom waitresses and buttercup dreams, he decided to take me to a neighboring town called Sloansville where a small lingerie modeling store was hidden between two dark alleys. It looked from the outside like a flashy New Orleans cafe with the blinking lights and the pulled shades. If you closed your eyes, you could even smell fresh baked bread and sugary cannolis from a neighboring Italian bakery. I was now left in the truck on my own while my father decided to check out the night women.

For a few minutes I changed the radio stations, or played with my bracelet, but I was bored quickly and decided to take a walk. I hopped out of the truck and started towards the lingerie store. There were a few windows on all sides of the building so I decided to walk around to avoid having my father see me. I could hear music playing on one side where the window was open slightly. On the radio was Janis Joplis sinfully belting out “Summertime.” I was just tall enough to have my nose touch the windowpane and I could get a full whiff of the vanilla laced room. There were billowy Arabic curtains and mirrors crookedly arranged and a green leather chair propped next to a simple table that held a flower vase, a bowl of mints, some Kleenex, and a bottle of Neutrogena Hand Lotion. There was a changing border where various garter belts, blue lace nighties, and high heels. When I heard laughing voices approaching I ducked my head down.

“Ok Vinnie. You remember this room don’t you? Why don’t we make ourselves comfortable in here.” A hearty voice with a soft bellow. I could have guessed her age to be about 29.

There was the slam of the closing door and a lowering of the music. Her footsteps were sharp and high, like she was clinking her heels with a lot of discomfort.

“GINGER, YOU HAVE GOT TO LET ME GET A LOOK OF THAT ASS OF YOURS. IT HAS BEEN TOO TOO LONG SINCE I’VE HAD ME A GOOD FEEL OF IT,” my father hackled as he spoke.

“Now Vinnie, YOU remember the rules, and I’m just gonna stand a little ways away and I’ll model anything you like sweetheart. Of course, tipping is always appreciated....”

“YEAH, YEAH , BUT I WANT YOU TO TALK DIRTY TO ME BABY...MAKE MY COCK ALL NICE AND HARD....”

My face heated scarlet to just hear my father talk like this. I mean I knew he was dirty, but hearing it made me want to crawl up and die.......

Instead I wanted to see inside. I thought maybe if I just made sure it wasn’t someone else talking like that, then I could pretend I hadn’t heard anything. I stood like a ballerina balancing on the top of my toes. I now saw my father sitting on the chair with his pants unzipped and his hand reaching between his legs. His forehead was sweating hard and his cheeks were very puffy from having too many drinks. The woman was much larger than I had pictured with her hair piled high on her head with a pink stoned tiara and a teal green bustier. She had black laced thigh highs and big chunky heels, and she kept swinging her hips from side to side like a Cobra snake. She must have been playing the entire Janis Joplin tape because now “Me And Bobby McGee” was playing hard and loud. She was talking all sweet and low so I couldn’t make out all she was saying but she kept inching closer and closer to my father, and he was loving every minute of it.

“COME HERE BABY........OH YEAH, SHAKE IT BABY, LET ME GET A GOOD LOOK OF YOU.” He was taking both hands and placing it around her hips. His fingers seemed to be sliding up and down and her bare bottom was reflecting from all angles in the mirrors. She knelt her chest down to whisper something in his ear, and I then saw him slip a $5 bill into her bustier. He was like a hyena getting excited by coming so close to his prey. His mouth was salivating and his eyes were open wide. I saw her take his hand off her thighs, and she stood back a foot.

“Now Vinnie, you know the rules. No touching. I can come very close but you need to behave or else I’m gonna have to call the manager in and have him escort you out,” she cooed.

“I KNOW, I KNOW. YOU TELL ME THE RULES EACH AND EVERY TIME. WHEN IS IT ANY FUN UNLESS SOME OF THE RULES ARE BROKEN?” he toyed with her.

She took some of the lotion and proceeded to rub it across her chest. She was dancing slowly as if in a half trance while trying to keep an eye on my father through the reflections in the mirrors. She turned from side to side, stroking her nipples, her stomach, her groin. She would close her eyes for tender seconds as if in a silent reverie, dreaming of a place in the Caribbean. She started to sing along with the music. My father didn’t like the distraction.

“HEY! HEY GET YOUR BUM OVER HERE! I’M PAYING GOOD MONEY TO GET ME SOME FLESH, AND I CAN’T HARDLY SEE NOTHING WITH YOU DANCING SO FAR AWAY FROM ME.....”

“I’m sorry Vinnie, but I just like this song.....Why don’t you use some lotion on yourself?” she coddled.

“I DON’T NEED ANY LOTION. WHAT I NEED IS SOME TITS AND ASS, AND YOU KEEP STANDING SO DAMN FAR AWAY! HOW AM I SUPPOSE TO ENJOY MYSELF IF YOU STAND SO FUCKIN FAR AWAY?”

“Vinnie, you’re drunk as a skunk and I can tell you’re just crabby tonight, so I was just keeping my distance. I’ll move over closer so as long as you promise to behave yourself,” she answered reluctantly.

Seeing my father so hard boiled and rough with this strange woman was starting to make me feel like I was in one of those haunted play houses at the county fair where everything is dark and foggy and you can’t really figure out where you are. I hated hearing my father treat this woman so unmannerly, and I hated more than he always expected me to wait for him for so long. Every time was the same. I sat hours and hours in that truck, or in the bars, or at the off track betting place. I always had to scramble to keep up with his pace in the supermarket, watching all the red uniformed cashiers look at me disapprovingly as if I had been labeled, “that sick man’s child.” I hated driving in his truck with him blowing smoke in my face while I was chewing watermelon gum and I despised the smell of Old Spice and stale beer that was always lingering on his shirt. I knelt down from the ledge and hugged my knees. I had to fight real hard to not choke on my salt tears and I could taste the beef jerky in one of my burps. All I wanted to do was disappear. Even with a bruised knee, I was still able to run.

I woke up the next morning with a cramp in my leg from having fallen asleep curled on my side on the back porch of the Italian bakery. A pudgy, short man with a white cooking apron was looking down on me in such a way that I could see his nostril hairs through the reflection of the morning sunshine.

“Hey kid, you can’t sleep here any longer. This isn’t a back alley and we don’t throw out any of our doughnuts,” he muffled while folding some cardboard boxes and throwing them into the dumpster.

Sheepishly, and while wiping out the morning crusties from my eyes, I replied: “Oh, I’m sorry....must have.....just fallen asleep here.......”

“Yeah, well don’t let the Big Boss see you sleeping out here like that. We had a wild dog that kept coming around eating our scraps, and you don’t want to know what the boss did to him. Don’t ya got a place to sleep somewhere?”

“Um, yeah. I was just driving around with my Dad. He’s probably looking for me anyhow. Probably should go back. Sorry to have disturbed you,” I said while picking up my cards that had fallen from my coat pocket while sleeping.

“Well you better not make a habit of sleeping around like that. Not everybody’s as nice as I am. I’m not gonna mention it to Big Boss this time, ‘cause I see you’re a pretty decent kid and all...,” he licked his lips as if he was thinking of biting into one of those large cinnabons he was baking.

I let my legs unfurl as I stood up and all of the blood went from my head back down to my legs. I was nautious from hunger and my bones ached from sleeping on cement steps. My grandmother was really going to be mad at Vinnie this time. I decided to head back to the lingerie store’s parking lot to see if my father’s blue truck was still there. He was probably going to be real angry with me for having run off for no apparent reason.

I went through two blacktop driveways and a row full of bushes before I saw the willow tree that hovered over the parking lot of the store. As I approached closer, I could now see blinking red and blue lights. I was not use to seeing lights during the daytime. A world of color known only to me in the nightworld of Vinnie’s sequestration. I saw that there were two police vehicles and an ambulance. I recognized one of the police officers to be the father of one of the little girls I occasionally played with. He was placing his hand on his hip just so while holding a clipboard in his hand and asking a few women some questions. I was reluctant to have them see me, because I could not see my father and was not sure I should be in a place like that at this time.

I hid behind a tree and took a big breath to becalm my fervent heartbeat. The women were dressed in long laced skirts and were holding shawls around their shoulders. They were both crying. I saw a tall bearded man lock the lingerie store behind him as he approached the police officer and two women. He had a big ring of keys like a church janitor; his keys kept rubbing up along side his legs as he walked and he was carrying two brown paper bags in his arms. He put his arm around the one girl who I had seen with my father the night before. Her eye makeup was all smeared now and she looked heavily made up with orange beige pancake makeup and her hair tousled in a crown of bed head curls and her tilted tiara. I heard her answer questions for the police officer in a gulpful of sobs.

“He just kept trying to touch me, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He was plainly drunk and I couldn’t take the smell of him so I tried to keep a distance from him naturally,”she muttered while attempting to blow her nose with the kleenex offered by the other woman.

“Did you at any time see anything that was strange or would make you believe he would do harm to himself?” asked the police officer who had now switched his weight to the other side.

“Nooooo, he seemed to be fine to me. He was of course a little overbearing to put it lightly, but I had noooo idea that he would go jumping off some bridge over something I had said...” she replied with her eyes down.

“Let me get this straight: after you modeled your “lingerie” for him, you told Vincent Russo to stop touching you, and he then proceeded to grab you from behind. After you screamed to the manager, the manager then came in and removed Mr. Russo from the premise. You saw him go to his truck, look around inside for a bit, apparently in search of something, and in your opinion, a likely choice was a weapon, and he then proceeded towards the direction of the street where he disappeared, and coincidentally was not found until this morning, apparently having slipped “accidently” over the Mourning Kill thruway bypass, killing himself instantly head on the pavement. Is that correct?”the officer questioned authoritatively.

“Well, yes, I mean I KNOW it sounds strange....him falling over like that and all, but like I told you, he was very drunk, and you could ask anyone around here, they’d tell you he was always like that.....”

“You realize that you were the last person to have seen Mr. Russo alive, and that he had his 12 year old daughter with him last night?” quizzed the officer.

“Well you see, that’s just it. I had NO idea that his daughter was with him. I had never seen her before, and he never mentioned her. He looked pretty distressed when he got out to his truck, but I figured it was just from us having kicked him out and all, and he was pretty loaded. Had I known he had gone out looking for her..........”

My heart dropped to the bottom of my toes. The aching cramp returned and my mouth had become dry like an inferno in a deep molten rash. Vinnie was dead. The weight of the thoughts had kept my feet grounded like the roots of the tree I was hiding under. I had left my father alone and he was now gone.......my face was burning now from my tears that came like ants invading a cookie crumb......my tears dancing with the freckles on my face. I had left my father alone and now look what had happened. I felt powerless as my legs carried me to the crowd, a force carrying me to the blinking lights and emerging crowd of spectators. The panorama of tragedy that would inevitably make this year’s best tabloid story in Sloansville’s only newspaper.

The officer was nice enough to bring me back to my grandmother’s after he found me. It was hard for him and all, starting his 5am shift with an apparent freak accident and the usual abnormalities associated with the ladies of Fantasy Lingerie, and now he had to tell someone’s mother that their son was dead. After finishing his report and arranging for a tow truck to come pick up my father’s truck, he had to come fetch for me, sitting in the passenger’s side, clutching my father’s glasses which were left right on my seat. I knew he had put them there to tell me he had thought of me. I was the only one who knew that he had not really “accidently” fallen over Mourning Kill.

. The officer approached my father’s truck and took out a pack of chewing gum and offered me one.

“Here you go sport. Unfortunately this has been a really bad accident, and I’m sorry your daddy had to go like this. I’m sure he’s in a better place now.”

I wanted to believe that Vinnie was at least considered for that better place. It sure seemed to me that he was unhappy in the places we visited together. I was the only person he never got sick of being around. Some people would probably think it different that a father like Vinnie could be loved, but you cannot erase the memories of who you come from. The pulp cannot be extracted without the fruit. Sometimes I wonder if in some strange way he was trying to tell me he loved me that night. Maybe he had just got worried and wandered off to look for me. When he had seen I was gone, he felt an incredible bath of guilt and desperately sought to find me. When he had crossed the street towards Mourning Kill, he hadn’t really meant to look over the rail and see the passing cars. He had only desired to take a breather and continue looking.

The police officer helped me into the front seat of his patrol car. He walked back to his side, took a sip of his decaf coffee sitting on the dashboard, and switched the radio on. It was Roy Orbison singing “It Hurts” in a slow, melodious rhythm:

“Your baby doesn’t love you anymore...........”

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