Gone for Good
Page 64
“I’m fine, really. I need to talk to you about something.”
He was quiet. I wondered how to approach this, but Dad took care of that.
“Show me,” he said.
I looked at him.
“Your sister called this morning. She told me about the picture.”
I still had it with me. I pulled it out. He took it in his palm, as though afraid that he might crush it. He looked down and said, “My God.” His eyes began to glisten.
“You didn’t know?” I said.
“No.” He looked at the photograph again. “Your mother never said anything until, you know.” I saw something cross his face. His wife, his life partner, had kept this from him, and it hurt.
“There’s something else,” I said.
He turned to me.
“Ken’s been living in New Mexico.” I gave him a thumbnail sketch of what I’d learned. Dad took it in quietly and steadily, as if he’d found his sea legs.
When I’d finished, Dad said, “How long had he been living out there?”
“Just a few months. Why?”
“Your mother said he was coming back. She said he’d be back when he proved his innocence.”
We sat in silence. I let my mind wander. Suppose, I thought, it went something like this: Eleven years ago, Ken was framed. He ran off and lived overseas—in hiding or something, just like the news report. Years pass. He comes back home.
Why?
Was it, like my mother had said, to prove his innocence? That made sense, I guess, but why now? I didn’t know, but whatever the reason, Ken did indeed return—and it backfired on him. Someone found out.
Who?
The answer seemed obvious: whoever murdered Julie. That person, be it a he or she, would need to silence Ken. And then what? No idea. There were still pieces missing.
“Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever suspect Ken was alive?”
He took his time. “It was easier to think he was dead.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He let his gaze roam again. “Ken loved you so much, Will.”
I let that hang in the air.
“But he wasn’t all good.”
“I know that,” I said.
He let that settle in. “When Julie was murdered,” my father said, “Ken was already in trouble.”
“What do you mean?”
“He came home to hide.”
“From what?”
“I don’t know.”
I thought about it. I again remembered that he had not been home in at least two years and that he’d seemed on edge, even as he asked me about Julie. I just didn’t know what that all meant.
Dad said, “Do you remember Phil McGuane?”
I nodded. Ken’s old friend from high school, the “class leader” who was now reputed to be “connected.” “I heard he moved into the Bonannos’ old place.”
“Yes.”
During my childhood, the Bonannos, famed old-time mafiosi, had lived in Livingston’s biggest estate, the one with the big iron gate and the driveway guarded by two stone lions. Rumor had it—as you may have surmised, suburbia is rife with rumors—that there were bodies buried on the property and that the fence could electrocute and if a kid tried to sneak through the woods out back, he’d get shot in the head. I doubt any of those stories were true, but the police finally arrested Old Man Bonanno when he was ninety-one.
“What about him?” I asked.
“Ken was mixed up with McGuane.”
“How?”
“That’s all I know.”
I thought about the Ghost. “Was John Asselta involved too?”
My father went rigid. I saw fear in his eyes. “Why would you ask me that?”
“The three of them were all friends in high school,” I began—and then I decided to go the rest of the way. “I saw him recently.”
“Asselta?”
“Yes.”
His voice was soft. “He’s back?”
I nodded.
Dad closed his eyes.
“What is it?”
“He’s dangerous,” my father said.
“I know that.”
He pointed at my face. “Did he do that?”
Good question, I thought. “In part, at least.”
“In part?”
“It’s a long story, Dad.”
He closed his eyes again. When he opened them, he put his hands on his thighs and stood. “Let’s go home,” he said.
I wanted to ask him more, but I knew that now was not the time. I followed him. Dad had a hard time getting down the rickety bleacher steps. I offered him a hand. He refused it. When we both reached the gravel, we turned toward the path. And there, smiling patiently with his hands in his pockets, stood the Ghost.
For a moment I thought it was my imagination, as if our thinking about him had conjured up this horrific mirage. But I heard the sharp intake of air coming from my father. And then I heard that voice.
“Ah, isn’t this touching?” the Ghost said.
My father stepped in front of me as though trying to shield me. “What do you want?” he shouted.
But the Ghost laughed. “ ‘Gee, son, when I struck out in the big game,’ ” he said, mocking, “ ‘it took a whole roll of Life Savers to make me feel better.’ ”
We stayed rooted to the spot. The Ghost looked up at the sky, closed his eyes, took a great big sniff of air. “Ah, Little League.” He lowered his gaze to my father. “Do you remember that time my old man showed up at a game, Mr. Klein?”
My father set his jaw.
“It was a great moment, Will. Really. A classic. My dear ol’ dad was so wasted, he took a leak right on the side of the snack bar. Can you imagine? I thought Mrs. Tansmore was going to have a stroke.” He laughed heartily, the sound clawing at me as it echoed. When it died down, he added, “Good times, eh?”
“What do you want?” my father said again.
But the Ghost was on his own track now. He would not be derailed. “Say, Mr. Klein, do you remember coaching that all-star team in the state finals?”
My father said, “I do.”
“Ken and I were in, what, fourth grade, was it?”
Nothing from my father this time.
The Ghost snapped, “Oh wait.” The smile slid off his face. “I almost forgot. I missed that year, didn’t I? And the next year too. Jail time, don’t you know.”
“You never went to jail,” my father said.
He was quiet. I wondered how to approach this, but Dad took care of that.
“Show me,” he said.
I looked at him.
“Your sister called this morning. She told me about the picture.”
I still had it with me. I pulled it out. He took it in his palm, as though afraid that he might crush it. He looked down and said, “My God.” His eyes began to glisten.
“You didn’t know?” I said.
“No.” He looked at the photograph again. “Your mother never said anything until, you know.” I saw something cross his face. His wife, his life partner, had kept this from him, and it hurt.
“There’s something else,” I said.
He turned to me.
“Ken’s been living in New Mexico.” I gave him a thumbnail sketch of what I’d learned. Dad took it in quietly and steadily, as if he’d found his sea legs.
When I’d finished, Dad said, “How long had he been living out there?”
“Just a few months. Why?”
“Your mother said he was coming back. She said he’d be back when he proved his innocence.”
We sat in silence. I let my mind wander. Suppose, I thought, it went something like this: Eleven years ago, Ken was framed. He ran off and lived overseas—in hiding or something, just like the news report. Years pass. He comes back home.
Why?
Was it, like my mother had said, to prove his innocence? That made sense, I guess, but why now? I didn’t know, but whatever the reason, Ken did indeed return—and it backfired on him. Someone found out.
Who?
The answer seemed obvious: whoever murdered Julie. That person, be it a he or she, would need to silence Ken. And then what? No idea. There were still pieces missing.
“Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever suspect Ken was alive?”
He took his time. “It was easier to think he was dead.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He let his gaze roam again. “Ken loved you so much, Will.”
I let that hang in the air.
“But he wasn’t all good.”
“I know that,” I said.
He let that settle in. “When Julie was murdered,” my father said, “Ken was already in trouble.”
“What do you mean?”
“He came home to hide.”
“From what?”
“I don’t know.”
I thought about it. I again remembered that he had not been home in at least two years and that he’d seemed on edge, even as he asked me about Julie. I just didn’t know what that all meant.
Dad said, “Do you remember Phil McGuane?”
I nodded. Ken’s old friend from high school, the “class leader” who was now reputed to be “connected.” “I heard he moved into the Bonannos’ old place.”
“Yes.”
During my childhood, the Bonannos, famed old-time mafiosi, had lived in Livingston’s biggest estate, the one with the big iron gate and the driveway guarded by two stone lions. Rumor had it—as you may have surmised, suburbia is rife with rumors—that there were bodies buried on the property and that the fence could electrocute and if a kid tried to sneak through the woods out back, he’d get shot in the head. I doubt any of those stories were true, but the police finally arrested Old Man Bonanno when he was ninety-one.
“What about him?” I asked.
“Ken was mixed up with McGuane.”
“How?”
“That’s all I know.”
I thought about the Ghost. “Was John Asselta involved too?”
My father went rigid. I saw fear in his eyes. “Why would you ask me that?”
“The three of them were all friends in high school,” I began—and then I decided to go the rest of the way. “I saw him recently.”
“Asselta?”
“Yes.”
His voice was soft. “He’s back?”
I nodded.
Dad closed his eyes.
“What is it?”
“He’s dangerous,” my father said.
“I know that.”
He pointed at my face. “Did he do that?”
Good question, I thought. “In part, at least.”
“In part?”
“It’s a long story, Dad.”
He closed his eyes again. When he opened them, he put his hands on his thighs and stood. “Let’s go home,” he said.
I wanted to ask him more, but I knew that now was not the time. I followed him. Dad had a hard time getting down the rickety bleacher steps. I offered him a hand. He refused it. When we both reached the gravel, we turned toward the path. And there, smiling patiently with his hands in his pockets, stood the Ghost.
For a moment I thought it was my imagination, as if our thinking about him had conjured up this horrific mirage. But I heard the sharp intake of air coming from my father. And then I heard that voice.
“Ah, isn’t this touching?” the Ghost said.
My father stepped in front of me as though trying to shield me. “What do you want?” he shouted.
But the Ghost laughed. “ ‘Gee, son, when I struck out in the big game,’ ” he said, mocking, “ ‘it took a whole roll of Life Savers to make me feel better.’ ”
We stayed rooted to the spot. The Ghost looked up at the sky, closed his eyes, took a great big sniff of air. “Ah, Little League.” He lowered his gaze to my father. “Do you remember that time my old man showed up at a game, Mr. Klein?”
My father set his jaw.
“It was a great moment, Will. Really. A classic. My dear ol’ dad was so wasted, he took a leak right on the side of the snack bar. Can you imagine? I thought Mrs. Tansmore was going to have a stroke.” He laughed heartily, the sound clawing at me as it echoed. When it died down, he added, “Good times, eh?”
“What do you want?” my father said again.
But the Ghost was on his own track now. He would not be derailed. “Say, Mr. Klein, do you remember coaching that all-star team in the state finals?”
My father said, “I do.”
“Ken and I were in, what, fourth grade, was it?”
Nothing from my father this time.
The Ghost snapped, “Oh wait.” The smile slid off his face. “I almost forgot. I missed that year, didn’t I? And the next year too. Jail time, don’t you know.”
“You never went to jail,” my father said.
