It Burns a Lovely Light (23 page)

Sylvia had stopped by the rink, her face all splotchy and
red. When William suggested she might want to be tested for allergies she didn't even respond. She pretended to watch practice from the stands but he could tell she wasn't interested in the drills. And Joe acted funny, staring at
his clipboard and hardly yelling at anybody.

After showers the guys tossed their blobs of sopping wet towels onto the floor. William was busy scooping up the blobs when Joe called him over.

"I need to talk to Sylvia," he said, untying his skates. "Wait for me in my office when you finish up in here."

"Okay. I figured out what's the matter with her."

Joe narrowed his eyes. "What did you hear?"

"Nothing. She's constricting her respiratory system. Her sweater is way too tight."

"Ha!" Peter Gaglio spread his legs and grabbed his
crotch. "We know what's on your mind, piggy-pal-pal."

William was elated. He didn't even mind that Peter got the nickname wrong. Peter Gaglio never, ever, ever,
ever
talked to him! In fact, he usually acted like he was mad at William, even though William went out
of his way to be nice.

"That's enough, Gaglio," said Joe. He put his blade guards on and stuffed his skates into his sports bag.

"It's all right, Peter," said William, nodding
encouragement. "Masturbation is good for you."

The locker room exploded in peals of screaming laughter.

William had no idea what was so funny, but he laughed, too.
He tried to think of what else he had read on the subject of masturbation. He held up a finger and shouted over the racket, "Although, a preoccupation with your penis can be an indication of penis envy!"

Peter Gaglio ignored the whistles, laughter and
hand-slapping. He yanked on his pants, tossed the rest of his gear in his bag, and stormed out of the locker room.

William stood on the team bench and looked around for Joe
and Sylvia. Other than a few well-placed safety lights, the rink was dark. Spotting them in the shadows near the side exit, he started across the ice. Aware that a slip on the ice could be incapacitating, he slid his feet in small increments and concentrated on keeping his balance. As he neared the other side
he lifted his head, prepared to remind Joe of the time. But something about the way Joe and Sylvia's dark silhouettes were so close to each other made him stop. Joe's shadow-hand wiped Sylvia's shadow-face. They hugged, two giant hand
puppets moving to the rhythm of William's heartbeat. His penis strained so hard he worried his zipper would burst.

On the walk home, Joe explained why William's mention of masturbation and penis envy had embarrassed Peter.

"I didn't mean to make him feel bad."

"I wouldn't give it another thought."

William approached Veda Marie about making a special treat
for Peter.

"I did something I regret," he said. "I want to tell him I'm sorry."

Veda Marie smiled. "It takes a big man to apologize. What did you have in mind?"

William rubbed his hands together, his face flushed. "A peanut butter and marshmallow and barbequed potato chip sandwich."

"Chips
inside
the sandwich?"

"Yes." He bobbed up and down on the balls of his
feet. "And some of your extra chewy nutty brownies!"

Veda Marie recruited Claire to help her make brownies.

"What kind of regrets could a boy like William
have?" asked Claire, dipping her finger into the rich chocolate batter.

"Not a soul alive who can honestly say they don't have regrets."

As it turned out, Peter Gaglio did not return to the ice for
five weeks. Having learned that his older brother Tony had finally made parole over at Eastern State Penitentiary, Peter had decided that the Gaglio brothers were due for some much-needed bonding. First he sprung his youngest brother
Rocco from his foster home. Then, in preparation for a right and proper welcome home get-together, Peter and Rocco knocked off a liquor store, a photo booth, and a Kentucky Fried Chicken.

Reunited, the three brothers warmed themselves around a fire
pit out behind the old glass factory, catching up as they washed down the chicken with Jim Beam. They laughed their asses off, reminiscing as brothers do. The time Dad kicked the shit out of Rocco for being wasted on the lawn when
the school bus pulled up. How about when Mom leveled a gun at Dad's nuts while he slept off a bender. And who could forget the look on Dad's face as he knocked Tony's lights out for feeding a kitten to the dogs next door - and he
had the wrong kid the whole time; it was Peter who did it! Too funny.

The Gaglio brothers embarked on a brutal, month-long celebration, during which Rocco lost his virginity, Tony lost a shitload of brain cells, and Peter lost one of his front teeth. Fuckin' A. The boys were
back in town.

Veda Marie sprinkled potato chips on the marshmallow cream. She had to hand it to William; the concoction was a tasty one. She and Mr.
Winston had gotten in the habit of splitting one for lunch.

"Joe, I don't mind making these sandwiches day after day. They don't go to waste. But is that Gaglio boy ever coming back?"

"He's supposed to be at practice today. Apparently he's
had some family problems." He took a bite of sausage, exhaling through his open mouth to let the heat out. "I kind of hope he doesn't show. There's something really bad about Gaglio. He creeps me out."

On a bench in the locker room, William listened in on Joe and Peter's discussion about responsibility and trust and being a team player and what the hell happened to Peter's tooth. Peter gave Joe one word answers
and grunted a lot.

By the time Peter emerged from the showers the locker room was empty. William waited until Peter's clothes were on before approaching him, then he stepped forward and put out his hand to shake like a man. Ignoring
William and his outstretched hand, Peter sat on the bench to tie his shoes.

William clicked his tongue as he held up the paper bag.

"This is for you" he said. "I feel bad about
what I said about you-know-what. I regret my words."

Peter stared at William, then at the bag. Clearing his throat, he spit a tight, thick lugie onto William's crotch. William opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. He put his shaking hands on his hips and
gnawed on the inside of his mouth. Brown mucus slid down his corduroys.

Standing, Peter raised a hairy index finger and poked William in the chest. Hard. Stunned, William dropped his paper bag and took a
step back. Peter followed, standing uncomfortable close.

"You're a queer little fuck, aren't you?" said Peter, sliding his tongue in and out of the new hole in his mouth. He wriggled his fingers. "A queer piggy, prancing around in a faggot cape."

William stood, frozen. He wanted to run and hide, but his legs wouldn't move.

Peter poked him again and then spoke in a babyish voice. "Aww, what's the matter, fuck-face? Am I hurting the little piggy?"

"All right, William. I know how much you love that jersey," said Veda Marie. "But it's going to rot off your body if we don't wash it. Hands up, high."

Reluctantly, William raised his hands over his head. Veda Marie pulled his coaching jersey off and stared in horror at the purple bruises and angry welts covering his chest. William hung his head, ashamed.

Dion's voice was calm. "We'll need to put some ice on these." She gently tilted William's chin. "Corn or peas, hon?"

"Peas," said William, trembling.

"Veda Marie, would you please bring us some bags of
frozen peas?"

Farley knelt beside William and took his hand in hers. "Who did this to you, kiddo?"

Joe's fist connected dead-on with Peter's nose, spraying
blood across the row of lockers. Peter grinned, blood and spittle dribbling down his beard. He spit twice, checking for more lost teeth.

"I take it the little piggy squealed."

"If he had, you'd be in jail right now," said Farley, gasping as she tried to catch her breath.

Her clothes were drenched in sweat and her left ankle was pouring blood from her misguided attempt to clear a wire fence.

She had seen Joe tear off in the car and knew instinctively where he was going - and so she ran.

Joe kicked Peter's hockey bag.

"Get your stuff and get out," he said, his jaw
tight. "And don't expect to play hockey in this city again."

Peter used the back of his hand to wipe a smear of bloody snot across his face. "You gotta be shittin' me."

Joe didn't reply.

"For what, giving pussy-boy a couple of bruises?" He smirked and winked at Farley. A bubble of blood squirted through his tooth-hole. "I gotta be honest, I think he liked it."

Farley slammed her knee into his crotch. Peter went down. He
lay on the locker room tiles, his beard mottled with blood, his face contorted with pain and rage.

"You shouldn't a done that, sweetheart," he gasped.

Peter fumed in the darkened showers, gathering up his strength. Fuck this, he thought. Who needs fucking hockey, anyway? He had better things to do with his time. No more grueling practices and tight-ass
coaches. No more body-distorting muscle cramps and mind-warping headaches. Still. He knew this was the end of the easy, 'come-fuck-me' girls waiting for him after the game. The end of the other guys looking up to him. No more crowds screaming
'There goes Gaglio! Gaglio!'

He buried his head in his hands.

"Shower's over, Gaglio!" the security guard yelled. "You're outta here, now!"

William closed the door to his bedroom. He unbuttoned his
happiness cloak and folded it just so. He pulled his other cloaks out of his drawer and placed them all in the back of his closet, in a box underneath his old
Operation
game.

The icy winter gave way to the gentle thaw of spring, bringing a sense of sanguinity and a 'fresh start' feeling to the residents of Bridge Manor. After enrolling in a Photo Criticism workshop at the Art
Institute of Pittsburgh, a local magazine picked up one of Farley's projects: a black-and-white series combining the new, sleek architecture of the city with the desolation of the empty mills and factories.

Now the official timer for Joe's Frosty Devils, William wore his shiny stopwatch proudly around his neck. The team recovered from Gaglio's dismissal and made it all the way to the semifinals. They lost in a heartbreaking last-second shot through the goalie's legs. Joe was already
stepping up the team's training plans for the off-season.

Dion had decided to abstain from men for a while - how long 'a while' was not specified; she was taking more of a 'one day at a time'
approach. She spent many long hours studying with William and was rewarded with all A's on her exams. Encouraged, she applied for and received a generous grant toward next year's tuition.

Henry's restaurant continued to prosper; the number of
repeat customers increased monthly. Freeman's canned produce turned out to be Henry's pot of gold. The preserved tomatoes, peppers, and other vegetables had become hot items, not only in the restaurant, but in two local supermarkets, as
well.

Things weren't quite as peachy for the Kane family. Ham made a life-changing decision. He informed his company and his wife - in that order - of his plans to leave the firm and start up a non-profit aimed at providing
legal aid to people in the city's lower socioeconomic levels. His partners and co-workers wished him all the best and told him they were proud. Billie said she wished she had never married him and told him to go straight to hell.

Eileen was now used to waking up to her father and Billie
fighting. As a kid it had been easier to ignore. She would put her pillow over her head and pull her blanket over the pillow, tucking the edges under to make a fort. If she stayed in her fort too long it made her dizzy, but it wasn't a
bad feeling. She would hum over the yelling and pretend she was somewhere else. Sometimes she pretended up an older brother to watch out for her. He would be like William, except his name would be Jeremiah. Or Cody. They would live with
their drop dead handsome widowed father who adored them and couldn't get enough of them. He even let them stay home from school now and then, just for kicks. Sometimes she threw in some popular friends who looked up to her and were secretly jealous of her. In her cool bedroom with beanbag chairs and a lava
lamp and a set of bunk beds, she and her friends would stay up all night telling secrets and eating pepperoni pizza and making prank phone calls to all the stuck-up bitches in her school.

But that was when she was younger. She didn't pretend anymore.

Mrs. Piotrowski was grateful Father Ryan would not be able to see the paper doily she bobby pinned to her hair at the last minute. She had
been unable to find her hat or scarf, or anything else suitable to cover her head. Not that it seemed to matter these days. She clicked her tongue. Whatever happened to the old Catholic Church where mass was said in Latin, when a lady
would never dream of entering the house of God without stockings on her legs and a lace mantilla covering her head?

The main chapel was empty except for an elderly custodian pushing his mop back and forth. The light above the confessional blinked; the
tiny room was vacant. Mrs. Piotrowski stepped inside. The red bulb above her clicked on as she knelt on the padded kneeler. The screen in the partition slid open and she squinted, trying to make out the outline of his slender body. She
made the sign of the cross with her white gloved hand. She no longer kissed her thumb at the end. Only the Latinos did that anymore.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been one week since my last confession."