Mirror Opposites

By J L Daniels

The stock market crash October 19,1987 becomes a pivotal life-changing event for identical twins Tom and Glenn Lonardo. The fallout from this calamitous market collapse triggers actions and events that inexorably engulf the brothers, sucking them into a vortex called disaster. It is a tale of cool assassins, a unique Las Vegas casino with its enforcers, Wall Street players and pundits and beautiful women. It is replete with a host of unforgettably bizarre characters including a Jewish midget who is part Eskimo and a FBI agent who yodels, and a background true to life story of brothers brought up in contrasting cultures. It is a story of larceny, love and lust; greed and deceit; a fugitive on the run and murder! While it is suspenseful and has its unspeakably tragic twists and turns, it is highly entertaining and always amusing. It will keep a readers eyes open! A work of FICTION, it borrowed from much that was true.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491871614

J L Daniels

The idea for this book came to me after a brief conversation I had with a lawyer friend who liked the spin I placed on a newspaper article we both had read involving a notable fugitive from justice. “You know” he said, regarding my thought, “that would make for a very interesting book! You should write it!” I had been urged to write about my life by my wife Pat and my sisters Leah and Diane who find my past vocations and life experiences fascinating. Also incorporated in their thinking was the idea that although I had a yet to be certified gift for writing I did possess a creative though possibly warped mind; a mind that might produce something that would make for interesting reading. That said, I decided to take my sisters’ along with my Lawyer friend’s and my wife’s advice and write. About my life? About the spin I had put on the newspaper article? Well, I decided to incorporate both in a loose fictitious way. Yes, many elements of the book are real and some events and actions that happened in the book took place. But it is a seven years in the writing work of FICTION that I hope the reader will find entertaining and enjoy.

Book preview

© 2014 J L Daniels. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 07/10/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4918-7159-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-7160-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-7161-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014904789

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Authors Disclaimer: This book is a work of fiction. Though inspired by some actual events, the author used them fictitiously in the context of creating a story of his own imagination. Any resemblance or reflection to actual persons, places, or events is entirely coincidental, the characters and events being the by-product of the author’s creativity.

Contents

About The Author

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1   Germany 1911

Chapter 2   North Providence 1948

Chapter 3   Molding Moments

Chapter 4   Karen Andrews

Chapter 5   The Lonardo Family

Chapter 6   The Beginning

Chapter 7   Tony Lonardo Post WW2

Chapter 8   Baseball Daze And College Craze

Chapter 9   Career Years

Chapter 10   Brotherly Love

Chapter 11   First Date

Chapter 12   Ski Trip

Chapter 13   Silent’s Decree

Chapter 14   WHEN THE BOTTOM FELL OUT

Chapter 15   A Tough Weekend

Chapter 16   October 19 1987—Serendipity Or Suicide???

Chapter 17   Everyone Deserves A Second Chance

Chapter 18   Nevis—St Kitts

Chapter 19   George Ianetta

Chapter 20   Tom-Las Vegas

Chapter 21   Neville Prifty—Aftermath

Chapter 22   Las Vegas Revisited

Chapter 23   Bad News

Chapter 24   Seattle Bound

Chapter 25   Dennis Wilkins… FBI

Chapter 26   The Yodeler

Chapter 27   Newport

Chapter 28   Lara’s Take

Chapter 29   Lara King St. Claire

Chapter 30   Glenn Lonardo—The Perfect Son

Chapter 31   The Date-Joe Tynan

Chapter 32   The Confrontation

Chapter 33   The Search For Clues And Tom Lonardo Begins

Chapter 34   A True Rendering Of The Facts

Chapter 35   The Gnome From Nome

Chapter 36   Manuel Duarte

Chapter 37   Charley O’s

Chapter 38   Leah King

Chapter 39   The Contract

Chapter 40   Tom Returns From Alaska

Chapter 41   Tom’s Response

Chapter 42   The People’s Posse

Chapter 43   Warwick Police Hq—Joe Tynan

Chapter 44   Tom Or Glenn??

Chapter 45   Prison Days

Chapter 46   To Be Or Not To Be

Epilogue—Redemption

MIRROR

OPPOSITES

About The Author

M IRROR OPPOSITES IS J L Daniels’ first book. A life long resident of Rhode Island, his vocations are mimicked by those of a main character in the book, Tom Lonardo. Like Tom Lonardo, Daniels played pro baseball for the then Kansas City Athletics and Baltimore Orioles farm systems followed by a 35-year career as a stockbroker for major NYSE firms and partner/principal in others as mentioned in the book. A 5 year retirement employ as a table games dealer (roulette, blackjack, 3 card poker etc.) for a major Connecticut casino ensued and this experience along with his other prior endeavors and extensive travel throughout the globe provided the knowledge requisite for the books undertaking and background. He has two daughters, Danielle and Jodi by a first marriage along with a grandson Jaden and three stepchildren, Kevin, Chris and Stephanie, and seven step-grandchildren. He is presently semi-retired and living in North Kingstown, RI with his wife Pat, contemplating the possibilities of a second book.

Tells the story of two brothers, Tom and Glenn Lonardo, whose personal quests for fame, power, and the good life" place them on divergent paths. An ironic twist of fate converges their lives… Permanently bonding them together.

The stock market crash October 19,1987 becomes a pivotal life-changing event for identical twins Tom and Glenn Lonardo. The fallout from this calamitous market collapse triggers actions and events that inexorably engulf the brothers, sucking them into a vortex called disaster. It is a tale of cool assassins, a unique Las Vegas casino with its enforcers, Wall Street players and pundits and beautiful women. It is replete with a host of unforgettably bizarre characters including a Jewish midget who is part Eskimo and a FBI agent who yodels, and a background true to life story of brothers brought up in contrasting cultures. It is a story of larceny, love and lust; greed and deceit; a fugitive on the run and murder! While it is suspenseful and has its unspeakably tragic twists and turns, it is always amusing and highly entertaining. It will keep a reader’s eyes open! A work of FICTION it borrowed from much that was true.

Dedication

Dedicated to my daughters Danielle and Jodi, my sisters Leah and Diane, and my wife Pat who never gave up on me

Acknowledgements

T HIS BOOK WOULD NOT have been possible without the inspiration and guidance that God gave me. Christ was my muse. HE put the idea in my mind, an epiphany really; and gave me the confidence, the creativity and the determination to pursue what heretofore to my thinking would have been sheer folly. I want to thank my daughter Jodi for her continual encouragement and her unwavering support and my daughter Danielle who was my initial help in getting me untangled and off the dime. Her help typing and sorting out undecipherable handwritten chapters and notes was invaluable to setting me on course. Ditto to Candice Di Saia who performed a similar function for me along with giving me needed tips on using a word processor. Dear friend Ron Maggiacomo was a savior. He provided me with the means and the idea of replacing disarray with organization and direction while giving me a tutorial on the use of a computer. Many, many thanks to Linda Santos for her time spent editing and the advice she gave me, which was both salutary and beneficial. I am in deep gratitude to the dedicated staff of the North Kingstown Library for their patience and unstinting assistance over a five-year period in helping me put this book together. Thanks are extended to Tom De Petrillo for his advice and generous support for my endeavor. Further thanks are in order and extended to Alan Gittleman for his ideas, advice and encouragement and Curt Scholle who provided me with solutions to my endless computer problems and malfunctions. Also thanks to Judy Keenan and Laura Slater for cheerleading me on and to my sisters Diane and Leah along with my wife Pat for encouraging me to write about my life which for some sublime reason in their thinking they find fascinating. My life to a certain extent follows a somewhat similar tangent and is loosely congruent with one of the main characters in the book. Finally, I give added thanks to my wife Pat for her patience in putting up with those many cloistered instances when I was out of touch though several feet away from her working on this book.

"HE’S A CUTIE. I HAVE TO SAY THAT MUCH FOR HIM. TOO BAD I HAVE TO KILL HIM!"

"THAT’S FUCKING HIM! THAT’S THAT ASSHOLE ALLRIGHT. I’D BET MY LAST SHEKEL ON IT! GO TALK TO HIM. SEE IF HE HAS A RHODE ISLAND ACCENT. WHAT’LL I SAY TO HIM? FOR CHRIST SAKES STUPID! ASK HIM ANYTHING… DIRECTIONS! TELL HIM YOU WANT TO SUCK HIS DICK. I DON’T CARE WHAT… JUST DO IT!"

HE IS HOLDING THE PILLOW IN HIS UPRAISED HAND… OVER HER FACE!

"I, I uh KILLED TWO GUYS LAST NIGHT . . . TWO FUCKING GUYS! . . . I’M FUCKED! . . . I MEAN TOTALLY FUCKED!"

Warwick, Rhode Island

June 1991

SUDDENLY! A PANICKED BLOOD CURDLING SCREAM STABS THE EARLY MORNING QUIET!

T HE CAR’S HI-BEAMS FADED to black as the car finding its way past the duck pond slowly approached the entrance to the courtyard. The car at that point feeling its way; seemingly hesitant in the pitch darkness to negotiate the distance between the open wrought iron gates of the brick walls; its post lights which stand atop and man the entrance like a sentinel having long since dimmed. The car, a silent phantom in the dark, has stopped midway between the gateposts; Uncertain, indecisive, it sits in idle, the hum of its engine barely audible. Cautiously the car proceeds forward, its driver barely retaining enough vision from a pale half moon hiding behind smoky clouds to accomplish this end in the near blackness of 3 A.M.: the wee dark hours before dawn would break. The car is in the courtyard now, imperceptible; the low murmur of its engine dies with the turn of a key. The click of a car door opening is barely audible, as is its subsequent closing, it being quietly pressed shut. A figure has emerged but can’t be seen, for it presents the tenuous contrast of black on black. A hazy half moon finds its way above the black cloudbank it rested on to lend a sliver of thin illumination: a silver sheen cast on the hood of the car. It reveals the silhouette of a figure; its outline is tenebrous, barely perceptible, undefined, hardly enhanced from the pinpoints of yellow light provided by curious lightning bugs flitting by. The air, oppressively warm and heavy with moisture, hangs like a damp shroud, a carryover from the day’s searing heat and suffocating humidity. Suddenly, whispers of air are felt. Distant chimes feel the increasing movement and begin a melodious clang in their welcome as the light breeze affords a cool respite in its contrast. Heavy cloying scents of roses and lilacs are carried along with the light breeze as branches creak and groan their displeasure at being disturbed from their slumber. The figure has been standing in the courtyard for some time now. By the absence of movement and direction, it might be concluded that this someone has innocuously taken a wrong turn, is disoriented; someone trying to find bearings. It would not be easy to sense the figure’s silent presence unless one is keen of ear and could pick up the labored breathing of this person who is trying to catch breath or is hyperventilating. You would have to listen closely as the chirping of katydids, the low croaking harrumphs of bullfrogs, and the rustle of reeds and bracken in the nearby lily pond would compete for your ear. Yet, the presence of this figure, though imperceptible, is felt; and its form and configuration imagined, for it is a short distance away.

Suddenly a slender beam of light pierces the dark! Possibly a penlight; a small yellow circle in the tarmac! Awareness becomes instantly born and heightened, for the shaft of light is alive, set in motion as if by remote! It moves slowly out of the courtyard, towards and under a brick archway and onto a brick pathway between ornamental trees and shrubs leading to an area in back of the large chalet. The light, having its own animation, seems to define movements suggesting stealth, caution, and uncertainty as it makes its way deliberately, slowly, sometimes pausing… hesitant, at times seeming to retrace its forward motion. The erratic movements seems to suggest that the holder is someone not quite steadfast of purpose; wavering in conviction… or someone possibly lost, perhaps looking for something… or quite conceivably, drunk? . . . Yet the movement of light seems to be leading this someone, this person… inexorably in one direction. The breeze picks up and a brisk wind wafts and washes through the trees. It is cool enough to grow goose bumps on ones skin as the wind finds its way to the wind chimes under the archway which it tickles with a delight that causes ringing and tinkling giggles… the sound is eerie, hideous, taunting in the otherwise dead silence… The dot of light has disappeared for the moment on the patio area that is a level above the brick walkway and next to the pool and octagonal spa and no sound of footsteps have been heard above the concert of wind chimes… A cause to wonder? Suddenly the dot of light reappears against a wall of black! It is a circle of light that now moves determinably forward, the beam, alive, animate, expanding, having its own life force as it seems to be controlling and directing the holder under some hypnotic spell. A whoosh of wind rustles the leaves and set the chimes dancing playfully, clanging in concert again. The strange hour of this dark figure’s arrival and the curious, entirely irrational, and possibly sinister reason for dousing the car’s headlights before negotiating gateposts and entering a pitch-black courtyard might beget questions! One might question the purpose for this spectral figure being there at this odd hour, seemingly disorientated, and not entering the house through the front door. Perhaps there’s a logical explanation: a husband returning from a late poker game after too much drinking; going to sneak in the back door and not awaken the Missus. Perhaps a lover! Male or female? Intending to surprise? Then again, could it possibly be a… BURGLAR? . . . Behind that light? Intent on stealing the household jewels? Or WORSE, MUCH WORSE! SOMEONE BENT ON SOMETHING EVIL; MALEVOLENT! The breeze picks up and a brisk cool wind wafts and washes through the trees. It finds its way to the wind chimes on the far back deck of the house setting them ringing and clanging. The sound is chilling as it vies with the background cadence of wind rustling through the leaves and branches. Suddenly, the beam picks up speed, traces a determined path past the spa and pool, across the patio area and silently wends its way up stairs to the back deck, crosses, and halts at the side door of the glass atrium attached to the house. The sudden brain-raking metallic screeching sound of a sliding glass door that grudgingly budges open and then grinds to a close is muffled and lost over the sounds of rustling leaves and branches and accompanying wind chimes in discordant symphony. The manner of the sliding door’s movement seems highly suggestive of some clandestine intrusion or was it being considerately thoughtful and not meant to disturb others slumbering? For, it was controlled: meted out in segments in order to reduce that piercing, grating sound. A sound that at the hour might wake an entire household… Then, a measure of heavy stillness is followed by the muffled sound of someone slipping inside, possibly tiptoeing, the manner and nature of this entrance… Again, Suspicious? Forbidding possibly? A giveaway to evil intent? Or much to do about nothing? The light slowly enters the glass solarium, pauses and then darts in a zigzag pattern and finally vanishes inside. For the next ten minutes or so only a dark tension-filled silence remains. A silence that settles over the area devoid of relief or any illumination as to explanation or reason for this pre-dawn intrusion. A dead unnerving mute silence save for the whoosh of leaves and branches creaking in the wind, clawing and scratching at the shutters, and the chilling sound of chimes in the background that… and, and, AND . . . THEN! . . . SUDDENLY! ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE! PANDEMONIUM! An observer to this hair-raising clamor might experience a gripping fear! FOR THE UNNERVINGLY LOUD CRASH AND CLATTER THAT FOLLOWED PRECIPITATES A PANICKED BLOOD CURDLING SCREAM THAT STABS THE EARLY MORNING QUIET! It is the scream of someone who is terrified! It is enough to cause shivers trace up and down one’s spine and hair to bristle! . . . A slight pause in the sound! . . . Then… an ensuing thunderous cacophonous racket of ANGRY, THREATENING IMPRECATIONS AND PROFANITY! In the rattle, visions of a VIOLENT STRUGGLE taking place becomes patently clear! DIRE! BALEFUL! The utterances have IMPLICATIONS OF LIFE AND DEATH! A heavy silence intervenes… Following this pronounced and perplexing lull, lights suddenly flood the patio and pool area, shattering the darkness! A figure, struggling and stumbling under weight, emerges, exiting the atrium door to the back deck leading down to the patio and pool area. What sounds like water splashing in the pool shortly follows. As suddenly as the lights had switched on, they would be extinguished minutes later. A period of exacting quietude save for the distant harmonious chiming settles in. Suddenly the figure swathed in darkness emerges out the side door of the house and quickly walks back to that car in the courtyard. The car’s trunk is quietly opened and closed; the mysterious visitor opens the car door, slips into the driver’s seat, and after an eternally dark and pensive pause starts the engine purring. Quietly, the car semi-circles the courtyard, speeds past the gates and duck pond and disappears below the hill, heading towards the luminescent blood-red glow of the new eastern sky. The sun, a half-step below, and peeking above the horizon creating an original and spectacular painting in nuance streaks and shades of pink, lavender, and orange pastel.

A thought might remain to a silent observer: Was the car’s occupant experiencing the dark ending after a bright beginning or the bright beginning after a dark ending… or perhaps?? . . . BOTH!!

Part one: TRUTH

Germany 1911

E LIZABETH OTTO, 25, A student at the Music Conservatory in Salzburg was vacationing with friends when she met Oscar Blackman at the warm baths and spas of Baden-Baden. Oscar, in his mid 30’s, had taken some leisure time off from his hectic life managing the family textile empire in Mannheim and Forst in Germany. Oscar had inherited the business as the eldest son of an aristocratic Prussian family upon the death of his father, an old Junker whose wife had died several years before. Oscar’s interest in managing textile mills with their arcane weaving machines was nil. The mills were busy, their biggest customer being the Kaiser, the mills providing uniforms and clothing for his military. Oscar was a poster figure for and the embodiment of the Aryan ideal, though not in the stereotypical vein of being overly militaristic, humorless or an adherent to strict discipline and order. His imposing, tall, 6ft4, rugged stature belied the fact that he was a most genial, fun loving gentle man who wore a comely smile on his handsome face. He was a dilettante, a dabbler in painting, writing, playing the piano and composing. His true passion was the culinary arts He fancied himself a gourmet cook and a master brewer of sorts, a skill he had developed from his uncle. He did not feel comfortable masquerading as the chief exec running a textile business he had no aptitude or passion for. He felt the business was a burden, an albatross he wore grudgingly, a business he had no business managing

Elizabeth and Oscar were alike in many ways, ways that belied the notion that only opposites attract. There was magnetism, a chemistry that existed between them when they met. She was a stunning, if understated beauty. She possessed delicate features, classic cheekbones, blue eyes, a dazzling dimpled smile, tousled blonde hair, and a look as much Scandinavian as Austrian. She was sensitive and shy but could at times be petulant and demanding. They shared the same passion for music, she studying piano and voice at the conservatory. She was intelligent, university educated, rare for women at the time; from a middle class family of culture and refinement. Her father was a professor of humanities and history at the University of Hohen-Hein, while her mother was a chemist at Boehreinger Mannheim AG, both located in Stuttgart near the family residence. They were meant for each other; both felt it and they soon married, for love had its way.

Oscar had premonitions and concerns over the inevitability of war, sensing the military buildup through the increasing orders for uniforms at the mills. He visualized the havoc war might render; destruction, devastation, and possibly disaster. He decided, fortunately as events bore out, that it was time to divest and get out; to dispose of the mills in Mannheim and Forst and personal property that had been in the family for generations. After an equitable disbursement to a brother and two sisters, all married with their own families and professions, he and Elizabeth decided to leave for America to tend to one last piece of family business, a decision mainly Oscar’s, a decision difficult for Elizabeth given her close relationship with her parents and brother.

Both Elizabeth and Oscar were proficient enough in English having studied in private schools as well as at the university, she in Cologne and Oscar in Heidelberg. Of the two Oscar was the most fluent, this developed out of necessity in his business dealings with English and American customers. Elizabeth had a most fetching accent to her English speak, pronouncing W’s as V’s and V’s as W’s as in: Ist der vorter vorm; an accent that stayed with her for life.

In 1913 the couple arrived in Rhode Island to address the last detail of business, the sale of Geneva Mills, a textile mill that had curiously been made part of the Blackman family fortune a generation earlier. The sale was consummated, the couple liked the area, it being reminiscent in some obtuse way of the area they left. They decided through many wrenching discussions and heart tugs to stay and establish some roots and a "rasion d’etre." Oscar’s premonition of war had indeed come to fact: Tensions in Europe had already begun to percolate and escalate to war. World War I had begun and Germany was no place to return to.

North Providence at the time was rural; low gentle rolling hills with forests of maple, oak, chestnut and scrub pine, blue gray lakes and cool rushing streams; nubs of first generation immigrant families mainly of Irish, French, and Italian descent dotted the landscape. Most were blue collared families barely making it in the land of opportunity. After the sale of the mill, Oscar, wary and suspicious of American banks and not willing to hide a sizable fortune under the mattress, converted much of his cash into property. He acquired acreage, several tenement buildings, single family rental homes, and several businesses that were converted into dining and drinking establishments all of which he rented or leased out, save one. He became in a short period of time a US citizen and one of North Providence’s biggest landlords and landowners. The first property purchased was a parcel of 9 acres that ran across and north on Douglas Avenue and was bordered by a river on the east. The property included two dozen or so fruit trees: cherry, pear, and apple, and several three-story tenement buildings; some operating with saloons on the first floor. The three-tenement building the couple decided to inhabit contained just that: a first floor barroom with a sawdust floor and brass spittoons. It was seedy, rundown, and derelict, but its location, size and its potential became the compelling reasons why Oscar decided to buy the property. Oscar had always harbored a desire to be a tavern owner having acquired cooking and brewing skills in Germany; the cooking while apprenticing at a culinary arts school in Mannheim, and the brewing, a skill he developed from the teaching of his Uncle Otto, who was a recognized brew-master. He had learned the fermentation process, using barley, yeast, hops, and malt to brew lagers, ales, pilsners, and strong German bock beer. He bought the kettles, pots and requisite equipment to brew his own beer in the German tradition. He also built a large grape arbor on the property, acquired a winepress, and made a tolerable wine suited to the mostly unsophisticated tastes of the local citizenry. He redid the bar itself, replacing the worn stained wood with a brass top on dark polished mahogany; a long bar complete with brass foot rails and new hi-back wooden stools. Highly polished brass spittoons replaced the tobacco stained cuspidors that had served as expectorants. The interior was done in Bavarian style: dark polished wood floors and tables, heavy beamed ceilings, overhead fans; taxidermy heads of deer, elk, and buffalo, mute trophies for bragging rights that overlooked the drinking patrons as if in judgment or supervision. He resurfaced the billiard table, put in card tables and barrels of peanuts, the shells quickly replacing the sawdust on the floor. Oscar knew that the salt intake would inspire increased drinking. He added his home German home brew to local draughts Hanley’s Ale and Narragansett Lager and complemented the booze by offering two inch thick sandwiches of turkey, roast beef and corn beef, roasted off the bone. Knockwurst and sauerkraut were included as well.. He kept true to the Bavarian theme, hiring two burly, and handlebar mustachioed German types as bartenders. Oscar’s Tavern became an instant success. Card playing, usually poker, gin rummy and cribbage went on non-stop accompanied by loud betting and profanities. With arguments and billiard balls clicking, discordant sounds converged into a frenetic din. The buzz of voices could be heard, strained through a screen of thick, curling cigar smoke that muted everyone in a gray fog-like tint; the ripe odor of beer combined with the acrid biting smell of cigar smoke assaulted nostrils. Oscar wanted a drinking man’s emporium and he had it… .Have a cigar and a brandy became a slogan. Oscar soon became as busy as he had been managing the family mills in Germany for besides his marriage and running the tavern, he was occupied overseeing and managing property, rentals, leases and maintenance… But he had found his passion and didn’t care. For his and Elizabeth’s leisure and pleasure he installed a piano in a large dusty back room. One might hear at various times of the day, away from the bar crowd and noise, Mozart, Chopin or Heiden and other classical composers being played; or listen to Elizabeth, in fine voice, singing in German, her piano in accompaniment.

Elizabeth could be seen most days in the spring and summer tending to her magnificent gardens she had created from weedy overgrown fields. The gardens soon became her passion. Manicured putting greens for lawns, pedestal birdbaths adorned with figures of cupid, pebbled walkways laced with white stone and lined with rhododendron, rose, and lilac bushes; a trellised rose arbor over 30 feet long covered with pink and white roses, lattice works of morning glory and honeysuckle, mulched gardens of gladiola, lilies, peonies and tulips became her picture postcard and an eye-treat to passerbys. It was an A to Z selection of flowers and sweet aromas on a green expanse of lawn dotted with ornamental flowering and old oak trees. A scene out of a Burpee flower seed catalog. Viewing the gardens became a destination point for locals who took family wedding photographs against this landscape. It became her passion working 6-7 hours daily along with a full time gardener she hired to assist her.

The couple found time for lovemaking and two years of marriage produced a son Kurt Heinrich Blackman, Heinie for short, the only child this marriage would realize. However, while life was good at the time Oscar fell ill and died three years later, a victim at an early age of overwork and influenza, pandemic at the time. Elizabeth, who loved Oscar deeply became lonely, desperately depressed and withdrawn; she was not up to the task of operating and managing her husband’s multi-faceted business’ or properties and sold most of the family’s holdings at buyer’s price. She kept their residence and tavern businesses including the Oak Tree Tavern a popular rustic dine and dance establishment on Mineral Spring Avenue.

The Oak Tree with its large dining facility had been operating on a lease basis by a very close friend of her departed husband: Arthur Andrews. Oscar and Arthur used to go pheasant and duck hunting and enjoyed skeet shooting at the Sportsman’s Club in Smithfield. They fished together, played gin rummy and cribbage, argued politics and sports, and drank together. Elizabeth liked Arthur feeling he was a good friend and buddy for her husband who despite his congeniality did not make friends easily. They had interests in common and confided in each other in man to man talks. After Oscar’s death Arthur would visit Elizabeth frequently to see how she was holding up. Concerned for her, he offered his help and support. Eventually she asked him to manage her husband’s tavern business, it being a similar establishment to the Oak Tree tavern, which he had been running. Elizabeth trusted him; relied on his judgment in business as well as other matters. He had large shoulders for her to lean on. Feelings of respect and trust blossomed into love and they married, the marriage producing two daughters: Barbara born in 1917 and Karen two years later.

North Providence 1948

T HE SHRILL PIERCING SCREAM of the sirens broke the quiet like the shattering of glass, putting everyone at the dinner table on a startled pause. It produced collective shock, a frisson, a catatonic state, a freeze frame for the diners who sat fork to mouth. Then the video plays and animation begins with a precipitate sharp chorus of Oh my God! The fire trucks! . . . The police! They’ve fallen in! The Lonardos had just sat down for dinner when they heard the wailing siren, an unnerving assault on the senses that only heralded trouble. The Lonardo’s, Mr. and Mrs. Anthony, their twin sons, Tom and Glenn, and daughter Diane jumped up from the table as one. Hastily grabbing their winter coats they rushed out of their third floor tenement and down stairs as if the sirens, a clarion, had blared an urgency to evacuate a major conflagration. They headed for the pond, racing at jog speed to catch up with the pandemonium.

The boys had been outside before being called for dinner, horsing around, passing the football on the field that separated two three story tenement buildings; the field, part of nine acres in the family parcel that served as an all purpose recreational field for the Lonardos and the neighboring kids. It was where friends commonly gathered, played games and sports, or just hung out together; there were seven of them that late afternoon in November with Thanksgiving a few days away, close friends, part of the regular pack that hung out together. The Lonardo twins and Diane, Frenchy Dupre, Jimmy Degnan, and the Bashaw kids: Bill and Beverly, tossing a football, kidding around, and shooting the breeze. It was a day devoid of breeze; black trees barren of leaves etched against a drab gray sky; the air felt damp, heavy. It had started to snow large cotton-like flakes that fell softly and melted upon contact with the ground. Somehow, it felt too warm to snow. The Lonardo’s had light jackets on over their sweaters and were not feeling cold at all. Maybe it just felt warm in contrast to the icy zero—feel like temperatures of the past few weeks. Temperatures that had frozen over the nearby ponds and the river that bordered their property, cold enough to thicken the ice sufficiently to accommodate skating and hockey games. There had been no respite from the frigid weather for over 2 weeks, but today however, it felt warm, warm enough to work up a light sweat. Glenn, his twin brother Tom, Ray Frenchy Dupre and Jimmy Picker Degnan were fifth graders as was Beverly Bashaw while Diane was in the third grade and Billy Bashaw in the fourth. All were looking forward to Thanksgiving vacation, 3 days away. Ray was named Frenchy not so much for his family descent but for his passion for French fries, all he seemed to subsist on. The runty but tough runny nosed Jimmy Degnan was stuck with the sobriquet Picker, short for nose picker, a name congruous with his habit, a name he hated, a name he’d fight you over if called, despite his size. Picker was well liked by the gang, sort of their mascot. He made them laugh with his ability to mimic bizarre sounds, familiar people’s voices, and mannerisms. Ray on the other hand was the least liked of the close pack of a dozen or so neighborhood friends. From a poorer family he was always borrowing from friends and had once been caught breaking into a friend’s house, stealing a 22 rifle and other items. He had gotten off with a stern reprimand and parental punishment after returning the stolen items. Since then many distrusted him, always thinking he was up to something devious. The Bashaw siblings were next door friends; it was rumored they would be moving to West Virginia which upset Diane and Glenn since they were closest of friends.

The boys were getting out of school at the same time but this was not always the case as St. Edwards parochial dealt with religious and other holidays differently than the secular Stephan Olney School, often referred to as the Woodville Elementary School. Vacation periods didn’t’ always coincide exactly. Glenn, Diane and Picker Degnan went to St, Edwards in the tough Wanskuk section while Tom and Ray Dupre were enrolled at Woodville, near the busy intersection of Mineral Spring and Douglas. The two miles between the schools was generally known as the Geneva section of North Providence.

Tom had started St. Edwards with Glenn but was not compliant or penitent enough to suit the Jesuit priests, Mother Superior, or the Sisters who demanded strict adherence to catechism, religious study and classroom conduct. They were strict disciplinarians, would not tolerate disobedience and severely punished those who were out of line. Pupils could expect a slapped face, rapped knuckles, and a heavy penance of Hail Mary’s, Our Fathers, or Acts of Contrition imposed for the slightest infraction. Tom did not thrive in this rigid structure. Many a day he had returned home with his hands red and swollen, a testament to his not measuring up to their rules of conduct and study, hence the heavy and frequent application of the ruler. Art Desjardins, a friend, once told him that the nuns were originally cheerleaders at the Inquisition . . . Whatever the Inquisition was?

The trouble was that Tom being gifted intelligence wise and ahead of his classmates found schoolwork easy and quite boring. Consequently he became all play and no work, thinking he was a cut-up, an entertainer like his father. He enjoyed playing the class clown, at times becoming a disruptive smart aleck. His constant misconduct, sometimes insolence, and sneaking out of school after recess, his badge of honor to his friends got the Sister’s attention; it resulted in him being summarily dismissed from St. Edwards; this after several warnings, Parent-Mother Superior meetings and suspensions. This broke Karen’s heart. His mother, who was devout and had once taught Sunday school, was worried that Tom was heading in the wrong direction, towards and with the tough public school kids at Woodville. Tom, though he would miss his friends at St. Edwards, was overjoyed to get out, having had it with the draconian nuns, the discipline, and the boring religious bit that he so questioned. He would go to Woodville K-6 and be a part of the unwashed, undisciplined world of semi-literate kids at the public school a description he had once overheard, uttered by a friend of his mother and accepted as truth.. Yes, he was being banished from the elite, scrubbed clean, little uniformed snobs at St. Edwards. It rather suited him fine.

Tom and Glenn Lonardo were the pride and joy of Tony and Karen Lonardo. Identical physically and in appearance save for a purplish birthmark on Tom’s right thigh and the later awareness that Tom was left-handed and Glenn right-handed, the boys seemed to have the same happy smiling disposition. The twins, born after two miscarriages were peas in a pod, God’s gift to Karen after petition, entreaties, prayer and a fading hope of bearing children. Two years later as a gratuity for indulgences and for good measure, God threw in a daughter, Diane who would enter the world as damaged goods, being asthmatic from birth. The boy’s play that November afternoon was interrupted by the arrival of the Desjardins brothers, Art and Dave, and a Hey guys, what’s happening? greeting in a high pitched girlish voice that no one would suspect came from the throat of the heavyset brawny Art. The Desjardins who sometimes claimed their last name was the anglicized Gardner were from the tough Wanskuk area and were friends Tom had met at St. Edwards. Both were older than the twins; Art almost three years their senior and Dave a year younger than his brother. Sometimes called Red because of thick reddish brown hair and Art the Fart behind his back for his excessive and proud emissions, Art had a badly acned face, the vestige due to a split-decision win over the pox. Dave being younger than Art and without his brother’s affliction was physically less imposing in stature. Despite the age difference of three years Art was in the same class as Tom at Woodville having traveled a similar path of conduct from St. Edwards. He had repeated the third and fourth grades there, was habitually truant and eventually kicked out. Dave had also repeated fourth grade at St. Edwards but learned that his brother’s trouble making wouldn’t work in the strict parochial structure and amended his own conduct accordingly. Glenn thought both boys to be stupid bullies and kids to avoid, sharing the thoughts of their other friends who thought them jerks as well. Tom for some reason Glenn couldn’t comprehend looked up to them, especially Art. The Desjardins who were both bigger and older than the other boys in school would extort dimes and quarters from schoolmate’s lunch money offering them protection from getting beat up, which usually meant from themselves, but meant to include others. Lo and behold the unfortunate, unknowing boy who threatened or harmed one of the protected. This was a guarantee of a sound beating administered by one of the Desjardins eager to show off his toughness. It was good for business. Despite the fact that both Tom and Glenn were taller, stronger and more athletic than their friends and classmates and could more than hold their own in any brawl, Glenn thought that Tom was wary and somewhat intimidated by the Desjardins and told his brother so. Tom in a display of his fiery temper said it was the other way around that Glenn was afraid of the Desjardins. It was Glenn however who stood up to Art Desjardin and refused to back down. This was after Art had threatened to beat Tom up if he didn’t come up with some money. Instead of standing up to Red as he was called, Tom nervously emptied his pockets to show that he didn’t have any coins on him. When Art then turned to Glenn with the same threat Glenn in so many words told him to get lost. Art who was taller and heavier than the Lonardo twins then pushed Glenn and Glenn stood up to the bigger boy and pushed back! A fist fight, grappling, wrestling match ensued with Glenn refusing to back down; He blackened one of Red’s eyes, bloodied his nose and fought him to a rough and tumble standstill. Art was sent home with swollen face, deeply humbled and with a healthy respect for the Lonardo twins, especially Glenn. For his badge of black and blue courage, Glenn earned a sore jaw, a swollen lip, a bloody cut that ran above it which turned into a faint thin scar from scab picking, and an exemption for the Lonardo twins from contributing their lunch money. Being shown-up by his brother and feeling angry and embarrassed, Tom vowed to never to back down from a fight again, no matter how big or intimidating his adversary was. Still, Glenn thought his brother stupid and questioned his wanting to curry the Desjardin’s favor and seek acceptance to their circle of hooligan friends, most of whom had bad reputations. The Desjardins thought themselves tough, cool and hip. They both smoked, had taken beer out of their father’s icebox on several occasions which they chugged down and acted drunk. Another time they had tried sniffing model airplane glue because they heard you can see these bright fantastic colors and shapes swirl about in your head. All the sniffing did was make them dizzy, sick and throw up. Mostly Red and Dave would chum around with their truant, hoodlum friends who hung around Charles St. and the Wanskuk Boy’s Club smoking and screwing around, getting into trouble stealing penny candy and comic books. Tom sometimes hung around with them eager to hear Art’s bragging about feeling up Carole Joyce who had big ones and was pretty. Carol Joyce as well as Joyce Prime held a certain fascination to him he liked. He thought them both to be pretty and hip. Art claimed he knew how to do it or whatever that meant with girls who put out. Tom was unsure of the meaning but was eager to find out although he felt Art was a braggart who often exaggerated and lied. It was Art who had introduced Tom and his friends to masturbation. Jerking off he called it. Art once held a hands on demonstration in Grammy’s tool shed for several of them who watched in fascination and awe to see white stuff shoot out of his dick. Red had this real humongus dick… and this white pus came squirting out, though Art called it cum he told Glenn who thought they were all imbeciles to be party to such a demonstration. You’re all pretty stupid and disgusting was one of his comments along with What he did was seriously bad! He probably did a lot of damage to his John Henry. Tom had been aware of a need, a stirring in his groin, a mounting urgency accompanied by attendant and puzzling hard-ons but hadn’t done anything to his John Henry like Art did to his. Despite Glenn’s dire warning, after Art’s demonstration he tried jerking off" and felt incredible excitement, sensation and pulsating release but became concerned when no white stuff came out. Tom thought perhaps he already did harm to himself or something was physically wrong with him and considered telling his brother but was embarrassed to. After that experience, he demurred from experimenting further despite the ache and desire for relief. Shortly thereafter he changed his mind about telling his brother and also the demurral. The boys could not conceive of the fact that babies grew in and came from girl’s bellies. They were still looking for the stork to land.

The Desjardin brothers despite their questionable popularity on the south end of Branch Avenue sought the friendship and approval of the kids of wealthier parents, kids who seemed to have the best clothes, the best toys and were not like the punks and jerks around Wanskuk Boys Club and the tough Charles Street gangs. Affluence was extended northward on Douglas as the area was more rural, open and spacious with suburbia on the rise in the late 40’s and early 50’s. Although St. Edwards was situated in the older, poorer neighborhoods it was the school of choice for the kids of wealthier parents who liked the Catholic teaching and the discipline the nuns there imposed.

Tom liked the Desjardin family who always offered him a snack or invited him for dinner when he bopped in with the brothers. He felt they were friendly, gracious, good people although a bit too much for him with the same religion stuff he tired of at St. Edwards. They always said Grace even at the simplest of meals and it was always God be with you and The Lord will provide for you. It didn’t seem to Tom that God was providing much for the Desjardin family. I mean he told Glenn all they eat are chicken necks. They never have the whole chicken or even the good parts. I usually tell them I’m not hungry when they offer me anything The Desjardin parents had their hands full trying to survive on a husband’s custodial pay, dealing with Art and Dave, and a teenage daughter who liked boys too much. The boy’s mother Claire, a slight stooped woman with premature signs of gray hair seemed worn, tired and wrinkled to Tom. She nervously moved about feigning a smile over a worried demeanor. She would usually greet Tom with a warm hug. Her burly, balding, pot-bellied husband, Claude, who Tom seldom saw, always smelled of beer and smoke. He had a florid mottled balloon face with stubble of reddish graybeard. He customarily had an upbeat friendly Hi Tom how’s the boy? greeting for him, and a big smile but Tom sensed it was all sham, given in a pervasive, pitiful atmosphere of sadness and gloom. Tom felt a despair that was palpable there; drawing energy from him" though it was never verbalized in his thoughts.. Tom was very fond of Claire who reminded him of his grandmother on Veazie Street; Not in her looks or her general demeanor but in her kindness and tender, saintly ways. He could feel her genuine affection for him as he could feel her pain and sadness. In ways he felt he loved her like his grandmother; many times he left the Desjardin household feeling sad and despondent, a feeling that lingered with him for some time afterwards. Their sin as Tom saw it was being poor with no redemption or hope in sight.

Art and Dave had brought their hockey skates and asked Hey you guys wanna go skating on the pond? The pond being Geneva pond, a rough circle 300 yards in diameter, twelve feet deep at the max; fed by two small streams. The pond had an overflow dam that drained off excess water creating a constant waterfall; a 30-foot drop to a stream below. The stream fed into the river that ran behind the fruit orchards on their grandmother’s property. Because of Geneva Pond’s close proximity to the neighborhood, it was an easy access summer recreation area although dangerous to swimmers due to hidden boulders and a strong current coursing out to the dam.

The five boys and the two girls had stopped play and grouped together upon the Desjardins arrival. As the question of skating was raised, Picker rejoined I dunno, you think it’s safe? Yeah it’s safe, The ice’s thick. They’re skating everywhere. Dave replied. Tom, indecisive, looked at Glenn for a clue to his thinking and Glenn, not really in favor of doing anything with the Desjardins muttered I, I don’t know… It’s kinda late. The stalemate was broken by a call to dinner by Mrs. Lonardo. Glenn voiced, looking at Diane, we betta go in. It’s time to eat. That said Picker added Shit that reminds me! I gotta get home for supper too. Beverly and Billy Bashaw, not liking the Desjardins and seeing no fun in it said we better get home too, It’s getting late. Ray rendered his decision, Okay. I’ll go get my skates and meet you guys there.

Molding Moments

T HE NEAR FROZEN BODIES of the Desjardin brothers were pulled out of Geneva Pond 2 hours after the Lonardo’s heard the strident sirens of the Geneva Fire Department and the North Providence Police racing to the scene. The Lonardo’s had quickly snatched their winter jackets and headed to the pond at a jogger’s pace, joining the excited mob of neighboring families spilling out of their houses as if panicked to escape a blazing fire. At the pond, rapt spectators caught up in the wild commotion, noise, and confusion, were drawn to the scene, their curiosity, and fascination heightened by the potential magnitude of the unfolding tragedy and the drama associated with it. As light snow and temperatures continued to fall with the onset of night, many in the crowd of onlookers shivered, chilled to the bone in the cold, raw, dampness; their chill mainly due to the haste of their departure without proper attire. They quickly gathered on a crescent along the rocky beach as well as on a better vantage incline overlooking the pond. Firemen rushed to the shore with ladders amid shouts from spectators What happened?, What’s going on? Do you know them? A garish night scene illuminated by Klieg lights pointing to the black hole in the middle of the grey-blue ice where the boys had fallen in would become frozen in the onlookers minds for the rest of their lives. Long ladders were stretched flat across the ice. Firemen tentatively crawled on them carefully dispersing their weight, some slowly making their way towards the black hole, while others crawled towards the overflow dam. The Lonardo’s stood shivering, their eyes fixed on the black hole; the cold and a myriad of dire thoughts numbing their minds. The Desjardin family could not be seen, amongst the crowd of onlookers gathered there. Do you see the Desjardins anywhere? Karen asked This is so awful, I can’t imagine what they must be going through—that poor mother. She added her teeth beginning to chatter. Tom, who couldn’t see over the height of the bystanders; a crush of people who had surged forward trying to catch a closer glimpse of the rescue attempt, climbed atop some large boulders that rimmed a section of the pond for a better vantage. He jumped down excited and ran to his mother saying, I saw them over near the dam talking to the police. Mrs. Desjardin was crying. Frenchy was over there too. So was Mr. Desjardin and Renee So it was Art and Dave who fell in. noted Karen.shuddering. Appears that way voiced Tony It’s just so horrible, so sad added Karen. Very tragic. Very! added Tony.

Dave, they found out later from Frenchy who had run to summon help, had fallen in first, then bobbed to the surface, desperately screaming for help while grasping for and clinging to the edge of the ice, fighting a current that was pulling him under the ice towards the dam. Art, in desperate panic, had vainly tried to save him. He stood bent over, reaching out, and offered his hand while shouting Dave! Grab my hand! Grab my hand! which Dave, panicky, swallowing water and gasping for air, managed to briefly grasp. The weight increased by the pull and poor body displacement of Art standing on the edge of the ice conspired against the brothers and collaborated with the ice giving way and Art joining his brother in the icy black water. Both swept under the ice towards the overflow dam on their final voyage to eternity.

St. Edwards’s church was the site of the funeral mass held two days after Thanksgiving on a cold, drizzly, gray morning, weather befitting the gloomy occasion. St. Edwards, a brick gothic inspired edifice with adjoining clerestory, rectory, convent, and K-6 school served as the epicenter of religious life and many aspects of social life for the mainly Italian and Irish families and a smattering of French that constituted 90% of the demographics of the area. Many of its parishioners lived a mile and a half radius on all compass points from the church. It served as a bastion of Catholicism and ministered the tenets of the Vatican to its faithful congregation, tending to their sacramental needs and spiritual guidance, paving the path of the righteous to immortality in God’s heaven. Indeed most of the parishioners had been baptized there, received their First Communion, were Confirmed as Christians, married, and many had buried their loved ones following Extreme Unction and funeral services conducted by a priest there, a complete cradle to grave sacramental package for the devout and not so devout. Besides providing spiritual nurturing and nourishment the church was also a center for secular activity, a sort of community center, in that it held minstrels, bazaars, bingo, provided a food pantry and clothes for the indigent and it had its own boys and girls athletic teams in a CYO league. The cathedral, a cruciform church, had a clock spire and bell tower which dominated the skyline. At Christmastime one could hear the bells pealing Christmas carols for miles around. For those attending the funeral that morning overwhelming feelings of shock, sadness and unquantifiable grief would leave indelible impressions on their minds, impressions for a lifetime. For Tom Lonardo, who already had impressions regarding church and religion burned in his mind, the tragedy that occurred and begot others accelerated him along a path he had already stepped on.

The Lonardo family minus Diane (she’s too young for this) had attended the wake the night before the funeral, a somber grim occasion at the Corbett and Quirk Funeral Home. Indeed they had driven past Geneva Pond to get to the funeral home and all eyes had turned right on the passing; eyes riveted to the black hole midway out on the pond. Visions and memories of that night would revisit any local passerby each and every time the hole was viewed and remained visible. At the wake, Tom had wondered why they called it that as the Desjardin brothers were far removed from that state and would never wake again. Asleep forever would have been more appropriate he thought but didn’t ask the question or offer his opinion. He waited in a long line behind solemn mourners who came to pay their respects to the family. When it was his and Glenn’s turn after Karen and their father had kneeled and mumbled an inaudible prayer, Tom knelt between the two coffins, not knowing what to say. He uttered a few sounds, unable to form words. He looked at Glenn who was reciting The Lord’s Prayer and felt queasy. He should have said something like that. Glenn always knew what to say. He was in a hot sweat, caught up in the emotion of the moment, for he had never seen a dead body and now here were two. The atmosphere was heavy, charged. He wondered what dead people feel like though the thought of touching them made him squeamish. He was so nervous his lips quivered. He thought he might get sick. It didn’t even look like Art and Dave. He had expected the faces to be blue like Frenchy described but they had a waxen look on their face and wore a lot of makeup like a young girl would when trying to act grownup. Why with the sickening sweet, heavy cloying scent of dozens of flowers around them they smelled like they were wearing perfume. It was almost enough to make you want to vomit, besides he had never seen them dressed up in suits. They were always raggedy and dirty and smelled. I guess, he thought, you have to be presentable before God invited you to Heaven. His mother and father somberly shook hands and said some soft consoling words to the Desjardins who stood stiffly except for Claire who had remained seated. Some that were standing and greeting were relatives Tom had never met or seen before. Claire appeared to be numb, in a trance or in another world though her hands shook and her mouth twitched as if she was mumbling something to herself. Dark rings of sweat circled her eyes and she looked old, sickly; pale and exhausted. Tom, dreading what was next, hoped: Why doesn’t Glenn go first . . . but on legs of rubber was the first to approach her and Claude. When she looked up from her gaze, leaving for an instant the unknown world she was in, she stood up to Tom before he could say a word, for he had hesitated, nervously not knowing what to say. She instantly began sobbing, reached out and threw her arms around him in a motherly embrace, hugging him to her breast while she kissed his forehead. Tom, taken aback, ears reddening, stiffened… then feeling her pain relaxed, although he was visibly shaken and wanted to leave. He muttered to her that he was sorry for he had heard others say that to her. All the while he fought back tears and wouldn’t look at her. He broke from her without saying anything to Claude and hid behind his mother who spoke softly to Claire and clasped her hands. It was all too tense and nerve-racking and he wanted to leave. His mother and father however thought it best for all to remain with others who sat as an audience of zombies witnessing the receiving line, solemnly, hardly speaking to one another except in whispered greeting and mutual acknowledgment. Weren’t people supposed to be praying? They just sit here staring as does Mom, Dad, and Glenn, all trying to look pious. I wonder what would happen if someone blew a loud fart? he thought, inwardly giggling at the absurdity of the idea. He remembered it was only two weeks ago that he let a boomer rip at the cinema, in absolute silence, just as the plot was building to a taut edge of your seat crescendo. It brought laughter from the audience despite its leaving the climactic spell shattered. Diane and Glenn were hysterical with laughter while Granny, he recalled, who had taken them to the movies was thoroughly mortified. She and Tom wanted to crawl under the seats or leave immediately. Despite the comic relief from his recollection and the proud self—satisfied smile it produced Tom thought the entire wake episode as being dreadfully awful and gruesome. He still wanted to leave.

Tom it seemed had not bought into the strict discipline or adhered to doctrines meted out and demanded by the sisters of St. Edwards’s parochial school like his brother Glenn had. For Glenn had listened to and followed his mother’s direction when it came to God, Christ, church and discipline. He had become an acolyte, an altar boy, a true believer. Tom had listened to his father, who not a churchgoer like his mother had told him that people were hypocrites whatever that meant, They attended Mass only to be seen by others. They look at their watches and pray for Mass to end. His father said. They figure by attending Mass and mumbling or listening to a few words they don’t even understand they are buying insurance into Heaven in case it did exist… . Immortality Insurance he called it. They can operate from a clean slate after a Bless me Father confession, a few Hail Marys’, Our Fathers’ and an Act of Contrition. This would expiate guilt in their minds and set them straight for another week of sinning. Tom had heard his father with a disdainful laugh cite the many Sundays, the faithful, after church and Communion, would make a beeline to the tavern and get soused by noon. This talk by his father drew the ire of his mother, the very few times he had seen what for her passed as anger. With raised voice, her pathetic excuse for a shout, she declared You’re not filling my children with your crap! Your sinful notions! If you don’t want to give them proper spiritual guidance then keep your twisted ideas to yourself. I’m bringing up yours and my children, as is my duty, to teach them to be God fearing, Christ loving and respectful, all things you are not. If you want to burn in Hell go right ahead but you are not taking my children with you. His father had rolled his eyes at her outburst and held back his comments other than muttering while walking away from her: For Christ’s sake. Get on to yourself."

Tom had been unceremoniously kicked out of Saint Edwards the year before after suspension for disruptive and disrespectful chronic behavior, something that had deeply hurt and concerned his mother rather than angered her. Glenn, being an acolyte and obedient, had not counterbalanced her disposition toward Tom but only obviated