An Ugly Man

By P.J.C. Tavormina

Value not a man for the depth of his character, instead judge him simply by the magnitude of his accomplishments. Peter Torina believes nothing could be truer in America, but his is an ugly man and nobody values an ugly man unless he's special. Peter Torina wants to be special, but he is a man of no potential until tragedy beats him down to that point which he can bow no further. Then enters the savior who will change Torina from what he is to what he will become. Follow him on his journey to become that which he has always wanted to be and regret not the consequences of his transformation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781641380362

Book preview

Chapter 1

November 20, 1998

What have I become. The words drop heavily from his lips to splash along the corners of his mind, colliding, crashing, and finally penetrating his memory. He stands stoic in the shower and lets the warm water cascade off his body like a summer rain slapping along the jagged edge of a mountain’s face.

Resting his head upon the cool tile just below the waterspout the words once again spill from his lips. What have I become.

Is it a statement or a question, or does he even know himself? And even if he did, should we care? If this was just an ordinary man, common to the world, dwelling within its shadows, probably not, but there are a few men in our society whose names merely mentioned conjure visions in our heads that are seared in our brain. This is such a man.

Years before, the old man had explained to him, there were only three titles in this world worth having, only three. All others were just a vain attempt at man patronizing himself. The first was pope of the Holy Roman Catholic Church, second was president of the United States, and third was heavyweight champion of the world.

The first two were merely popularity contests, and only the third had to be earned and it was the third in which he reigned as king. Peter Torina, the Peter Torina, Peter Joseph Anthony Torina, Torina the Bull, a man whose face was as recognizable as the president’s and whose popularity once rivaled that of the pope.

Confused by his own statement, he turns off the water and steps from the shower onto the cold tile floor. The house is cool. It is mid-November, the week before Thanksgiving, and he is held up in his penthouse cottage.

A cottage, mind you, that reminds one of a small European castle high upon a man-made mountain. With its terra-cotta parrot pits and crystal glass windows, plastered walls and marble walkways, stone fireplaces and skyline garden, all with a breathtaking view of west side Gotham.

His body is so weakened by the disease that he can barely towel himself dry. It is the end. His throne long ago forsaken was left for younger, stronger, and more talented men to wage war over, but nothing can ever take away what he once was, which gave him value as a man.

For a moment he forgets himself and then looks at his naked body in the large mirror that stands before him. A frigid chill shoots up his spine and he quickly grabs hold of a towel, stumbling slightly, before tightly wrapping it around his waist, shielding himself from his shame. Even after all this time and all his conquests, he cannot bear to look at himself naked.

Samson had his mane and Achilles his heal. For Torina it is his member or the lack thereof that brings to him his vulnerability, a private shame of birth. That small little acorn that protrudes between his legs, the turtle’s head that never seems to come out of its shell. God’s stain upon his fragile ego.

Whenever he felt like quitting, when he was at the end of his strength, when his legs hurt so much that he could not move them, or when his arms were so heavy that he could not lift them. When his vision blurred or his blood shed, it was his doubt in himself as a man that surged him on making him push himself beyond himself until nothing could crumble him or make him quit, securing his position of greatness unparallel in his world and ultimately the symbol of man.

He slips on a pair of boxer shorts and wears a large warm bathrobe and slippers. Struggling he walks out of the bathroom and through the large cavern that is his home. A private prison for the affluent but one that brings him the security of seclusion, surrounded by the most hectic of environments below.

Out of the bedroom he continues his long, slow stroll down the hallway and past the mass of bedrooms, private baths, and sitting rooms with cathedral ceilings and down a sweeping staircase below the stained glass windows to the first level. Through the grand foyer, under the chandeliers, and out to the gourmet kitchen, the envy of any small five-star restaurant.

He thinks that maybe he should have something to eat, seemingly always hungry. Peter forages around the refrigerator for a snack but finds that his appetite is no more. The worst part of training was always having to watch his weight. Now he will never have to watch his weight again. Still he isn’t hungry.

He pokes around the open box but finds nothing to his fancy. Closing the door, he leaves its contents untouched. Tomorrow he is supposed to meet with one of his new doctors who will most certainly scold him for his continued weight loss. Luckily he has no intention to making that appointment. Maybe it would be better to pour himself a drink.

Never one to indulge in alcohol, he nonetheless has developed a weakness for red wine. He thinks it’s hereditary. His father would drink from the same colored jug every night for dinner. It was a fixture on the table as were those who sat around it—his mother, his sister, and his brother, Jimmy.

How he misses his brother, even now. Don’t believe what they tell you about time healing all wounds; some wounds it just makes worse. Maybe that’s why he tries not to think of his father as much as he used to.

So much in him has changed since he was young, and he isn’t so sure his father would be very proud of him anymore, especially in this his final act. Funny thoughts coming from a man who has been called the symbol of all that is good in his country.

He rubs his aching hands, the pain in his joints is made worse by the deadly diseases, and his head hurts as well, but their cause is much deeper. He leaves the confines of the large kitchen and with the help of a cane makes his way toward the rear of the home through the open den to his private study.

The mansion rests upon an old factory that sits on a large lot along the waterfront in Hoboken. Torina bought the site and refurbished the building as a business investment—his cousin’s idea for high-end condos. But falling in love with the view, he decided to keep the top floor for himself.

He wanted to build for himself a holy cathedral of opulence and wealth, isolated from the success that continually haunts him but which he had made peace with over the last few years. The gym has always been his favorite place, but this home and the one out east come close. Now no place holds that magic for him anymore as there seems nothing left for him to look forward to.

He enters into his study, which is a large and unusually dark room for a home of such bright colors, with its cherrywood shelves that line the walls from floor to the ceiling fourteen feet high. A quarry stone fireplace separating the two halves of the room and a hardwood floor made from the wood of an eighteenth-century warship’s deck.

A balcony sweeps along the bookcases and takes on the feel of a private library as the line of novels runs into the thousands. Men of such wealth and influence as his are accustomed to collecting things—adult toys of all sorts, from rare and expensive trinkets to good-looking women—but contentment is what this man values most. A contentment he once believed he would never find but now knows well.

Along with the books is a wet bar, a large heavy mahogany desk, and a series of French doors that lead out to a rooftop garden with its wood gazebo, hot tub, boccie court, outdoor bar, grill, and finally beyond the throat of the Hudson River. In the corner of the room he has a master-crafted slate-top billiard table, a rack of vintage firearms, and a set of leather couches worn gently from those who have sat upon them.

He walks over to the wet bar and pulls from its finery a bottle of red wine, not just good red wine but great red wine. The type of wine he usually saves for guests, a present from his brother-in-law, the catalyst of all that he has accomplished in his life.

Thinking for a moment he puts the bottle back, leaving it for others to enjoy after he is gone, and instead pulls from the rack a bottle of low-end Chianti, his favorite. It is too late in his life to change his ways now.

Like the wine of his father and his grandfather before him, he pulls the cork and pours the red liquid into a small jelly glass. Filling his glass, he hobbles over to the fireplace and reflects. Above it is a mantle filled with pictures that frame out his life.

This is his private place, and though many have ventured in here, only a few have ever made it onto the mantle. He picks up one of the pictures. It is a small five-by-seven in dark colors of print. He smiles as he looks at it and then brings it over to the desk and places it on the desktop.

He sits down in his chair and smiles to himself, though a sharp pain snaps at his back, residue from the carnage of his career more than the state of his being. Sipping from his wineglass, he looks back at the fireplace and the large portrait that hangs above it. Of all the pictures this is the one that they would remember him by.

It was given to him by the local neighborhood men’s club, the Sons of Peterstown, along with the members of the Don Bosco Knights of Columbus, just before he became champ. It is the only boxing picture of him in the whole house and shows a half-stripped man at the waist hitting a worn heavy bag at the gym he got his start in.

The man’s body ripples in muscle, a large back with creases along its edges, a stone-chiseled left arm packed tight into a soft black boxing mitt, the flat-trimmed belly mounted secure on bull steed legs, heavy in the calf and thick in the thigh. As the man swings hard, the left glove digs deep into the side of the faded blue bag, which folds as the glove buries within it. The portrait may be slightly exaggerated, but he takes pride in it anyway.

His body springs as in explosion, then recoils itself for a blow from the other arm, like a man tossing heavy bricks onto a debris pile. Chin tucked, neck loose, and eyes as dark and angry as a mad man in lost rage. Captured in a brush stroke that was the torment that made him seem invincible.

After a few moments he rises from the chair and turning toward the picture moves to the mantle on the fireplace. There sitting within a glass case is his heavyweight belt, his most prized possession. He studies the belt for a few moments and then turning away leads himself toward the French doors.

Opening the doors, he lets the wet air saturate the room. It has been raining all day, a cold northeastern rain. He gazes across the river on this dank November day and decides to venture out on the porch and listen. The stillness of the mist crashes against his face behind a brisk wind.

Leaving the doors to the veranda open, he returns to the desk and retrieves from it a key. The key opens a doorway that leads to a safe lying just behind a line of books, which Peter moves over toward. Not as well hidden as one would have expected, the vault is nonetheless vandal-proof or so the manufacturer guaranteed.

Peter removes the row of books in front of the small keyhole, places the key into a slot, and turns. Automatically the door opens. Once the door is opened, it reveals a rather large iron box behind it. Peter dials out the combination, the last four digits of his grandparents’ home phone number: 7-7-5-9.

The latch clicks and Peter swings open the door. Lying in a group of yellow envelopes on a small shelf is two hundred fifty thousand dollars in bearer bonds, and below that, lying on the vault’s floor, is over three hundred twenty-five thousand in cash. His uncle Frank always said it’s good to keep a little cash around the house.

In the back of the vault is a midsize softwood box. He pulls out the box and brings it over to his desk. The box is old and weathered, but in it he has some of his most prized possessions. Things given to him when he was just a boy, things that have no value to anyone but him.

His grandmother’s red Bible written in Latin and her black rosary beads, the same beads he carried into the ring before every fight. A black book, one that is worn on the edges with ruffled pages. And his grandfather’s straight-edged razor, the one he kept so sharp, you could cut a strand of hair in midair with it.

When he was a boy, he would sit on the toilet seat and watch as his grandfather shaved with it and sharpened it on the leather strap he kept in the medicine closet just below the shelf he had his shaving brush on. After he died, Peter got his razor and his watch as well, but the razor meant more to him then the watch, and that’s why it made it into the box, while the watch did not.

There is his brother’s old baseball glove, covered in a cloth and preserved in oil. His father’s wedding ring and a poem he had once written as a class assignment in Sister Francis’s eighth-grade English class.

He picks up the poem, smiles at himself while looking it over, and then places it back down upon the desk. He then reaches for the old baseball glove, unfolds it from the cloth, and brings it up to his nose and smells it.

As he looks up at the portrait once more, his mind shuts and recoils to his youth, back to when he was whole, back before the great tragedies. Back to the city of Elizabeth and the small Italian section within it that he called home. Back to the Burg.

March 28, 1967

Peterstown, fifteen or so streets, five blocks long. From South Street, just below the Route 1 overpass, to Atlantic, just below the Turnpike, from the Elizabeth River across to First Avenue. An urban grid of both large and small two-family homes with a spattering of family ranches and small apartment houses all positioned on small rectangular lots with little grass but plenty of fruit trees.

The butcher, the baker, and the numbers game maker were all under the watchful eye of the parish priest and local don. A little Italian town with its Old World ways in the new adoptive country of America.

All men’s lives begin in a certain place at a certain time. For Peter Torina it would be this place. With its Catholic Church and its sandlot ball fields. Under the old maples that lined the slate sidewalks pushed up by tree roots. To the pool hall and the lemon ice stand, the chicken market and fish store.

Here he was born on Saint Patrick’s Day in 1953, the first child of an immigrant Sicilian laborer and his wife. It was recorded this way in the town records at the city hall, but there was another date not yet reached. That day was the moment of the meaning, when the world around you changes. That which you had vanished and that which you were was no more. That measure of time all great men of purpose share when they go from what they were to what they will become.

For Peter Torina that day would be today, although he didn’t know that yet. Instead he slept in soft slumber as the sun slowly began to shine in the bedroom that he shared with his little brother, Jimmy.

The Torina brothers were what is commonly referred to in American as Irish twins even though there isn’t any Irish blood in them at all. Barely eleven months separate the two with the younger Torina having been born in February 1954.

The brothers also had a sister named Angela, a small pixie of a girl with thick dark hair and light brown eyes. Her father’s joy and her brother’s play toy, she was spoiled beyond that which was vulgar, and only her mother’s sharp tongue kept her in line.

Good morning, Daddy, the smallest of this brood said to her father as Pupa, her small stuffed bear, sat in her arms.

Ah, good morning, my baby girl, her father said back to his daughter, and how is my mosa special little girl dat lives in dis house?

Santo Torina was a small wiry man, barely one hundred forty pounds. But he was strong, so strong they said for his size, and with so much stamina that he can outwork just about any laborer in his union hall. Some have even went as far as to say he could out dig a backhoe, be it a small one. In a neighborhood built upon the principles of hard work and blue-collar values, his was a good reputation to have.

I’m fine, Angie snapped as she went to climb on her father’s lap while he sipped from his coffee mug and read the newspaper.

Being self-taught, Santo still had problems with the English language even though he read through the newspaper every morning. His hope was that his children will better him and that didn’t mean with a pick and shovel. Instilling a desire for education into his sons, he preached it like a sermon on Easter morning.

Nuzzling up to him, Angela cared little about how her father butchered the English language. She had other things on her mind. But, Daddy, if you ask me, I think my brothers should be getting up soon or they’re going to be late for school. If you want, I’ll go wake them!

My doll, maybe this is no such a good idea, Santo explained while he cuddled Angela in his lap and showered her with kisses.

Oh no, Daddy, I think it’s a real good idea.

Yeah, shu, you would.

And know what, Daddy?

Whacha, honey?

I could spray them with a water gun. I wouldn’t even have to go into their room. I could just open the door.

Santo laughed to himself as he listened to his daughter lay out her plan like a military exercise, and then he explained to her that in order to carry it out she would need her mother’s permission. Reluctantly Angela went off to find her mother, who was doing laundry in the basement of their small ranch-style home.

Cautiously remaining neutral, Santo listened in as daughter explained to mother the finer points of water gun usage in waking her rather lazy older brothers. Antonia Torina was not as patient as her husband and ran a tight ship as all her family could attest to. Not exactly a small woman but one with a pretty face, she gained weight with the birth of each of her children and never was able to take it off.

Still her home was as clean as a Jewish hospital and her family was well taken care of as royalty. Her small brick home never seemed to have a curtain out of place or a dish left in the sink. Beds were made promptly by 7:30 a.m. and meals were eaten in the basement kitchen to keep the main floor neat.

Her family was first-line immigrants to Peterstown, those who arrived here just after the turn of the century; she was the first natural-born American in the family. Her husband on the other hand was new to this country, having been brought here after World War II, mostly to meet and marry her.

Both were from the same small southern Sicilian town of Ribera, and though theirs was not a very long affectionate affair, the love between them was no less real. For a time they lived in a five-room flat above her parents’ on Spencer Street, and then Santo bought one of the few open lots down by the river and built for his wife a modest one-family brick home, which she loved and took care of as if it were a royal palace.

There they made a quiet and comfortable life for their three children. One of family and food and respect, as well as of the church, for there was always the church. Catholics identify themselves by the church they attend, and in this city each section had their own church—the Poles of Frog Hollow, the Irish in North End, and even the Germans up in Elmora, where the Jewish doctors lived.

In 1967 those neighborhoods may have been geographically close, but they were light-years apart. Each group remained within their own parameters, venturing outside only when invited and agreeing on only one thing—that the blacks be excluded from all groups. The riots from a few years earlier, still smoldering, would rekindle themselves in the next few years to follow, but the Burg was safe as were those who lived within its unfortified boundary. Later on this afternoon the two brothers would test those boundaries and befall to a calamity.

As for now, wet sheets and cold faces were all that seemed to concern the two of them. After several attempts by her mother to wake her brothers, Angela took it upon herself to help. Carefully she crept into her brother’s room. With pistol in hand and a smile on her face, she took aim at Jimmy and let fire her spray.

Instantly her baby brother leaped out of bed and chased her down the hallway, laughing and yelling at her at the same time. Now Angela loved her brother Peter, but she adored her brother Jimmy.

Jimmy was easygoing while Peter was hotheaded. Funny and with mischievous nature, he was a classic good-hearted bad boy, while his older brother was more like a Franciscan monk. Peter was lovable all right but ridged like his mother. To him the world was black and white, good and bad, right and wrong; there were no shades of grey in Peter’s world.

You kids stop fooling around and come in this kitchen and eat breakfast, Antonia snapped like a drill sergeant. Fermo, rapido!

Kissing her husband on the cheek and passing to him his lunch, she bid him a good day and then asked him what he wanted for dinner that night, but before he could respond, she answered her own question. I’ll make you broccoli rabe, with pasta and sausage. That sounds good. I bought some fresh broccoli rabe yesterday.

Without saying a word, Santo nodded and smiled. He then turned as he heard his sons enter the kitchen and barked out his orders for the day. Peter was a good student, a bit sensitive but smart and hardworking. Jimmy on the other hand was lazy for anything that did not involve a ball.

Figlio mia, I wanna you to do better in school. No laborer work for you, Santo warned.

I’m all right, Pop, Jimmy mentioned back sheepishly.

No, you not all right. D and C is no all right. You brother get A, B—dat all right, no D. or no baseball, aaah? Santo snapped.

Like most fathers in this neighborhood, Santo was not a man to be tested. A snide or quick comeback by Jimmy could result in a slap to the back of the head, and so Jimmy said little in his defense. I’m not as smart as Petey.

No say dat. You as smart as Petey. You jus’ gotta try harder, dat’s all. Lying back on Jimmy instinctively, Santo turned to his other son. And you.

What’d I do, Pop? Peter questioned.

It seemed to him that his father could never yell at one of them without also yelling at the other. The problem was that Peter was never in trouble while his brother was never out of it.

You try to help your brother wit his homework. You mother can do all dis work. She gotta take care of da house. And me Imma no good for learn. Jimmy, be good boy. or we talk. An’ you no wanna talk wit me. Santo quickly calmed down and then told his sons to each kiss him. Where you sister? Dolly?

Yeah, Daddy.

You perfect. Now, mi bacio, listen to your mother. Picking up his daughter, Santo kissed her face, then turning to his sons barked, Aaah, you two knuckleheads want me to take you to school?

No, Dad, we’ll walk. It’s nice this morning, no freddo, Peter answered.

Paper say iz gunna rain, but ahright. Anna, Imma go. Shoulda make a me trees steada sons, then I least I gotta da shade. Santo smiled and looking at his daughter added, Whata you thinka, dolly? You wanna trees or brothers?

I’ll take my brothers. I can’t bother the trees.

Putting Angela down, Santo took out his truck keys and picking up his lunch made his way outside. Passing his wife’s car, he walked to the end of the driveway and studied the small patch of grass in his front yard. Jimmy was supposed to cut it, but he didn’t. Peter would probably take care of it after school. Shrugging his shoulders, he continued on to his old pickup truck, when he heard his wife shout out to him from the front door.

Santo, if you get the chance pick up some bread. I don’t know if I’ll have a chance to make it to the store today.

Saying nothing, Santo nodded, entered his truck, and turning on the engine made his down his street and on to the avenue, his wife waving to him as he disappeared down the road. Going back into the house, Antonia barked at her two boys and hurried them along to school.

Each brother got his lunch bag, two sandwiches for Jimmy and five for Peter. They picked up their book bags and began the eight-block walk to school. Jimmy would have taken the ride, but his brother liked to walk. He liked to walk because, if they planned it right, they would pass by Theresa Mazoli’s house just as she was leaving for school.

Theresa was in the same grade as Jimmy, but it was Peter who was smitten with her as he had been for the last year, not that she knew it. Theresa was what they referred to in Peterstown as a peach. Only the prettiest of girls achieved this distinction and few were as pretty as Theresa.

The peach of Peterstown had long red hair, not as rare in this neighborhood as one would have thought. She also had deep green eyes and fair skin, but she wasn’t yet interested in boys, at least ones that looked like Peter. Still he was kind enough to talk to and would even volunteer to carry her books.

Jimmy on the other hand was cute, small, but well built and fierily fast, faster in fact than any of the black kids down in the port. Beat them all at the seventh-grade indoor track meet that past winter. Jimmy was also good at soccer, something he played to make his immigrant father happy. As a point guard in the basketball team, he led his team in scoring. But it was in baseball where he shined like no other.

So good at eight that he starred on the ten-year-old team, and now that he was in seventh grade, the high school coach was eyeing him. A well-groomed shortstop, he also played a mean second. He hit balls long and in the gaps, stole bases like he was getting paid for it, and also had the best arm that anyone in town had ever seen.

Playing at Obrien’s Field after school? Peter asked his brother.

Not for the next week or so. They’re doing some shit on it. I was hoping to go over to Mattano today.

You better get that school project done. You heard what Pop said.

Don’t worry about Pop. I always manage to get by.

Peter frowned. Not always good to get by. Good morning, Mrs. Spazzi.

Hello, boys, you’re going too late for school. My Joey left ten minutes ago.

We’ll be okay, Mrs. Spazzi, we just have to rush it a little. Peter smiled at the woman and waved to her as they passed. Jimmy said nothing but did smile.

You know one day you should mention to her that her son is kind of a tweety bird. Jimmy smirked.

Ah no, finocchio, Peter said back.

Like hell he ain’t. I wouldn’t take no shower in the locker room with him around. Queer boy. Ma was sayen’ you got the late mass today.

Changed it. Got myself a funeral tomorrow morning at ten.

Can I get in on that?

No.

Come on, I don’t get the payen’ masses.

No, weddings and funerals are only eighth graders, unless it’s a family member. ’Sides funerals are bad.

Cash ain’t, Jimmy grunted and then added, So if you’re off this afternoon, how ’bout playen’ with us later? Could use a catcher.

I’m no good, you know that.

You’re better than you think you are. ’Sides you hit the ball pretty good when you get one.

Sometimes I hit the ball good. Most of the times I just miss.

That’s because you’re always rushing at the plate. I can help you with that. Anyway it’s just for fun.

Peter sighed. Sure it’s fun for you because you’re good at it and don’t have to work so hard. And they pick you first and not last.

Jimmy jumped in. They don’t always pick you last.

What? Peter snapped. They don’t pick me last if Happy Goof is there, but he’s just there for laughs. Believe me, it’s no fun when you fail all the time. In fact it can get a lot unfun real fast when you stink and you don’t wanna stink.

You don’t stink.

That’s not what the other guys say.

Nobody tells you that.

Peter smirked. Yeah, they’re all scared I’ll give them a beat down.

Jimmy laughed. I don’t think so.

Peter looked at his wristwatch and began to speed up his pace. Come on, we’re going to be late.

No, we’re not, you just want to see what Theresa’s wearing today. You can’t bullshit me. The monk likes a girl.

Peter frowned at Jimmy. Shut up before I squash you like a turd.

You’d have to catch me first.

You have to sleep.

As the brothers passed by Theresa’s house, Peter barely gave notice that he had missed her. Jimmy teased him and then began to run. Peter chased him without any hope of catching up.

Peter was as clumsy as Jimmy was graceful, as slow as he was fast; there didn’t seem to be anything that Jimmy couldn’t do and anything Peter could, but God knows he tried. He may never have let on how much it hurt to have his baby brother surpass him in everything, but it did and Jimmy knew it.

Disappointed that he missed Theresa on her way to school, Peter slugged off to class just as the bell was about to ring. As he met up with his friends in the homeroom of Saint Anthony’s Grammar School, the protocol was the same every morning.

Hey, Monk.

Yeah, Tommy.

You got the homework?

Yeah, I got the homework.

Can I see it?

Which one?

We had more than one?

Yeah, stunad, we had homework in each class. Which class do you want?

You better give me all of it.

Tommy Lurgi was Peter’s best friend in the world, and they were as opposite as two people could be. Tommy was a tough-minded young thug and always looked for a challenge. He was one of the few people Peter would ever know who actually enjoyed fighting.

They hadn’t always been friends. In fact Tommy had beaten Peter up in the third grade. He punched him in the face, blooded his nose, and made him cry. Tommy did that to a lot of the boys in his class, but as the grades passed and Peter grew, he became harder to intimidate.

And then one day, when the two of them were in the sixth grade, Tommy went too far and Peter jumped at him. During recess he grabbed hold of Lurgi and tossed him around like a bag of loose change. He smashed his head into the bicycle rack, threw him into the garbage cans, and then flipping him onto his back warned Tommy that, if he ever said anything bad about his mother again, Peter would pull the head off of his body and use it as a soccer ball.

Tommy believed him. Maybe it had something to do with Peter’s blind rage or that none of them had ever seen a child restrained by two priests and a janitor before. Tommy quickly made an ally of this man child, and the two have been best friends ever since.

Tommy was everything Peter was not, and Peter could not help being drawn to him as if he were his alter ego. Tommy not only drank from the holy wine, he smuggled out full bottles in between masses.

He smoked cigarettes he stole from candy stores outside the neighborhood, kissed girls, and then fondled their breasts. And he used a tapestry of curse words that would be the envy of any sailor. He was also as loyal to his friends as the ocean was to the shore.

In fourth period he begged Peter to help him cheat on a science quiz. When they got caught, Tommy took full responsibility and Peter was left off with little more than a warning. At lunch Tommy would flirt with the prettiest girls and always tried to throw a few to his reluctant friend. And it was Tommy who in the last class of the day ran interference for his best friend as Peter attempted to get out of reading his poem in Sister Francis’s English class.

Mr. Torina, I expect for you to read this poem. It is quite good and I would like you to share it with the class.

Yes, Sister, but um, I don’t.

Peter, please, there is nothing for you to be ashamed of. You have a talent.

Well, Sister, I would rather.

Tommy watched on as Peter squirmed in his chair, sweat dripping down the back of his neck. All started to gaze upon him as he looked for a place to hide, crumbling the edges of the paper before him, blurry-eyed to the words written on it.

Peter was color-blind and had been so since birth. He had trouble making out dark colors such as brown and dark green, and his eyes would strain when he got nervous. Because of this, he was often seated in the front of the class even though he was one of the biggest kids. He was deathly self-conscious and hated to be singled out for anything.

Tommy knew of his friend’s condition and instinctively reacted by putting himself in harm’s way. Cracking jokes from his seat in the back of the classroom, he was sure to draw the nun’s wrath and thus save his friend from having to stand up and read the poem in front of the whole class.

Taking the bait, Sister Francis ordered Tommy up and out of his seat, then she admonished him in front of the whole class. It was a well-calculated plan by Tommy. Sister Francis was new to her order and had not yet been taught to the ways of teaching. There was no yardstick in her arsenal of discipline. Tommy took his tongue lashing and then sat down.

This gave time for Sister Francis to reflect, knowing that if she forced Peter to read his poem, he may never turn in another worthy assignment in her class again. Better for him to fail than be embarrassed. And so she took it upon herself to ask the young man if it would be all right for her to read the poem to the class.

Peter agreed and gave the written assignment back to her. She thanked him for it and then addressed the class as a whole.

Children I expect for you to all listen and remain respectful of the work of one of your fellow classmates. Work such as this I normally find rare. All right then.

Through the giggles and the sneers, she began, ‘The Eagle and the Dove’ by Peter J. Torina. Oh, Lord, explain these things to me, for I simply cannot see. Why I was once a vibrant eagle and am now but a pesky flee.

Momentarily stopping, she quickly scolded the class for laughing, while Peter sunk deeper into his seat. Clearing her voice, she began again, this time reading the poem in its entirety.

Oh, Lord, explain these things to me

For I simply cannot see

Why I was once a vibrant eagle

And am now but a pesky flee

How life was so much better than

When I was the chosen king

I’d sit upon my regal thrown

Subordinates to me they would sing

Now alone in this world am I

No one to hold me tight

A castaway left to stray

An ogre of ugly sight

Yet there is one who still holds dear

The heart I have to share

To touch my hand and kiss my face

Whom my temper does not scare

So if I must fade away

To her I hold my love

For there exists a special bond

Between this eagle and his dove

Finishing Sister Francis closed her eyes for a brief moment, clasped her hands together, and then turning to Peter exclaimed, Great job, young man! Students, a round of applause for the Monk.

As Peter smiled, the class clapped with even some yelling out his name. Sister Francis eventually quieted the class after a middle-aged nun from the next class came in to scold her, and then ordered them to take out their English books and turn to a mentioned page. Twenty minutes or so later, when the class was complete and the students were about to file out of the school for the end of the day, she asked Peter to stay behind for a few minutes.

She had a few questions that she wanted to ask him. If you don’t mind.

Yes, Sister? Peter said back to her softly as he gathered up his books and put them into his carry bag.

With the room safely cleared, the young nun began. Peter, in this poem that you wrote, the birds are not really birds.

No, Sister, they’re people.

Yes, that’s a given, and I think I understand who the eagle is, but who is the dove? Maybe a girlfriend.

Oh no, Sister, I don’t have a girlfriend. Peter sighed.

Then who is it, may I ask?

It’s my baby sister.

The nun smiled. Oh, then that makes sense, her being the dove and I take it you being the eagle character.

Peter quickly corrected her. Oh no, Sister, I’m not the eagle. My brother, Jimmy, is the eagle. I’m no eagle, Sister. You can only have one eagle in a family, and in my family, it’s my brother, Jimmy.

Slightly taken aback, Sister Francis grinned lightly and then added, Oh, I beg your pardon then, I see.

While the nun spoke to Peter, she could see that he was preoccupied with someone or something outside her door. Aaah, is there someone waiting on you, Peter?

Ah no, Sister, it’s just Tommy Lurgi, he’s outside the door waiten’ for me.

You know, Peter, Sister Francis sighed, I can’t quite understand why you seem to have such a close friendship with Mr. Lurgi. He doesn’t do very well in school and he always seems to be getting himself in trouble.

Peter stared down at the floor but said nothing back to her, and so she continued. You know, Peter, show me who your friends are and I’ll show you who you are.

Yes, Sister.

You have a lot of potential, Mr. Torina, please don’t let a troublemaker like that pull you down.

Maybe, Sister, Peter sheepishly mumbled. I can a help pull him up.

Sister Francis smiled and blurted out, And so the Lord teaches.

Can I go, Sister? My brother’s gunna be waiten’ for me out front.

You go, Mr. Torina, and I’ll be seeing you tomorrow.

Good day, Sister.

Good day, Peter.

Smiling the young Torina cleared out of Sister Francis’s classroom as fast as his fat legs could gently move. Passing by his locker, he grabbed hold of what books he would need for homework that night and then dashed out of the school building, down an open flight of stairs and to his waiting brother at the foot of the sidewalk.

Jimmy, you see Tommy? Peter asked his brother as his right foot hit the bottom step before the sidewalk.

Yeah, he said he had to rush home today. He’d catch up with you tomorrow.

Wanna wait for Mom to give us a ride when she picks up Angi?

Na, I wanna go play ball. Let’s walk home and we can get dressed and outta the house before Mom stops us. ’Cause if she catches us, then we’re gunna have to do our homework and then it’s gunna get too dark to play.

The two brothers decided it was better if they walked home than if they waited for a ride from their mother when she came to pick up their little sister, who got out of school one-half hour after they do. But all was not lost for it seems that Miss Mazoli was also kept late after school. It was her turn to clean the chalkboard at the end of the day, and by the time she was finished, all her friends had left for home.

No need, she would just walk home with the Torina brothers. After all, wasn’t Jimmy just the cutest seventh grader in his class? Even if you had to walk with his brutish brother, Peter was harmless and didn’t seem to say very much. It was worth the sacrifice to walk with Jimmy, or so Peter thought as the three of them strolled up Third Avenue.

Unpretentious and kindhearted, she paid as much attention to Peter as she did to Jimmy. Not yet boy crazy, like most of the girls in her class, she saw the brothers only as friends. Still the brothers didn’t complain.

After delivering Theresa safely to her front door, the two brothers hurried home, pulled on their playclothes, and ran out to the garage. A bucket of balls, a few bats, gloves, even a batting helmet (rare at the time) were all put into Jimmy’s eight-year-old Radio Flyer, and down the street, past the corner, and through the light into the park the two brothers walked.

But when they got there, no game was to be played. Mattano Park was empty, cleared for new construction. Starting that day the ball fields were to be rebuilt much in the way that they were being done in O’Brien’s Field. A workman explained to the boys that all the ball fields in the city are being redone as a goodwill project for the neighborhoods. They had already done the fields at Jackson and Kellogg Park and where almost finished with O’Brien. Now what are we gunna do? Can’t play ball here, Jimmy snapped at his brother.

I can tell that. Gotta go home. Besides it looks like it’s gunna rain, Peter answered.

Aaah, shit, I don’t wanna go home. I need the work.

What’re we supposed to do, Jimmy? The other fellas probably came by and called it a day.

Petey, I need to practice.

Yeah, but we got no field, and we got no players.

We don’t need any players. You can hit me ground balls, Jimmy pleaded.

Where? In the street!

Na, we could go to Jackson?

No way, Jimmy, Peter snapped back, No freaken’ way I’m going to Jackson.

Look, it’s getting late. Maybe it’s gunna rain. The high school team is over at Williams and Kellogg is too far in the North End. We got to go to Jackson.

Or go home.

Come on, what you so scared of?

Dad. If he finds out—

He’s not gunna find out, unless you tell him. It’s only a few blocks away.

It’s also down Port. Peter fretted. And we ain’t allowed in the Port. If Dad found out, he’d break our heads if the dutzies don’t do it for him.

Tu femminile, Jimmy spurted to get his brother’s temper up.

Peter stormed. Yeah sure, I’m the girl, but if we get caught, Dad is gunna bust my ass and not yours. I’m older, I always get the most crap, not you.

Ah, right then, if we get caught, I’ll take the blame. I’ll tell him that I left without you and that you came looken’ for me. He’ll believe that.

Peter shook his head and sighed. It’s not just that, Jimmy. You know we don’t belong. If one of them monkeys came strollen’ down the Burg, how fast before they’d get themselves thrown down the sewer plates.

Jimmy grinned. Well, it’s kind of cold. Maybe John Street.

Come on, Jimmy. Stop screwen’ around. We can’t go.

Look they ain’t like us. We keep to ourselves. Nonno’s still at the club. We can hide the wagon in the back of his shed and pick it up on the way back. Hit me a few balls for an hour, then we come back. It’s only a few blocks. No one will know.

Peter continued to resist. I still don’t like it.

Come on, an hour. I promise, no more than that.

As he spoke, Jimmy began to make his way out of the park and toward their grandfather’s house up the street. After pushing the wagon into the old man’s toolshed the two brothers each took a glove, a bat, and a couple of balls.

Past the Turnpike overpass under that imaginary point where they did not belong and into the beginning of Niggerville. Both sections of the city were similar. The homes in Peterstown were no bigger or better than those in the Port. But they were definitely cleaner, safer, and better maintained.

No old couches stained the front porches of the Burg, no broken down cars were left abandoned in the street, no graffiti were on any of the brick buildings, and drunks on the street corner hanging on to the lamppost. God forbid no. Like those wretched whores who sold tricks in the street and were no more native to Peterstown than the black-kerchief rosary-beads-carrying widows were to the Port.

Or so the boys were brainwashed to believe, but as they strolled through the mostly empty streets, few gave notice to them much less passed a comment. The boys made it into the park in a few minutes and almost forgot themselves or where they were as they began to play.

The ball field was freshly maintained and magnificent. If they did nearly this good a job on the fields in Peterstown, Jimmy would be well satisfied. At first the boys had a game of catch to loosen up their limbs, but Peter had half as strong a throwing arm as Jimmy, although he could throw with either hand. In fact Peter could do almost everything with either hand, be it writing, eating, or batting, just not well.

Both brothers concluded it would be better for them if Peter moved on to the bat, and for the next half hour, Jimmy snagged fly balls and grounders as if he had a magnet in his glove. It didn’t prove difficult for him as Peter could not get his whole body into the swing and still hit the ball. Still the outdoor practice was well worth it after a season of indoor play.

By sundown the brothers were ready to return home. The sky began to blacken and there was the smell of moisture in the air. But as they made their way out of the park, the entrance was seemed guarded by a group of ill-intentioned youth. Cleveland Junior or maybe even Jefferson High School rejects, foulmouthed and bad-tempered with fresh prey in the corral.

They had been tipped off by some of the younger boys who noticed two white kids playing ball in their park. The park belonged to this gang and no one played there unless they gave permission, and the Torina brothers did not have permission.

The brothers decided to try another way out of the park. There was a back way by the train tracks, but as they moved, so did the group, and that’s when the brothers knew they were in trouble. There were five of them, all dressed in black, with the leader being a full head taller and sixty pounds heavier than Peter. The brothers thought they heard the others refer to him as Himbo. It was he who started the intimidation process by hurling insults at the brothers and then encouraging his gang members to do the same.

Hey, ya white bitches, whach ya all doen’ in my park?

Your ass gunna put on a spit. Cook you crackers. Eat your mothafucken’ ass with white rice and beans.

Ya all got no chance get outta my park ’lessen you pay me some hide.

Na, all ya shit your pants. Gunna squeeze your balls till your eyes pop out.

And other things that Peter or his brother couldn’t make out until one of them called out, You two wops, you all look like wops. You all run away like wops.

There was bad blood between these two groups, and it had been that way for years. The brothers had been taught by the older boys of their neighborhood, as they had been taught by the boys older than them. You could not run from the blacks, for like the lion of the jungle they would hunt on the weak and intimidated, even turning on their own kind if need be.

Jimmy turned to shout back at them, but Peter snapped at him to shut up. No use fueling a bad situation. For all the taunting and noise, the group had yet made no attempt to chase the brothers, and as long as they stood back, maybe the group would let them go free. Peter held a worn wooden bat in his sweaty right hand, his ball glove in the other, while his brother held on to his and the few balls they had brought to play with.

The brothers continued to move but did not run for fear of being chased or perceived to be cowards. Jimmy was fast enough to maybe outrun the group, but there was no way that Peter would be able to keep up. Outwardly trying not to show any fear but inwardly panicking, the brothers hastened their steps.

Man, we don’t want no trouble from you guys, we just wanna go home, Peter yelled back to the group.

Ya all shoulda stayed where ya all belong, Himbo answered.

Next time we will.

Too late, another said back.

Jimmy, you gotta run, Peter snapped back to his brother, his voice quivering, his nerves breaking.

Too many. I’ll stay with you. We’ll fight them off with the bat.

Hold ’em off with the bat? Jimmy, are you shitten’ me? They probably got knives. Run, Jimmy, I’ll be all right.

Fuck no.

While the brothers bickered with each other, the distance between the two groups narrowed. At the edge of the park, to its rear, was the Penn Central Line out of Lower Manhattan, and fifty yards up the chain-link fence that ran along the tracks was an opening.

Jimmy saw the opening and told his brother to head toward it, then he got an idea.

While the insults moved on to the many female members of the Torina family, Jimmy decided to take a stand. He let his petrified older brother move just ahead of him and then screamed, "Petey, run! I’ll be right behind you. Move!" Jimmy pushed his brother forward as he turned on the balls of his feet and whipped a ball as fast as he could toward the black youths a hundred or so feet away. The ball missed, and the youths erupted and began to chase them.

Peter broke out into a slow but steady stride, unknowingly leaving his brother behind. Jimmy soon followed. Globs of sweat poured from Peter’s body in sheer terror. He moved as fast as he could, clopping alongside the fence like an old plow horse.

Jimmy gazed back only to see the group behind close the gap—eighty, seventy, sixty feet. Once again Jimmy spun around to the pursuing mob and flung hard a second baseball he was carrying.

This time the ball collided off the skull of the lead dog, who stumbled to the ground, forcing the others to come to his aid. Jimmy turned and continued to run, watching as his brother squeezed through the fence’s opening, dropping the bat while turning to see where his baby brother was.

Jimmy signaled Peter on. With his brother safely through the fence, he could open up his jets. The hunting party did not stop for very long to tend to their fallen comrade. Leaving him behind, they continued with vengeance on their brains. If the brothers were to get caught now, it would be bad.

Jimmy stumbled through the open fence and followed Peter as he made his way toward the hollows. The hollows was a narrow stretch of track with concrete walls on either side that lead up to a workmen’s deck used to make repairs on the N. J. Turnpike, which crossed above. Once in the hollows the brothers could climb on to the deck, shimmy over the tracks below, and slip down the other side, then stroll into Peterstown where no black man in the world would dare follow them.

But the deck was high, forty or so feet above the ground, high enough for a train and its tangle of wires to get underneath, and Peter was scared of heights. When the other kids in the neighborhood played in the hollows, Peter would stay below, but there was no staying below this time.

A few years back his brother had convinced him that the best way to steal some figs off their grandfather’s fig tree was to climb up on the roof of the garage that stood beside the tree. There they could pluck the best fruit off the tree without the old man knowing.

Their grandfather was a backyard farmer who grew more vegetables, fruits, and flowers on his small plot of land than seemed humanly possible. He was a good-hearted fellah with just one rule—he alone touched his greenery. Jimmy didn’t like that idea he wanted to pick his own figs, and so he convinced his brother to climb up onto the steep garage roof with him.

Needless to say Peter fell off and onto the heavy chain-link fence below, which separated their grandfather’s yard from his neighbor’s in back. Prostrated on the fence with a steel pipe separating his legs and a gash along his upper thigh, Peter almost passed out from the pain and loss of blood.

His mother rushed him to the hospital as quickly as she could, and Peter remained bedridden for more than two weeks. The leg would heal but the damage to his anatomy was sealed, the scars of which he would carry for the rest of his life. Especially those that were in his head.

Whenever he was faced with a challenge, he would remember the pain of the fence and wince, but with Jimmy close behind him, Peter did not hesitate to make his way up the flat ladder, over the locked gate, and onto the top of the deck. Swinging around his left leg, he leaped slightly behind the concrete barriers to the deck plate, and there he stopped.

Beyond the deck plate was not the sturdy structure he had expected like the one farther down the line near his home. Instead there was merely a catwalk no wider than a plank and running the full section across the tracks. On either side of the catwalk were ropes to guide workers as they crossed, highly paid, highly skilled union workers who were used to such heights.

Uncharacteristically he began to curse at himself and then characteristically hit his head against the concrete wall he was pegged against. Exhausted and afraid he reasoned that it would be better to face his assailants than continue on this way, but before he could go back down the ladder, his brother came up.

Jimmy had vainly thrown his last ball at the rushing group and then quickly climbed to join his brother. A soft drizzle began to fall as he quickly surveyed the situation while looking down at the tracks and over the long catwalk.

Oh shit! he cried out to the cold, wet night air. Now what the fuck are we supposed to do.

It was loud up in the decking between the sound of the traffic above and the periodic passing of the trains below, and so the brothers could barely hear each other shout. On the ground below, Himbo and his thugs made their way to the flat wall ladder.

The gang leader took one look at the height overhead and the noise around him, then called out to the others, Lets ’em mothafuckers go. Halfway back to guinea town by now.

You gots to be fucken’ wit me, Himbo.

Iz fight me two dem wops, but I ain’t fool enough to mess wit fifty.

Dem fucks hit me in da face wit a rock, and we ain’t gunna get ’em.

Shit, I said I ain’t gunna get ’em. Ifen you all want, you go get ’em. ’Sides, Himbo said, Iz got myself a bran’-new bat.

Himbo shouted up some obscenities to the brothers who could not hear him and then turned from the group and began to walk back up the tracks, swinging his bat as he moved, not wanting to reveal to the others that he was also afraid of heights. Soon the others began to follow him. After a few horrid minutes Jimmy decided to look down the ladder to see if they’re still being followed.

Poking his head around the concrete barrier, he looked down and was relieved to see no one. Peering up the tracks, he could vaguely make out the frames of the group as it moved away in the dusk night-light. Pulling himself back onto the deck, he explained to his brother what’s going on; they were safe but would still have to explain things to their father.

I’d rather face the monkeys, Jimmy joked.

The brothers decided that it would be better if the stayed put for a few minutes to make sure the way was clear.