“Whattaya think?
You ready to answer my questions now?”
“Yes.” Tripper’s voice was suddenly quivery.
“What’s your name?”
“Joseph.”
“Joseph what?”
“Maguire.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirteen.”
“Maguire, huh? Irish, right, huh?”
“So what?”
Reseta had to step back, take a breath, count to ten. Because all he had to do was hear the word
Irish
, and a wagon full of bad memories suddenly appeared behind him, full of Guinnan brothers taunting and tormenting him. Little
dago boy, scrawny little wop, macaroni arms, spaghetti legs, guinea head, garlic head—those were just the names he could bring
himself to tell his mother when she asked him why his shirt pockets were ripped or why he had to have another new tablet or
why his nose was bloody or his elbow raw or his knees scraped and his pants torn. He couldn’t tell his mother what they said
about her husband, that he didn’t have a dick and balls, he had a pepperoni and a couple heads of garlic and that she didn’t
have tits, nah, what she had was fuckin’ eggplants, all saggy and purple, that’s what they used to say, laughing with their
heads back, all three brothers, like they were the funniest people God put on this earth. But when he was in Nam, when the
VC and the NVA Regulars were trying to kill him and he couldn’t figure out any other reason why he should be trying to kill
them, he found his thoughts turning more and more to the Guinnan brothers and the more he thought of them the less doubt he
had about why he should be shooting at people whose country he was in, people who had done nothing to him.
And when he came home from Vietnam? Only Teddy Guinnan—the youngest one, the one who’d been in his class at St. Malachy’s
Elementary and later at Rocksburg High—was still living at home with his parents. So Reseta bought an eggplant and let it
get so squishy rotten he had to surround it with plastic wrap to hold it together. And when Teddy Guinnan came staggering
up the street that night, drunk as usual, Reseta stepped out from beside his mother’s house, unwrapped the front of the foul
purplish mess, tapped Teddy on the shoulder, kicked him in the nuts when he turned around, and then shoved that rotten eggplant
in his face, as hard as he could up his nose and in his mouth, and then watched him squirm on the sidewalk clawing at his
face and gasping for breath and groaning. And then Reseta leaned down and said, “There’s a little bit of my mother’s milk
for you, you piece a Irish shit.…”
Joseph Maguire had summoned up some reserve of defiance and was trying his best to lock on to Reseta’s gaze, but he started
to tremble in spite of his best effort to brass it out, suddenly trembling violently as though he were wet and cold even though
it was sunny and in the high 60s.
“Where you live, Joseph? Wanna give me the address?”
“No,” the boy said, his whole head shaking, but especially his lower jaw and lip.
“Okay, I’m sure somebody in the school has it.”
“One twenty-three Elm Street,” he blurted out. “In Maplewood.”
“Ohhhh, Maplewood. That’s where a lotta doctors live, huh, right? Your father a doctor, Joseph?”
“Yeah. And my mother’s a lawyer.”
“Oh. Impressive. She Irish too?”
“Yeah. So what? Why you keep askin’ me that?”
“Doctor father, lawyer mother, wow. And both Irish. A winning combination. I have no doubt you’ll be in the U.S. Senate before
you’re forty. Put your hands behind you.”
“What for?”
“What for? I’m gonna put my handcuffs on you, Joseph. ’Cause I’m arresting you. And then I’m gonna take you down the station
and book your little Irish behind. Then I’m gonna take you down the juvey center and file a petition against you for assault
and aggravated assault. In case your mommy hasn’t explained this to you, that second one’s a felony. And whenever I make an
arrest I have to
You ready to answer my questions now?”
“Yes.” Tripper’s voice was suddenly quivery.
“What’s your name?”
“Joseph.”
“Joseph what?”
“Maguire.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirteen.”
“Maguire, huh? Irish, right, huh?”
“So what?”
Reseta had to step back, take a breath, count to ten. Because all he had to do was hear the word
Irish
, and a wagon full of bad memories suddenly appeared behind him, full of Guinnan brothers taunting and tormenting him. Little
dago boy, scrawny little wop, macaroni arms, spaghetti legs, guinea head, garlic head—those were just the names he could bring
himself to tell his mother when she asked him why his shirt pockets were ripped or why he had to have another new tablet or
why his nose was bloody or his elbow raw or his knees scraped and his pants torn. He couldn’t tell his mother what they said
about her husband, that he didn’t have a dick and balls, he had a pepperoni and a couple heads of garlic and that she didn’t
have tits, nah, what she had was fuckin’ eggplants, all saggy and purple, that’s what they used to say, laughing with their
heads back, all three brothers, like they were the funniest people God put on this earth. But when he was in Nam, when the
VC and the NVA Regulars were trying to kill him and he couldn’t figure out any other reason why he should be trying to kill
them, he found his thoughts turning more and more to the Guinnan brothers and the more he thought of them the less doubt he
had about why he should be shooting at people whose country he was in, people who had done nothing to him.
And when he came home from Vietnam? Only Teddy Guinnan—the youngest one, the one who’d been in his class at St. Malachy’s
Elementary and later at Rocksburg High—was still living at home with his parents. So Reseta bought an eggplant and let it
get so squishy rotten he had to surround it with plastic wrap to hold it together. And when Teddy Guinnan came staggering
up the street that night, drunk as usual, Reseta stepped out from beside his mother’s house, unwrapped the front of the foul
purplish mess, tapped Teddy on the shoulder, kicked him in the nuts when he turned around, and then shoved that rotten eggplant
in his face, as hard as he could up his nose and in his mouth, and then watched him squirm on the sidewalk clawing at his
face and gasping for breath and groaning. And then Reseta leaned down and said, “There’s a little bit of my mother’s milk
for you, you piece a Irish shit.…”
Joseph Maguire had summoned up some reserve of defiance and was trying his best to lock on to Reseta’s gaze, but he started
to tremble in spite of his best effort to brass it out, suddenly trembling violently as though he were wet and cold even though
it was sunny and in the high 60s.
“Where you live, Joseph? Wanna give me the address?”
“No,” the boy said, his whole head shaking, but especially his lower jaw and lip.
“Okay, I’m sure somebody in the school has it.”
“One twenty-three Elm Street,” he blurted out. “In Maplewood.”
“Ohhhh, Maplewood. That’s where a lotta doctors live, huh, right? Your father a doctor, Joseph?”
“Yeah. And my mother’s a lawyer.”
“Oh. Impressive. She Irish too?”
“Yeah. So what? Why you keep askin’ me that?”
“Doctor father, lawyer mother, wow. And both Irish. A winning combination. I have no doubt you’ll be in the U.S. Senate before
you’re forty. Put your hands behind you.”
“What for?”
“What for? I’m gonna put my handcuffs on you, Joseph. ’Cause I’m arresting you. And then I’m gonna take you down the station
and book your little Irish behind. Then I’m gonna take you down the juvey center and file a petition against you for assault
and aggravated assault. In case your mommy hasn’t explained this to you, that second one’s a felony. And whenever I make an
arrest I have to
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