You're Nobody 'Til Somebody Kills You by Robert J. Randisi Page A

finished crying. When she saw me she started all over again.
    “There’s a lot of people here,” Jerry said.
    “And this looks like only half the family.”
    “They don’t seem so crazy,” he said.
    “Wait for it.”
    “Your cousins seem nice. How many you got?”
    “About thirty-two.”
    “Huh?” He looked shocked.
    My father was sitting in the front row. He turned to see what the hubbub was all about. When we locked eyes he got up and came over to me. He’d aged badly, the skin on his face sagging,his clothes hanging on a frame that while no means thin, was not as bulky as it once was. And he was smaller than I remembered. Even though I’d left New York when I was in my late twenties and a man myself, he’d always made me feel like a small boy in his presence. But when he took my face in his hands I could still feel the strength. That hadn’t changed.
    “I’m so glad you came, son,” he said. He shocked me by kissing me on the cheek, and then hugging me.
    “My boy, my boy,” he kept saying.
    Over his shoulder I could see Jerry watching us. I’m sure he was wondering where the crazy was.
    Wait for it, I thought again.
    My father stopped hugging and held me at arm’s length. My sister moved up alongside him.
    “You look good, boy,” he said. “Doesn’t he look good, Angie?”
    “Yes, he does, Poppa,” she said. “He looks good.”
    My sister was the baby of the family, but while I knew she was thirty, she looked like she was in her forties. Her face was lined, her hands rough, and she wore very little makeup.
    My father held my shoulders a little longer, his eyes wet, and then I saw it. For years I called it “the change.” My father changed his “tune.” His attitude could turn on a dime. Sometimes it happened when he was out of the room. One version of my father would leave and moments later the new version would enter. But every so often it happened in front of us. We could see it, and prepare for it.
    He slapped my upper arms and said, “Are you happy now that you killed your mother?”
    The room got quiet. I could still see Jerry behind my father, and he looked as if he’d just been slapped.
    “Why don’t you go and look at her?” my father shouted. “Take a look at your handiwork!”
    I turned to my sister. She did what my mother had alwaysdone when I looked to her for help. She shrugged helplessly. I grew up with a crazy man, a bully, knowing before I could talk that my mother would never be there for me. Once she mouthed the words, “I’m sorry,” during one of my father’s tirades, but that was the most I ever got from her.
    My brother came over and stood next to my father.
    “Why don’t you go take a look,
brother?
” he asked.
    Joey was older than me by two years. Early in my childhood I realized I was different. Nobody was on my side. I usually took the brunt of my father’s anger, even if I had nothing to do with the reason he was so mad. Joey always took such delight in the fact that I was the target, and it was always very important to him that my father know he was there, on
his
side. I always felt that as brothers, it should’ve been us against my old man, but that had never been the case.
    “Go on,” Joey said. “Look at her.”
    “She’s been dying since the day you left,” my father said. “I’m surprised it took this long.”
    Tears were streaming down my sister’s face, but she remained silent. My cousins, aunts and uncles found something else to look at. When my father got like this, nobody got in his way.
    “If anybody killed her it was you, old man,” I said. “Living with you.”
    “Your mother was happy with me,” he said. “It was only when you kids came along—” He stopped short. “When
you
came along—”
    I looked at my sister, and then my brother.
    “Are you listenin’ to this?” I asked them.
    My sister hid behind her tissues.
    My brother hid behind his bluster.
    “It broke her heart when you left!” Joey said. “We