The Tragic Flaw Read online

  A beautiful woman and a steaming plate of man-sized portions greet the young Cicero in the cozy kitchen.

  She smiles, as does he.

  “How did you sleep?” she asks.

  “Fine,” he answers.

  He opens the refrigerator door and grabs the pulp-free orange juice. Upon closing it, a tasseled certificate falls to the white linoleum floor. Cicero bends down and scoops the award off the floor and places it back on the fridge door.

  It is surrounded by numerous honors, certificates, and awards in all colors of the rainbow, with accolades like top, number one, excellent, best, MVP, captain. Each marks his achievement in either academics or athletics, and features stars, gold stamps, ribbons and stickers. They come in all shapes and sizes with impressive signatures: the principal, the mayor, the state representative, the governor.

  The acknowledgments completely cover the refrigerator door, minus several inches occupied by two photographs. One of Cicero and his mother in a warm embrace lies just below another of him and his older sister, the lovely Lucia, standing side by side with enormous grins. Surely they had just said, “Cheese!” with vim.

  Cicero takes a seat at the small round synthetic wood table. There are three seats, but only two place settings.

  Before him is a plate of grits, bacon, scrambled eggs with American cheese, English muffins and grape jelly, and sliced ruby red grapefruit.

  He immediately dives into his mother’s specially made bacon. In a move that would horrify any diabetic, she has sprinkled brown sugar on the slivers of swine meat, as she has for years. It’s deliciously sweet and crispy. He smiles and begins to hum.

  “Where’s Lucia?” the eighth-grader asks his mother of the sister he adores.

  “She’s already gone,” his mother replies, even though its merely 6:30 in the morning, somewhat early for a high school senior to be off to homeroom.

  The lady of the house begins to wash the dishes she has just utilized to make breakfast, and a few that were placed in the sink overnight by her snacking child. The kitchen is spotless. To the right of the stove is the counter, which extends in an upside-down and backward L-shape along the wall and on which rests a four-slot adjustable toaster that can accommodate the plumpest of bagels.

  There’s also an exceedingly large microwave that resembles some of the first models made, and an outdated boxy black-and-white television with missing knobs. Pliers from a drawer enable the family to switch from Leno to Letterman.

  The walls are concealed in tacky, light-tan wood-grain wallpaper that has become unglued in more than a few places. Ms. Fix It had been meaning to get to it.

  Above the table hangs a dark-brown plastic crucifix. It was given to Cicero by his seventh-grade teacher following his baptism. She said a bishop had blessed it. Prior to that, he had always thought she was a racist.

  “Did you say grace?” his mother asks as her aging hands work deep in the blistering water under the cover of soapsuds.

  With a full mouth he nods yes, even though he didn’t, and polishes off the remaining eggs, leaving a huge portion of grits uneaten, and more grapefruit than his mother liked. He was never a big fan of either.

  Knowing that her insincere son failed to say his grace, his mother positions the wet glasses and saucers on a yellow rubber drying rack next to the sink and says, “Son, there is a God, and He does watch over your food if you ask Him to. He helped me provide you with nourishment, and in return He just asks for a little respect and recognition. Okay?”

  Cicero, reaching for his glass of cold O.J., simply nods in the affirmative again, and takes a prolonged childlike gulp. After wiping his mouth and gasping for air, he asks his hardworking mother, “You’re not going to eat?”

  Ringing out the dishtowel and turning off the faucet, his mother just smiles. “No, I’m not hungry, honey.”

  Her son’s eyebrows rise in response, but he nonchalantly continues to finish off his jelly-smothered English muffin. As he does, there’s a knock at the door.

  The diner looks up from his plate in surprise. He glances at the digital light-blue display on the microwave, six forty-five, and thinks that it’s much too early for the postman. On top of that, no one ever knocks. Minus one person.

  Knock, knock, knock, three more follow. His mother calmly turns from the sink. She knows who raps upon her home’s door.

  Cicero signals as if he’s getting up to answer the door but his mother looks to him and says, “I’ll get it, honey.” Her son is relieved; he really didn’t feel like getting up.

  She sashays out of the kitchen, down the hallway, and turns right, through the undersized living room and across the polyurethane floor to the front door. Her full hips swing side to side under her form-fitting robe. Cherokee Indian ancestry comes through in her high cheekbones and the red undertones in her skin, which is accentuated by the light rouge and burgundy lipstick she failed to remove last night.

  Just as Cicero noted, only one person knocks.

  She opens the door and snowflakes trespass.

  A tall man with wide shoulders stands on the front porch delicately powdered in ever-increasing amounts of snow. His brunette brim hat and overcoat complement his dark-olive features and repel the wetness well. His head slightly bowed, he lifts it and grins. It’s Daddy.

  The mother of his son beams at the sight of him. But it is a response that comes with years of experience with this man, and hard-learned and proven apprehension instantly manifests. Her smile diminishes.

  “Hey, Ruth, how ya doin’?” her unannounced guest asks in a heavily accented voice. The chilly air makes his breath discernible. “You gonna let me in?”

  “Hello, Antonio,” she replies sedately, pulling her robe tighter to protect her neck and chest from the winter nip. “Come in.”

  He steps in and wipes his expensive wingtips on the welcome mat.

  “Cicero!” Ruth calls out. “Your father is here.” The multiple bangles on her wrist slide down to her hand as she closes the door.

  “Okay, Mom!” Cicero acknowledges from the kitchen.

  There is an uncomfortable silence between the former lovers. Antonio looks around the tidy living room. Much of his illicit loot helped furnish it, including the authentic Italian marble coffee table imported from Florence, and the taupe Egyptian cotton window dressings direct from Cairo.

  Ruth stares at him with a blank face, thinking about how she fell in love with one dimension of him, with little knowledge of his numerous layers.

  “Hey, Daddy, what are you doing here?” Cicero asks as he prances in the room on gangly chicken legs and boat-like feet.

  “I came to pick you up; you’re coming with me today,” his father says with a smile. “Is that alright with you?” He pats his leather gloves together to shake the excess snow.

  “Sure, Daddy, but I have school,” Cicero replies, “And I have—”

  “Look, don’t worry about school today,” his father says, dusting off his jacket. “You’re hanging out with me, end of story, capisce?”

  Ruth simply looks on. She is repulsed by Antonio’s brazen contempt for what she has gone through to raise his two illegitimate children the right way, virtually alone. Sleepless nights. Lucia’s sneaking out. Cicero’s backtalk.

  “Let me get dressed!” Cicero says excitedly, running off toward his room.

  “And don’t forget your hat and gloves,” his mother weighs in as only a mother can.

  Flinging open his closet door, the skinny youngster fingers through his jackets and coats trying to find one that matches his father’s the closest. In the process he passes by the trusty BB guns he uses to keep the neighborhood cats, dogs, and blue jays in check.

  “No, no, no,” he says frustrated.

  Then, suddenly, bingo.

  “Yes,” he says, “this will work.”

  It’s black. It’s long. It will do.

  In the living room, his mother turns to Antonio. Her mind-set is written on her face.

  “I’
ll have him back in a few hours,” Antonio says. “Don’t worry about it. Just goin’ to run some errands; get some lunch.”

  But she has to worry. She needs to worry. Good mothers worry. Especially mothers of little boys with cutthroat fathers. Shyster fathers. Gangster fathers.

  “I’m ready,” a grinning Cicero says after running into the living room. He fixes his hat upon his head and securely pulls on his gloves, then he pauses. This is the only time he can remember seeing his parents this close together.

  “Good, let’s go,” Antonio says as he opens the door and steps out. “See ya later, Ruth.” And just like that Cicero’s moment is over. He follows his father out.

  “Bye, Mom,” he yells as he slams the door shut.

  Ruth stands there, staring at the closed door. She says a prayer for her son, that he will return to her safely, and that he will not follow in his father’s footsteps.

  The inside of his long, navy-blue Cadillac Fleetwood was always warm and welcoming. The swanky black leather interior always seemed to swallow the skinny and awkward Cicero, with the ever-present aroma of cigar smoke and cigarettes lingering.

  He looks at his father from the passenger side, and notices how they have the same keen nose. The same sleepy, light-brown eyes.

  Antonio noticed the same thing the day his first and only son was born. From that day on he wanted to be a father and a role model to him, but his marriage to a deeply vested Sicilian family prevented that from ever happening. His wife and two daughters needed to see him daily, his father-in-law would have it no other way. Instead, he did what he could. Dropping off cash, birthday gifts, Christmas presents. Calling now and then to say hi, or stopping by and taking his illegitimate son and daughter out for ice cream, or dinner.

  Nevertheless, the absentee father knew the Romello name would die with him, and there was nothing he could do about it except ensure that the Romello fire burned inside his affair-born son. His African-American son.

  But this day was to be different.

  Ole Blue Eyes croons from a cassette in the tape deck. Cicero looks over at his dad and thinks about how his mom would have played the Staple Singers or the O’Jays. He also thinks about how his mom and dad differ so much. But he knows they both love him dearly.

  To and fro windshield wipers fight off big snowflakes, preventing them from sticking. The sedan’s large Vogue tires slosh through the dirty urban snowfall.

  His dad sings to the music.

  “I did it myyy waaay!” he belts off tune, looking over at his son, smiling.

  Cicero giggles and his father laughs. His laugh is distinctive, and re-markably jolly, and Cicero couldn’t help but think that his dad was cool.

  Heading north through the city, from Seventy-Third Street to streets with sequentially lesser numerals, the pair pass liquor stores, homeless men and women bundled up in want of shelter, and money-hungry hustlers looking to dump their product or score some more.

  They cruise north on Troost Avenue from where the poor black people live, across the railroad tracks, to where the poor white people live. Mostly old Irish families reside here, along with a few Germans, and more recently some Vietnamese and Laotian families.

  Antonio makes a left on Fifth Street, near an old textiles factory, and drives five blocks to the corner where St. Vincent’s stands.

  The cavernous stone church is festooned on all sides by impeccable stained glass windows. Historical works of art from an era long past allow daylight to pass through vibrant indigoes and vivid scarlets. Snow lightly powders the front stairs as the elder monsignor and his hunched back assiduously sweeps it away.

  An enormous mosaic of St. Vincent de Paul, patron saint of the needy, hovers above three tremendous archways and guards the sanctuary’s vast vestibule. On either side of him are depictions of St. Francis Borgia and Leonard of Port Maurice, who is portrayed in a striking manner as the restorer of discipline to the holy orders in Corsica in 1744.

  The cathedral and its blessed transoms mark not only a place of worship, but they also denote the edge of Piccolo Italia—Little Italy.

  Antonio’s Caddy hugs the road as it makes a gliding right turn. Cicero immediately knows where he is. Red, white, and green flags hang on the lampposts, outside of homes, and near the park and the baseball field. He had always wanted to play catch there with his dad. But he never did.

  They pull in front of a deli and stop where a butcher prepares the day’s much sought after prosciutto and abruzzese. Across the street is a ramshackle pool hall, also claimed as Italiano by a fluttering tri-colored crest. Riffraff, descended from Sicily, Venice, Naples, and other glorious city-states, have staggered in and out of this dive for decades.

  “Wait here,” Antonio says to his son as he braces for the bitter climate, opens the car door and steps out, slamming it behind him. The wintry air quickly slips in behind him, causing Cicero to tense up and his left eye to water.

  Antonio traverses the thick slush near the car, then easily crosses the cleared street and enters the pool hall. Though it’s early in the day, Antonio still has business to tend to.

  Cicero notices how the street is without snow. It’s clean and freshly salted, completely unlike his mother’s block, which would often bear snow until it melted on its own accord.

  Not naïve to his father’s line of work, Cicero daydreams that his well-respected father is shaking down some loan shark, or making some delinquent asshole pay up.

  Suddenly, the pool hall’s thin wooden door bursts open as his father, followed by two associates, drags a man out by his collar kicking and screaming. The child need not fantasize any longer.

  Cicero hastily jumps into the driver’s seat to get a better view. His excitement, coupled with the twenty-one-degree temperature, causes the window to instantly fog up. His gloved hand wipes it, and as plain as day, his father begins to stomp this man on the sidewalk. Repeatedly kicking him in the back, head, and face. Back, head, face, and leg. Back, head, face, and arm.

  He’s in his late thirties, maybe early forties. Blood spurts from his mouth. His overcoat is sullied by the snow and muck. He mumbles fragmented sentences in a futile plea for his safety. The child struggles inside the luxury sedan to decipher what’s said.

  “I’ll pay, Tony, I swear it,” the victim screams, throwing up his left arm to protect his face.

  Antonio thrusts his wingtip into the man’s spine, causing him to wail. The flailing of his arms and legs creates a distressed fallen angel in the snow.

  The other two men, both larger and bulkier than Antonio, look on, standing on either side of the pathetic sack of shit in the snow. The goateed pair sport dark leather jackets and slicked-back, jet-black hair. They are portly and unsympathetic. The shorter and younger of the two puffs a cigarette. He stands to the left of the prey, on whom he uncaringly flicks his ashes.

  The two henchmen are present to make sure their mark doesn’t escape, doesn’t pull a gun or a knife, or Heaven forbid, put a whipping on the invincible Antonio.

  With a forceful pounce, Antonio’s heel crushes the man’s jaw. The snow becomes a thick soupy, wine-red.

  His victim whimpers.

  “I’ll have the money!” he mumbles painfully as he attempts to cover the back of his busted head with both arms. A gaping hole allows his red sauce to escape.

  Antonio, now winded by his exercise and the cold air, stops his onslaught.

  Breathing heavily, he warns the tardy loser, “That’s right. I know you will, Gino. I know you will.”

  Again, Cicero wipes the fog from the window. His eyes bulge in amazement. Falling flakes partially obscure his view, as if trying to shield him from the world of his father.

  “If you don’t have the money, we’re going to give you some concrete knickers and toss your pathetic ass in the Missouri River, you fuck,” yells Antonio as he wipes spit from his mouth and clean-shaven jaw line. He’s amped beyond belief, his heart racing. “You got that?”

  He kicks him in the face
one last time for good measure. The ever-weakening man squeals like an injured puppy. Five dislodged teeth, mostly incisors, bedeck the blood-spattered sidewalk.

  “Hey, I’ll see you guys tonight,” Antonio says calmly to his two burly watchmen as he turns to walk away. They remain silent and nod.

  Gino, severely battered and hemorrhaging, is subsequently hauled down a nearby alley by the stout henchmen.

  The enclosed adolescent again wipes his frosty breath from the window, and he notices his father sauntering back toward his Brougham with a vigorous swagger.

  He quickly jumps back to the passenger’s seat. The weather, along with what he has just witnessed, causes the thin child to shiver.

  Antonio opens the heavy door and sits down. He produces a stained handkerchief from an inside pocket and thoroughly wipes his soiled shoes with it.

  Cicero observes his father via peripheral vision. Antonio’s wide back and shoulders inflate and swell with each heavy breath he takes as he hurriedly wipes away his stains and his sins.

  “Cicero,” Antonio says as he swivels to the right, placing both feet in the car. Out of fear and out of curiosity, the young boy’s eyes quickly dart to his father. He blushes from the chill.

  “Son, you have one life to live,” his father says as he slams the driver’s side door shut and then stares into his son’s eyes. “Uno. And so help you God, if you come across a piece of shit that wants to complicate it, you do whatever you have to do to make sure things don’t stay complicated.”

  He pulls the car keys from his overcoat and inserts one into the ignition and starts it. The engine block revs.

  “Whatever you have to do,” he stresses. “You understand?” His accent is thicker now, similar to how it sounded when he was a younger, more devoted madman.

  Cicero nods yes without blinking.

  “You understand?” his father asks again.

  His son nods once more, faster, more emphatically.

  “Good,” his father says, as he cracks a smile. Cicero’s innocence delights his soul. “Always remember, you want to be the one dishin’ out the kicks, not receivin’ ’em. Alright?”