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Manhattan
Utivich stands and wipes his palms back an' forth across his pants. "Hang on, I put it somewhere my father wouldn't find it and throw it out or something." he disappears down the long white hallway, leavin' me with the portrait of Donny. I feel real out of place here, like a dirt stain on some nice fancy vase. Manhattan is too nice for a guy like Aldo, whether I go by Aldo the Apache or Aldo Raine. I'm not suited for a place like this.
Shit. I knew things were wrong from the moment, five years ago, the kid an' me came home. I mean, how do guys like us get along with regular civilians again?
We don't, an' I know that firsthand. I'm sure Utivich knows too, his letters told me that. I shoulda known things would be different, that my relationship with my ma, the guys, Lucy would change.
But Lucy doesn't matter anymore. She never mattered in the first place, don't know why I'm just figuring that out now. Lee- well, he's only four, an' I can't blame him for anything, can I? He can't help the fact I'm his old man. It's better I stay away from the both of 'em, and that's just what I've been doing. Lucy doesn't try to understand, an' Lee asks too many questions on account of his buddies' parents, knowing what I did an' all. He'll learn from them, not me.
I knew things would go downhill real fast when I found out about Lucy and the baby- around that time she heard me mumblin' Donny's name at night. She'd ask about it right away in the morning and I'd dodge those questions as best as I could. I thought I had it made, that she'd leave it alone- but Lucy wasn't an idiot. Three months later she moved out and went back to her folks'.
After that I became an insomniac. But it wasn't on accident or anything, I did it on purpose. It kept the nightmares away, the nightmares that didn't come when I fell flat asleep on the porch in the middle of the goddamn day.
They always had to do with Donny, though, not random dead bodies or nothin' like some of the guys back in Tennessee had. I'd wake up sweatin' up a storm, and by the time I calmed down I was furious with myself for thinking about him.
Donny Donowitz was the past and had nothing to do with Aldo Raine. Donny Donowitz was dead as a fuckin' doorknob. It was a comfort to remind myself that. Donny wouldn't knock on my door in Tennessee, Donny wouldn't send me a letter from Boston.
But there was still Utivich. And Utivich wasn't gonna let me escape Donny. He sent me letters over the years, every now and then I sent him a little somethin' back. I even sent him a big ol' bottle of moonshine in the winter. I wonder if he ever drank the stuff; if he did he probably landed himself in the hospital. Happy fuckin' Hanukkah.
He kept beggin' me to come up to Manhattan. I kept making excuses about Lee, about Lucy, about how I hated the city. But he wouldn't leave it alone. He said I needed to come, that it was important. If I had known it had to do with the damn bat and Donny, I wouldn't have come all this way.
Five years, and I'm still holdin' on to this grudge. I should be ashamed, as Utivich has made clear. But with the minutes ticking by, I feel numb. Memories of Donny are just that- memories that don't matter. I've convinced myself over the years that nothing really happened between us, so that the reminders of the things we did and the words I spoke to him are nothing more than myth.
But facing the greatest reminder of Donowitz could ruin all that.
He's carrying the bat with both hands. There's some mighty bloodstains on it, and parts of it are splintered and battered- but it's Donny's bat. Utivich hands it to me wordlessly.
I set it on my lap and stare at it for a minute, reading the names. Rabbi Chomsky. Ester and Eva Bronstein. Jachai Berkowitz. Some of the names are more new and fresh, still written in Donny's clumsy hand. Hugo Stiglitz, Wilhelm Wicki, Smithson Utivich, Omar Ulmer..
The handle of the bat has two names. Murphy Donovan. It's the only name on this bat that isn't Jewish, then I spot the name right above it. Aldo Raine.
"When I was in Boston I found a couple of those people," Utivich says softly. "Some were dead, like Berkowitz and Nico Friedman and Benny Blumenfeld. One of the Bronstein girls married and moved away, but I talked to one of them- don't know which one, though. Murphy Donovan's still alive."
"Now why would you go bothering them, Smitty," I breathe. I run my finger over the letters of my name. "Kid had too much time on his hands, I should have given him more work..look, he even wrote my name in Hebrew right next to the English." it's meant to sound condescending, but Utivich only laughs.
"He did that with all of our names." he adds, crossing his arms and walking over to the window.
"Wonder why his old folks didn't wanna keep it. Dontcha think they would have wanted it or somethin'? I've got nothing to do with it, not exactly somethin' you hang over the mantle an' brag about to your buddies while you're drinking and playin' cards." I glance up, but Utivich isn't listening.
I swallow. I wouldn't say I'm emotionless, but I'm not about to start cryin' over Donny any time soon either. It doesn't matter, Raine, just take the bat and put it in the basement back home or something, bury it in the backyard or let the dog chew on it so you can forget. In another two years maybe you won't even recognize the name Donny Donowitz.
I pick up the little picture and place it over the bat, right next to my name, then place it on the floor next to the chair and stand up.
I peer out the window, wondering what he's starin' at, but I see nothing interesting- just a lot of rich old fogeys and rich young snots. I fling my arm around Utivich. "Let's go get a drink before I leave, whatcha say?"
Utivich smiles and wipes his eyes.