Chapter 1
Gus Busbi slowly opened his eyes to the early spring morning’s sunlight streaming through his bedroom window and muttered, “Crap!”
Gus hadn’t always felt this way, but, these days, he went to bed each night hoping he wouldn’t have to face the raw emptiness of another day. Why should he have to face another day without meaning or joy and the same nightmare each evening? Gus and his wife Julia had been married for forty-three years. It was three years ago today she died of a failed heart and, as Gus was painfully aware, a broken one as well.
Sliding his long legs over the side of the bed, his feet touched the cool wood floor. With elbows resting on his knees, he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes then stood to be greeted by the early morning arthritic stiffness of his bones. His six-foot-two lanky frame was unusually tall for his Italian heritage. The lines and character of his masculine face reflected a life of joys and tragedies but now seemed empty like an old abandoned home that had once been filled with the life of its family and friends’ deep relationships.
He methodically began his routine of washing his face, shaving, combing his short salt and pepper colored hair, and pulling on his gray pants, red flannel shirt, and sports jacket. After locking the worn door to his apartment, he made his way down the narrow staircase and out the back door of his two-family house, to the chilly early March morning. Like most people in Boston’s modest South End neighborhood, he was yearned for the end to the long cold winter. The early morning sun melted the ice on the rooftops and the sidewalks as Gus walked several blocks to the Eastside Café, his regular breakfast spot for the past thirty years. Every Monday and Thursday, he met with a group of seven other men to share breakfast, stories, company, and to give their favorite cranky waitress, Linda, a hard time. Most of the men were retired from the same factory where Gus had worked since returning from the Korean War.
His best friend, Mike, glanced up and smiled as Gus’s silhouette appeared at the front door of the café, then waved him over to the table full of men already engaged in talk of spring and the upcoming 2004 Red Sox season. For years, Gus had typically been one of the more outgoing talkers at the table, but a distant quietness had settled over him since Julia passed away. Mike made sure Gus continued to come to breakfast but would often find himself glancing across the table into Gus’s empty-looking eyes.
The group’s fun started when Linda came to their table with a pencil in hand, an order pad at her hip, and a sarcastic greeting for her favorite breakfast crew. “I spent all morning wishing—I mean worrying—that my favorite table of admirers wouldn’t show up. Let’s see if we can get through this before the kitchen closes, shall we men?”
Andy quipped, “Since I’m your number one fan, I’ll order first.” Linda shook her head and stared straight at Mike for his order, leaving Andy opened-mouthed, with his palms raised in the air, getting a chuckle from the rest of the guys at his mocked expression of disbelief.
Mike quickly replied, “I’ll have two eggs over easy, rye toast, and some of those sweet Italian sausages.” Just as Linda turned, Mike reached out and said, “Never mind. I’ll have my usual instead.”
Linda looked up from her pad and rolled her eyes. “That is your usual, Mike.”
He said, “Linda, that’s my usual usual but—” Linda promptly ignored Mike as she turned to the next wise guy. Several of the guys kept changing their minds until they finally ordered their usual breakfast just to get a rise out of her—and she never disappointed. Finally grabbing menus out of their hands and shaking her head, she scurried back to the kitchen.
Mike had made a point of sitting next to Gus, and Gus knew it was because today was the anniversary of Julia’s death. The rest of the table entertained each other with their usual banter and stories that had been repeated more times than any of them could count. When they finally left the Eastside, each man wished a happy day to their favorite waitress who stood by the register, her thin arms crossed over her chest and a priceless expression of bemusement on her face. The group continued to talk for a while on the sidewalk outside the café, and then Mike walked with Gus back towards Gus’s house. The two walked in silence during the handful of blocks as they passed office buildings, storefronts, and apartments until they approached his street with its few remaining two-family homes in this part of the city.
Mike Carbone served with Gus during the Korean War, had been the best man at his wedding, and worked with him for forty-five years at Dennis Corporation, a manufacturer of jet-engine parts located in the South End. Mike was shorter and stockier than Gus and still had jet black hair despite being only a year younger. He stopped for a moment and put his hand on Gus’s shoulder. “Gus, I’m glad you came this morning. I know it isn’t an easy day for you. How are you doing?”
Gus’s gaze remained fixed on the cracks in the cement sidewalk and no words came in response.
Mike’s voice choked as he uttered, “I miss her too.” Mike was Julia’s brother and a steadfast friend and brother-in-law to Gus. “I miss both of them.”
Gus’s eyes squeezed tight. He felt as if a bullet tore through his own chest as his son’s short seventeen years of life flashed before him. Mike was Danny’s godfather and had spent many days with Gus and Danny remodeling the house, working on cars, fishing, or just sitting on the front porch on summer nights chatting and listening to the Red Sox on the radio. Mike was as close to his nephew and sister as an uncle and brother could be, so the pain of their absence was no stranger to him.
Continuing to walk, Gus was in no mood to talk about Julia or Danny, not now, not ever. He knew Mike deserved some response, but once they were in sight of the front porch of the house where he had lived for so much of his life, a sudden rush of emotion overwhelmed him. A few months after Julia died, Gus moved to the smaller upstairs apartment of the Victorian and put the main part of the house up for rent. He had left the renting up to a friend who ran a local real estate agency, who quickly found him a tenant, a single mother, Celia, and her teenaged son, who remained tenants ever since—almost three years. The realtor told Gus that Celia has been actively looking to get her son out of the Lenox Street projects and when she first learned of the chance to rent the light blue Victorian and its welcoming porch, she was brought to tears at the prospect of a healthier life and a better schools for her son.
Celia couldn’t have been a more hardworking and devoted mother, nor a more respectful and gracious neighbor. She kept the inside and outside of her home impeccable and seemed determined to connect with Gus, leaving him gifts of homemade bread, cards on the holidays, and thank-you notes.
She and her son had been dream tenants, which left him totally unprepared for what met his eyes as he rounded the corner of the house. Celia’s son was on the front porch with a gang of six other black youths in their teens and early twenties wearing their hooded sweatshirts, baggy jeans hanging from their hips, flat-brimmed baseball hats, oversized shoes, and an attitude of nothing good.
Despite Celia including it in her many notes, Gus didn’t even know the boy’s name nor did he care to. He and this group of thugs represented everything that had taken his son’s life and broke Julia’s heart. Danny was only one victim among hundreds over the years, but the vast majority of the tragedies seemed to be caused by gangs like the ones now at his very own home. Gus turned with an expression that had apparently become familiar to Mike over the past seventeen years since Danny’s death. That look had once been filled with rage but was now resigned to resentment and despondency. Gus’s competitive, self-giving, and energetic personality had been buried with his family. He now merely existed. With urgency in his voice, Gus said, “Mike, I gotta go. I’ll see you some other time.”
The day was already emotionally loaded, but Mike obviously knew that the sight of this crew on the porch where Gus shared so many moments with his family had pushed him over the edge and Mike didn’t argue with him. “Make sure you’re taking care of yourself and let me know when you’re ready to work on that roof.”
Gus quickly disappeared around the back of the house without acknowledging the existence of the young men, nor did they seem to even notice him.
Once in his apartment, Gus quickly found paper and pen, and hastily wrote a note to his downstairs tenants.
Mrs. Russell,
If you can’t get your son to keep those gangsters from hanging around on my porch like a brood of vipers, I’m going to have to ask you to think about renting elsewhere.
Busbi
Chapter 2
When Julia died, Gus knew that he could no longer live in his old downstairs rooms or sit on that porch, so he decided to rent the first floor out to a nice family at an affordable rate. Gus was well aware of the area Celia grew up in the Lenox Street apartments, historically the very first affordable Boston housing project blacks could move into. Lenox Street was also home to one of the oldest and most violent gangs in Boston, known as the Lenox Street Cardinals or sometimes the Lenox Street Boys. The gang terrorized the local shop owners and were involved mainly in trafficking drugs, robbery, and murder. Growing up in the seventies and eighties, Celia would have been surrounded by street gangs from the South End, Roxbury, Mattapan, and Dorchester, each protecting their turf. The local racial friction and gang violence permeated the air with a palpable tension that would have been Celia’s childhood. Tensions were often at their peak on hot summer Saturday nights when revenge shootings generally occurred and neighbors would often wake up Sunday mornings to the sight of yellow crime scene tape.
Due to comprehensive neighborhood programs such as Operation Ceasefire put into place after a brutal stabbing during the wake of a gang member at the Morningstar Church, gangs and gang violence had noticeably subsided by the late nineties. But, as members of the programs moved on and gang members were released from prison, less organized gangs emerged and the deadly turf battles erupted again.
Celia had sought an opportunity to get her son out of the projects and away from the local gang that was pressing him to join. The answer to those prayers came out of Gus’s loss and suffering, and this fact was not lost on Gus. It appeared that Celia believed she was called somehow to help this man who had lost his son while, she was carrying her own son, Jamiel. Gus knew his note likely threw her into a panic.
On Friday, when Gus opened the door to retrieve his morning paper, he found a white bag with its handles twisted around the outside doorknob. He looked at first with caution and then curiosity as he lifted the bag and ascended the back stairs, laying the paper and the unexpected bag down on the kitchen table. He watched the bag as if it might move on its own while he poured his morning coffee and arranged his toast and eggs onto his plate. If Gus had a dog, he might have asked him, “What do you think could be in the bag, boy?” but he was alone and sat staring at the mystery package while he dipped the corner of his toast into the egg yolk, drank his coffee and peaked at the sports page to see if the Bruins had won over the Maple Leafs.
Finally, he tipped the bag and two freshly-baked blueberry muffins, and a folded paper slid onto the kitchen table. Lifting the note with two fingers, he unfolded it and recognized Celia’s handwriting: Mr. Busbi, I hope you like the muffins. I was wondering if you might be around to talk about something when I get home from work at 5:30? Leave a note if that doesn’t work, otherwise, I’ll drop by then. Thank you and have a good day. Celia.
Gus knew that this was a response to the note he had left her. He was in no mood to hear any complaints or to talk to anyone about anything at the moment. He thought about leaving another note to say that it wasn’t a good time for him but instead went for his usual walk, picked up a few groceries, and spent most of the day replacing a pressure valve on the boiler in his cellar. He was surprised when he climbed the stairs to his apartment to find that it was already 5:30 and saw Celia standing outside his door in the gray wool skirt and white blouse she had worn to work. “I hope this is a good time for you, Mr. Busbi?”
Gus grunted, “It’s Buzz-bee,” as he opened the door with his key. “I must’ve lost track of time working on the boiler. It’s supposed to get a little nippy next week.” Celia looked intently at Gus as they entered the kitchen, but he didn’t look at her when he pulled out the old wooden chair from the table for her to sit. She didn’t move to sit down. “Mr. Busbi, thank you for being willing to talk.”
After three years of avoiding this moment, Gus peered down at Celia’s face. She was probably in her mid-thirties, if she had become pregnant as a teenager like many girls from the projects, and was quite striking. One thing he knew, from his distant observations, was that Celia was a hard-working, dedicated, self-sacrificing single mother. Gus never saw any men come to the house and there were times he heard Celia reading out loud to herself on the porch. She worked a full-time job at a local company that was a twenty-minute walk from the house and dedicated the rest of her time to raising her son, improving herself, and taking pride in how her new home looked inside and out. Gus didn’t often take the time to think about his renters downstairs, but he had to admit that she impressed the hell out of him.
Gus shrugged.
Celia said, “I came to apologize for my son—well, I want Jamiel to come over to apologize to you and help you with some work you have around the yard as part of that apology.”
Gus sighed. “Just have Jamil stop having those hoodlums over and hanging out on that porch.”
“It’s Jamiel, Mr. Busbi. I’ve told him that already. They shouldn’t have been here, never mind hanging around on your porch and making it look like a—well, I’ve told him to stop hanging around with those boys and he didn’t do that.”
Gus hesitated. “I’m not sure apologizing to me is going to help him listen to his mother’s rules. Shouldn’t he be in school on a Thursday?”
Tears rolled from Celia’s dark brown eyes as she wiped them gently with the tips of her fingers. “It was a holy day at the St. Francis School so he had the day off. I think it had something to do with Mary. I’ve just been so afraid of him getting involved with the gangs, and drugs, and such. I grew up in those neighborhoods and it would—” She stopped a moment, taking a deep breath and putting her hand to her face to calm herself. “It has been an answer to a prayer to be able to move to your home and a new school, but I’m afraid he’s being pulled by a gang that will rob him of any chance he has for a better future.”
Gus shook his head. “I can see why you’re worried, but I don’t know what this has to do with me. I don’t know the boy and I don’t think he’s going to listen to some stranger about what friends he should have. Have the priest at the school talk with him.”
Celia stared down at the wooden kitchen floor, possibly realizing that her idea wasn’t going to work. “I thought he owed you more respect than the sight of those boys on the front porch of your home and it just seemed like a chance for a man to teach him some responsibilities and skills. He hasn’t had the father he needed and deserved. That’s my—”
Gus grunted, “I’m not interested in filling in for his father. That’s not my problem and I don’t think he’s looking for some old guy like me to be one either. I can’t help you, Mrs. Russell.”
“It’s Miss, and, please call me Celia. I’m sorry to burden you with all this. I really do apologize for what happened and I’ve just been more than a little desperate lately thinking about Jamiel. I thought—oh, never mind. Thank you for your time and it won’t happen again. Have a good night, Mr. Busbi.”
He watched her from the open door, as she stepped slowly down the dimly lit back stairs. Each step seemed as if she was walking further away from the small hope she apparently found herself grasping for in Gus.
Gus quickly clamped down on the warring emotions of anger and empathy so that he could move to a safer place where he could keep his distance. Three years of living in the same house with the Russells and he didn’t know if he could even pick Jamiel out of a line-up of the gang hanging out on his porch. Why would Celia want to solve her problem through him?
Despite, going to bed early to put the day behind him, but he couldn’t manage to fall asleep. Until Danny died, he had never had a problem sleeping, but this was more of restless energy keeping him awake as compared to the deep emotional emptiness that he’d been haunted by for the past many years. The more he tried to shift his thoughts to other things, the less he was able to relax. Before he knew it, the rays of morning light made their way across his face without a wink of sleep.
Chapter 3
The slower Jamiel tried to open the door to the back stairs leading to Gus’s apartment, the more the door hinges seemed to squeak. Climbing the steep staircase, he cautiously tried to find the spot on each step that creaked the least, but the nails in the old wood wouldn’t cooperate as his heart pounded fiercely against his chest. The next step creaked even louder than the previous one. He froze in panic as he heard what he thought was the door at the top of the stairs opening, but it remained shut. Adrenaline rushed through his veins. Never in the three years that he had lived in the same house had Jamiel met Gus face to face, and, at this moment, he assumed the worst. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally reached the top. There wasn’t much of a stoop, so he stood one step down and knocked gently on the door hoping that Gus was out early on this rainy Saturday morning. He almost fell backward as the door swung open and Gus glared down at him from the opening. “What do you want?” Gus grumbled.
Jamiel had argued repeatedly with his mother since the previous afternoon about having to talk to Gus, but Celia was determined and he knew he couldn’t win when he saw that look in her eyes.
Gus peered down, appearing perturbed and impatient.
“My mother—I mean, I wanted to say I’m sorry for using your porch the other day.”
“You rent the apartment. It’s your porch to use.”
“Okay, but there were friends over that don’t pay you rent.”
“Those hoods are your friends?”
Jamiel shook his head and snapped, “So, just because they’re black, you assume they’re no good? Thugs, bangers, crack-dealing jacks!”
“And you’re here to tell me they were over to discuss Chess Club strategy for your next meet?” Gus’s arrow had hit a nerve.
Without a good retort, Jamiel turned and raced down the steps letting out a muffled, “Peckerwood,” as he reached the bottom. He tried to walk off his frustration with Gus and his inability to follow through with his mother’s instructions to stay respectful and sincere in his apology. He was supposed to offer to do some work for Gus around the house. In his gut, he knew that the gang was exactly what Gus thought, but he also knew them in ways that he thought Gus never would—as human beings trying to survive an impossible set of obstacles as young black men in neighborhoods they did not choose to be born into.
Jamiel knew his mother would ask about his discussion with Gus, which was one reason he didn’t groan as he normally did when she woke him up for Sunday morning church services at the Hope Baptist Church located halfway between their old and new neighborhood. Even though it was unlikely he would see any of the guys from the old neighborhood on a Sunday morning, he still worried about running into them as he and his mother walked to the church he and his mom had attended since he was born. He knew that attending church and building his faith was non-negotiable for his mother, but he did finally convince her to let him out of Wednesday evening Bible study classes.
The Hope Baptist Church was mainly a black congregation deeply devoted to Christ, family, and character. This was one of the few places Jamiel was exposed to men who believed that manhood looked very different from the gang credo on the streets. These men were committed to their marriages, to being fathers to their children, and following Christ’s example. Most men dressed in their best and often only suit, tie, and shined shoes to show respect and honor to God. Women wore dresses and hats to show that same example to their children.
As much as Jamiel felt it was time to stop attending church as so many of his peers had, inside something attracted him to the place. Here he felt community, humility, decency, and had his only exposure to male mentors and father figures that were absent in his daily experience. The man who made the deepest impression on Jamiel and many other parishioners was the pastor, Reverend Richard Obasi. Reverend Rich had not only built up a vibrant and active community within the doors of their church, but courageously involved himself in the streets, with the youth and families of the neighborhood to foster a healthier place to raise a family. He walked the streets, talking with black youths both in and outside of the gangs. He had become close to Jamiel over the years and was as concerned as his mother about the strong influences that may impact pivotal decisions Jamiel would make in the coming years.
As Jamiel and Celia approached the front entrance of the small, attractive stucco church, Reverend Rich smiled, greeting Jamiel with a handshake and Celia with an embrace. “Good as always to see you, Jamiel. How’s your college search going?”
“I have to make sure I get through high school first, Reverend Rich, but I’ll let you know if I can find a college we can afford.” Jamiel always knew that his mother believed in him, but it felt different knowing that someone else cared and had confidence in him.
“The right college is going to be very lucky to have you.”
Celia gave the minister a smile that Jamiel knew held the years of gratitude she had for his mentorship and example to her son. “Looking forward to your sermon as always, Reverend Rich, especially since it’s Palm Sunday.”
“If I hear that beautiful voice of yours singing, that will be inspiration enough to let the Holy Spirit guide my part. Take care of that good man with you.” Celia nodded and returned a hesitant smile that seemed to communicate concern more than happiness.
His mom greeted the many supportive friends she had been blessed with in this place over the years. Jamiel thought about the contrast of the unadorned interior of the church compared to the Catholic church at St. Francis School. He had asked his mother about this and she told him that a Baptist was more about a strong individual and decisive commitment to being a Christian, which was an emotional and unambiguous experience for many of the parishioners that Jamiel had yet to experience himself. What he did experience was a connection to his African heritage through the rhythm and cadence of the music, the strong sense of community and belonging, and the feeling that all aspects of life were part of a sacred way of looking at the world. Reverend Rich’s sermons were heartfelt, sometimes emotional, and always connected to the struggles of everyday life. Today’s sermon was about preparing for Holy Week and Easter Sunday.
After the service, there was a social gathering in the adjoining hall organized by the Fellowship Committee, of which Celia took an active part. As she busied herself with greeting parishioners and serving coffee and donuts, Jamiel stood against the wall observing the boisterous social scene in front of him. The church had no ethnic restrictions, but everyone at the service and in the hall was of color. When he was at church for these few hours a week, he didn’t think about himself being black, but just another person in the hall. While he didn’t want to get up early to go to church every Sunday morning, he did feel more relaxed and at home here than in a world where he knew he was primarily defined by the color of his skin, “the black boy.” He kept playing the scene over in his mind of Gus Busbi glaring down at him from the top of the stairs, judging his value as a human being because of the color of his skin, another worthless hood from the projects. He could feel the anger rise in him again, and now he knew why he had felt that way so intensely the day before.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jamiel caught Marnie walking over to him. He suddenly felt glad that he was wearing his suit and tie. For some reason, girls seemed to love it when guys were dressed well. Maybe it was because of how the boys in the neighborhood normally dressed? At seventeen, he stood six-foot-three, with an athletic build and a handsome face.
While Marnie hadn’t talked to Jamiel very much, she seemingly assumed that any son of Celia would have to be a good person, something that was apparently important to her. “Hi, Jamiel.”
“Uh. Oh, hi, Marnie.” Although she was a year younger, Marnie knew he was shy with girls and smiled at him as she seemingly studied his features more closely. He nervously smiled back wondering what she was thinking.
“You go to that Francis School, right?”
“Yeah. It’s St. Francis, but I wish I was still going to English and was around the neighborhood.”
“Yeah, right, and waste your brain on people trying to drag you down. I think you should be glad you’re getting a chance to do something with your talents.”
“Talents? What are you talking about, girl?”
“You know what I’m talking about—boy. You’re smart. You’re athletic, and you got the character to be somebody—somebody good. Don’t waste it hanging with that gang I’ve seen you with lately.”
Jamiel couldn’t believe how assertively this girl was talking to him. He hardly knew her, yet she was telling him what he should be doing with his life. Before he could respond, Celia waved him over to help in the kitchen. Jamiel turned back toward Marnie and just stared at her without being able to think of anything to respond with. He noticed how pretty she looked, waiting for his response with a turn of her head, but nothing came out as he pointed to the kitchen and left her standing there alone. When he glanced back, Marnie smiled and shook her head.
On the walk home, Jamiel was quiet as he thought over what Marnie had said to him. Did she actually think he was all those things she had said? Realizing his mother was talking, he finally caught the end of her question, “—did it go with Mr. Busbi yesterday?”
“It was fine. Everything’s all set.”
“So what chores did he ask you to help with?”
Jamiel was stuck. Why was it always on the way home from church that she asked him about things he’d prefer to lie about? “We didn’t get that far.”
Celia stopped in her tracks. “Jamiel. Exactly what do you mean, ‘We didn’t get that far’?”
It was obvious that Jamiel was uncomfortable, but she was clearly determined to have him follow through on this. “Mom, the conversation was short. I apologized, and he seemed like he didn’t want to hear it.”
“Hmmmmm.”