Joey grinned.
“Robbie called me last night, we had another talk about this; I think he just wanted me to tell him again that Uncle Frank was the way to go with this, and I made sure I let him know that he needs to sit down with both of them, Uncle Frank and Aunt Kat, so I called them and kind of… pushed Robbie into going there today; he’s not “dealing with an emergency” at work today, he’s in Morgan Hill, getting the benefit. I hope you don’t mind?”
Casey smiled at her older brother, both her smile and her eyes softening as she considered how much he cared for his younger brother. Casey pulled his head down and kissed him gently on the cheek.
“Thank you for still looking out for our boy!” she whispered, grinning back at Joey’s quick grin.
++++
Robbie pulled into the driveway of his former home, Frank and Caitlin Novak’s residence in Morgan Hill, a suburb of San Jose, noting both Frank and Caitlin’s cars already parked there, so he swung off to the side and parked across them. He walked into the house confidently, not bothering to knock; this had been his home for several years, and he was still a member of this family. As he walked through to the back, he heard the twins, arguing as usual, Frank mediating, and Caitlin clattering in the kitchen, and suddenly he was back; it was as though he’d never left.
Morag looked up and spotted him, immediately giving a shriek and pelting toward him, followed closely by Moira. The red-headed identical twins mobbed him every time, Frank suspecting that they just wanted to hit him up for more cash or freebies, but the truth was the two girls adored Robbie and wanted their brother back again, even though they loved Casey and worshipped little Robbie, and every chance they had to have him to themselves they took with both hands.
Caitlin heard the commotion, and slipped up behind Robbie to slide her hands around his waist and kiss him lightly on the neck.
“Robbie, welcome home! You should come down more often, we all miss you!”
Robbie spun round to hug his aunt in a bear hug, suddenly glad and relieved to see her, opening his arms to gather in the twins as well so he could hug them all at once.
After squeezing them all soundly, Robbie released them, letting all three of them breathe again.
Caitlin took his hand, kissing him softly on the cheek, motherly and concerned.
“Joey tells us you need to talk, come on through to the den. Girls, your dad and I need to talk to Robbie, this is private, and I mean that, so go find something to do, we’re going to be a while.”
The twins finally left after all their protests were dismissed, muttering darkly about how they weren’t really members of this family, that they got shoved out the door for the least little reason, and that no-one ever told them anything about what was really going on. Caitlin grinned as she listened to them, feeling for them, but knowing full well that what she and Frank were going to tell Robbie was definitely not for their ears, and never could be.
Frank ushered Robbie into the den, and waited for Caitlin to settle the girls and ensure their privacy. As he waited, his mind cast back to the circumstances that led him here, to this moment, if truth be told, to help him set out in his mind what and how he was going to tell Robbie about what had happened, what the family was all about, and what he meant to all of them.
****
My name is Francis Xavier Novak; blame it on a Catholic upbringing, and call me Frank, everyone else does except Caitlin; she, out of everyone, always called me Frankie, and only she could get away with it; anyone else who called me that would end up picking their face up off the sidewalk. My mom was Colleen Hennessey, and her parents were immigrants from the depression-hit tenements of Chicago in the 1930’s, her father lured here by the promise of work. It was hard work, too, back-breaking labor in the factories owned by the Dolan family, long hours for pittance wages. I know my grandpa resented it, but the alternative was no money at all in Chicago, so they stayed and sweated it out.
Mom was born here in Springfield, and she could remember Grandpa working long hours to put barely enough food on the table, while the Dolan’s and their relatives in Springfield and surrounding towns got rich, fat and arrogant. There were damned few Cadillac’s to be seen in this part of the world, but those that were belonged to that family and their myriad offshoots.
My dad was a first-generation Ukrainian immigrant named Marcin Novacek, anglicised to Martin Novak. He’d come to the USA as a small boy but he never forgot his roots, and always pined for the chance to one day return home to the old country. It never happened; when I was less than a year old, he was killed by a hit and run driver on Serramonte Avenue downtown. Initially, all the eyewitnesses identified the car as a late-model black Cadillac Coupe DeVille, which struck him so hard he was thrown 20 feet, killing him instantly. My sister Sarah was four years old when it happened, and she remembers my father clearly, but I have only pictures mom gave me; I don’t remember him at all.
Strangely, when the sheriff of our fair town investigated the accident, all the eye-witnesses thronging the sidewalk at the time either had no clear recollection of what had happened or claimed they hadn’t really seen what happened; these same people were also the recipients of some kind of windfall, as they all somehow managed to afford new cars that week. The only black 1972 Coupe DeVille in town belonged to Jerry Dolan, son of the owner of the factories that had made the Dolan family fortune, and a notorious drunk driver. As the sheriff was also his cousin, as was the mayor, the investigation was pretty cursory and closed as ‘Unsolved’. It was an interesting point that Jerry Dolan’s DeVille was reported ‘stolen’ that same day, and found burned out in a field behind Bad Indian Wood a couple of days later.
Just over a year later, mom married Michael Joseph Moran, the man who brought me up, and who I thought of as ‘dad’. He was a huge man, with hands like shovels, but the sweetest, mildest temperament you could hope to find. I was never wary of him, and he was never too tired to pick me up and swing me on to his shoulders when I got tired or fed-up with walking. I looked forward to when he’d tuck me in on a cold night, or hold me on his lap with his huge arm around me, sitting in the big armchair in front of the fire reading nursery rhymes to me, or Pooh, or his favorite, The Wizard of Oz, until I fell asleep.
I was almost three when mom brought a new baby home; her name was Caitlin Roisian Colleen. Mom told me that she made me promise I would look after her, because I was her big brother, and that’s what big brother’s did, and then she made me hold Caitlin’s hand while I promised to always take care of her, and she always swore Caitlin smiled at me as I promised mom I would always look after and protect my little sister.
I always loved my baby sister anyway, and I belonged to her for as long as I could remember; all she ever had to do was want something and I’d get it for her, or do it for her, or make it happen for her; she was my responsibility, and she owned me outright from as early as I can remember.
Growing up in the 1970’s and 80’s was the same for us as any other family in the Midwest; we went to school, did family things, squabbled, fought, fell-out, made-up, lived normal, everyday lives. Sarah (known in the family as ‘Sally’, probably because as a small child it was easier for me to pronounce) was almost five years older than me, so growing up we never played together a lot; I think she felt that age gap quite keenly; when she was ten years old she was nearly twice as old as me, and more so between her and Caitlin. We all loved each other fiercely, but it was my job to look out for Caitlin, and Sarah left me to it (unless someone threatened one of us younger ones; then my big sister turned into an avenging angel, a sight scary and awesome to see. Every smart kid in town (and a lot of the stupid ones, too) learned early-on just how much hell would rain down on them if they messed with Sarah Novak’s family…
I progressed through school at pretty much a walking pace; there was nothing much I was interested in, except sport, specifically boxing, but the school didn’t offer much in the way of coaching, concentrating as it did on track & field, football, and wrestling. Sarah tried to get me interested in other things, even suggesting church activities, which should have indicated how worried she was about me; she didn’t like the idea of me hitting people and getting hit back, and we had several almost-arguments about it.
The only one who didn’t get on my case was Caitlin; she was only three years younger than me, so I could talk to hear more easily and freely than I could with Sarah. Don’t get me wrong, I loved and adored Sarah, but I had a closer, more confidential-type relationship with Caitlin.
Eventually I stumbled on the gym at the YMCA on Harvey Street, where I discovered our parish priest, Father Bernardi, showing rights over lefts to some of the kids training there. I found out he was a fanatical follower of the kings of the ring and a disciple of the squared-circle who could quote statistics all the way back to the 1920’s, a true boxing aficionado. As I was a natural southpaw I had a distinct advantage in the ring, something he saw immediately, and took it upon himself to coach me from age 12.
So, on Saturday nights, while my friends were out getting into trouble, learning how to smoke, or caged-up and locked-down indoors, I would be down at the gym with him after Benediction, working the speed-bag, jump-rope and weight-bench, circuit training, or sparring endless rounds with everyone the good Father could dig up who’d climb into the ring with me.