Fenway Fever (13 page)

Pops sat back. Stats studied the floor, deciphering what he had just heard. A pacemaker connects straight to the heart? Well, he guessed it would have to, in order to send the electronic impulses that sparked the heart when the vagus nerve didn’t. But was it always coming loose? Would he have to have operation after operation for the next ten years? If so, then wouldn’t it be best if he just waited until he was older?

“So what are you saying, Doc?” Pops, too, needed clarity.

“There’s no clear-cut course of action here, Angelo. Every patient is unique, with a host of considerations.”

“But …”

“But, all in all, I’d like you both to consider going ahead with the implant. In the long run, I think it would be best.”

“What about all the risks?”

Doc nodded. “Even taking them into consideration, I see a pacing device as the better choice.”

“Better than … ?”

“Better than doing nothing.” Once again he turned to Stats. “Freddy, up until now, we’ve always taken a wait and see approach. But as it is, things are not improving.”

Stats knew that as well as anyone. This year had been the roughest yet, no matter how much he had tried to downplay it.

He just needed to be clear on one thing. “If we go ahead with the pacemaker,” he asked, “what’s the number one risk?”

“That it fails when you really need it.”

Stats nodded. “And if we just let things go along the way they are?”

“To be honest, Freddy, the biggest risk is still the same. Your heart fails when you really need it. Of course, that happens to everyone on earth eventually. The only thing is, without the operation, that failure would most likely come sooner than later.”

Wrapping up a quick series with the Rays—with three devastating losses—the Sox again hit the road, this time to Minnesota, where they won two in a row against the Twins to finally snap their losing streak at
ten games
.

“Too bad it had to happen in Minnesota,” said Mark as he joined Stats at the kitchen table to finish off a carton of rocky road ice cream before going to bed. “Sox fans need to see a few good ones like that right here, close-up.”

Stats agreed, but knew it was better than nothing. “Maybe playing away from all that booing helped. Especially if they can string a few more wins together and get things figured out.”

“Unless they’re just plain cursed,” said Mark. “Then no matter how good they look, even if they climb back on top, they’ll never win the Big One.”

“Don’t have to remind me. But to be totally honest, I’d settle for a heartbreak season, even another 2011, over no chance at all.”

Passing through the parlor, Stats noticed Pops was once again busy with a file of papers.

“What’re you working on?”

This time, Pops made no effort to hide his project.

“I ran into Anton Martinelli the other day. Turns out, his brother-in-law is a big-time business lawyer. So I told him about this mess I’m in.”

“We’re in,” corrected Mark, who had fallen in behind Stats.

“Yeah, everybody, I suppose. Any rate, he phones up his brother-in-law right there in the street and gives him the quick lowdown. The guy tells him I have two options.”

“You’re not going to sell the seats, are you?”

“Wouldn’t help if I did. He says in my situation, I can either walk away from everything and declare bankruptcy or I can sell off my business interests and hope to get enough to pay off my debts.”

It took Stats a moment for the news to register. The “business interests” would be Papa Pagano’s Red Sox Red Hots, which had been in the family even longer than the season tickets.

“What does he mean, declare bankruptcy?” asked Mark.

“It means we go belly-up. Lose everything we have except the house.”

“What if we just take out a loan or something and pay the bills off over time?”

“Markangelo, I’m borrowed up to my eyeballs as it is. Look, I got the whole lowdown. If I don’t pay these guys off, the business goes to auction. And an auction won’t bring anywhere near
as much as I could get if I sold out now under my own terms, without the pressure.”

“Now? As in … ?”

“As in this week. ASAP. I don’t have a choice. We got things coming up.”

“Things coming up” was Pops’s way of saying that he and Stats had decided to take the doctor’s advice. Stats was scheduled to go into surgery on Tuesday, June 26, less than two weeks away. And insurance would not cover everything. As Pops had learned with Mama’s illness, he would need any extra money that the sale of Papa Pagano’s would provide in order to help with the additional expenses.

“How much is the business worth?” It seemed so strange to hear Mark voice that question—the idea felt so absurd. But now that it had been proffered, Stats wanted to know, too.

“That’s what I’m working on tonight. Getting all my income and expenses sorted out. The guy I talked to said if my receipts are what I say they are, he could get me something like a hundred fifty thousand dollars. Two hundred, tops.”

“Whoa,” said Stats. “That’s a lot of money.”

Pops let out a sigh. “Seems like it. But afterwards, we end up with no income at all and only a little bit of cash.”

“Wait a minute,” said Mark. “Which guy told you this? The lawyer?”

“No, no, I saw a business broker on Friday. Another buddy of Anton’s. But, listen, the guy is sharp. So was the lawyer. I know I could go all around town and get everybody’s opinion,
and this and that, but they’d all say pretty much the same thing. Sell now, at your price. Pay off that mountain of debt. Start over. Breathe easy.”

“Start over doing what?”

“Who knows? Open up the grocery store.” He shrugged. “I mean, we keep the house, if we can still make the payments. And that’s part of the house.”

Whether Pops was serious about that idea or not, the mere mention of the store took most of the fire out of Mark. “We’ll make the house payments,” he said. “Even if I have to go out and get another job.”

“Me too,” said Stats.

Pops shook his head. “No, no, no. Look, we’re getting ahead of ourselves here. Let’s just take it step by step, and we’ll figure everything out.”

Stats let it go. So did Mark. Pops had made a reasoned decision. Stats hated the idea of selling Papa Pagano’s. But Pops probably did, too. At any rate he had weighed all the options.

Maybe it was just like the lawyer had suggested. It’s time for Pops to breathe easy.

Sunday, June 17, was Father’s Day, and as they had done for the past three years, Mark and Stats took Pops out to lunch at Angie’s Ristoránte for her specialty, spaghetti and pork chops.

On the way there, they passed a neighborhood regular, Frazzled Harry, who tended to haunt the alcoves of vacant storefronts while subtly “asking” for money.

“Good day, Mr. Pagano. Say there, boys.”

“Frazzey Harry,” said Pops with a lilt in his voice, “you’re out bright and early this fine day. Any sure bets coming up at Suffolk Downs this season that a fellow might ‘invest in’?”

Harry squinted into the sunlight. “No, no. None yet.”

Years ago, Frazzled Harry trained thoroughbreds at the famed racetrack in East Boston and had produced several winners. Then he hit a rough patch “down the stretch,” as Pops called it.

“But I’ll keep my ear to the ground,” said Frazzled Harry. “Meantime, I’m just happy to greet my lady friends heading to mass at St. Francis. You know, they never forget a friend.”

What everyone knew was that Harry could always glad-hand
a few dollars smiling at the church crowd on Sundays, which was the only day Stats ever saw him.

“Well, good luck to you,” said Pops, who extended his hand. Harry did the same. They shook.

Stats could not figure out when Pops had managed to palm a folded twenty-dollar bill, but somehow in the last few steps, he had done exactly that. Upon hearing paper rustle, Stats caught a quick glimpse as Pops slipped Harry the money during the handshake.

Nothing new there. Pops rarely missed a chance to help a guy out who had hit a rough patch. In fact, he had always told his sons to “take care of your family—that’s why God gave them to you.” The only problem Stats could see with Pops’s philosophy was the size of his family. Even now, when he knew he was deep in debt, anyone he met was automatically in it.

At the restaurant, Angie was all smiles, as if she’d been waiting for them to appear. Of course, she had been, since Mark had stopped in the day before to set things up.

“Happy Father’s Day,” she said while hugging her black vinyl menus against a silky red top. “Your favorite table is all set.” She led them to the front window.

“Angelina,” said Pops, “every table in here is my favorite.”

She beamed, then passed out the menus as everyone took a seat. “Tell me now, Mr. Pagano, how is it coming with the dog pockets? I am ready for a new batch to bake.”

The hot dog pockets Pops had been trying to perfect were often test-baked in Angie’s commercial oven, to give him an idea of their quality in a large run.

“I’m hoping to get you another batch this week,” said Pops. “This time I’m adding rye flour. I read it helps the ingredients bond together better. Hold their shape more.” He rolled his fists around each other.

“Umm, this process sounds to be so scientific,” she said, nodding, matching Pops in her earnestness.

She stepped back. “I bring the water.” She left.

“Pops,” said Mark. “I think Angie’s got a crush on you.”

“Yeah,” Stats teased, “you’re
so
scientific.”

“Hush, hush, now, with all that.” He looked toward the kitchen to judge Angie’s distance. Satisfied, he turned back. “She comes to this country, opens her own place, just like your grandfather, eh? You gotta admire that. And she—she simply appreciates a fellow entrepreneur.”

And though he knew perfectly well what he wanted, Pops puzzled up his forehead and gazed down at the menu to signal this discussion was now
finito
.

“Well, her English is improving,” said Stats, not sure what else he could say.

“Yeah,” said Mark.

“Which reminds me of a story,” said Pops.

Mark made a dramatic groan. “When does something not remind you of a story, Mr. Scientific?”

Pops shook his finger. “I tell them to you boys so you will not go stumbling out into this world completely ignorant of how things work.”

They sat a moment while Angie set out the water, took everyone’s order, then grabbed the menus and whisked away.

“We know, we know,” said Mark, who loved to needle Pops, but also had a great sense of when to pull back.

“Anyways, your grandfather,” Pops began, “had a hard time with English, too. Once I remember complaining about not being able to get a pair of these sneakers, Jumping Jacks, that all the other kids were wearing.”

“Jumping Jacks?”
Poor Mark could not resist.

“Hey.” This time Pops sent him “the look.” It froze Mark as Pops held him with magnum eyes, then followed with “the nod.”

Mark lowered his head.

Order restored, Pops went on, allowing himself a smile.

“Anyways, I put all sorts of pressure on him. I gotta have these shoes, this and that. But you know, things were tight. Even so, I get to where I think I’m wearing the poor guy down, and he finally goes outside to talk it over with the neighborhood family, the other
paisanos
on the block there, to get some advice. So the next time I bring it up, how I had to have the Whiz Kids model Jumping Jacks because every one of my pals was wearing them, Papa comes back with, ‘Markangelo, if everyone you know was going to jump off a boy named Cliff, what would you do?’”

Pops roared out a laugh at his own story. They all did. “That’s what he said!
A boy named Cliff.
Papa, he didn’t quite have the English down so good yet.”

He laughed some more.

“Well, did you get the shoes or not?” Mark wondered.

“You know what, I never did. All I did was, at that moment, I tried not to laugh.” He shook his head. “I tried my level best
not to laugh, and I said, ‘Papa, don’t worry. I won’t ever jump off of Cliff.’ And that was that.”