Grandma, Gangsters, Murder, and Me

My grandmother ventured to Europe once a year to see her and Grandpa’s families. When I was sixteen, she asked if I wanted to go with her. 

Ten days. Paris, France. Grandma and me. 

 “You’ll love it,” my mother said. “Besides, you need to be away from home more. College is coming up.” 

“I’ve been away.” 

My mother rolled her eyes. “Band camp doesn’t cut it, lame-o.” 

I sneered, but I knew she was right. At sixteen, I had dated one girl, had just a few pals, and rarely took any risks. The closest I had come to breaking a rule was betting a friend that I would, without a doubt, pull a fire alarm before I graduated. We drafted a makeshift contract and everything. I never pulled the alarm. “You’re right. I am being a wuss,” I said just before the dare’s deadline. Not my best moment. 

In my heart I knew I had to go with my grandmother. I needed an adventure, life experience, stories to tell, but the prospect of traversing to a far-off European country terrified me, as did everything at that point in my young life. 

Riding a bike: death by traumatic head injury. 

Swimming at the beach: death by drowning. 

Crossing a busy street: death by car. 

Green beans: death by choking. 

The trip offered too many additional death scenarios. Maybe if I didn’t think about it, the trip would cancel itself. But my grandmother kept calling to plan each day and describe our European relatives: my cousin Andrew; his wife, Martha; their son, Mark; Andrew’s sister, Donna; their mother, Helen, who was my grandfather’s sister; and her husband, Jean. 

Instead of being excited, I didn’t tell my friends I’d be out of the country. I didn’t set my heart on seeing any sights. I didn’t speak to my parents on the way to the airport. But a cosmic wormhole leading back to my room never opened. No one stopped the flight. And somehow, despite my willing the universe to miraculously end my flirtation with the impending doom that was world travel, I found myself standing before the boarding gate at JFK International Airport. 

With my grandmother at my side, I stepped into the line. My eyes went to my parents, and I whispered goodbye. Both of them waved, smiled, and uttered things I couldn’t make out.  

That’s when the idea of leaving, of facing so many unknowns, hit me, making my heart swim around my lungs and my chin quiver. It all became too much, and I started to sob. 

“Hey,” my grandmother said, nudging her elbow into my ribs. “You’re too old. Stop being so dramatic. This is a happy time. You’ll see your parents again.” 

I nodded to my grandmother, wiped my tears away, and boarded the plane. 

* * * 

We stayed with Andrew and Martha. I slept in five-year-old Mark’s race car bed. I remember being enamored by the beauty of their apartment. Lovely hardwood floors, crown molding, resurfaced walls. I scrutinized every detail. Before lying down to recover from jet lag, I wondered how Europeans could lead such a refined life. After all, I grew up on Long Island, the greatest place in the known galaxy. Could better places exist? I determined they could not, and I fell asleep. 

* * *

The family only spoke French, so all conversations were filtered through my grandmother. Often, I’d point to phrases in a translation book. “Shall we visit the museums?” didn’t add much to our budding relationship, but they made great efforts, saying good night to me, serving me breakfast, showing me everything Paris had to offer, and asking for nothing in return.

Early one morning, the five of us went to a café for breakfast. We sat outside, drank small cups of coffee, and split a chocolate baguette before heading off to see Notre Dame. 

Andrew said something to my grandmother and nodded toward my plate. 

“They want to know what you think,” my grandmother said, her mouth filled with crusty bread. 

“It’s good,” I said. I smelled my coffee and savored the earthy, warm scent that bounced off the cold air, making me eager for a second sip. “I’ve never had coffee before.” 

Grandma exchanged words with Andrew and Martha. 

“They think that’s strange,” my grandmother said. 

“What?” 

“Coffee. You’re old enough to know what coffee tastes like. You need to grow up.” 

She repeated this in French to my cousins, and they all laughed at me, even Mark. 

I stared at my drink and wondered why I had never brewed a cup of my own. I always liked the smell, and I had always wanted to taste it. My parents, however, told me I was too young for so much caffeine and it would stunt my growth. I believed them, and coffee, like everything else, scared me. But my parents weren’t there, so I took another sip. 

* * *

Andrew, like his stepfather, Jean, made his living as a carpenter. Jean had rough hands, weary eyes, and weaved throughout Paris to monitor different jobs. I accompanied him one morning, riding shotgun in a beat-up red sports car. He hustled, always rolling cigarettes, always eating, moving like a shark in water. His skin was dark and thick, like a leathery hide that matched his brown, elastic-waisted leather jacket. 

We hit several sites that morning. All the work appeared very complicated. He pointed at things and tried to explain with rapid-paced French and sweeping hand gestures. He laughed often, and I laughed when he did, not knowing why. 

Jean and Helen, Andrew’s mother, lived in one of Paris’ poorest neighborhoods. We had to navigate a series of twisting alleyways to get to their apartment. Inside, Helen was making a lunch of escargot and fries in a deep fryer. 

Jean brought me upstairs to a small loft area with scavenged dressers and clothes hanging from makeshift poles since the space was devoid of closets. The window had been covered with vinyl blinds and a thin curtain, allowing only sallow light to leak in. I could feel the compacted carpet beneath my feet as Jean guided me to a surprisingly comfy chair in the corner. Then he knelt beside his bed, a bare mattress and a box spring stacked haphazardly upon one another. He reached into the space between the two and struggled a bit. 

Normally, I would have excused myself. An older man taking me into his room, searching for something beneath his mattress? I should’ve been panicking, but I sat there calmly and watched as he extracted a series of old, silver-plated pistols wrapped in handkerchiefs. He held each one before my eyes, kissed them, and whispered something before putting them away. Each pistol must have held both monetary and sentimental value. They were his most prized possessions, and he shared them with me. I thanked him, he laughed, uttered a prayer of some kind, and blessed himself. 

We went downstairs and ate snails and fries as Jean told stories and asked questions that he provided the answers for. I didn’t know where I was or when my grandmother would be joining us. I didn’t know what Jean was saying. I didn’t really know what I was eating. But I knew that I liked Jean a great deal, and that was enough. 

* * *

Unlike his stepfather, Andrew dressed impeccably, drove a nice car, and never came home dirty. He always had money, wads of cash that he seemed to spend without thought. Initially, I simply believed this cousin of mine had found success at a young age, which meant my older brother and I could find it, too. I wanted to model myself on this guy. Learn from him. 

One night, he asked my grandmother if I wanted to see Paris lit up in the evening. 

“Sure,” I said, excited at the promise of some bonding time. Mark came with us, propped on a booster seat and tightly strapped in. We drove through Paris, listening to house music and flashing our brights at cars that idled too long. That’s nice, I thought. Honking a horn is really rude. Andrew pointed out the Arc de Triomphe and some other monuments, and then we pulled away from traffic. Away from everything, really. 

He parked just beyond a subway station, on the other side of the street. It reminded me of a Manhattan block only much cleaner, circular, and oddly desolate. My leg started shaking, and I realized I had no idea how to call home if I needed to. 

Andrew turned off the engine and kept his eyes fixed on the station. I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. Mark cried out something in French, probably uncomfortable in his heavy coat and the restraints. Andrew turned and yelled at him before resuming his watch. 

After a short time, a crowd of commuters emerged. Soon, they dissipated, but one man wearing a gray sweatshirt and a black wool cap remained. He scanned the scene, paced nervously, and looked at us before gesturing for Andrew. 

Andrew stepped out of the car, leaving me with Mark. Both men appeared fidgety and awkward as they exchanged a quick handshake. Andrew pulled something from his pocket and slipped it to the man, who slipped him something in return. Back in the car, Andrew started the engine. Before pulling away, he counted out the cash the man had given him. I kept my eyes locked on the glove box. No pleasantries passed between us. He drove us back to the apartment, and I never told anyone about that night. 

* * * 

On the flight to Paris, the only movie that had been shown was As Good As It Gets. During one particularly intimate and heartfelt interaction, when the audience was being treated to Helen Hunt’s side boob, my grandmother put her hands over my eyes and told me to turn away. 

“This is not for you,” she whispered. “Read a book!” 

I brushed her hands away from my face. “I’m sixteen. This is fine.” 

“Really?” she asked. 

I nodded, and I swear I could see the thoughts of disapproval float through her head. 

So when she told me our cousins would be taking us to the Moulin Rouge for a night out, I thought nothing of it. My grandmother, a living emblem to all things pure and Catholic, would never allow, let alone escort, her young and impressionable grandson into a house of burlesque. 

“Put on your suit,” she told me in a back bedroom at Helen and Jean’s apartment where we would be spending the night. “And stand up straight. We’re going to a very nice restaurant.” 

My suit, a hand-me-down from my older brother, was a bit large, especially in the shoulders. In the mirror I saw a goofy teenager in a worn out, oversized two-piece posing as a would-be adult. I stepped out, expecting chuckles and French-framed wisecracks. 

Instead, Jean saw me and clapped. Cigarette hanging from his mouth, he shouted, “John F. Kennedy!” Everyone laughed in a way that pushed a smile onto my normally anxious face. They hugged me, pinched my cheeks, and rubbed my shoulders. They were proud of me—loved me—and I didn’t know why. Not that it mattered. It felt good, so I let myself laugh and smile and relax. For a short while, the thoughts of despair and longing for home faded. All I could think about were those with me, and how I enjoyed their words and quirks and gestures. 

I didn’t want to be anywhere else. 

* * * 

Andrew wore a blue suit that complimented my green one. My grandmother sat in the back seat with Martha, who wore a very elegant dress that made her look much older than she was. Walking through Paris’ red-light district, I remember thinking my grandmother would have a goddamned heart attack, but she seemed genuinely interested in all the provocative signs and sights. 

“There,” she said pointing to the display window of an adult-film shop. “Crazy, ain’t it?” 

“Yeah,” I said. “That is crazy. Grandma, what is this place? I thought we were going to a restaurant.” 

“Oh, sure. It’s known for its food, but there is a show, too.” She smiled at me. 

“What are you not telling me?” 

“There’s a lot of naked women in there.” 

I felt my heart collapse and wiggle down to my guts. Why would my grandmother take me to see naked women? Wouldn’t we both go to Hell as a result? 

“Relax,” she told me. “You are too uptight. It is a show! They are dancers and singers. Maybe you’ll bring one home to America and get married.” 

“OK,” I said, picking up on her high spirits. “Maybe I can do that.” 

I stepped ahead, catching up with Andrew. I offered him a piece of gum, and he accepted. He observed me, studying how I placed the gum in my mouth and chewed on it, which surprised me. Had he never chewed a piece of gum before? 

He mimicked me and shouted, “America!” 

* * * 

The Moulin Rouge had the nicest bathrooms I’d ever stepped into. The stall had an unexpected amount of privacy with floor-to-ceiling dividers lined with red velvet wallpaper. It felt and smelled nicer than my childhood home, which was both impressive and depressing. 

In the cabaret, a hostess guided us to our table on an elevated tier with an ideal view of stage left. My grandmother said something in French, passed cash to the hostess, and, shortly thereafter, three buckets were carefully placed on our table, each filled with overflowing ice and a single bottle of champagne. I refused to have my glass filled when the waiter offered since I was not yet twenty-one. Yes, I was that lame. 

Our order was taken, and the houselights dimmed. Before the curtains opened, I shifted my focus to my grandmother, who had downed three flutes of champagne. She smiled like a younger woman would and nodded to the space above my head. I looked up and found a nude, curvaceous woman sitting on a human-sized bird swing. 

Holy crud, I thought. That’s the hottest girl in the history of the frigging universe. After a few breaths, I found the courage to look at my grandmother again, expecting a shame-inducing scowl in reply. This was it. We were leaving the Moulin Rouge, Paris, Europe, and never coming back. 

Instead, she slammed down a fourth glass. “Have one,” she said, filling the flute to its rim. “And do not tell your mother. You’re in Paris with Grandma!” 

I went with it. I chugged down the champagne, looked up, and thought, I bet rich people do this every day. 

* * * 

Midnight struck by the time we returned to Helen’s home. I expected a quiet kitchen and perhaps some coffee, but, to my surprise, a makeshift dinner table had been constructed from plywood, and both sides were lined with people who looked and moved like me. 

At the head of the table sat a man who resembled my grandfather. At first, I thought it was him. But this version was taller, thicker, heavier, and had much more hair. 

“Grandma,” I started, “who is that?” 

“That’s Grandpa and Helen’s brother,” she said. “Victor. He is your great-uncle. He is a nice man. You should sit next to him.” 

So I did. Victor didn’t utter a word to me. He asked my grandmother a few questions, scanned me from head to toe, and smiled. He may even have patted me on the back at one point. What I am certain of, however, is that he left quickly with a loud and ebullient farewell meant to address the entire group. We all gave him a cheer. He put on a black leather jacket and stepped out. 

That was the last time any of us ever saw him. 

* * * 

I slept that night on an old pullout couch near the kitchen, and my grandmother found a comfortable twin bed in Helen’s office area. I woke to the buzzing of the phone, and, noticing a clock on the wall, I thought something must have been very wrong for a call to be made so early. 

My grandmother, who was already sipping coffee at the kitchen table, watched Helen scurry to the phone hanging on the wall. Feeling underdressed in my white t-shirt and jockeys, I slipped on my suit pants and sat next to my grandmother at the table. I recognized my cousin Donna’s voice echo from the earpiece. She was speaking rapidly. Helen’s mouth opened to let out a gasp, and her eyes teared up. 

“What’s happening?” I asked. 

My grandmother narrowed her eyes, sipped her coffee, and said, “Gangsters. They came to Donna’s house. Kicked in the door. They had guns. They were looking for Victor. He took their money. They wanted to kill him.” 

“He’s a criminal?” 

My grandmother shrugged. “Sounds that way.” 

Helen tried calming her daughter, then hung up the phone and called the others into the room. Grandma translated bits and pieces. My mind spun. But no one seemed too worried, almost as if they had experience with this sort of thing. At one point I told Grandma that if they looked for Victor at Donna’s, they would surely come looking at Helen’s, too. I wanted to leave. 

Grandma reluctantly translated, and Andrew openly dismissed the concern with a “get-out-of-here” hand gesture. There was no reason to worry since Donna had told them Victor had fled to Poland. We probably wouldn’t even hear about it again. 

Boy, was he wrong. They quickly caught up with Victor in Warsaw. A chase ensued, the gangsters cornered Victor in an alley, and they beat him to death with a lead pipe. We learned this later in Andrew’s apartment. Was this the life my family had chosen? Was this the life I would have been bred for had I been born in Europe? Was this the reason my grandparents left for a new country? 

“It’s sad, ain’t it?” my grandmother said. “He was a good man.” 

“How good could he have been?” I asked. “He got involved with a bloodthirsty gang.” 

“You have lived a very sheltered life,” she said, shrugging. “You think you know pain? You don’t. Sometimes you have to do certain things to survive. Don’t judge him.” 

My eyes went to Andrew’s. We stared at each other for a few moments, and I knew what he thought. And he knew how I judged him. 

Mark tugged at his leg. He scooped his boy up and laughed with him. 

I’d like to think that Victor’s tragic and sudden end acted as the proverbial wake-up call for Andrew, but it’s hard to give up a comfortable lifestyle for something as trivial and fleeting as sound morals, and I say this without the slightest intention toward irony. 

The longer I stayed in Paris the more I saw how difficult poverty really was. I thought my brother and I had grown up poor, but we were really just working class, which is a far cry from the low end of the economic spectrum. Jean and Helen’s poverty was real. And no matter how open and kind and generous they were, I saw how tired and sad and hungry it made them. Andrew had lived it, tasted it, and breathed it. So had Donna. So had Victor. At one point, all of their lives had been defined by hunger, homelessness, danger, and unyielding fear. 

None of them were ever going back to it. They’d rather die. And that’s why Andrew could gaze into his son’s eyes and laugh. 

* * * 

I don’t remember saying goodbye, but I do recall not wanting to leave. 

On the plane, I stared out the window and watched as a crew removed what looked like an entire engine from the wing and struggled to replace it with a new one. 

“Oh my God,” my grandmother said, slowly reverting to her consistent and overbearing state of unrelenting paranoia and worry. “We will die on this flight. We will not make it.” 

And then I reverted, too. All my newfound happiness and zest left in a rush as I allowed doubt and doom to filter in. Had I learned nothing? Had my values, my very sense of self, not at all shifted? 

Images of a fiery end raced through my brain until a slender girl with a birthmark on one of her round cheeks said, “Excuse me.” Her Italian accent, thick but in no way imposing, reminded me that I was still in Europe. “You’re in my seat.” 

My sights darted between my ticket and her mesmerizing eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, suddenly cognizant of my greasy hair and oversized sweatshirt. “I’ll move.” I bolted for the bathroom, not wanting to face a potential future wife in such an ill-defined state. 

After locking the lavatory door, I ran my hands through my hair and looked in the mirror, wondering if I was attractive enough for the Italian girl to deem me interesting. 

No. I was not. I threw water on my hair. I rolled up my sleeves. I stared again into the mirror, remembering the apartments, the Moulin Rouge, the street artists, the Eiffel Tower, the cafés, the food, and Notre Dame. All of the pieces of happiness France had gifted me. 

But Victor kept creeping into my mind. His murder. The gang I never met. Andrew’s drug deal. My family. 

And then I thought of fights I had been a part of, screaming matches I had started with family members, times in elementary and middle school when I openly mocked others, hurt others, without reason. Hints at something else that could turn me. 

An inner darkness. 

Standing in that claustrophobic airplane lavatory that smelled of chemicals designed to cover up stench, I started to understand what Grandma had meant: that one’s demons could be tapped at any time, especially in desperate situations. I didn’t want to become that person. 

“You are not your family,” I whispered into the mirror. “You are not your family.” 

* * * 

My grandmother sat between us, so I learned precious little during the flight about the young woman from Italy. Our eyes met a couple of times, and we exchanged smiles and awkward giggles. Then, through the window, I spotted the New York skyline growing ever larger. She admired the view, and I looked away, fearing I had missed yet another opportunity to be something new. 

At JFK, the line of passengers from our plane forked, splitting citizens and foreigners. My grandmother walked ahead, oblivious to the fact that I stayed behind, hovering around the Italian girl. When the girl glanced at me, I told her my name. 

“How long are you here for?” I asked. 

“Not long,” she said with a shrug of her shoulders. “A couple of weeks. Are you from here?” 

“Yeah. Long Island.” 

“First time you went abroad, huh?” 

“Is it that obvious?” 

She laughed and nodded. 

“You’ve been here before?” 

“I have family in Queens, but it’s my first time in the States.” 

“I’m not too far from Queens,” I said. The laughter of Andrew and Martha echoed in my mind. “Maybe we can get some coffee or something?” 

“Big coffee drinker?” 

“Trying to be.” 

She reached into her pocket, took out a pen and a small piece of paper, and wrote on it. 

“That’s my number,” she said and passed me the paper. “I’m Caterina. Call me.” 

I told her I would, and I moved to the exit where my grandmother was waiting. Then I turned to see the girl one last time. I waved to her, and she smiled in a way so genuine, so kind, that I knew something had changed. 

 “So?” my grandmother said. “Did you enjoy our adventure?” 

“Yeah, Grandma,” I said, still holding the piece of paper. “Life-altering.” 

“You’ll always remember Paris with Grandma,” she said, grabbing my arm and ushering me forward. “That I know.”

MATT THOMAS

Matt Thomas is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee whose stories and articles have appeared in The Newtown Literary Review, The Village Voice, The Lamprophonic Literary Reading Series in Manhattan, CBS New York.com, and many more. He currently lives with his wife, daughter, and dog in Westchester County, New York.