Kenneth Tingle - The Girl in the Italian Bakery

The Girl in the Italian Bakery

By

Kenneth M. Tingle

Dedicated to Andy Puglisi and Ron June.

Put a good word in for me in heaven.

Thank you, God, for granting me the time, wisdom, and perseverance to write this book.

In spite of my foolishness, you always did look out for me.

A special thanks to Candace Sinclair and J.D. Byrum for all their hard work and excellent advice.

Every time a family falls apart, it is the death of a small civilization.

Author unknown

Introduction

We all have a story to tell, every single one of us. Some people will tell you their story whether you want to hear it or not, and they will probably tell it to you more than once. Other people keep their story to themselves, live with it their entire life, and then quietly take it to the grave with them. Never having shared it with anyone, never giving others the benefit of their experience; the mistakes they made, the things they did right, gone forever with them. Often the stories that went untold are the ones we needed to hear the most.

As my fortieth birthday approaches soon, I am suddenly looking back at my life and thinking about all the mistakes I made and the things I actually got right. I didnt plan this self-examination. It just came upon me suddenly, like some kind of built-in mechanism that clicks in when you turn forty. It is almost as though Chapter One of my life is now concluding, and before I can start Chapter Two, I need to review the first one. My life thus far has been anything but ordinary. I remember at age thirteen my grandmother saying, My God, its a wonder your head is still screwed on right with all you have been through. And there was still plenty left to come.

So here I am, looking back over forty years and trying to make some sense of things that make no sense. Old feelings have come creeping backinsecurity, fear, anger, resentment, confusion, and hope. Some of the memories I try to forget; others I want to hold on to forever. More than anything else, I remember the girl in the Italian bakery and the foolish mistake I made. I have never told anyone my story before. But it is now time to tell it. I dont know whybut I need to tell you my story.

The kitten stood trembling, his legs buckling from the pain. He had a bewildered, mournful look on his little face. Three large German Shepherds stood around him in a ring and they took turns picking him up in their teeth, biting as hard as they could, shaking him violently side to side, and then hurling him against the pavement. They growled viciously and drool dripped from their teeth.

I stood there shivering, paralyzed with fear, crying and screaming for help, Somebody do something. Help him!

There were other kids there and some of them seemed to be enjoying the show.

No, let them go. Hes almost dead! they shouted back.

The dogs were only about twenty feet away between a row of garbage cans and a large clothesline section. They bit into the helpless kitten one last time, shook him from side to side and dropped him. He lay limp and motionless on the concrete.

I turned and ran around the corner and up the short hill to our apartment, bursting through the front door with tears streaming. Mom, Mom! They killed the kitty, they killed the kitty!

My mother was in the kitchen and she ran into the living room to meet me.

Who killed the kitty? What kitty?

Aa cute little kitty; the bad dogs killed him, I cried, choking on tears.

What happened? my mother yelled, alarmed at my distress.

He didnt do anything he was just a cute little baby. They kept biting him and he died. Those dogs are bad dogs!

I was crying even harder now.

My mother hugged me.

There, there, Ken, honey, everything is going to be all right, she comforted as I turned and walked up the stairs with my head down.

I wondered how those dogs could be so evil. How could they do something like that to a cute, helpless little kitten? The world wasnt supposed to be like this. Kittens were supposed to be held and cuddled; dogs were supposed to wag their tails and fetch sticks. I went into my room and lay on the bed face down. I cried for the kitten and wondered if it was in heaven, thinking something so innocent surely must be. Or maybe he was in some kind of cat heaven, made up entirely of catnip with balls of yarn everywhere, tuna and milk served three times a day. I hugged Bunny, my stuffed rabbit that I had found in the garbage with a torn leg, that my mom had sewn up good as new, and took comfort in the idea that the kitten was having the time of his life in cat heaven.

No mother wants her five-year-old son to see a kitten torn to shreds and she was upset. She was angry that the kitten was killed and even angrier that I saw it. When my mother moved to America from Scotland several years back, she never thought she would wind up in a housing project in a tough city like Lawrence, Massachusetts. But here she was with three kids and no husband, in one of the worst places to raise a family. The Stadium project was bad, but there were worse neighborhoods in Lawrencethe Hancock Projects, where a cab driver was shot in the head during a robbery, the Essex Projects where the police were afraid to go, and some areas with row after row of three-story tenements and gangs of youths roaming the streets. The Stadium Projects was its own little isolated world, many little gray or yellow buildings with eight apartments each, spread out and expansive over a large area. They were originally built for military families, but had been converted to low-income housing years ago. The only hint of its military past was an army reserve station at the bottom of the hill. It was full of military vehicles and surrounded by a tall chain-link fence, which gave it a forbidden atmosphere. There was a single large building that was painted a drab yellow color and you rarely saw anyone in the compound.

After awhile my mother called up the stairs, Ken, honey, dinner is ready.

I made my way slowly down the stairs and walked into the kitchen where my two brothers were already waiting. Tommy was the oldest and everyone said he wasnt normal; sometimes he would laugh to himself when nothing funny happened, or laugh when he wasnt supposed to, like in church or in his classroom when the teacher was talking. He usually kept to himself, partly because he was a loner, but mostly because he didnt have any friends. Kids in the project picked on him constantly. Sometimes a whole gang of kids chased and taunted him. Fortunately, Tommy was an extremely fast runner and was nicknamed LTTT by the kids in the neighborhood, which stood for Light Toes Tommy Tingle. Thats our last name, Tingle, as if we didnt have enough problems. My mother nicknamed Tommy, The Bone because he was thin as a rail and as he ran he looked like a gazelle rocketing across a field, his speed saving him from a lot of beatings. I sometimes heard adults whisper to my mother, What a shame, such a handsome boy. He has such beautiful teeth and wavy dark hair, such a shame. He was four years older than me.

My other brother Gary was the middle child and he had a way about him that always got under my mothers skin. She could be in a great mood, but after a few moments with Gary she would be screaming, Youre going to be the death of me! Gary had rusty brown hair and was thin like Tommy and me. He was already taller than Tommy and you could tell he would be a big man when he grew up. Gary was in a bad position when it came to the bullies in the projecthe had a brother who wasnt normal and attracted trouble, like a wounded fish becomes the prey, another brother three years younger who was too young to help, and a last name like Tingle. I looked up to him; he was my big brother. We spent a lot of time together and my mother used to say, Wild horses couldnt drag those two apart. My mother nicknamed him, Guggi, pronounced Guh-gee, and he did not like it one bit.