“I’ve known you since we were kids, Matty.” But Matthew knows the help came only because his mother was the guard’s go-to dealer for good cocaine and the occasional supper. Matthew couldn’t care less, as long as he could get the information his little heart so desired, information pertaining to Nessa Delaney, now known, if his information is correct, as Freedom Oliver. “I’ll come by the house and see you guys soon, gotta visit my mom down there, anyway,” he tells Matthew.
When met by other officers, the guard nudges Matthew in the back. “Let’s move it, Delaney.”
* * *
Mastic Beach, New York: once a hidden gem on the south shores of Long Island, adorned with summer homes and bungalows for Manhattanites getting away for beach holidays during the warmer months. In recent enough memory, it was a safe haven where everybody knew everybody and the streets were lined with crisp, white fencing. Mastic Beach had color and clear skies and everyone loved to listen to the elders speak about the place when the roads were still made of dirt and of pastoral lands before the invention of the automobile. Small businesses were family-owned and -operated, with scents of baked bread that permeated in and through Neighborhood Road. Marinas flooded with beautiful sails that poked from Moriches Bay and rose to the heavens.
But then heroin trickled its way through the sewers of Brooklyn and emptied into the streets of Mastic Beach, and before long, crime rose to astronomical levels. Where people used to smile in passing, now they keep their heads down in fear of being jumped and beaten. Stabbings are as common as visits to the Handy Pantry. The elderly are robbed and the children of Mastic grow up way too fast. Thirteen and pregnant? Congrat-u-fucking-lations. And chances are, if you actually have a grassy patch big enough to be considered a yard, then more than once you’ve seen the lights of a police helicopter looking for a suspect on foot. And in those instances, your brain runs through every troublemaker that you know from your block until you have an idea of who it is they’re looking for.
Today, Mastic Beach is the dumping ground for Section 8 government housing and every perv, creep, and sicko on the Sex Offender Registry list. The town glows red on maps because of them. Every week, the residents get letters in the mail, mandated by Megan’s Law, telling them of rapists and child molesters living only a few houses down. Small businesses have become enclaves of illegal Arabs. And the gangs have colonized the area: the Bloods, the Crips, MS-13. The whites are the minority these days. Except for the Delaneys. They’re their own gang, a whole other species.
* * *
Peter doesn’t have to count how many boxes of wine it takes to get Lynn Delaney drunk. The answer is two, the equivalent of six bottles. But it’s no wonder, when the mother of the Delaney brothers weighed in at six hundred-plus pounds.
Lynn becomes out of breath with every lift and swig of the wineglass. The cabernet stains the crevices of her smile, a smile hard to see past the quarter-ton of lard melting over the king-size bed that has to be supported by cinder blocks instead of the standard brass legs. It’s the first time Peter can remember his mother making an effort to improve her appearance, the purple lipstick stuck to her gray and hollow teeth, a result of too many root canals from years ago when she actually gave a shit about her grin.
“Luke!” she shouts across the house.
“What,” Luke whines from the kitchen.
“Grab me my hair spray off the dresser here.” The yells cause her to be out of breath.
“Get Peter to do it. He’s closer to you.”
“Peter can’t do it. Peter’s retarded.” Peter eyeballs his mother’s grotesqueness from his wheelchair. Lynn continues, “Just get me the fucking hair spray, goddamn it.”
“Fuck sake, Ma.” Luke storms up the hall to her bedroom and tosses the hair spray that was sitting only three feet away from her.
The fat under her arms jiggles as she uses the ol’ Aqua Net, the lighter fluid with a shelf life of ten thousand years, in her nappy gray curls. From the kitchen, John and Luke scream together at the Yankees game, the cracking of Heineken cans from the freezer. Peter smells the fish off his two brothers after they had spent the day down at Cranberry Dock.
It wasn’t uncommon: grown men living with their mothers in these parts. Could be blamed on a shitty economy, but it’s usually overbearing mothers who need house funding and/or lazy men, and there was a shortage of neither in Mastic Beach.
“Ungrateful little bastard,” Lynn says behind Luke’s back.
“Hey, Ma, Matthew’s pulling up!” John screams.
“I’m fucking coming.” She pumps the last of the generic wine from the box and sifts through a pillowcase full of prescription pills until she finds a Xanax to chew on. She plucks the clumps of mascara from her blue eyes, rubs her lavender nightgown straight, and burps as she turns off one of her reality judge shows.
She totters and flounders to climb aboard Mr Mobility, the poor scooter that carries her overflowing body down the hall. Peter follows in his wheelchair. She rolls down, past the crucifixes and photos of the boys when they were actually still boys. At the end of the hall next to the entrance of the living room, a small table that serves as a shrine to her dead son, Mark: a framed photo of him in his NYPD blues, smiling around burned-out tea-light candles. She kisses her hand and touches the picture of his face. She worships the dead. Many in that dirty town do. They pour the first sips of all their drinks to the ground, they get married with speeches of the greatness of lost loved ones, even if they were scum. That’s just the way it is. Praise the dead, turn the scumbags into heroes. Beside Mark’s photo are three red candles, one for each of Lynn’s miscarriages. And though she lost them before their genders could be determined, she knew, she just knew, they were all daughters and named each one, respectively, Catherine, Mary, and Josephine.
An Irish Catholic, Lynn’s made a lucrative living abusing the welfare system and five sons with as many different fathers who took her name instead of Uncle Sam’s. Delaney, a name attached to trouble and whiskey tolerance. It’s a joke around the neighborhood that even the mailman gives the Delaneys’ mail to the cops, since they’re bound to be there sooner or later. As the car pulls in the driveway, Peter watches Lynn inspect her sons lined up by the front door.
First is the youngest brother, Luke, the most charming and promiscuous of the Delaneys. Even when all the girls knew he was responsible for spreading chlamydia to some of the locals, he was still irresistible to them. With blond hair and green eyes that can pierce holes into yours, and rumors of having a porn-star-size cock, he toyed with the idea of becoming a model a few years back. But he never went anywhere with it and opted to hang drywall for a living instead and spread his seed all over Long Island. Six kids that he knows of, at least. Peter curls his upper lip at the overwhelming stench of his cologne attempting unsuccessfully to cover the smell of fluke fish and sweat.
Next is John, a stout man with all the recessive genes: green eyes, red hair, and a temper that can make the streets shake. He has a silver cap for a front tooth and a face full of red hair. He speaks very little, always has, and always seems to dress in heavy clothes, even flannels in the summer. Known as Mastic’s loan shark, John goes nowhere without his baseball bat. If you can pay him back, he’s the best there is. And if you can’t, just change your name and skip town. While everyone knows that he’s not a mute, not one person outside of his family can recall one time they ever heard him speak. Lynn scratches his beard. “Why must you always hide this pretty face?”
Peter is the one in the wheelchair with cerebral palsy, who everyone assumes is mentally retarded, even his own mother sometimes. Peter is Lynn’s excuse to collect a disability check from social services. Unlike his brothers, Peter prefers to stay in his room with pirated movies and books online, staying out of trouble, so to speak. Peter hates his mother. She talks to him like he’s a child, makes him eat the things she knows he can’t stand, and always steals the money he’s entitled to from the government, instead opting to spend it on stuffing her own face while Peter gets the scraps like a junkyard dog. And the term junkyard is fitting, given