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"We never should have taken him to New York."
"Look kid, this band is the best thing that's happened to my son in years. He didn't fit in at URI. His heart wasn't in it. But this band brought him back to life. None of this is your fault. It was just a matter of time before he relapsed."
"How do you deal with that, knowing he's a ticking time bomb?"
"After so many years and all the episodes, we've learned to live with it and manage him as best we can. His mother and sister struggle terribly with this. You know women, always worrying. I try to keep things calm. What I've learned from this is you can't help someone until they want help."
"What am I supposed to do? I'm seriously considering walking away from this band, moving to New York, and starting over."
John exhaled in a big way. "I hope that doesn't happen. What else would Johnny have? What the hell would Sal do? Seriously." His gaze focused on Joe's eyes. "What the fuck would those two do with their lives?"
Joe had no answer for that. He felt like John Bucci was putting it on him to save Johnny and Sal... from what, their own failure?
"Do me a favor, kid. Don't make any rash decisions. Just go about your band business. Play your shows and keep things normal while I look into some options. I need to see my son, get a sense of how bad he is, and take it from there."
Joe nodded. "So you want me to do nothing. Can I ask a favor?"
"Sure, what do you need?"
"Your receptionist, what's her name?"
"Jesus Christ, kid. You're not gonna fuck around on your cutie in New York, are ya?"
"No. She knows me. I don't want her telling anyone I was here. Sal will think I'm a rat."
"Oh, okay." John smiled. "Terry is quite the hottie. I thought maybe..."
"No. I just need her to keep her mouth shut."
"Don't worry. She'll do whatever I say." John nodded with a slight smile, "You're a good kid. I appreciate you coming here. You care about my son. Just for the record, you're not a rat if you're trying to help your friends. Rats fuck their friends."
"Thanks, Mr. Bucci."
"Call me John."
Joe walked the ten city blocks from Bucci Real Estate on Dean Street to his house. A soft snow had been falling much of the hazy winter day, a few inches had accumulated. The wind blew the light fluffy flakes, white dust swirled around him. On Atwells Avenue, the shops were doing good business. The bakeries, the delis, and Venda Ravioli were packed with holiday shoppers. Restaurants were busy in the middle of the day. Joe popped into Venda, his favorite Italian grocer on The Hill.
While waiting in line with a loaf of bread, Venda's freshly made ravioli, sauce, and some soft Fontina cheese; Joe decided to unplug from his band drama. He did what he believed was right and now it was out of his hands.
It troubled him that John Bucci seemed to be putting it on him to keep it together for the sake of Johnny. Joe cared deeply for Johnny, but he couldn't help but feel a brewing resentment that people in Providence were expecting him to carry the load. He felt he'd been carrying this weight long enough.
Back on the street, he pulled his collar up, jammed his free hand in his pocket, and braced against the wind. A bell-ringing Santa waved, standing in front of a Salvation Army kettle.
"Merry Christmas!"
Joe had a dollar and loose change in his hand from the grocer. He dropped it in the kettle.
"Thank you, son. Merry Christmas."
Joe nodded and kept walking, muttering. "I fucking hate winter."
