Small Steps

By Patrick Sweeney

Young Phil Sullivan orchestrates an escape from an oppressive family situation in Upstate New York and gets more than he bargains for when he arrives in Greenwich Village, alone, in the Summer of 1968. He rises to the challenge with some help from unexpected sources and starts to grow up, taking small steps, in the cultural milieu of late 1960s New York City.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Jan 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781984593047

Patrick Sweeney

Patrick Sweeney is a certified master gunsmith and armorer instructor for police departments nationwide. He is author of many Gun Digest books, inculding Gun Digest Book of the 1911 Vols. 1 & 2, Gun Digest Book of the Glock Vols. 1 & 2, Gun Digest Book of the AR-15 Vols. 1, 2, 3 & 4, Gunsmithing: Rifles, Gunsmithing: Pistols & Revolvers 1 & 2, and Gunsmithing the AR-15 Vols. 1 & 2.

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SMALL STEPS

PATRICK SWEENEY

Copyright © 2020 by Patrick Sweeney.

Library of Congress Control Number:        2019920679

ISBN:                Hardcover              978-1-9845-9306-1

                          Softcover                978-1-9845-9305-4

                          eBook                     978-1-9845-9304-7

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date:  01/10/2020

Xlibris

800-056-3182

www.Xlibrispublishing.co.uk

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Contents

I THE ESCAPE

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

II SUMMER IN THE CITY

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

III SECONDARY EDUCATION

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

IV NEXT STEPS

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

For my

mother, Kay Sweeney,

who encouraged me to take small steps.

I

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THE ESCAPE

ONE

P ulsating waves of heat and sound assailed Liz Sullivan as she crossed the threshold of her home, hauling the spoils of her weekly run for groceries. The small house, overheated under the hot July sun of this sultry Saturday afternoon, reverberated with the not-so-gentle strains of Jumpin’ Jack Flash, the latest contribution of the Rolling Stones to the world’s collection of musical masterpieces. Liz passed quickly through the small hallway leading to the kitchen and dumped the grocery bags unceremoniously on the large wooden table in the center of the room. She glanced sideways and saw three of her four sons—Paul, Danny and John John—lying comatose on the floor of the small side room that her husband Daniel now proudly called his den. A large fan was propped in the window, noisily recirculating the humidity. Taking advantage of their father’s absence, the boys had slipped the new 45 rpm record on his recently acquired solid-state stereo system and turned the volume sky-high.

But it’s all right now, in fact, it’s a gas

But it’s all right, I’m Jumpin’ Jack Flash

It’s a gas, gas, gas

Liz resisted her first impulse, to turn off the music and rouse the boys. In fact, she found the scene strangely peaceful. Three of her four sons, all big boys and close in age in this Irish American family rooted in the fifties, had been lulled into perfect tranquility by the screaming lyrics of the British rock band. Is it the music? Or do they actually listen to the words? She hoped for the former explanation. The more she listened to what the new sixties generation had to say, the more she hoped that she could shield her children from what was taking shape in front of them.

Liz began to unpack the groceries. At one time, Saturday grocery shopping had been a family exercise, one that Liz mostly enjoyed. But then, Daniel had taken to playing eighteen holes of golf each Saturday, for his health, and the man-boys presently dozing in the den had begun to accumulate commitments for baseball practice, football practice, and the like. Phil, her oldest son, sometimes helped with the groceries, but today he was well on his way to visit his cousins in the North Country, some five hours away by bus. I’m glad he’s not here. He had a rough start to his summer. Her thoughts reverted to earlier that day, when she and her husband had dropped Phil off at the small Greyhound bus station downtown. Phil had clambered on board the bus to Syracuse carrying a large red hunting jacket and an oversized suitcase. How much clothing does he need to pack for a week with his cousins in the woods? And what’s with the red hunting jacket? But Liz’s thoughts remained unspoken, preempted by Daniel’s detailed instructions to his oldest son on how to change buses in a major city.

Liz paused from unpacking for a moment and took a sip of iced tea. Why am I feeling so queasy now? Did Phil forget something this morning? Did I forget something? The telephone rang. She sprinted back into the small hallway and seized the receiver. It was her sister, Bridget, calling from Watertown. She answered loudly, over the noise emanating from the den. Oh, hello, Bridget. I was meaning to call you in a bit. How is our traveler doing?

Bridget paused, took a deep breath, and said, Phil was not on the Watertown bus. I was wondering whether he had been delayed on any part of his trip?

Liz sat down abruptly, by the phone. Her queasiness ratcheted up, way up. Something is terribly wrong. There is no imaginable reason why Phil would not have boarded the Watertown bus.

Liz half heard her sister Bridget continuing, I was at the bus station on the dot at two thirty. The Syracuse bus was about fifteen minutes late, and then it turned out Phil wasn’t on it. The driver told me the bus had been overbooked and to wait for the second bus. That one came in after three o’clock. He wasn’t on that one, either.

It just wasn’t fair, you know? The front door opened abruptly and Daniel Sullivan walked in, golf clubs strung over his shoulder. He was complaining about a questionable call on the seventeenth hole, when his golfing partner allowed one of the men in the other half of the foursome to take a mulligan on a shot that had landed out of bounds. If we had played to regulation, Stan and I would have won! Liz realized, after a moment, that her husband was talking to her.

Behind her, Mick Jagger was now belting out the lyrics to I Can’t Get No Satisfaction. Bridget was continuing to talk about calling the Syracuse bus station or even the Syracuse police. Liz’s head was pounding. She felt squeezed. She pressed the telephone receiver against her ear and shook her head forcefully at her husband. It’s Bridget, she mouthed.

Daniel Sullivan had carefully timed his return to the Sullivan residence to coincide with the beginning of the telecast of day three of the Minnesota Golf Classic. He would brook no interference with his schedule. He paused uncomfortably close to Liz. What does Bridget want? he muttered, loud enough to be heard by his sister-in-law.

This is just too much. No! Liz said, cutting off both her sister and her husband. We’re going to start looking for Phil at this end and follow every step of his path. She paused while Bridget asked what she could do to help. I’ll call you back after we figure this out. She hung up the telephone and turned to her husband. Phil is missing.

The FBI publishes a manual for kidnapping situations, began Daniel, never at a loss for words. But Liz was not looking for instruction. She nodded absently as she dialed the phone number for Mike Barudi. Mike was the Bergamo police detective who lived next door to the Sullivans. Fortunately, he was at home. Liz was direct: Mike, our Phil seems to have disappeared on his bus ride up to Watertown today. We need someone who can find him before he gets hurt.

Yes, you do, responded the detective. You will have someone in twenty minutes.

Daniel stared at Liz as she replaced the receiver on the telephone. I could have handled that call, he said, pointedly.

You can handle the next call, dear, said Liz with a faint smile.

You don’t understand, Liz, her husband continued, annoyed. We don’t know whom Mike is calling, whether the person is appropriate, or when he will get here. Or what he will do. Seeing no reaction from his wife, Daniel repeated, in an overriding voice, Or what he will do!

But Liz had done this drill a few times before, albeit with much less at stake. Why don’t you put the TV on now, dear, to be sure that you don’t miss any part of the opening recap? I’m sure Danny will get out of your favorite chair for you. The impromptu Rolling Stones concert had abated, and the resuscitated Sullivan boys had assembled in the living room, next to the small hallway, to watch the golf tournament. Daniel muttered something about the need to point the police in the right direction, but nonetheless shifted his own direction and proceeded to retrieve his favorite recliner from Danny.

TWO

T he driver navigated the bus across the median of Routes 5 and 20 and headed east along the broad northern end of Lake Como. Phil Sullivan pried two of the windows on the vintage Greyhound apart and squinted into the sunlight. Just midmorning, and the lake’s surface was already shimmering with the heat of another hot summer’s day. Dad is going to have a nice day of golf at the country club. For the rest of us, maybe a less fun day. Mom will be doing the weekly grocery haul. My brothers will be stuck at home with nothing to do. And I have a long ride ahead of me, one way or another. Phil glanced at the bus tickets he was still gripping. His bus would meander eastward through the Finger Lakes region for the next ninety minutes before reaching the Syracuse bus terminal. At Syracuse, Phil’s second ticket would put him on an express bus heading north on Interstate 81 to Watertown, some two hours farther away, after a one-hour layover. Aunt Bridget would be waiting at the Watertown bus station at half past two to pick him up, but it would not be unusual for the bus to arrive closer to three o’clock. Plenty of time.

Phil glanced up and down the interior of the bus. Mostly empty. He shoved his large suitcase and his red hunting jacket into the overhead shelving. Is this too over the top? No, the jacket and the suitcase will do the job. He sighed deeply and began a mental inventory. Five hundred dollars in my wallet—all of my savings from the paper route, plus the Confirmation gifts. Phil grimaced. He had promised his parents he would save this money for the future. Well, my future is here. Yesterday afternoon, just before closing time, he had withdrawn the entire amount from his savings account at the National Bank of Bergamo. What else? The knapsack inside the suitcase, holding a toothbrush, an extra set of underwear, and a light jacket. Also, a map of New York City. Getting that map of the metropolis 250 miles away had not been easy. The local gas stations handed out free maps of New York State, but not too many people in Bergamo needed a street map of New York City. It had finally come in the mail just three days ago. Phil had been poring over it for the last forty-eight hours. The bus driver and others along the way would not see the knapsack or the light jacket or the map of New York City. They would see only what his parents had seen—the red hunting jacket and the large suitcase.

The bus whipped past a sign which welcomed travelers to Seneca Falls, The Home of Women’s Rights.

Phil closed his eyes. His father’s eyes, bloodshot and unfocused, would not permit him to doze. Instead, it was that Saturday night, four weeks ago. Crowded into the front room with his three younger brothers—all big boys, close in age—a dispute arose as to the selection of a TV channel. Phil pushed back and forth with Danny, both brothers feeling righteous, entitled, and aggrieved that the other did not agree with his preferred show. More pushing and shouting, now mixed with crying (not from Phil, who was too old to cry), and Danny, who had been training for basketball, caught Phil off-balance and shoved him out of the room. Their father was disturbed from his nap or private reverie or whatever in his den. He charged into the small hallway, angry at the interruption of his personal time and space. He saw Phil angry and Danny crying, and readily concluded that the older brother had somehow tormented the younger. The father had been one of the youngest of a family of ten and was quite sensitized to the possibility of mistreatment by older siblings. He was inclined to blame the older brother for any conflict which he did not witness, and given the frequency of his naps, such situations were common. His inclinations were apparent to his sons; his younger sons would frequently burst into tears upon the arrival of their father to the scene of a dispute. His older sons remained stoic; when they cried, their father had been known to beat them until they stopped.

Daniel Sullivan confronted his oldest son with a tone of faux concern. Phil, if you’re not nicer to your brothers, they’re going to start beating you up. They’re getting bigger than you.

In my face, as if I’m retarded and need special instruction. And Danny is just standing over there, crying a little, waiting to see what happens to me. Something exploded inside Phil’s head. He doesn’t see how he is manipulated. He wouldn’t care if he did. He doesn’t respect me as a person. He doesn’t care whether my younger brothers respect me or not. He just wants his goddam rest in his little back room. How can I put this into words?

Phil tried, as best as an angry, defensive adolescent male could. You don’t see what’s going on! You don’t see how your sons manipulate a situation! You’re not trying hard to be a good parent!

Phil’s father, inches away from Phil’s face, listened attentively to what Phil had to say and then slapped him, very hard, on the side of his head.

Phil, shocked and in pain, saw his father staring at him at very close range, saying nothing, waiting for Phil to react.

Phil lost it. He burst into tears. His brothers were suddenly very quiet. Phil ran up the stairs, his father in pursuit, shouting. I want you to stay down here with your brothers!

Phil barricaded his bedroom door with his iron-framed bed, a legacy of his grandmother. His father gave one heavy push against it and then stepped back. Phil sobbed for a while. Then, sounds on the first floor came into focus. The father pacing. The brothers shuffling uneasily. A car pulled into the driveway. His mother was home. Low murmurings penetrated the second floor. As the parents ascended the stairs, the words became clear. I just wanted him to get out of that room. No response from his mother.

A moment later, a knock at the bedroom door. Phil, may I come in? No one will hurt you. Phil pulled the iron bed frame back from the door and then re-assumed his position, staring out the window. Liz came in and sat beside him. Phil was not sobbing now, just staring out the window, wordlessly and mindlessly. His mother remained quiet, too.

His father entered the room, behind them. Neither Phil nor Liz turned to look at him. His father remained at the door and said softly, You know, Phil, you remind me a lot of my mother.

Whatever analogy his father intended to draw was lost in Phil’s interruption. I am not like you or anyone related to you, he said, slowly and firmly, without turning to look at his father. This will not happen again.

The tall office buildings clustered at the southern end of Onondaga Lake appeared in the distance. Phil reached back for happier memories.

Wider still and wider, shall thy bounds be set … Graduation from Saint Alexander Grammar School had been a special moment. A year of working on the school newspaper had brought Phil closer to his classmates. No more bullies, guys to walk home with, girls to date. They all sang Pomp and Circumstance together, recessing from the graduation mass. Their parents were on hand in the pews, cheering them on. Even his father looked happy. The mothers had overruled the good Alexandrian Sisters and arranged a graduation dance at the Knights of Columbus. Phil felt a glimmer of sexual arousal as he glided across the dance floor with a girl wearing a party dress that was just a tad too tight. I am becoming a man. And high school is around the corner. Life will be better.

Phil jerked forward as the bus came to a rough halt at the Syracuse bus terminal. Riders from the towns along the Finger Lakes were filing up to the front of the bus to begin their Saturday excursions in Syracuse. The bus driver was a friendly sort and chatted briefly with each exiting passenger. Phil fingered the watch his father had given him on his eleventh birthday. It had a sparkling, silver sheen and was one of those new self-winding watches. That had been a nice moment, that day in the jewelry store downtown, just me and him. It was 11:35 a.m. on the watch. Time to get moving. Don’t rush. Be cool. This is something you do every Saturday, right? Phil clutched his red hunting jacket as he hoisted himself out of his seat and followed the rear of the line up to the front of the bus. The driver sized him up quickly and asked, Are you dressing up to go get some bear? He was chuckling. Phil smiled and said that it was always good to be prepared. Well then you’d best get ahold of some fine shooting gun, the bus driver rejoined. Bears are only led by leashes in circuses. Phil took the opportunity to tell the driver that his cousins in Watertown were providing the hunting supplies. Don’t miss your next bus! the bus driver warned as the bus door slammed shut.

Phil entered the terminal’s restroom facilities. He had never been in a men’s room this big. A wave of nausea hit him. There were a lot of people—travelers but also, apparently, local residents, mostly old and mostly not so well dressed. The men moved steadily from the swinging doors to the urinals to the sinks to the swinging doors. Phil’s knees buckled for a moment as he washed his hands. A parental litany of warnings about strangers came to mind. But more so, the next steps. Am I really going to do this? He looked at his watch. It’s 11:45 a.m. I have forty-five minutes. Focus. Act. Resolutely, he swung the red hunting jacket over his shoulder, grabbed the large suitcase, and headed for the main entrance to the bus terminal. He saw a uniformed man putting people into taxis. He’s not a policeman. Phil stood in line, waiting his turn for a