Little Tony

8/9/2019 Little Tony

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Matt Kelly

Little Tony

When I think about my sister now, I can’t cry—not because I don’t want to, but

because she wouldn’t want me to. When fourth and sixth grade had recess together, she’d

whisper to me as we sat in the big tractor tire stuck in the wood-chipped playground and

braided each other’s hair.

“If I die before you do, I want to you to bury my name with me. Names make it

hurt so much.”

“You’re not going to die, and I’m not going to die. Why would you say that?”

After a few back-and-forths, I promised her, just as I’d promised her to come to

her wedding the day before, and to “always love the color pink” the day before that. It

didn’t seem serious at the time.

As Karen locks her eyes on the run-down, sun-faded, pale yellow apartment

building, she presses the pedal of my ’89 Montero nearly through the three layers of

metal floorboards. I notice her golden arms are covered in purple and green shapes.

“What the hell happened to your arms?” I ask.

As she shifts in her seat, she swallows a gallon of saliva and quickly responds,

“You’d think a sweater would be enough cushioning from the boxes—this move is really

tearing me up!”

“Slow down!” I shriek, my palm sweat penetrating my new, tan corduroys.

We both quickly unfasten our hot metal seatbelts as we pull into the parking lot.

This is when I find out why my newly-licensed little sister finally moved out of my

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parents’ house. She and her boyfriend of the past six months were pregnant with my

nephew. I embraced her. She hid winces behind smiles.

By the time Tony was 8, he’d developed a love for curly fries that rivaled the love

artists have for cafés or Christians have for other Christians. When his mom and I were

his age, we loved Barbie dolls and candy necklaces. Some boys in his class traded

baseball cards or played with matchbox cars. Little Tony would just sit in the front corner

of the bus with his head against the cold metal window fasteners. On good days, he’d

remember to cover his ears on the trips to and from school, like his mommy told him.

“You’re just a little fat-ass retard aren’t you?” his classmates said.

“Tony Baloney,” the kids chanted in unison. The asshole bus driver was a lot like

Rick; he only stopped them when Tony tried to stand and run off the bus while it was still

moving—when this happened, little Tony would get sent home for “disturbing his

classmates.”

Sis had the principal on speed-dial to complain, but was always told, “We’ll take

care of it,” or, “You’re the only person ever to complain about him.”

Every day, Rick would find some way to make him those curly fries—because if

he didn’t, he knew Tony would throw a fit. The first time Rick didn’t have the fries on

the table for him, he screamed so loud, my sister’s neighbors on both sides called the

cops. Several Medicaid doctor and psychologist visits later, we would find out curly fries

were a mental obsession Tony might never shake, and the whole town would hear about

the newly autistic Tony. Another fifty pounds of bricks were stacked on his back, and he

kept climbing the steps of the school bus. He was far from spoiled—those fries were all

that kid had to look forward to.

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At 3 p.m. on weekdays Tony would shimmy free of his torn coat and Spiderman

backpack to sprint his round legs while pumping his squishy little arms the whole 10 feet

to the living room coffee table—this was mostly a show for his dad, who told him daily,

before mommy got home, to, “run outside like a fucking normal kid.” There on a paper

plate (occasionally Styrofoam) were piled between 20 and 40 golden, glistening,

pigtailesque curly fries, no ketchup (it looked like blood). “Oh how cute!” I said when I

first heard about this daily routine. It was adorable.

And it was this way ever since Tony’s sixth birthday—except for the weekends

when Rick turned him over to his bitch mother in Spring Harbor—she handled the fries

then. On Saturday nights my sister and I would put our heels on, and I would bring a date

or find one at the Cabana Club. She’d either beg Rick to come or let him stay home to

scream at the walls instead of her—all while smoking his dope like an angry teenager.

We all used to do it, too. She packed the bowls for all of us, but she and I vowed to stop

that day in the apartment parking lot. For Tony, we never got high again.

One cloudy, spurting Monday afternoon, the little guy missed the number 5

Carterville Elementary School Bus; he also missed his umbrella as his half-dressed,

feeble mother tossed it to him in that morning. His school was a twisting six miles from

his home. The combination of all these things meant that little Tony would spend the

rainy morning waiting for his parents to leave before returning home to watch cartoons,

an idea that didn’t seem morally vexing to my nephew in the least. Sis called me from

work to ask if I could take him an umbrella. I’d gotten drunk the night before and slept

with my “Bump ‘n Grind” ringtone alarm on volume number seven next to my head.

“When’s he going to need it? Isn’t he taking the bus?”

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“I guess you’re right. I’m sure they stay inside for recess when it’s raining

anyway,” she said. “Sorry I called, I was just worried.”

“It’s OK. Give me a call when you get home.”

“I will. Love ya. Gottagobye.”

Gottagobye was the last thing she said to me; not even a real word.

As far as curly fry detail, Rick had all the responsibility. Both of them had full-

time jobs, probably working alongside high school kids who made the same wages. Rick

“The Prick” was a custodial engineer at Carterville Iron Works. My sister had just made

assistant manager at the new McDonalds in Spring Harbor. This was a step up from fry

cook, but caused her to arrive at the family’s one-bedroom efficiency two hours after

Tony came home from school. Prick was left to greet Tony’s cute little mashed-potato-

scoop cheeks as he arrived home on the number five.

Everybody at the rust yard chattered about my sister, what an angel she must be to

be able to live with such an asshole, and so on. Right before it happened, Sis received

several calls at work—from the vague, “Is everything OK at home?”—to the specific,

“Rick’s really lost it. He came in today smelling like shit and whiskey. We had to send

him home”

I have a Dr. Phil episode on about abusive husbands when she calls from

McDonald’s about this one. I spit the words “Prick” and “Cocksucker” into my phone

about a dozen times before hanging up. I tell her I’ll go get Tony from school. I press the

power button on the remote and slowly shuffle toward the door. The hot waves in my

apartment push sweat down my brow as I search for car keys. Exhausted, I call her back.

“Honestly, I thought about it, and I think we’re both overreacting.”

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“Really, you think so? I should go get him.”

“No, no Karen! Don’t worry about it,” I said. “He’s just blowing off some steam,

and I’m sure he’ll be cooled off by the time Tony gets home.”

Now, I think if I’d gone to his school and found out he wasn’t there, Prick

wouldn’t have done anything; Metallica would shake his bedroom walls, and he’d smoke

his pot and drink like he always had. I never imagined he’d ever…

After a phone call from my sister, Prick’s boss let him off at 2 p.m. every day to

get home and get the fries ready before the little Tony got home—he even posted it on

the schedules : “Gotta get home at 2!” and a little squiggly curl beneath it. For this, his

co-workers called him affectionate, loving names like “faggot” and “bitch-ass punk.”

They didn’t do that because little Tony was autistic, but because Prick regularly said

things like, “Gotta get home to the Mongoloid freak.” A few others laughed at these

comments at first, but stopped when they saw how the corners of his mouth tightened and

turned down when he said it. My sister told me Prick responded to being called names at

first, but stopped when he discovered drinking them away was easier. Only one guy at the

factory never called him those names. Geoff, the only other custodial on days just called

him “Daddy,” partly because he called every guy that, and mostly because he didn’t

know a lot of other words. Geoff was a 30-something, chunky, bespectacled guy with

Downs. At the trial, I’ll find out that Prick only pretended to be Geoff’s friend. While the

poor guy listened to his $5 Goodwill headphones, humming off-pitch as he mopped the

warped linoleum, Prick snuck up behind him.

The passionate attorney will ask Geoff, “What did he do then?”

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Halogen lights will dance in Geoff’s eyes, thick with tears, as he will say “He

wouldn’t stop hitting me.” His bulging arms will flail about as he imitates this, each

jerking thrust squeezing a powerful grunt from his tired heart.

My little sister, Karen, sits between my legs under the tractor tire as I secure her

finished braid with a pink flower. Boys shake the tire from the outside. Little black

rubber particles rain down on us as I embrace her. We shriek and giggle as most little

girls do.

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Little Tony

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