The drapes in their living room ruffled in the bitumen-stinking breeze. “I saw you fuckers the night of the brick. Nobody else walks that slow.”
He walked next to the Singh-Kaurs. They owned the Baskin-Robbins–Dunkin’ Donuts chain on Garden City’s main drag, plus two more in Rockville Centre and Mineola. Arlo stood just in front of their Honda Pilot, in which Julia and Larry had carpooled to countless Little League games. They had a big TV in there. Watched crappy Netflix teenage rom-coms on it. Shit like The Kissing Booth 2, which they mistook for the essence of Americana. He knocked on the car. Just a tap with his knuckles.
Next, the Harrisons, those crazy assholes with the divided house. The only people who’d never hosted dinner parties because it would have been too much of a shit show. “Hypocrites!” he shouted. And then the Pontis, that house of craven men with giant biceps. “Hypocrites!” And then the Ottomanelli house, where Linda and Dominick didn’t have the sense of a bird between them, and their mean-spirited twins ran their roost. “All of you, hypocrites!”
A door opened. The Pontis started toward him. Dominick Ottomanelli came out from his house, too.
“Arlo, come on. Let’s go,” Gertie called.
Arlo saved the Schroeder house for last. Fritz’s car wasn’t in the drive, which was too bad. It felt more comfortable to threaten when the man of the house was home. He stood for a five-count, then raised his gun and pointed. Aimed at the front porch.
“Arlo!” Gertie cried.
“Daddy!” Julia screamed.
Something hard slammed against the back of his head. He was on the ground, eating gravel and sand oil. The gun skittered away from him. And then somebody kicked him. A vivid sense memory flashed. His dad. He got up on all fours.
It was Steven, Marco, and Richard Ponti. It was Dominick Ottomanelli and Sai Singh. He tried to stand. Steven was holding a baseball bat.
Another swing. His legs went out from under him. He tried to get up again, because Julia and Gertie were watching. A scream—deep, masculine, and primal—emanated from Dominick Ottomanelli as he kicked Arlo in the chest with a heavy work boot. The blow lifted him from his knees and back down. He tasted salt. Adrenaline didn’t let him feel his broken ribs, one of which now poked his left lung.
Wearily, Arlo noticed as Rhea Schroeder bent down. Lifted something from the ground… The gun?
He saw a leg and held on to it. Pulled himself up by it. Gertie and Julia had pushed through the men. They were at his side. There was shouting but it wasn’t coming from them. It came from the rest of Maple Street. Some came out to their porches. Others hollered through their windows. The sound came from Nikita, Pranav, and Michelle Kaur and Sam Singh. It came from Rich, Cat, Helen, and Lainee Hestia. It came from Sally and Margie Walsh. It came from Rhea, FJ, and Ella Schroeder. It came from Tim, Jane, and Adam Harrison. It came from Jill Ponti. It came from Linda Ottomanelli and her weird twins. They were screaming and smiling and pumping fists. Jesus God, they were cheering.
Gertie shoved Steven Ponti and his bloody bat. He had the good sense not to fight back. Then she was on the ground next to Arlo, her hands on his ribs as if trying to hold the falling-apart pieces of him together. Julia was next to her.
Arlo realized that it was Dominick’s leg he was climbing. The man’s expression was animalistic and ugly. A sweaty-sex face on the verge of completion. Still that cheering. Dominick stomped him down, then cranked his foot. The treads dripped bitumen. Arlo had the time to roll. But would that cause collateral damage to Gertie and Julia, beside him? Would his unborn daughter accidentally take the brunt?
He didn’t swerve. Cheering, cheering, like Romans at the Colosseum, the people of Maple Street rejoiced as Arlo Wilde received his punishment. A direct hit: work boot to face.
From Interviews from the Edge: A Maple Street Story, by Maggie Fitzsimmons,
Soma Institute Press, ? 2036
“Yes. I recall that. I recall the cheering.” —Sally Walsh
“I don’t remember. You tell me witnesses saw me laughing and clapping. But I don’t remember that.” —Rich Hestia
“There’s times in your life that you regret. I watched what was happening and I knew I should go out there and try to stop it. It wasn’t like you think. My moms weren’t happy when it happened. Almost nobody looked happy. I don’t know why they cheered, but they weren’t happy.” —Charlie Walsh
“He was a pervert with a gun. We took him out. You do what you have to do.” —Steven Ponti