Chapter 6 - The Man Who Chose to Be Hated
Finding Michael took forty-eight hours.
Anthony could have done it in six.
He didn't.
Every time a name appeared, he rejected it.
Every time an address surfaced, he wanted another confirmation.
Finally his attorney placed a file on the desk.
"Michael Caruso. Forty-three. Paterson."
Anthony didn't open it.
"You sure?"
"Yes."
"What does he do?"
"Repairs commercial refrigeration systems."
Anthony looked up.
"That's it?"
His attorney frowned.
"What were you expecting?"
Anthony didn't know.
A second life, maybe.
A hidden fortune.
Evidence Michael had been secretly watching the family.
Something dramatic enough to justify twenty-three years of absence.
Instead there was a job.
An apartment.
A ten-year-old Honda.
No criminal record.
No wife.
No children.
An overdue parking ticket from February.
Anthony stared at the file.
"Does he know we're looking?"
"No."
"Keep it that way."
His attorney stood.
At the door, he paused.
"You going to see him?"
Anthony said nothing.
The attorney left.
That night, Noah found him sitting alone in the kitchen.
"You found him."
Anthony looked up.
"How do you keep doing that?"
"You get quiet when you're scared."
Anthony's eyebrows rose.
"I'm not scared."
Noah walked to the refrigerator.
"Okay."
Anthony watched him pour orange juice.
"What makes you think I'm scared?"
Noah shrugged.
"When you're mad, everybody knows."
"And?"
"When you're scared, nobody does."
Anthony stared at his son.
Eleven.
He was eleven years old.
Michael had been twenty-three when he disappeared.
Anthony thought of how young that suddenly seemed.
"He's in Paterson," Anthony said.
Noah slowly closed the refrigerator.
"Are you going?"
"I don't know."
"You do know."
Anthony sighed.
"Go finish your homework."
Noah walked toward the hallway.
Then stopped.
"Dad?"
"What?"
"If you don't know what to say, maybe don't plan it."
Anthony frowned.
"What does that mean?"
"Whenever you plan conversations, they sound like meetings."
Then Noah disappeared upstairs.
Anthony sat there another hour.
The next morning he drove to Paterson.
Alone.
No driver.
No men following at a distance.
At least none he had ordered.
Michael lived in a brick apartment building above a laundromat.
Anthony parked across the street.
He did not get out.
For forty minutes, Anthony Caruso—the man people crossed streets to avoid—sat inside a car staring at a second-floor window.
At 7:18, the front door opened.
A man came out carrying a black lunch bag.
Anthony forgot how to breathe.
Michael was older.
Of course he was.
There was gray at his temples.
He wore work boots and a dark jacket with a refrigeration company's name stitched over the chest.
He locked the building door.
Turned.
And stopped.
Michael had seen the car.
Maybe he recognized Anthony.
Maybe he simply recognized the way Anthony was staring.
For several seconds neither moved.
Then Michael walked toward the curb.
Anthony opened the car door.
They stood twelve feet apart.
Twenty-three years collapsed into silence.
Michael looked him over.
His first words were:
"You got old."
Anthony almost laughed.
"You too."
Michael glanced at the car.
"Nice."
"Thanks."
"Compensating?"
There it was.
Anthony felt seventeen again.
"You still talk too much."
"You still look like you're deciding whether to punch somebody."
"I'm not."
"Disappointing."
Another silence.
Michael looked toward his building.
"Why are you here?"
Anthony had rehearsed twelve versions of this conversation despite Noah's advice.
Every one vanished.
"My son wrote an essay."
Michael blinked.
Anthony nearly laughed at how absurd the sentence sounded.
"What?"
"Noah."
"I know his name."
Anthony went still.
Michael noticed.
"Relax. Ma sent pictures."
Anthony absorbed that.
"She sent you pictures?"
"For years."
Anthony looked away.
More things he hadn't known.
Michael's expression hardened slightly.
"Why are you here, Anthony?"
"I found the letters."
Michael's face changed.
Only for a second.
"All of them?"
"I don't know."
"Then probably not."
"I found the statement."
Michael looked toward the street.
"The whole statement."
Michael nodded once.
"And Ray talked."
"Ray always talks eventually."
"I found the letter Dad kept."
That did it.
Michael's eyes closed briefly.
When he opened them, the sarcasm was gone.
"He kept it?"
"Twenty-three years."
Michael laughed once.
It sounded tired.
"Of course he did."
Anthony stepped closer.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Michael looked at him.
"I did."
"The letter never reached me."
"Not my problem."
Anthony stiffened.
Michael continued.
"I was twenty-three. I had half the family calling me a rat and the other half calling me a coward. Your father made it clear if I came near you again, things would get worse."
"You could have called later."
"I did."
Anthony stared.
Michael's jaw tightened.
"Ma answered."
Anthony looked away.
"She never told me."
"I know."
"Then why keep calling her?"
"Because she was my mother."
The sentence landed softly.
Harder that way.
Anthony swallowed.
"Did you ever want to come back?"
Michael laughed.
"To what?"
"The family."
"That isn't an answerable question."
"Try."
Michael looked around the street.
People walked past carrying coffee, pushing strollers, heading to work.
Nobody knew two Caruso brothers were standing twenty-three years apart from the last time they'd spoken.
"I wanted my mother," Michael said.
Anthony said nothing.
"I wanted Teresa."
His eyes shifted to Anthony.
"Sometimes I wanted my brother."
Anthony looked down.
Michael continued.
"I did not want the life."
Anthony's face tightened.
"You think I'm proud of everything?"
"I don't know what you're proud of."
"You could ask."
Michael almost smiled.
"That's new."
Anthony let that pass.
"I believed you betrayed me."
"I know."
"I hated you."
"I know."
"You let me."
Michael's expression hardened.
"There it is."
"What?"
"The accusation."
"I'm trying to understand."
"No. You're trying to find the part that makes this easier for you."
Anthony stepped closer.
"Twenty-three years, Michael."
"Yes."
"You knew what I believed."
"Yes."
"And you stayed silent."
Michael's voice rose for the first time.
"Because the last time I tried to save you from something, I lost my family."
Anthony fell silent.
Michael looked away.
A bus hissed to a stop at the corner.
People climbed aboard.
Neither brother moved.
Then Michael said, quieter, "I had to go to work."
Anthony nodded.
Michael started walking.
Anthony called his name.
Michael stopped.
"I want to talk."
Michael didn't turn around.
"You're talking."
"Not here."
Now Michael turned.
"Then where?"
Anthony looked toward the apartment.
Michael followed his gaze.
His expression changed.
"No."
"Why?"
"Because you're not walking into my home with whatever this is."
Anthony felt anger rise.
Then he caught it.
For once, he let it pass.
"Okay."
Michael looked surprised.
Anthony nodded toward the diner across the street.
"Coffee?"
Michael stared at him for a long time.
Then he looked at his watch.
"I've got twenty minutes."
They crossed the street.
Twenty minutes became fifty-three.
They did not reconcile.
They argued.
Michael accused Anthony of becoming too much like Vincent.
Anthony accused Michael of deciding everyone's future for them.
Both accusations contained truth.
That was what made them hurt.
When Michael finally stood to leave, Anthony asked one last question.
"Do you regret it?"
Michael picked up his lunch bag.
"The choice?"
"Yes."
Michael thought.
"I regret how much it cost."
Anthony waited.
"But no."
Michael met his eyes.
"I don't regret saying no."
Then he walked out.
Anthony remained at the diner.
On the table sat two coffee cups.
One empty.
One barely touched.
For the first time, Anthony understood what Noah had meant.
Michael wasn't brave because he had never been scared.
He had been terrified.
May you like
He had simply chosen something more important than being loved.
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