Ezra E. Fitz is a translator and novelist. His translations of contemporary Latin American literature by Alberto Fuguet and Eloy Urroz have been praised by The New York Times, The Washington Post, The New Yorker, and The Believer, among other publications. His work has appeared in The Boston Review, Harper’s Magazine, and Words Without Borders, and he was a 2010 Resident at the Banff International Literary Translation Centre in Alberta, Canada. The Morning Side of the Hill is Fitz’ first novella. The print edition is available on Amazon.com; The print edition is available on Amazon.com; eBook is now available at Kindle, Kobo, Nook, and Google Play. iTunes and 2LP Bookshop coming soon!
The Morning Side of the Hill
by Ezra E. Fitz
Chapter excerpt: “The Lantern” (p. 5)
WILLIE WAS PAROLED the same year Katrina hit. He was over a thousand miles away when it happened, but the recovery efforts of many gulf coast cons did not go unnoticed by the New Jersey governor. One story in particular had caught his attention: that of a convict who, after being evacuated from his correctional facility in advance of the rising waters, risked his once chance at freedom to rescue a pregnant woman caught in a cypress snag out on the bayou with only a skiff and a splintered plank to paddle with. That rather incredible tale was bolstered by the culmination of a four-year study by the Rutgers University School of Criminal Justice, which found that well-run Community Reentry Initiatives can significantly reduce the recidivism of ex-cons. At least, that was what the study said. Most parole officers, on the other hand, would rather violate a parolee on a technicality than steer him towards something useful like a vocational class. In any case, pursuant to the provisions of N.J.S.A. 2C:45-1. et seq., the State Parole Board approved a conditional release for Willie and placed him under the supervision of Officer Gino Libretti.
Willie was lucky. Officer Libretti was a good cop without the corresponding bad cop partner. A Rutgers grad himself, he considered the study a lesson to be learned. Plus, he seemed to genuinely care about Willie’s success. Maybe it was the fact that Willie had earned privileges for good behavior while serving his term, or maybe it was because Libretti had thirty-seven other, more problematic ex-cons to supervise. But whatever the reason, Willie was never concerned when he showed up for unannounced check-ins, which were growing less and less frequent now that Willie had been granted permission to leave New Jersey and return to his home town of New York.
Libretti didn’t much mind the extra commute. In fact, it was he who initiated the move. He’d grown up in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, and — along with Seymore Scagnetti, one of his childhood friends from the neighborhood — entered the NYPD Academy. Eventually, Libretti married a girl and moved to Jersey, where he ended up as a parole officer. Officer Scagnetti, his friend, decided to stay in the community, accepting an assignment with the 77th Precinct. They spoke often on the phone, and one day when Seymore mentioned that a diner on Washington Avenue was looking for a short-order cook, Officer Libretti told him he had a good-hearted ex-con looking for a decent, steady job. Which is how, on that morning, Willie found himself sitting in a Brooklyn diner waiting to meet with a parole officer from Jersey.
The diner had been in the neighborhood since the 30’s, and still had that old-fashioned look and feel, complete with a soda fountain, festooned with strings of lights and garlands of plastic flowers, and featuring an impossibly cheerful owner named Gus famous for his egg creams and cherry lime rickeys. Willie had just ordered mango walnut pancakes and a glass of orange juice and opened that morning’s copy of The Daily News when Officer Libretti walked in.
What’s in the news, Willie?
Same old shit, officer, just a different day.
Willie folded up the paper as Officer Libretti sat down at the table.
You know what I do?
No sir.
I start with the back page and start working my way through the sports section. By the time I get to the news, I’m done with my coffee and I can toss the paper before I get to the depressing headlines. You should try it sometime.
I don’t think it would work too good. I’m a Sox fan, remember?
Damn it, that’s right. You’re lucky I don’t violate you on that fact alone!
Willie smiled. It wasn’t easy to joke about going back to prison, but there was something about Officer Libretti’s manner that made it seem like that part of his life lay in a dim and distant past. In Willie’s estimate, he didn’t even look much like a cop. Not with that fleshy, rotund face and heavy eyes that seemed sad even when he smiled. He looks more like Freddy Heflin than Ray Donlan. Either way, he does look out for me, though. I gotta give him that.
The waiter came by with Willie’s breakfast, and Officer Libretti took that opportunity to order a cup of coffee. Weekday mornings like this tended to be slower; on Sundays, the line for brunch went down the block and around the corner. The coffee came. Officer Libretti tossed in a packet of sugar and a splash of milk. Then he spoke.
So is there anything going on I need to know about?
No sir.
We both know that a lot of coke gets done in restaurant kitchens.
And we both know I’m not into that.
I’m not asking you for any tips. Just asking you to be straight with me. A man’s got to be honest. Not just with his P.O., but with himself.
You know my tox screen was clean the day I went in, and it’s been clean ever since. We can do the piss test anytime, anywhere.
Officer Libretti flashed him a sad, fat smile. His flattop needed to be cleaned up a bit, and Willie could see white hairs beginning to sprout at his temples.
I know son. I just have to go through the motions.
The two of them continued to chat, more informally now, with topics ranging from military timetables in Iraq and Afghanistan to the phonetic relationship between Yankee Stadium and Yawkey Way. When the coffee and pancakes were gone, they each threw in a few bucks for the check. Then they both got up to leave.
Good seeing you, officer.
Good seeing you too, Willie.
Come by anytime.
Officer Libretti smiled again. They shook hands. Then he got into his unmarked Crown Vic and drove off in the direction of Flatbush Avenue. Willie headed down the street to Prospect Place. It really hadn’t been very long since Officer Libretti helped set him up in this neighborhood, and he was still getting used to his new digs. And his relatively muted skin tone wasn’t going to be much of a help in that regard. On Eastern Parkway, he would frequently be stopped by black-hatted and gabardine-coated Lubavitchers asking him if he were Jewish. They seemed so wise, understanding, and interested that Willie almost felt sorry to say no. Then there were the joyful West Indian Africans, with their callaloo, oxtail, and their Carnavalesque parades. Sometimes there were surprising patches of common ground between the people, like the young Hasidic reggae singer who lived in the neighborhood. Jerusalem, if I forget you, fire not gonna come from me tongue, he wrote. But the Brooklyn Museum was running an exhibit remembering the tenth anniversary of the Crown Heights riots, and there were coals left over from those fiery nights which were still warm in the community. One night, even a plainclothes police officer sitting on the hood of his car stopped him and asked him where he was from. It’s a hell of a thing when both the cops and the neighbors are asking about you. I read somewhere that if you change places often enough over the years, you’ll start to forget where you’re from. And then, if you decide to settle down somewhere, after enough time has passed, you’ll start to forget that you don’t belong there. At least, that’s what you hope for. Forgetting. Erasure. Oblivion. And with them, a new beginning.
For the time being, the best Willie could do for himself was to watch Mexican boxers on TV at a Dominican bar down on Franklin Avenue. But for all he knew about the world or his place within it, he might as well have been at a Plains Inn by the railyards outside Des Moines, Iowa.■
