“You idiots want to know where Hell really is?” asked George, putting down the controller.
Karl paused his game and turned around in the chair. “You don’t know where Hell is,” he said before turning back around to continue playing.
“Uhhh, yes I do, idiot. And it isn’t even far from here.”
Tony let out a giggle and sucked down some root beer.
“I’ll show you dumbasses if you promise not to tell Mom.”
“Really?” I said.
“Yeah, Tony and I will take you there.”
Tony drank the last of his root beer and opened another. Karl turned off the computer and stood up, irritated by the incessant distraction of false promises.
“Okay, George. Show us where Hell is. Jeez… ya know… do I have to put on my shoes or anything?”
“Nope! Because it’s right here in the house.”
I knew it. The Geigers’ house was full of empty rooms and hardwood floors that creaked in the night. If I was sleeping over and couldn’t hold my pee until morning, I’d run down the hallway to the bathroom so I wouldn’t get nabbed by a flailing ghoulish appendage.
“Bullshit, George.”
“No, I’m serious. Dad told me. He didn’t tell you because you’re too young.”
“Dad said that Hell was a place called Penn Station, in the City.”
“Come on, Karl, he was just kidding. You really think Hell is in a train station?”
“Oh… I guess not.”
“Exactly. Okay, you two idiots follow me and Tony.”
“Will we need weapons?” I asked.
“What? Uh… no. There are some already there.”
Tony and George led us up the creaky basement steps and then up another winding staircase that led to the second floor. I could hear Mr. Geiger swearing at the TV in the living room—I assumed his beloved Ohio State Buckeyes were losing. Mr. and Mrs. Geiger both went to Ohio State Law School. One time I went over to their house in a Michigan jersey and Mr. Geiger made me take it off before I was allowed inside. He gave me an Ohio State shirt and said I could keep it if I never wore the Michigan jersey again; I buried the jersey in the depths of my closet and haven’t worn it since.
We were halfway down the long hallway that ended in darkness when George stopped in front of a white door.
“You’re telling us that Hell is in the attic?” said Karl.
“Yup! Right up there. You never wondered what those sounds were at night?”
“Okay, fine. Let’s see,” said Karl, pushing his brother out of the way. “I just want to go finish my campaign already.”
Karl had trouble opening the door. When he finally tugged it open, there was a smell of old wood and weathered paper. Chinese New Year calendars lined the walls of the dirty brown staircase.
“Well… after you, idiots.”
Karl started up the stairs without hesitation. I took a step back.
“Come on, Vic. You don’t want to know what Hell is like?”
“I… I do… I just can’t believe that it’s up there. Like… how do I know that it’s up there?”
“What? You think George and I would lie to you?”
“I guess not.”
“Okay then. After you.”
I started up the steps, my head on a swivel, reading the Chinese New Year calendars: 1996 Year of the Rat, 1995 Year of the Pig, 1993 Year of the Rooster, 1990 Year of the—gulp—Snake.
Karl stood at the top of the stairs with his hands on his hips. “I don’t see it.”
“No, no, keep going,” said George. “It’s in the back.”
There were dusty bookshelves with framed black-and-white photos and a table and chest with memorabilia from history: Mr. Geiger loved to collect things, like license plates and maps and Nazi and Soviet regalia (and Chinese restaurant calendars). Karl even said that there was a pistol up there, a Soviet Makarov that his grandfather brought back from his station in Berlin.
“Back there,” said George, walking up the stairs and pointing to a room where there were a few boxes and a naked lightbulb hanging from a cord.
“It’s back there?” I asked.
“Yeah, go in there and you’ll see,” said Tony.
Karl went into the room and spun in a circle. “Nothing… There isn’t shit in here, George.”
“Go open that box. Vic, you have to help him. The top is heavy.”
I walked a few steps into the room to help Karl with the box, but before I could put my hand on it, George screamed, “Welcome to Hell, idiots!” and slammed the door shut.
My heart almost stopped. Karl pounded on the door, but it was locked. “You motherfuckers! You fuckers!”
Rusty nails protruded from the wood in the ceiling; it felt like they were only inches from my eyeballs. “Tony! Why, Tony, why?!” I started to shriek. “Why, Tony?!”
“You fuckers! I’ll fucking kill you, you motherfuckers!”
I pulled the collar of my shirt over my nose. “Tony! Why?!”
“I swear to fucking God I’m going to murder you fuckers!”
“Tony!”
“Fuckers!”
“Tony!!!”
Autumn’s martyrdom gave way to the tyrant of winter; it felt as if the sun had left us. The enthusiasm for school I had in September had faded with the season. I dreaded Sunday evenings. Not even Nana’s sauce or meatballs or braciole could lift my spirits. I stopped writing stories; I cried at night.
The standard Sunday dinner battle between my father and sister took place as I joined my family at the table.
“How can you eat them like that!” my father shouted. “You’re a Ferraro. We come from very humble roots down in Avellino. It’s in your blood!”
Britney hated pasta sauce and would only eat her jumbo raviolis with butter and grated parmesan cheese.
“That’s the way she likes them,” said my mother.
“Okay, okay, I won’t fight it. But finish those up, because it’s almost homework time.”
“No.”
“Yes, Britney, your brother does his homework… right? Vito, you do your homework?”
“Yeah.”
“See, Vito does his homework—Vito, stop playing
