Raggabooty

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This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

© 2008 Joseph F. Ruggiero. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 8/19/2008

ISBN: 978-1-4343-6990-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4678-6148-9(ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2008902787

Contents

Acknowledgement

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

About the Author

Acknowledgement

To all my family and friends who made this book possible and most especially my wife, the love of my life.

Special thanks to my daughter Jacqueline Jacobson.

Chapter One

Six pallbearers, supporting the bronze casket of Mike Santino on their shoulders, followed Father James Gallo down the aisle to the back of the church as the choir sang, On Eagles’ Wings. Following behind the casket, Mike’s parents, teary -eyed, locked arms. Their younger son Bob, pale-complexioned, walked with his head down, next to his parents. As they reached the back of the church, Father Gallo embraced them, and then the funeral director escorted them to the limousine.

It was ten thirty when the funeral procession left St. Anthony’s Roman Catholic Church for St. Andrew’s Cemetery in Bristol, Pennsylvania. A light rain began to fall over the open grave as the hearse pulled up next to the Santino family plot. The car doors opened and shut, and the mourners crowded around the casket as the funeral director and his assistant passed out carnations. The Santinos stood facing Father Gallo.

As Father began to read the prayers of Christian burial, Bob’s mind wandered back to three days earlier: July 3, 2002. Bob and Mike had tickets to see the Phillies play the Mets in a double header. The alarm went off at nine a.m. Bob rolled out of bed with eyes half shut, fumbled for the alarm clock, turned it off, and went into the bathroom. He quickly showered and wrapped himself with a towel. After brushing his teeth and drying his hair, Bob checked his watch, slid it on his wrist and walked down the hall to his brother’s room. Knocking at the door, he yelled, Hey, Mike, aren’t you up yet? The game starts at noon. It’s almost nine thirty.

There was no response. He walked into the bedroom and then noticed that Mike’s bed had not been slept in. As he glanced around the room, he saw that the bathroom door was cracked open. Mike, are you in there? he called, peering through the crack. Unable to see much, he pushed open the door.

What he saw undid him. Bob struggled to breathe as he looked at his brother on the toilet, his wrists slashed. There was blood dripping from his open veins, down over the toilet onto the floor. He screamed, Oh, shit, God! Jesus!

A drop of sweat, which rolled down his forehead into his eye brought Bob back to the present. Father Gallo’s voice sounded distant as he intoned the prayers, Eternal rest grant unto him, Lord. May he rest in peace. Bob then heard the funeral director, in the name of the family, thank everyone for being at the service and invite them to the luncheon at Caesar’s on Radcliffe Street. It was time to say goodbye.

Mrs. Santino screeched, My son! My son! and held the carnation to her breast. Her husband, in tears, dropped his flower. The funeral director escorted them back to the car while Bob picked up the flower and placed it on the casket. In a fog he then walked back to the limousine.

Standing next to the car, Bob lit up a cigarette. He needed a minute alone before rejoining his parents. He couldn’t believe his brother was gone. Only twenty five, he thought, and a great artist. He loved to draw. He was so excited about having his first art exhibit in September. Why the hell did he do it? He did remember that two days before Mike’s death, he seemed out-of-sorts. He didn’t think much of it then. Bob, lifting his shoe, snuffed out the cigarette, and stuffed it into an empty Newport pack.

Opening the car door, he looked towards his brother’s grave. It was then that he saw him, among the other mourners, a thin, tall man dressed in black, standing next to Mike’s grave. Brown moles covered his hairless head. His chin and nose were long and pointy. It made him think of the monster Nosferatu in The Shadow of the Vampire.

Bob could feel the hairs on his arms stand at attention as each man stared at the other. Then suddenly, a hand on his shoulder set him free. He turned towards Mr. Fortuno. It’s time to go.

Bob didn’t answer. He just looked at the funeral director.

I know it’s painful, losing your brother, but the pain will lessen in time. I know. I lost my younger brother last year, to leukemia. Mr. Fortuno watched as a startled look faded. I’m sorry, he said, and gripped Bob’s arm. Somehow, we’ll both be okay. Then he opened the limousine door, and Bob got in.

His parents were embracing and consoling each other. Bob glanced out of the side window towards Mike’s grave. The stranger was now nowhere in sight, but his face was embedded in Bob’s mind. Maybe he was the caretaker, he thought. Yes, the caretaker, that’s it. Bob’s body stiffened. Something cold moved in Bob’s chest as the driver pulled out of the main gate onto the road.

Chapter Two

Mark, I’m sorry we didn’t get much of a chance to talk at the funeral, but I must speak with you now. You were Mike’s best friend. Bob Santino was on the cordless phone with Mark Oliver. Bob refused to believe that his brother took his own life. It just didn’t make sense. Bob knew his brother to be a very spiritual person, even contemplating a vocation to the priesthood. Even though Mike changed his mind about the priesthood, he remained a devout Catholic. Bob and Mike talked often about the future and he remembered how his brother looked forward to someday marrying and having children, and then there was his art work.

Bob felt himself developing a contemptuous attitude towards the coroner’s investigation. The coroner ruled Mike’s death a suicide. He told himself that even though he found his brother with slit wrists there was no proof that he killed himself. The coroner could be wrong. Mark, he thought, would confirm that Mike was not troubled and had no reason to take his life. Bob believed that Mark was the only other person Mike would confide in if something were troubling him.

I planned on visiting you and your parents. I have something very important to show you. It came through the mail yesterday.

Raising his eyebrows, Bob asked, What is it?

I’d rather not say over the phone. Checking out his watch, he said, It’s one ten. I’ll be at your home this evening by seven.

I’ll see you then.

Bob, you must promise not to leave your house until I get there.

Mark, what’s wrong?

Promise me. Please, Bob, his voice cracking like kindling on a fire.

Bob could feel Mark’s fear coming through the phone. He could not imagine what would frighten a six foot, five inch guy with biceps as big as Arnold Schwarzenegger’s. Mark Oliver, an all Catholic football star in his junior year of high school, was a crane operator for Johnson Construction. He was not the kind to be easily intimidated, but something was disturbing Mark Oliver and Bob was sure it had something to do with his brother’s death.

I promise.

He sighed with relief and said, Ok, Bob, look for Mike’s bible. It’s somewhere in his room.

His bible?

Yes, I’ll explain everything when I see you. His voice sounded stronger.

Before Bob could ask him anymore questions, the phone clicked down on the receiver. First silence, then humming. Bob shut off his phone and threw it on the bed. He hadn’t been in his brother’s room since the day he discovered the body. Bob laid on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The afternoon sun faded, casting a shadow of darkness throughout Bob’s room.

The night after his brother’s death, Bob dreamt that he heard his brother calling his name. He awoke and went down the hall. Standing outside his brother’s room, he saw a light coming through the crack under the door. Bob wanted to turn and run, but an invisible force seemed to compel him to reach out and open the bedroom door. Mike, standing in the middle of the room, skin peeling off his face and hands, and dressed in a navy blue suit, spoke to his brother. Help me, Bob.

Bob felt his throat close. He was gasping for air.

It’s only a dream, called out Mr. Santino, who in his grief was pacing the halls. You were having a dream. Everything is alright. It was only a dream.

Bob’s pajama tops were soaked.

He stood in the hallway looking towards Mike’s bedroom, thinking of