Everyday People

by Stewart O'Nan

  “That’s nice,” Eugene said. “That’s real nice.”

  “I thought his Granmoms might like it, you know.”

  No, Eugene thought, I want it, but said, “That’s a good idea.”

  “I’m going to put him up on the bridge,” Chris said. “I’m going to put everyone up.”

  And Eugene didn’t ask how, didn’t bother figuring out the ropes and pulleys they’d need. He just said, “I’ll help you.”

  That night Fats called. Pops held the phone out for him, already watching TV again.

  “Yo, U,” Fats said, “you’re all set. Much love, my brother.” That was it, the phone went dead.

  A few hours later it was on the news. Two unidentified teens in Brushton, the anchorwoman said—late-model car, senseless violence, the usual deal. Even the pictures were stock: a police car, yellow tape knotted to a fence, looped around a telly pole. A neighbor holding a baby said she heard shots and looked out and saw them on the ground. “A shame” was all the anchorwoman could say; the man agreed with her. It was amazing how little they knew about anything.

  He couldn’t sleep, thinking about it. He clicked his light on and took his Bible from the nightstand, leafing through it, trying to find a passage that was meant for him, but there was nothing, just wedding feasts and easy miracles. He closed it and tried to reconnect with his group, think of the circle of them in the dayroom, poring over their dog-eared Bibles like a team with a new playbook. The intensity of belief, that’s what he missed. The certainty of a new direction. You’ve paid the wages, Darrin said, now stay focused on your choices. Understand that you’re not in control of the situation, you can only control yourself. Be responsible for your actions. Get yourself to a place where you can help others.

  Had he even tried to do that?

  He saw Nene’s Granmoms walking back from the casket, dry-eyed behind her glasses, tired, as if she’d been waiting for it, as if it was natural. And he wondered about his own Moms, if she’d had the same vision he had, except instead of him looking up at her, she was looking down at him. She must have. That would be harder, he thought. To see what was going on and not be able to do anything—like him and Nene.

  In the morning the story was in the paper, back by the obituaries. It gave their names and ages. Bryan Tolliver, 15. Jamal White, 17. There was nothing else about them or their families, only that the police suspected it was drug-related. The ad for the Wilkinsburg funeral home was bigger than the whole article. He tore the story out and stuck it in his shirt pocket, and at lunch he took it out and read it again, remembering his own worst sins, a boy that age he was responsible for, a night he didn’t like to think about. He saw the two of them standing on the sidewalk, kicking it in their Timbs, joning and vibing off each other, waiting for someone to pull up. Someone did. Fucking little knuckleheads.

  That afternoon he was rubbing down a new Lumina, still turning the pictures over in his head. Folks were getting shot on the corner when he was a little shortie. It just didn’t stop. It was like no one ever learned. He’d had to. It was like Darrin said the first day: Either you smarten up or you die, one or the other, your choice. It took him a while to get to it, but Eugene knew it was true. He knew Nene was headed that way, everyone did. Only Little Nene was surprised by it.

  The Lumina was navy blue, and he could see his face in the quarterpanel, stretched like at Kennywood, the crazy mirrors the one free thing in the penny arcade. He had his Baierl Chevrolet jumpsuit on, and a white rag in his hand. He could still be in the slam, working motor pool.

  But you’re not, he thought. You’re out. You’ve got a job. You’ve got some direction. Don’t fall back into that old trap. You need to focus on what you need to do for yourself, then start thinking about the community. Don’t forget, Darrin always said, you’ve got a chance to be a leader.

  A leader of what? He stared at the man in the quarterpanel. He didn’t look like a leader of anything, just some fool with a rinky-dink eight-hour slave.

  He walked home along the sunken busway. The road was done except for the exit ramps, and those were laid out, plotted off with string. Graders sat abandoned like dinosaurs. Eugene walked up the middle of the road, looking at the walls on both sides, the graffiti he knew was Bean’s and Chris’s. MDP IN EFFECT, one big piece said, ten feet tall, a fierce-looking hawk spreading its wings. He didn’t stop to appreciate the yellow highlights on every feather, the fresh, wet shine Chris gave the letters. As he crossed under the footbridge, he turned and looked up, and there, beneath the tribute Kenny did for them, was their last, unfinished piece.

  Eugene couldn’t tell what it was supposed to be. It was a blue outline, kind of square, just the beginning of something. A word? MDP again? It wasn’t even that big. He pictured the two of them working above him, a rainy night, laughing, the hiss and rattle of cans, and then it was just him and Nene playing Chinese checkers or some dumb game in his room, lying on that zebra shag, wondering if his Granmoms had any frozen burritos in the fridge.

  He looked around for evidence of the accident—a spraycan flattened by the dump trucks, a single blue Puma, a smudged rag—but there was nothing, only the unfinished piece. BEAN & CREST, Kenny’s said, with clouds around it, sun just breaking through. Not even their real names, Eugene thought. Ben and Chris. Why did he think he could have done something?

  He was crossing Allegheny when he saw Little Nene on the corner of Moreland. He was riding Nene’s ten-speed, bumping it over the curb and into the street, then back on the sidewalk again, circling a bunch of little critters Eugene didn’t recognize. Little wannabes straight perpetratin’. Would have made him laugh back in the day. Not now.

  A van pulled up and one of the shorties ran around the driver’s side, his back to Eugene. He reached a hand through the window.

  “Motherfucker,” Eugene said, and started running down Moreland toward them. “Yo!” he hollered. “Yo, hold up!” waving his arms like a cop.

  The dude in the van saw him and hit it, peeling away, nearly running over the kid.

  Everyone else bounced, split like roaches, threw their sweetest ghost move, Little Nene booking down a walkway between two houses. By the time Eugene reached the corner, he was alone. Around him Moreland was deserted, the gutter matted with glassine envelopes and spent Bics. He scowled at the houses and their empty windows, searching for a single concerned face. The place across the street had burnt down months ago, the windows boarded up, the yard overgrown, going yellow. Why did he expect anyone to give a shit?

  After supper he put on his good suit and helped Chris into the elevator and down the front steps. The city was supposed to put in a lift for him but so far only a surveyor had come by. He had Nene’s picture in his lap, in a frame they bought. Moms had wrapped it for them, and it looked sharp. On the sidewalk Chris used his motor, and Eugene had to slow down to stay beside him. Still, it was good; Chris didn’t get out enough.

  The corner of Moreland was empty, the streetlight burnt out—no, broken. He helped Chris over the curb. It was like a mission; the two of them didn’t say anything. A car headed up Moreland toward them, its headlights searching beneath the trees, and Eugene imagined B-Mo’s boys riding down on Nene, weapons ready, windows rolled down.

  It was harder getting Chris up the stairs at Nene’s Granmoms’. His back hurt from work, and he had to stretch after.

  “Sorry,” Chris said.

  “S’all right, I got ya.”

  Nene’s Granmoms asked them into the living room. That gap-toothed smile, those old glasses—it was like she never changed. “Now don’t go away, I’ve got something for you,” she said, patting Eugene on the shoulder, and vanished into the kitchen.

  Chris looked around the walls, covered with framed paintings. Above the fireplace hung an Oriental rug with an intricate pattern. In the corner stood a black laquered piano. The sofa was black leather, with a heavy glass end table, a fern in a crystal planter. Nene’s Granmoms always kept a good-looking house. It made the jum
p from Moreland even stranger, like the two didn’t fit.

  She came back with a tray of cheese and crackers and water for all of them, taking the end of the couch by Chris’s chair. “Eugene,” she said, “I wanted to thank you for coming the other day.” She looked at Chris sympathetically. “I know you would have been there if you could.”

  “I’m sorry about Nene,” Chris said.

  “Thank you,” she said, and touched his knee.

  Chris held the package out. “We brought something for you.”

  “That’s sweet, you didn’t have to,” she said, making a face, then took it. She peeled the wrapping paper away and turned it over to see Nene. She sat like that a minute, looking at him. “Oh,” she said, “it’s beautiful.”

  “Chris did it.”

  “Chris, oh,” she said, “thank you,” and stood up to take him in a hug, still holding the picture, and all Eugene could think of was Nene doing his Godzilla routine. She came over to him and he held her, breathing in a whiff of baby powder and Dixie Peach, a smell he remembered from church and birthdays.

  She looked for a place to put it. “There’s not enough room on these walls. I’ll have to move something.”

  She seemed happy, and Eugene thought he’d at least done something constructive today. Darrin would be proud of him. They ate the cheese and crackers and drank their water, answered her questions about their parents. He didn’t ask if Little Nene was home until they had their coats on.

  “Who—Leonard? I’m lucky he came to see his brother. He’s another one, out all hours, gallivanting around town.”

  Eugene didn’t ask why she couldn’t stop him. He’d run the same game on his Moms when he was sixteen, then served Pops when he tried to get in his business. He just said to let Leonard know that he’d asked after him.

  “Leonard,” Chris said when they were outside again. “What’s up with that?”

  “She really liked your picture.”

  “I just thought, you know.”

  The corner was still empty, and they rolled up Allegheny to Spofford under the one streetlight. Chris’s chair made a whir like a remote-control car.

  “Those steps are gonna be a bitch,” Chris said.

  “I’ll handle it,” Eugene said, and he did, pulling him up backwards, one at a time.

  Moms was waiting for them. She wanted to know how it went, and they told her. “Good,” she said. “That woman, what she’s been through.”

  Chris looked up at him. Neither of them had to remind her of what she’d been through with them; they just nodded.

  Chris whirred into his room. Pops was watching TV with a beer, Moms reading the paper at the kitchen table. Eugene used the bathroom, unloading some of that water, then announced he was going out.

  “Where?” Moms asked.

  “Church. I told Reverend Skinner I’d help set up for practice.”

  “How late, you think?”

  “Not late. Maybe ten.”

  “You be careful,” she said.

  “You stay out of trouble,” Pops threw in, but he was gone, already on the stairs.

  He started with Spofford, circling the block, checking out the crowd hanging in front of the Liberty Grill. Too old, and the cops always cruised through. He swept the four corners at Taine and Moreland, then headed back toward Nene’s Granmoms’. There was a crew working Allegheny under the busted light, a punk Little Nene’s size in a Hornets jacket and a Marlins cap, but when Eugene got close he could see it wasn’t him.

  “Whassup?” the boy challenged him.

  “S’up wit chu?” Eugene said, coming on hard, putting on that yard face. One of his toy-ass partners was giving him the red eye. “I’m looking for my boy Little Nene.”

  The Marlins cap flashed the Trey sign.

  Eugene laughed and returned it. “A’ight, but I don’t play that no more. I’m too old for that shit.”

  “You sposed to be some kinda O.G. or something,” the boy said, looking his suit up and down.

  “Big Nene and me were partners.”

  “I’m real sorry. I ain’t seen Little Nene round tonight. He might be down Lenora.”

  “A’ight,” Eugene said, and traded the handshake. “Tell him I was looking for him.”

  He walked on down Moreland, sure of himself now, on a mission, square business. It was clear, the streetlights throwing shadows into parked cars. There was no one at Lenora, only a cat slipping across the street. He kept going, past Larimer and Thompson and Paulson, thinking of what he’d say to him. Nothing about God or anything big, just the facts of the matter, like Darrin laying it out in group.

  Lowell was empty, and Mayflower, but he kept on, block by block, checking every possible spot. He remembered Nene and him searching the carpet on their hands and knees, running their fingernails over it like a comb. That last night they were so fucked up it didn’t occur to them to stop. It was a good thing too. After like half an hour, Nene pulled a chunk out of the couch. He pinched it between his fingers like a diamond, smiled like he knew it was there all along. And he did, they both did. That was the lesson of ghostbusting. You had to have faith. You had to believe that if you just kept looking hard enough, eventually you’d find what you needed.

  GOOD MORNING, HEARTACHE

  HE CAME TO her because his mother was going through some hard times moneywise. Of course it was not money really; there was a man who’d almost married her, a lost job, a car stolen from their parking lot. The schools, the neighborhood, even the weather seemed to play into the decision. Milwaukee was a city with no jobs, Yvonne said, and cold in winter, ice reaching into the gray lake. Maybe it was time to try Chicago (Miss Fisk didn’t say it was the same lake, the same cold, the same city finally). Yvonne called her night after night, sometimes swearing bitterly, sometimes crying, and Miss Fisk could not say no.

  He was ten when he came, a wick-thin boy with a high forehead and tiny ears. He had turn, a brisk way of saying “Ma’am” and “You’re welcome” that she recognized as her own—a gift her daughter had passed on to him. He was a bright child, talkative, and quick to pick up on what she needed. He didn’t cry when his mother got in the dented Chevy and drove away. At supper he ate everything on his plate and then asked if he could watch TV if he did the dishes. He wanted the bedroom next to hers, he said, and that first night how could she deny him?

  Nothing changed. Maybe it was because she was a grandmother, ready to give everything, nothing left to save up for. She flattered herself that he favored her; wasn’t it plain in the slope of his forehead, the just-enough-to-whistle gap in his big front teeth? He knew when she needed to be alone and when she needed a little sugar. He could always get what he wanted from her, not like Yvonne. She wanted to think it wasn’t weakness on her part, that she didn’t give in to him just because he was a child. But didn’t she secretly smile to herself in the kitchen, making cornbread for him, thinking she’d been blessed? He was a gift she hadn’t known she’d needed. He was hers.

  He was her good boy. That’s what she wanted to say when the police came and then the one reporter from the Courier. Smart as day in school too. She didn’t know how he got mixed up in all that nonsense. But it wasn’t completely true, no, not by that time—she’d found things in his closet, tucked deep in the toes of his winter boots—and so she told the reporter it was a shame, that just last week he’d started a program at the Vo-Tech, he and Chris (the other boy, she said, so he’d know), the two of them together. Graphic design. He wanted to be an artist, she said, wondering if that really was true.

  Yes, it was true, an artist. Why did she have to question everything now, as if his life with her had been false, had never happened?

  There were people who needed his liver. The doctor said there was nothing else they could do, so if she would just please go ahead and sign the papers they could begin the procedure. She needed to call her daughter, she said, and then there was no answer, the phone ringing in Milwaukee, in the new apartment she’d visited just o
nce, marveling at the plush, just-vacuumed carpet, the frost-free refrigerator, the view of the freezing lake—marveling at Yvonne’s hard-won success, after all her troubles. Benny only had another year in school, and he was on the honor roll again. It didn’t make sense to take him away from his friends.

  “Legally you are his guardian,” the lady in the office reminded her, and turned the form so Miss Fisk could write on the line. It wasn’t like he was alive and she was saying take him off the machine; he was already dead, the blood stopped, his body cooling. There was someone who would die if she didn’t sign this, that’s what it came down to. She was not a selfish woman, Lord knows. She would do anything to save another mother this pain. Then why did she have to call Yvonne again?

  The woman turned her phone to Miss Fisk, and she punched in the number, then waited. She pictured the empty apartment and wondered where Yvonne had gone off to. The corner store with its Miller sign and its high-priced milk. She thought of her walking the dark streets, smoking her cigarettes one after another like when she was angry. Was it raining there too? The phone rang five, six times. She put the receiver down and looked at the woman. “You say we need to do this now.”

  He was ten when he came and seventeen when he was taken from her, but there was another time before that when he was a baby, her first grandchild. She’d flown to Minnesota to be with Yvonne when the time came. She wasn’t in the room, but she was right outside, waiting with her third awful cup of coffee, reading the classified ads from a discarded Star-Tribune as Herman stared out over the city. He was her boyfriend, and Miss Fisk knew he wouldn’t be around to see this child raised right, but there was nothing she could do about it and every time she said something, Yvonne would stop calling. And he did leave, eventually. He was still in St. Paul, still doing something in radio (she never knew quite what it was that he did). He came to the funeral, bending to her, accepting her arms as he never had before, saying, “Bertice,” sadly, as if there were no words.