by Amy Sohn
She slammed the trunk, got in the driver’s seat, and zoomed away, remembering one of the getaway scenes from Bonnie and Clyde. In the rearview mirror, the strollers were piled so high she could barely see behind her.
Karen
For years after moving to Park Slope, Karen had witnessed the morning scene at P.S. 321, desperate to be a part of it: the svelte moms with Hobo bags, the parade of bikes, scooters, unicycles, and cars from all directions to Seventh Avenue, the friendly if redundant crossing guards, the post-drop-off Connecticut Muffin gabfests. She had visions of herself sitting on those wooden benches, talking about bulb planting and school lunch initiatives. Though public, P.S. 321 was in many ways more like a private school.
P.S. 282 drop-off was nothing like the one at P.S. 321. The black and Latino parents didn’t get out of their SUVs, instead dispatching the kids. The white mothers lingered at the entrance, waiting for their children to be completely inside the school building, and then bustled off to the city to work.
Outside on Sixth Avenue, Darby spotted Ayo, a boy from his kindergarten class the year before. He was with someone Karen had noticed the past two weeks of school: a tall, handsome black man with a Yankees cap over a shaved head. They had smiled at each other a few times. He looked particularly good today; he was wearing a black V-neck shirt that showed his pectoral muscles, loose jeans, and a belt. He reminded her of the actor Taye Diggs.
Parents weren’t allowed inside the school with the kids, so after Ayo and Darby greeted each other, they kissed their parents goodbye and went in together. Karen was struck by how mature Darby seemed; in kindergarten, parents went in the room with the children. Now, in first grade, the kids went in alone. Karen started to go, and Ayo’s father walked in the same direction. So as not to be rude, she slowed down. “I’m Wesley,” he said.
“Karen. I don’t think I’ve met you before. I met your wife last year.” She recalled her as a petite and frazzled-looking woman.
“She’s not my wife.”
“Oh.”
“I take care of Ayo now,” he said. “Do you live near here?”
“Carroll Street, between Eighth and the park.”
“How come he doesn’t go to 321?”
“It’s a long story. We were zoned for 321, but then they changed everything because of overcrowding. What about you? Where do you live?”
“Crown Heights. Do you feel like getting a coffee?”
“Sure,” she said, gesturing ahead to Berkeley Place. “There’s a café on this block that I—”
“Regular?” Café Regular du Nord was a tony European-style spot with a loud espresso machine and not enough seats. “I like that joint. So do you take care of Darby full-time, or—”
“I’m a stay-at-home mom, if that’s what you mean. But I’m separated, and I’ve been thinking lately that I should get a job.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I’m not sure. I have a degree in social work, but I don’t think I want to go back to it.”
“This could be a good opportunity to figure out what your passion is.”
“It’s funny you say that. I thought about starting a food business, but I’m not sure it’s practical.” She told him about the supper club.
“It sounds like a speakeasy with none of the danger,” he said.
“It kind of was! Anyway, what do you do?”
“I work in a stockroom in DUMBO. It’s just to get myself back on my feet. To pay the bills.”
“What do you mean, back on your feet?”
“I was recently incarcerated.” She wondered what he had done. He could have murdered someone. This kind of conversation was so far out of line with what she usually experienced post-drop-off that she didn’t know what she could ask.
They had arrived at the café. It was chaotic: hipsters on their way to work. As she stood on line next to Wesley, she noticed a swirling black path painted on the floor, like the road in The Wizard of Oz. She was Dorothy, and he was a mysterious stranger she was meeting on her journey to . . . where was she going?
“What are you having?” he asked.
“A double cappuccino and a chocolate croissant.”
When she rummaged in her wallet for money, he held up his hand and said, “No, it’s on me.”
“Are you sure?”
He gave her a look that indicated he would be offended if she protested further, so she nodded. It was better to let him treat her. She might need the money. Matty had gotten the letter saying that they wanted to begin proceedings and had called Karen to say he didn’t see the rush. They had been separated over a year—it wasn’t a rush. It was a bad omen that he had responded negatively to the letter. What if he tried to fight her on every aspect of the divorce, take as much as he could? He had the money. He was the lawyer, with the good contacts. In divorce, the person with the best lawyer won.
She glanced around the café to see if there was a seat. They were all taken by angry customers, like dogs who had marked their territory. The actor John Turturro was reading the Times in a corner, sipping espresso, wearing an anxious expression. The anxious expression made people stare at him and recognize him, which in turn seemed to make him more anxious.
“I’ll get a seat outside,” she said to Wesley.
There were a few tables and chairs outside, raked violently due to the slanted sidewalk. She scored a chair, closed her eyes, and let the sun fall on her eyelids. A week and a half before, she had been at an underground restaurant in Williamsburg. If Matty hadn’t left, Darby would be in private school, and she wouldn’t be sitting outside a café, waiting for a black ex-con to join her. She wondered what Wesley had done to go to jail. He had been so up front about it, but it seemed incongruous with his personality. He was neatly dressed and handsome, with his shaved head and his shirts tucked in, those belted jeans curving out at the penis, as though to give it room. She wondered if he had been a drug dealer. Was he dangerous? Or was he straight and narrow now, a converted Muslim who didn’t drink? Maybe he was one of those Black Hebrew Israelites who thought Jews weren’t really Jews.
He emerged with her order and a tea for himself. “You’re not eating anything?” she asked.
“I had oatmeal at home. I have oatmeal every morning.” He sat opposite her. She was on the up slant, her back to the café, and in his chair, he looked like he was going to topple. “I didn’t mean to scare you about the prison thing. I guess you’re just easy to talk to, and I don’t like lying about it.”
“That’s okay,” she said.
“I probably shouldn’t have said anything. Between the incarceration and what’s going on with Ayo’s mother—it’s been a difficult year. She went to Atlanta to be with some relatives. It’s the best for everyone, really.” Karen wondered what her problem was. The woman had seemed together, if tightly wound.
“So you live in Crown Heights, huh?” she said. “I heard it’s changing a lot.”
“Yeah. All the West Indians are selling and moving back where they came from. I live with my mother. She helps with Ayo.”
“What kind of name is that?”
“Yoruba. I’m half Nigerian, half American.”
“Which is which?”
“My mother’s Nigerian, my father was American.”
“What was it like being in prison?” she blurted.
“I’ll tell you more about it when I know you better,” he said. “It’s been hard since I got out. I hate this job in the stockroom, but it pays the bills. Once I get my NASM certification, things are going to change.”
“What’s NASM?”
“National Academy of Sports Medicine. I want to do personal training. I boxed when I was in high school, and I’ve always been interested in personal fitness. I won the Golden Gloves when I was twenty-four, so I want to do boxing training.”
“You won’t have any trouble getting clients in this neighborhood. I know a lot of women who want to get in shape.”
“Can I ask you a question?�
�� he said. “You said you were separated. Was it recently?”
“No. I should really be divorced already, but I’ve been putting it off. I just got a lawyer. It’s . . . harder than I thought.” She hadn’t been this talkative since her sessions with Linda Weinert. “I never thought I would wind up divorced. I thought it was something that only happened to other people.”
“Sounds like you still have feelings for him.”
“No, God no! I really don’t.”
“Does that mean you’ll go to dinner with me?” On one level, he frightened her. But he was so calm, so centered-seeming, that she felt he could say he’d committed a triple homicide and she would want to know the context.
She thought about Jean, the Haitian boy from Brooklyn Tech. When she was sixteen, at a school dance, he’d beckoned her over. She was heavy, and boys didn’t talk to her. She and Jean had sneaked into a classroom and made out on the floor and wound up having sex. It had been her first time, and then she had missed her period. She got an abortion, and years later, she still felt shame. How could she have been so stupid? Why hadn’t she told him to pull out?
A few years ago, she had run into Jean in Park Slope. He had a young family, a baby boy. He had lost weight and was handsome, doing well as a musician. They made small talk—and she hated him for not knowing what he’d put her through. Now he was on The David Keller Show on Comedy Central, playing in the house band. She tried not to watch the show so as not to see his face.
She hadn’t dated any black men since that night with Jean. After college, when she was single and went to clubs with friends in Manhattan, black guys would often hit on her—they all liked her body—but she had irrational anger at them because of that night on the chemistry-room floor.
Now here she was, having coffee with a guy who probably had been in Rikers. It was her separation, either turning her crazy or opening her mind. This was what happened when you didn’t get laid in a long time: You lost your common sense.
She must have been quiet for a while because Wesley said, “If you want to think about it, it’s all right,” and scribbled something down on a piece of paper. “That’s my number. I’d be very happy if you called me.” The people at the next table, two thirtysomething moms in yoga gear, were talking about rental prices in Quogue. Karen felt like she was a million miles away from them, even though she could have reached out and patted their perfect Bikram butts.
Marco
Marco smuggled the Poland Spring bottle into his messenger bag for school. It was so easy, too easy, to hide the bottles, slip them out the door. Did he want Todd to know? Did Todd know? In A.A. the partners always said they had no idea, but Marco didn’t believe that. He felt alcoholics sought out people capable of deep denial, knowing that they were the only partners who would let them do what they needed to.
In the kitchen Todd was making bull’s-eye eggs. Enrique was gobbling his with loads of ketchup on top. Todd had Jason in the sling. He was complacent and mellow. Why was the baby so calm with Todd and so agitated with Marco? Did he sense something unresolved in Marco, was he mimicking it? Did he know that Papa hadn’t wanted him and Daddy had?
Todd had been back from Greenport a week and a half, and Marco had been thinking about the texts on his phone, getting angrier and angrier. They were living out a lie of being a committed, happy couple when both were sexually unsatisfied and deceiving each other. “I want to talk to you about something,” Marco said, setting down his messenger bag.
“Now? Can we talk about it tonight?”
“I think we should open up our relationship.”
Todd glanced quickly at Enrique at the table, then shook his head at Marco. “This isn’t the time to discuss it.”
“When else are we going to?” Marco said, feeling the rage and hurt rising up despite what he himself had done. Todd had started it; he wouldn’t even have known about Grindr if Todd hadn’t told him. “We never go out alone anymore.”
Todd took Marco by the arm and ushered him into their bedroom. He closed the door. Todd hated fighting in front of Enrique, but Marco didn’t care. His parents fought all the time in front of him. It was the Puerto Rican way. His father would raise his hand to strike his mother and then stop at the last second. They fought about money, mostly, even though he was a successful doctor. “What is this about?” Todd said.
“You slept with someone in Greenport.”
Todd’s face turned red, but he said, “No, I didn’t.”
“Who’s Steve?”
“Why?”
“I read the texts,” Marco said. “Why are you lying to me? You met him on Grindr, right? And you felt bad, so you told me about the app.”
“Why did you go on my phone?” Todd asked, adjusting Jason in the sling.
“Why did you tell me about the app? Obviously, you cheated because you’re bored. You don’t want me anymore.”
“I’m not bored. Frankie was gonna meet him, but then he had me text him instead, and we started flirting. I was so overworked. I was lonely. I was freaking out about the baby.”
“I was the one taking care of him!”
“I don’t know what to say. I won’t do it again.”
“Why not? You should! This is what you want. You wanted to be caught. We should open it up. Let’s give it six months. No one comes home, safe sex only, and no falling in love.”
“I don’t want to do that,” Todd said. He sounded scared.
“Well, I do.” If they were both safe, it could be good, allow them to appreciate each other all the more. He wouldn’t feel he was lying to Todd when he went to meet men. And maybe it would loosen Todd up, turn him kind. “You fucked around. It’s only fair that I get to, too.”
Todd looked panicked. Jason started crying, and Todd bounced him. “Have you been messing around?”
“No, but I think opening it up is what we need.”
Todd stared at him, clearly trying to decide whether to believe him, and then sighed and said, “We’re going to be late to drop-off.”
At the kitchen table Marco ate silently next to Enrique. It was a go. Todd hadn’t said yes, but he hadn’t said no. Now Marco wouldn’t be deceiving anymore when he went on Grindr dates. It was good to get this out in the open, to be real with each other.
Enrique spooned some of his egg into his mouth and missed. Ketchup went all over his polo shirt. “Goddammit!” Todd said from the kitchen, where he was unloading the dishwasher. And then, to Enrique, “¡Cuidadoso!” The Spanish was wrong but Marco didn’t care.
This was the kind of outburst that would have bothered him in the old days, but he took it in stride. The vodka helped. None of it mattered. Todd was who he was. He wouldn’t need to be such a micromanager if his father hadn’t been such a dick. When he got upset about spills, it was his way of compensating for his lack of control as a child. But Marco’s father had been a jerk, too, and a micromanager. Marco hadn’t turned out like Todd.
Todd had taken off Enrique’s shirt and was furiously spraying Shout on it. Enrique went into his room and emerged in a fairy princess costume, complete with wand and tiara. “Take that off,” Todd said. “You cannot be a princess at school!”
“I don’t want to take it off.”
“Enrique,” Marco said calmly. “Remember what we discussed? You can only be a girl on weekends.” To his surprise, Enrique went back in his room and came out in a clean T-shirt and shorts.
• • •
At Beansprouts, Marco left Todd hovering over Enrique and rode his scooter to Cobble Hill. He had bought the scooter that spring, a Xootr, it was called. It had a wide wooden base and was more old-school than the sleek Razor models. Sometimes he let Enrique ride in front. Marco made Enrique wear a bike helmet, but he didn’t wear one himself; it looked too stupid. To make up for the danger of riding helmetless, he always rode on the sidewalks instead of the street, weaving between pedestrians.
That morning he went through his classes, phoning it in. He hadn’t enjoyed teaching
since the affair ended. It had invigorated him, his intellectual connection with Jason, made him want to be a better teacher. When Jason graduated, he missed him, missed his curiosity. The kids seemed to get richer and dumber every year. They would go to C-level colleges to placate their parents and make social connections, but they knew they didn’t need degrees to make money. They would inherit hedge funds or go to work for their parents’ friends. They weren’t interested in literature, it meant nothing to them.
He’d thought about contacting Jason, had even tried to find him on Grindr by typing in “Portland, Oregon.” Jason would have graduated from Reed by now. Marco wondered if he was dating, if he was happy.
Marco’s lunch break was at twelve, and he didn’t teach again till one-thirty. Usually, he bought a sandwich at a nearby deli and ate it in Verandah Park, reading. Today he wasn’t hungry; he felt energized and off balance. He sat at his desk in the English department office. On his phone he opened Grindr, looking up to be sure no one was looking over his shoulder. The sea of faces came up.
There was a cute guy, Jeremy, buff, gym boy, sweet eyes. He was in a T-shirt, not naked, and his age was twenty-nine. “Hi, handsome,” Marco wrote.
“Are you Dominican?”
“No, Puerto Rican. Why?”
“I meet a lot of Dominican guys on Grindr. The whole DR is on the DL.”
“LOL,” Marco typed. The guy wanted a nude shot, so Marco copied one of the others and sent it. Jeremy sent one back. He looked long and had a nice, not overdefined six-pack. He said he worked at a restaurant in Fort Greene and could meet him right away.
Twenty minutes later, Marco was behind a Dumpster near the Atlantic Yards, wiping semen off his chin. Jeremy was cute but aggressive. There had been something hostile and unresolved in the way he acted, as if he hated himself and was taking it out on Marco. Marco thought of the Nelson Algren quote about not sleeping with someone who has more problems than you do. He made it to class with twenty minutes to spare and washed his face in the teachers’ bathroom.
