“They come in the middle of the night,” Casey says. “I saw it online.”
“What makes you think a few friends will keep the lions at bay?” Dory asks. “These guys arrive with weapons and stuff.”
“I never heard of anyone getting shot during an eviction,” Zack tells her, his tone upbeat.
“A woman in Harlem did, years ago,” Casey says. “I read it online.”
“Well, that was then, not today, my son.” Zack beams at Casey.
“Lena, say something,” Dory urges.
“I don’t like it,” she responds.
“I’m with Lena. I mean, how long can the guys hang around? They have families. They can’t afford to be arrested. It’s asking a lot,” Stu chimes in, wondering if he’s coming down too hard on Zack’s idea. Mustn’t be seen as recruiting them to his house. Lena’s eyes are on him. She probably can’t believe he’s agreeing with her. Or maybe she’s trying to figure him out, which feels good.
“It’s probably worth a try,” Rosie muses. “Otherwise there’s nothing to do but leave here. We don’t want to do that, right?”
“Right, my beautiful girl,” Zack says.
“Of course we could all be arrested and sent directly to a shelter. That’s scary,” Rosie declares, cutting up her French toast.
Stu stares at Rosie’s fork reaching her mouth, realizes he’s got it all wrong. Zack’s plan should be encouraged because it’s bound to fail. They’ll have no choice then but to move in. “No harm in trying to keep the suckers out,” he says, matter-of-factly, as if he’d never said otherwise.
“Mom, it’s the only chance we have to stay here. We have to take it. I am not moving into a shelter. Out of the question. How can I attend school from a shelter?”
“Lena?” Dory prods.
He marvels at the way everyone waits for Lena’s response. It irritates him to find himself waiting, too.
“You know what?” Lena says, getting up. “I really need some air.”
17.
The house behind her, the windshield wipers swishing hypnotically, their voices continue to bang at her brain. Yes, everyone wants to stay in the house, but how to make that happen, no one can say. Stu disagrees with Zack’s idea, only to agree? Dory’s clearly as skeptical as she is. And what now? She’s already appealed the eviction, filled out piles of papers, and been turned down. She’s visited the bank that holds their mortgage again and again, and so has Zack. She’s begged for a stay. Two different managers each told her to call the central mortgage department, where she was told there was a two-month waiting list just for face-to-face appointments. The foreclosure, she pleaded, would happen too soon for that. Useless. They only have a thousand dollars left in their savings account, a few weeks before they’re truly penniless. Dory will lend them a few hundred, but how long will that last? They’ll have to sell the car. Old as it is, it could net them a few thousand, and anyway, who can afford gas? At her last fill-up she paid for six dollars’ worth. The guy looked at her with pity.
She finds herself on the Cross Bronx Expressway, which years ago displaced too many families to count. All those settled lives, disrupted and rearranged. What remained was the juvenile detention home near her junior high school, a scarred edifice of no distinction but for the girls at the windows, arms through the bars, calling down for trinkets. Once she tossed up a lipstick, the only gift she could offer in place of freedom.
The sky is leaden, but the rain has stopped. She takes the off-ramp heading for Pelham Bay Park, Matt’s favorite spot. He dubbed it the Central Park of the Bronx and often brought along his sketchpad and bottles of beer. It was there he told her not to marry Zack, but didn’t say why. She chided that he was jealous. He never said anything about it again. She can almost hear his voice now telling her to prepare, change is coming. They were all so damn young. Oh, Matt.
It’s nearly three when she pulls up in front of her house. Stu’s car is gone. Before she calls Dory to tell her that they’ll accept her generosity, she decides it’s best to speak with her family.
On the couch, Rosie stares into the screen of her phone. “Did you get lost?”
“Please don’t talk to me in that tone.”
“We thought you went outside and would be right back. It was so rude.”
“I drove around. I had to think over our options. Casey upstairs?”
“He’s talking even less than usual, Mom. You should take him to a doctor.”
She opens the basement door. “Zack, please come up. We have to talk.” Then climbs the stairs. “Casey, I need you in the kitchen. Now.”
“Talk about what?” Rosie asks suspiciously, following her into the kitchen.
“Making decisions.”
“It’s about time.”
“Rosie, I’m saying this once. I don’t want your challenging voice in my ears. We’re all in trouble together and together we’ll figure this out.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Zack comes up, shoulders hunched. Casey slips into his seat. She waits for them to settle around the table. “It’s not ideal to move in with people,” she begins. “But, we’re lucky that it’s friends like Dory and Stu …”
“Mom, I am not sharing a room in someone else’s house.”
“Do you have another suggestion? Does anyone? Zack?”
“We’ll set up the perimeter, see how much time it buys us,” he says, almost robotically, as if he has lost faith in his plan.
“The perimeter won’t work,” she says softly.
“Dad’s plan is worth a try,” Rosie offers.
“And when the cops arrive, what are you going to do?”
“Mom, you’re being hostile.”
“I’m being realistic.”
“You’re supposed to take care of home and hearth and clearly you haven’t done a great job,” Rosie accuses.
“Damn it, Zack, say something.”
He shrugs. “Can’t think of anything.”
“I don’t like cops coming here,” Casey says.
“Don’t worry, you’ll stay inside,” Rosie responds. “Dad, you and I can work out the particulars. Mom doesn’t have to participate, either.”
“Mom does have to participate,” she says. “I’m the one who will have to bail you out of jail and pay the fines. Understand? We’re lucky that Dory and Stu have opened their house to us.”
“Why did you change your mind?” Rosie wants to know.
“Because we have no other options. End of subject.”
“You can’t say, end of subject. It’s my life. I’m moving in with a friend.”
“No, you’re not.”
A lone pigeon flaps by the window.
“I’m old enough to …”
“I don’t care how old you are. This family stays together.” She glances at Zack, his eyes half-closed.
“I need to do what’s right for me,” Rosie declares.
“Fine. Go to Mirabelle’s. I hope her parents are capable of buying your food, books, and clothing for school.”
“You’re not capable, either,” Rosie pushes back her chair.
“Don’t you dare leave this table.” Heat rises in her face. “The move to Dory’s and Stu’s is only temporary.”
“You expect me to believe your words when you can’t even get Dad to answer you,” Rosie snaps.
Sadly, she understands. Rosie wants two functioning parents who will ferry her into her future.
“Rosie, honey, listen. I get that you feel betrayed. No one at this table likes the situation we’re in, but living at Dory’s will allow us to save money.”
“What money?” Rosie asks.
“We will find jobs.”
“Mom, I don’t think it’s going to work.”
“What?” She’d almost forgotten Casey.
“You’ve been trying to find jobs for months. Why would it be different now?”
She takes in her son, so earnest, so different from Rosie it’s hard to believe they both came out of her. �
��Casey, my love, with dad and I out there every day looking in places we didn’t try before, one of us will land something. I promise you.”
“Mom, you’re in no position to promise anything,” Rosie says. “The truth is, we’ll be stuck at Dory’s forever. I can’t share a room with Casey. I need privacy.”
“I’ll repeat it again. This family isn’t splitting up.”
“Repeat it a thousand times, I’m not listening because you’re not listening to me. All you do is offer us bullshit and more bullshit and more …”
She slaps Rosie’s cheek, hard.
“Oh my god … Rosie, I …”
“Don’t fucking bother.” Her daughter’s out of the room before she can utter another word. Zack gets up and saunters toward the basement.
“Casey …”
“I’m going to my room.”
Jesus. She doesn’t hit her children. Ever.
She takes herself upstairs. Rosie’s door is closed. Music is playing. She knocks. “Honey, I want to apologize …”
Rosie turns up the music. She knocks again. Nothing.
Casey’s door is open. He’s on the bed with his computer.
“Casey, moving into someone’s house is difficult …”
“I’d rather stay here. They’re all so mean.”
“Who, Casey?”
“The bankers.”
“You got that right.”
The music in Rosie’s room is still on high. She goes down to the basement. Zack, eyes closed, is lying face up on an old cot, the mattress too thin to call it one. None of the lamps are on. The semi-darkness fits her mood, but it’s hot as hell. She switches on the old window fan and pulls the backless deck chair up to the cot.
“That was an ugly scene with Rosie,” she says, hoping for a bit of consolation.
“I’d say so.” He takes a deep breath.
“Are you ill?”
“I’d say so.”
“Zack, talk to me.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Doesn’t matter, nothing matters.”
“We matter. Rosie, Casey, me. Zack, please, pull yourself together, I need you now.”
“Do you?” He opens his eyes, turns to face her. “You’ll do what you will do. None of us can make a dent in that head of yours. Rosie’s desperate to stay here. I’m trying to find a way to do that, but, no, you’ve decided Dory’s house is our only option. So we move. You decide Dory’s isn’t where to go, we don’t move. So don’t come down here telling me you need me.”
“Wow. I didn’t realize you had such resentment toward me. How could I? You opt out of every conflict so fast, leaving only me there to deal with whatever’s left. Believe me, I’d welcome you taking the load off my back.”
“Would you? And what does that even mean, since you never agree with my ideas. You treat them the way you would some kid’s. I’m not a kid. If I come up with an idea, it’s thought through, even if you believe otherwise. But I’m finished with coming up with ideas. It’s all yours, angel. Whatever you say, we’ll do. I’m on board your train.” Again he closes his eyes.
She gazes at him as the righteous anger suddenly abandons her. “You want to do the perimeter. Fine. Do it. Fucking do it. It’s too hot down here. I’m going upstairs.”
18.
Rosie climbs the steps to the train platform. A bit nervous, but what’s to be afraid of? If Sonny doesn’t live up to her expectations, it’s a few wasted hours. If he does, which she wholly believes he will … well … then … life is doing what it’s supposed to do. She called him right after the fight with her mother. He was so receptive, said they should get together immediately. Tonight. Said being slapped is no fun, yet it releases her from a lot. What he meant wasn’t clear to her, but Sonny’s so upbeat. He tells her to grab the moment, that tomorrow is never.
The train lumbers into the station and she steps inside. It thrills her to be out on her own, especially now, when her parents are weirder than usual. If her mother thinks apologizing will buy forgiveness, she’s dead wrong. It’s not about the slap, it’s about the duplicity. Everyone—particularly her father—believes her mother is strong, capable, someone who has things under control. Obviously, that’s all crap. Her mother wants to move to Dory’s because her father’s become a zombie. Dory will give her mother support. Well, she’s not responsible for who her mother married, is she?
A few more stops to the station where Sonny will be waiting. It took her a while to choose what to wear. Finally she decided on the short yellow sleeveless dress, with flip-flops. While getting ready, she phoned Mirabelle but hung up soon after Mirabelle said, Be careful, he could be a serial killer. There is something a little crazy about him—maybe it’s those eyes—but crazy-wild, not crazy-loony. He didn’t say what he had in mind for tonight. Maybe a café where they can hold hands across the table; more likely a bar, a couple of glasses of beer. Maybe a walk, but where would they go?
She steps off the train at Jackson Avenue onto a long, elevated platform with a low overhang. The station seems to be in a state of ruin: torn billboards, a broken bench. It’s not quite dark yet, but she doubts the station lights work. Sonny didn’t say if he’d be waiting on the platform or in the street. The scene below doesn’t look encouraging. Instinct tells her it wouldn’t be cool to wait alone downstairs, but up here she’s alone, too.
What if he doesn’t show? He said he couldn’t wait to see her. She’s considering calling Mirabelle when Sonny comes bounding up the stairs, in tight black jeans and a black T-shirt under a silver-gray vest. But it’s his sculpted face that captivates her, so alive. His admiring expression and beckoning eyes ignite something deep inside her.
“Rosy-Posy, look at you, all that beauty in one human being is too much to take in, but I’ll begin.” He wraps an arm around her. “Sorry I’m late, had to do something for my mama. She isn’t well.”
“What’s the matter?”
“No, sweet pea, no negatives, not now. We’re on the town tonight, which feels just right.”
“Sonny, you promised not to rhyme everything, it’s distracting. I want to be able to talk normal.”
“Come on, I have a car downstairs.”
“A car, you never said.” It’s a surprise she wishes he’d mentioned.
“Baby, there’s so much I never said. Let’s go.”
He takes her hand, tugs her gently through a few bleak, vacant streets filled with abandoned buildings, boarded-up windows, doorways hidden behind sheets of tin, and a gated, dimly lit liquor store with an open door. “Aren’t they supposed to be fixing up the South Bronx?”
“They haven’t gotten this far south. Hey, they always begin at the top, right?”
They reach an old white Toyota. He opens the passenger door for her. “Welcome to Tillie,” he says, and bows. She smiles. Being alone with Sonny in a car isn’t what she imagined, but that’s what makes it an experience.
He waits for her to settle in before he slides behind the wheel, then leans over to peck her cheek. “I want to show you off, okay? There’s a party, not too many people, friends, down on Southern Boulevard. Know where that is?”
She shakes her head.
“It’s not too far. Is it okay with you, I mean, a party? We can leave whenever we choose. I want to dance with you. So, what do you say?”
“I can’t stay out too late” is all she can think of, because a party in the South Bronx wasn’t on her fantasy list, either.
“Totally understand. Get you home at a decent hour. No train, I’ll drive you. Okay?”
She nods. It’s thoughtful, wanting her to agree before starting off.
They drive through streets not very different from the ones they walked. There seem to be few working lights, though once in a while she notices lit-up apartment windows. So people do still live here. She trusts Sonny, she does, but would prefer to be heading somewhere more recognizable.
“A penny,” he says.
>
“Wondering where we’re actually going to end up, my family.” It’s a lie, or maybe another kind of truth.
“Well, tonight, beauty, no worries, just pleasure. Your pleasure is my pleasure, understand?”
She smiles at him but doesn’t answer, instead taking in the taut skin of his face, his long, dark eyelashes, his thick, shiny, shoulder-length hair.
“We’re here.” He pulls into a parking space in front of a gas station no longer in service. They walk across old, embedded silver tracks that stripe a wide boulevard and enter the square courtyard of a six-story building. Fuchsia spray-painted graffiti lends color to the chipped gray brick. Above the entrance is a washed-out ancient mural of trolley cars riding the silver rails they’ve just crossed.
“Sorry, Rosy-Posy, we need to walk up five flights.” He takes her hand.
A ticker tape of questions runs through her head, but she decides it’s best to meet his friends first. The stairwells are dark, heavy with the smell of fried food. The railings shaky. Music thumps into the hallway of the fifth floor. Sonny raps a code onto one of the dark-green metal doors that lacks a number. It’s a party, she reminds herself, who cares where it’s held?
A thin woman in a black low-cut mini-dress with long, flaming red hair that doesn’t look real opens the door. “Sonny, baby, so good you’re here. Hi, girl, I’m Mona.”
“This here beauty is Rosy-Posy. Let us pass, baby.” Mona opens the door wider and they follow her into a large room with several sagging couches, a few metal folding chairs, and a makeshift bar featuring bottles of vodka and bourbon. She sees no beer or soda, just some OJ. There’s a whirring floor fan in one corner, plugged into a ceiling fixture, but the four tiny windows are sealed shut. Lit candles flicker along a baseboard and a miner’s lantern is on the table, none of which does much to brighten the room, and maybe that’s for the best. She wonders if anyone actually lives here, or if Sonny’s friends have simply borrowed a vacant space for the party. She decides not to dwell on this.
Every Body has a Story Page 9
