Dory stops stirring, lowers the flame, and turns to her. “Maybe you should let him be. He needs time to adjust.”
“Is that your professional opinion?”
“No, my experienced opinion.” Dory spoons the steaming broccoli into a bowl, which Lena takes to the table, already set, then she returns for the platter of cinnamon- and clove-spiced ham.
Dory carries in the salad bowl as Stu and Zack come to the table, beer bottles in hand.
“Casey,” Lena calls, going to the basement door. “Casey, dinner’s ready.” She goes down the steps. “Casey?” Gone, again?
“Zack, Casey’s not here.”
“Oh, right, he told me to let you know he wanted to skip dinner, bike over to his friend’s for a while. I said okay.”
“This is our first night here. We should be together.”
“Well, the kid needs his friend.”
“Hey, Lena, Dory,” Stu interrupts. “What’ll it be? Red or white wine?” He places a bottle of each on the table.
“White,” she says, her mind still on Casey. So he went to see his friend; why not? He’s double-digit, preteen. She can’t treat him like a baby. Does she? Stu fills her glass and she promptly drains it. He refills it and she takes another long drink, the cold liquid sliding smoothly down her throat.
“Great,” Stu says, sensing a party. “A toast to our dearest friends. We’re glad you’re here.”
Dory begins passing platters of food. Zack takes one thin slice of ham and a few lettuce leaves, not like him at all. She’s about to say so when the phone rings. Stu reaches back to pick up the cordless that rests on the teak sideboard. “Hello. What? Yes, that’s right … They’re here. What? Yes, okay, I’ll put his mother on. Lena, it’s the police. Casey’s been arrested.”
In the seconds it takes to place the phone at her ear, she freezes to cold calm. A brusque-voiced man gives his name, announces the precinct’s location, and suggests she come in. “What happened to my son? Is my son all right?” She can barely get the words past her throat.
“Yeah. You’ll hear what you need to know when you get here.” He clicks off.
“It’s the precinct near our house,” she whispers hoarsely.
Zack stares at her, stunned.
“Lena, forget dinner, I’ll go with you,” Dory says, already up from her chair.
“No, babe,” Stu says getting to his feet. “I’m dressed and you’re not. I’ll take Lena. She shouldn’t be driving. Call you as soon as we have information. It’s probably a stupid violation of some sort. Cops arrest kids for looking at them cross-eyed, right? It’s how they make their points. Remember? We’re not novices here.”
Once more she finds herself in Stu’s car, and once more the thought that it should be Zack visits her brain, but she refuses to care. Not now. The early evening sky bulges, white and heavy with humidity. The A/C, on high, blows icy air at her face. She could lower it, but really it doesn’t matter. Houses, streets pass in a blur. The painted yellow centerline appears to thin with the car’s momentum. Her eyes flick to the speedometer. Over seventy. She wants to go faster, wants to fly there. Her family is falling apart.
“What could Casey have done?” she murmurs.
“He could’ve been in the wrong bike lane, could’ve sassed a cop. If they’re keeping him in the precinct it isn’t murder or mayhem.”
“What could he have done?” she hears herself whisper again.
“I don’t know, Lena, but we’ll find out.” Stu’s voice is soft, his tone gentle. She’s grateful.
They pull up in front of the precinct, green light globes mounted above the doorway. It’s a single-floor square box with aluminum siding and blue trim that sits on a small lawn. Several policemen stand chatting near parked cop cars. She has a flash memory of the dirty brick-fronted precinct near where she grew up, with its echo of doom. Not a helpful vision, but her overcharged brain is heading wherever it wants.
With Stu close behind, she hurries through the open front door into a cloud of heat. No air conditioning. Just two whirring floor fans beneath two small barred windows. The silence is creepy. A dismal pea-green room that even the fluorescent lights can’t brighten. Three people sit quietly on a pew-like bench, their expressions placid, even disappointed, she’d say. Are they waiting to take someone home? The jail and its holding pens must be behind the long back wall with closed wooden doors at each end. No doubt where they’ve put her son.
A uniformed policewoman reading the Daily News sits behind a large metal desk. Thin, middle-aged, with a sharp jaw and slightly yellow pallor to her olive skin, she doesn’t look thrilled to be interrupted. “What is it?”
Lena tells her they were summoned and gives Casey’s name and age, trying to sound calm, though the icy fear in her gut is hard to ignore.
“Are you his mother?”
“Yes.” She leans forward suddenly feeling unfit in her jeans and flip-flops.
The woman eyes her. “Have you been drinking?”
“We got the call during dinner,” Stu interrupts, as if that makes it okay.
“Tell me what my son did,” she pleads.
“Why was he out alone?” The question whips her.
“He went to visit a friend. Please, I beg you, tell me what he did.”
The woman studies her, then rifles through some papers. “He was spraying black paint on a house when a neighbor called the police.”
“I can explain,” she begins.
“It’s a crime to deface property. And where were you? Out? At dinner?” The sarcasm is unmistakable, but she knows better than to respond. One accusatory word or gesture from her and this woman will close up shop, and then god knows when she’ll see Casey.
“Listen,” Stu begins, and she panics because his voice is impatient and determined. “That house was where the boy lived. It was just foreclosed. He’s really upset.”
“It’s not your property anymore. I suggest you get a lawyer.”
“A lawyer?” she repeats. “He’s a boy. He’s never done anything illegal. We’ll pay for the damage. Please let him go.” She can feel her calm breaking up.
“Too late, damage done.” This woman is enjoying her fucking miniscule bit of power. She fights the urge to grab her bony shoulders and squeeze. Instead she searches the room frantically, as if help lurks in some corner, then notes the computer on the desk. “I have a friend who’s a Bronx detective. Can I reach him?”
“Suit yourself.” The woman shrugs.
“I mean, please, can you Face Time or Skype him, at the 49th Precinct?” She searches madly through her purse for Arthur’s card, praying she finds it, praying he’ll be there, praying he’ll remember her, unable to believe what she’s praying for and unable to stop.
“Who is he?” Stu whispers.
She doesn’t respond, hands the card to the woman. “Please. I’d so appreciate your help.” She knows she’s fawning now but she needs this woman to take pity on her.
“Stand there.” The woman orders them to the side of the desk.
“Who is he?” Stu insists.
“Someone I met at work,” she lies.
“Why would he help you?”
“Stu, stop with the questions. Just pray he remembers me and will put in a good word,” she whispers.
In a few minutes, the policewoman turns the computer around to face her. Arthur’s at his desk, his tie pulled down below an open collar, shirtsleeves rolled up, hair as shiny black as she remembers.
“Arthur, hi. It’s me, Lena? It’s been months, I know. Listen, my son, he’s only a boy, is in a bit of a jam. Can you vouch for me so they’ll let me take him home?”
“Is that your husband?”
“No, a good friend.”
“Stella, what did the boy do?” Arthur asks the policewoman.
“Spray-painted a foreclosed house. It used to be his, so they say.”
“Okay, set up a date for arraignment, and cut him loose.”
“If you say so.”<
br />
“Arthur, I can’t thank you enough.”
“Let me know what happens, Lena. Call me. Soon.”
“I will. I will,” she promises, grateful to the core, as he disappears from the screen.
“Have a seat till I arrange a court date. Then he’ll be brought out.”
The hands on the wall clock move ever so slowly. It’s been more than two hours. Stu keeps up a steady stream of chitchat, but she can’t concentrate on his words. Casey has to be hungry and thirsty. How scared he must be. A cascade of TV programs runs through her mind: prisoners roughed up, thrown against walls. If he has even one bruise..
She must’ve said that aloud because Stu turns to her. “Lena, he’s a kid who wouldn’t resist arrest. There won’t be any bruises.”
An emaciated-looking young man is escorted out of the doors and leaves with the people on the bench. How long had they been waiting? She doesn’t even want to know. An hour ago, hoping to prod the woman at the desk, she asked if there was any new information. The woman shook her head and then muttered, “Most kids spend a night in jail, not the worst thing.”
The precinct doors remain open, but the night air isn’t cool enough to affect the temperature inside. Outside, the green globes shine a narrow path through the falling darkness. She calls Rosie, leaves a message. Stu brings back two bottles of water from a vending machine.
“Thanks for keeping me company in the fun house,” she says.
“Hey, remember, we always did like amusement parks.”
“You and Zack did, the two of you rode that monster roller coaster. Just looking at it made me nauseous.”
“Want the truth after all these years? I hated it. It was a macho thing. Because you and Dory were scared I had to be brave. But, then, I was only seventeen. I don’t do that anymore.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Pretend to be what I’m not, keep my true feelings in my shoes.”
“That’s a good thing? Right?”
“A necessary development or a crazy revelation.”
“That..?”
“Life isn’t forever and where did yesterday go?”
“Revelation is good, isn’t it?” Suddenly she’s not sure what they’re talking about.
“Don’t know.” He takes a long pull of the water.
27.
She has no intention of going to the precinct. Her mother’s using Casey’s arrest to lure her back. What the hell was Casey thinking? But she knows. Black paint on the house, a daring statement, a refusal to accept their shit quietly. Brave but stupid.
“Why don’t you call her back?” Sonny asks.
“What’s it to you whether I deal with my mom?”
“Nothing. I could say fuck’em and upset you, correct?”
She studies his face, which is so close she can’t properly see his features except for his eyes, which he widens mockingly. She laughs. “I guess. But if I set foot in Dory’s house, my mother will lock me in a room.” They’re lying across the full-size bed in Mirabelle’s guest room, the bittersweet scent of fairy dust unmistakable.
“My Rosy-Posy, no one keeps you from me. You watch and see.”
“Yeah, what would you do?” she teases, her voice a bit slurry, but so what.
“I’d charge into what’s-her-name’s house, break the chains, steal you back. Anyone tries to stop me, trouble would rain down hard.”
“That sounds about right.”
It’s dark outside. She listens for Mirabelle, who will be back from the movies anytime now. Yesterday afternoon, with Mirabelle away at the beach, it happened. Not too much blood, not much pleasure either. Sonny was sweet, whispering that she was brave, beautiful, how joyous to be her man. Between kisses he kept up a stream of encouragement, almost there, almost done, tomorrow will be pure gold. She expected the first time to be a throwaway. At least the fairy dust somewhat mitigated the pain. She’s still a little sore, which is okay. It reminds her of the achievement. Every woman has to get this done, the sooner the better.
“Listen, pretty, we need to put our plan into action, yes?”
“I also need to find some work.”
“No problem. My friend has an uncle who owns a large bodega. He’ll hire you to do something. It’s how friends help each other, see?”
“That’s one problem dealt with.”
“And the others, honey girl?”
“I haven’t quite figured them out yet.”
She’s never been to his Bronx apartment, near Jackson Avenue, not far from her school. At some point she’ll officially quit school. Her parents will be pissed, but so what? Their job was to take care of her and Casey. She’s not blaming them exactly. She knows things happen. But they were totally unprepared. If they’d planned smarter they would’ve rented instead of buying a house, or else stayed in the old apartment. Eventually, Dory will tire of the family crowding her space. Anyone would. Then what, a shelter?
Sonny uses his pinky to mix together the green weed and brown powder, then seals another joint in a flimsy white slip of paper. He offers it to her and she takes a long pull, the initial taste of the first joint hours before a faint memory. How many have they smoked? Doesn’t matter. Time slips away, leaving her happily rooted in the moment.
“First we invite my friends up to meet my Rosy-Posy. Then we go downtown to party.”
She looks at the perfect ceiling, no lines or cracks, as white as new snow.
He leans over, kisses her nose, then falls back beside her. “You watching a TV show up there,” he teases.
“It’s Snow White TV.” She giggles.
“You’re too old for that make-believe.”
“What do you mean?” she asks, because she likes lying here, issuing words without caring about them.
“You have to grow up fast, my pretty. Especially where we’re going to live.”
“Okay,” she agrees.
“Rosie, it’s me.” Mirabelle knocks on the door and steps inside. “Your mother called my phone, said to tell you they’re leaving the precinct with Casey. I said I’d tell her if you contacted me.”
Rosie shrugs. One thing about her mother, she doesn’t give up.
Mirabelle, in shorts and a tank top, bounces down on the bed. “I heard Sonny leave. It’s amazing that junk heap even runs. What did he do to the muffler?”
“Mirabelle, if it wasn’t his car, you’d find something else to criticize, his shirt, shoes, hairstyle. Something.”
“It’s only ten. Do you want to go to the mall and have some pizza?”
“Yeah, perfect. I’m starving. Lately, I’m always hungry.”
“Dope will do that.”
“You think it’s the weed?”
“How much are you smoking?”
“I don’t know, a few joints in an afternoon.”
“How can he afford the stuff? Does your hero work?”
“Yeah. He puts in hours in some garage and helps out his uncles who are builders.”
“Exciting life.”
“He has plans for his future.”
“I would hope so.”
“Mirabelle, please, don’t make fun of my boyfriend, at least not to me.”
“You’d rather I say these things to others?”
“You know what I mean. Anyway, yeah, let’s eat.” The fairy dust’s edge is dissipating. She recognizes the symptoms—hunger, heavy limbs, sometimes a headache. Food helps.
28.
Dory flips through the pages of a magazine without stopping to read. Zack’s silence is making her edgy. They’re both on the couch. He’s staring at the TV news, the volume so low it might as well be muted. “They’ve been at the precinct for hours,” she says.
No response.
“Why do you think Casey painted the house black?”
“He wanted to do something that mattered,” Zack whispers, as if talking to himself.
The garage door clatters open. Thank heavens. She clicks off the TV, places a new bottle of Chablis and clean g
lasses on the table.
Walking between Stu and Lena, Casey wears an expression of pure misery, his eyes half-closed, his lips trembling. He heads for the basement.
Lena looks weary enough to sleep on her feet.
“No you don’t,” Lena grabs his arm. “We need to talk.”
“Tomorrow,” Casey mumbles.
“Not on your life. Right now.” Lena marches him to the table and sits him down, then seats herself across from him, Zack next to her.
“Listen, maybe Stu and I …”
“No, stay,” Lena orders.
She and Stu join them at the table.
“Casey, what was in your head?” Lena demands in a stern voice.
The boy looks overwhelmed. Lena should take it down a decibel.
“I’m waiting, and I’m not going to stop waiting till you tell me what I need to know.”
“If the house was painted black it would take a long time to clean off and they wouldn’t be able to sell it,” Casey’s voice so whispery they all lean forward.
“But, then they would sell it … after they cleaned it. So?”
“Dad once said if there were a fire and the house was destroyed, we’d be able to collect insurance …”
“It’s too late for that,” Zack says.
Casey doesn’t look at any of them.
Lena reaches across to take his hand. “So you were hoping to delay the sale in order to burn down the house?”
“I don’t know. Are you going to hit me?”
“Oh god, no! Jesus Christ Almighty, Casey?” Lena’s tone almost a cry.
“Let him go to bed,” Zack says.
“Not yet.” Lena holds onto Casey’s hand. “Even if the house were to burn down, we are no longer the owners. Understand? We would not be able to collect the insurance. Understand? You would be an arsonist and go to jail for a very long time. Understand?” Lena lets go of his hand and collapses into the chair. “Casey, please look at me and tell me you get it.”
“I get it. Now can I go to bed?”
“Let him go, Lena,” Dory steps in.
“Just one more thing,” Lena says. “Do you swear on your family that you will never do anything like this again?”
“Yes.”
Casey then walks slowly to the basement stairs, gently shutting the door behind him.
Every Body has a Story Page 12
