The Superman Project

by A. E. Roman

  He teared up. The big guy actually teared up about his wife’s missing sister. This was Chase Gupta’s dangerous man? The mastermind behind Esther Sanchez’s murder?

  “Thank you,” he said. “Excuse me.”

  I stepped aside and he wheeled past me, away toward Zena’s door. I remembered the cuckoo clock. HIS door. I got on the elevator.

  Hari Lachan. I wanted to hate him. I really did. I couldn’t. I thought that the Joey Valentin investigation was going pretty good, as far as I was concerned; it had taken turns I didn’t expect. But anything I did felt even more personal now. It was no longer just about Joey or Gabby or poor Esther Sanchez.

  It was about Zena, too. I wanted to hate her. I didn’t. I couldn’t. I thought about our night together.

  Never.

  But that pain in my belly got worse and worse as the elevator went down. As if I was being stabbed. The pain came sharp and without rest. When I got off the elevator on the first floor, I was nearly doubled over. As I went for the front door, past the doorman, the pain began racing a million stabs an hour. Jesus.

  I made it outside Zena’s building to Madison.

  “Psst!”

  I looked across the street. Pablo was standing there, holding a chocolate doughnut and iced coffee.

  I grabbed my belly and sat down on the curb and moaned in pain.

  Pablo dropped his iced coffee and doughnut and came running over.

  “What’re you doing here, Pablo?” I said, through gritted teeth.

  “You were right about the Michael Jordan steak knife,” Pablo said. “It’s gone. I looked everywhere. I called in and had somebody take my morning shift at the comic shop. I went to the Bronx, you weren’t there. I thought you might be here since the last time I saw you was with Zena. I wanted to talk to you. Are you okay? What did he do to you?”

  “Who?”

  “Hari. I saw him go up. What did he do to you?”

  “Nothing. It wasn’t him,” I said, trying to catch my breath. “Why didn’t you tell me about Hari and Zena being married?”

  “You didn’t ask,” Pablo said. “I didn’t know it was important. Are you okay?”

  “No. I’m not okay,” I said, bent over, holding my belly. “Do I look like a man who is okay?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t bloody know,” I said.

  “My mother’s memorial is tomorrow,” Pablo said, handing me an invitation.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I said through gritted teeth.

  I tried to straighten up and stand, and down I went on Madison Avenue, like a folding chair, hand on my lower belly, in horrible pain, the filthy curb beneath me. I was being carved out by some unseen blade, feeling a pain that I had never felt before, worse than spraining a leg while trying to skateboard down a flight of stairs in the Bronx, worse than a spinning firecracker burning a hole through your shoe and then through your skin and down to the bone of your foot on Brook Avenue, worse than the sharp tip of fence metal puncturing a hole the size of a dollar coin through your right leg, worse than a letter opener slicing across your chin. Worse than being Tasered. It was a mythological pain, radiating from my back, down my flank, and into my groin, so bad I thought that I couldn’t possibly survive it.

  Then it hit me. I’ve been poisoned! But why? What did Zena know about her sister’s disappearance, about Joey Valentin? Why had Hari Lachan shown up so suddenly and where was he all night, and what was she really doing in Williamsburg, how exactly did Giovanni Vaninni USE Zena? Who, what, where, why, and how could I have been so stupid!

  Jesus, the pain! I’m dying, I thought as Pablo, worried, almost near tears, yelled, “Manito, stop it, you’re really freaking me out!”

  I’m dying . . . It’s almost as if I was born to be murdered . . . It was only a matter of time . . . this is it . . . not yet, not yet, not yet . . .

  FOURTEEN

  “Poison.” Ramona shook her head, new reddish dreadlocks flying this way and that. “You’re lucky hypochondria isn’t fatal. What happened?”

  “I fall down and go boom,” I said.

  It was nighttime and Ramona, all hazel eyes, was standing at the edge of my gurney in the Emergency Room of Beth Israel Hospital, on 16th Street and First Avenue. Men and women in white lab coats rushed past.

  “Kidney stones.” Ramona shook her finger at me. “And something called gastric reflux and fatty liver and the doctor said you have the cholesterol level of a pig.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “Only if you’re a pig. You’re too young for this mess, nene.”

  In the belief that I was spending my final hours on earth I had called Officer Samantha Rodriguez and told her that her brothers in blue might want to keep their eyes open for a Michael Jordan’s Steak House knife in the Esther Sanchez case, possible murder weapon.

  Then I hung up and called Ramona to say that I was being driven to the Emergency Room at Beth Israel Hospital; and there she was, getting her shame on.

  “Shame, shame, shame,” Ramona said. “Be nicer to yourself, Chico. Self-mutilation isn’t cute. And stop trying to be so tough. You have a human heart, just like everybody else.”

  “Did you call Mimi about staying with Max and walking Boo?”

  “Oui.”

  “How did she react?”

  “She danced a mambo. What do you think? She said you were malcriado.”

  “Badly raised. Sounds about right.”

  I leaned forward and took her lovely brown hand. She pulled it away. “Non.”

  “I have kidney stones, Mrs. Chico. Have you no pity?”

  “You don’t need pity. You need a life coach.”

  “Does that come with a sauce?”

  Ramona smiled and patted my face. “You start taking care of yourself better, or I’m going to brain you.”

  “You better stand in line.”

  Ramona’s dark brown shoulders were exposed. Her thick brown arms were tight, and her dark skin seemed wrinkle-proof, ageless.

  “You didn’t call me Mr. Ramona,” I said. “The divorce papers aren’t signed yet, you know?”

  Silence.

  “Chico,” she said. “Maybe you should lean back.”

  “I think I’ll sit up for now.”

  More silence.

  “I met somebody.”

  I leaned back. Yeah, my life was really picking up since I opened my own office.

  “That’s okay. I’m happy for you. What’s his name?”

  “Chris,” she said. “French. A theater and film director. Directing Waiting for Godot. Wants to meet you.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “Chris is waiting outside.”

  “Aw, man.”

  “I know,” she said. “Try not to look too shocked when you meet Chris.”

  “Don’t tell me,” I said. “Chris is a gonny-goo-goo?”

  “Worse.”

  “A Pentecostal?”

  Ramona gave me a guilty look. “I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere.”

  “Funny.”

  Ramona blew me a kiss and went out through the exit, under the prominent EMERGENCY sign.

  The doctors and nurses strode quickly past patients suffering from broken bones, head traumas, and heart attacks. I had already been through the X-rays and diagnosis. Kidney stones. I just had to pass them and all would be well again. Easy.

  Another ripping pain shot through my gut.

  “Nurse?”

  Was that a whimper, Santana?

  “Nurse?”

  The nurses zipped by, ignoring me. I wasn’t an emergency, even in the emergency room.

  “Nurse!” I said. “Excuse me. More, medicine, please. It hurts like hell.”

  “I’ll be right with you.”

  “Now!”

  “Excuse me?” she said, a defiant hand on her generous hip.

  “Please.”

  After the nurse gave me my medicine, I started to worry that since I had left St. James a
nd Company, I had no health insurance.

  I looked at the list that the nurse had handed me of things not to consume to avoid hospitalization in the future. Seven things on the list stood out: cigarettes, alcohol, milk, chocolate, spinach, aspirin, and caffeine.

  I wasn’t too broken up about the spinach. Milk I could also do without, maybe chocolate, maybe fried food, but not coffee, no way. Coffee, first thing in the morning, for at least ten minutes, makes you think you’re happy. I wasn’t about to give up those happy ten minutes for any stupid old kidney. No way. Pull it out, Doc. Gotta go, gotta go! I thought when another pain blew through my side like a spiked cannonball. I was reassessing my coffee habit when I looked up and saw Chris on a cell phone—dark brown hair, small green eyes, and a big, almost cartoonish nose, wearing a tight green short-sleeved soccer shirt, with yellow stripes, sneakers, and jeans—sauntering into the Emergency Room behind Ramona.

  Chris.

  Ramona met someone.

  Chris.

  Chris was white.

  Not only that.

  Chris was a woman.

  What happened to wanting a husband and children?

  Chris smiled big at me.

  “Bon,” said Chris, putting her cell away.

  “Very pleased to meet you,” I said.

  “Oui,” she said. “And the universe was created ten thousand years ago.”

  She laughed with that big stupid nose of hers.

  “Chris is directing Godot on the Lower East Side with female actors as a play against female circumcision in Africa and the Middle East,” Ramona said.

  “Cheerful,” I said.

  “Not bad for the daughter of a plumber,” said Chris.

  Ramona swallowed and put out her hand and there was a silver band on her wedding ring finger and it wasn’t the one I had given her. Then she said it. “Chris is my fiancée, Chico. We’re going to Massachusetts. We’re getting married.”

  Ramona was marrying some white girl, a blanquita from France with a big cartoon nose.

  I felt the room spin and the lights go dim.

  Chris stood there smiling proudly.

  “Let’s go home, Chris,” said Ramona. “I don’t think Chico likes me right now.”

  Ramona patted my leg. “We’ll talk some other time, mon ami.”

  So that was it. It was totally and finally and truly over with Ramona. No more Harlem and 135th Street, red rocking chair, African masks, rugs, red bookshelf, Zora Neale Hurston, Virginia Woolf, Nella Larsen, Marguerite Duras, Earth, Wind, and Fire. No more B. B. King. No more competing with Arturo A. Schomburg, black Puerto Rican scholar, deceased—as if I ever could. No more Nina Simone, Miles Davis prints, green houseplants, colorful yarn, knitting needles, New Yorker magazines. No more Siamese cats, fleshy legs, homemade corn bread, Columbia sweatshirts, and Samuel Adams beer. No more Metropolitan Museum, the African Art wing, reading The Lover in French. No more. She was Ramona Guzman Balaguer. The Dominican Republic. Haiti. The Public Library. She was her first book, Driving Lessons; her second book, The Detective; and her new lover Chris. No more Mrs. Chico. No more Ramona.

  I closed my eyes and thought about Zena. The thought of her dark cinnamon-colored neck, that scent she wore, the sight of her fresh out of the shower, whispering, talking, listening to Hara the cat purr and the morning birds sing.

  My cell phone rang. It was Samantha.

  “They found the knife that killed Esther Sanchez. You were right. It’s a Michael Jordan.”

  “I’ll call you back,” I said.

  I nodded and hung up and sank, worn out, into my hospital gurney and closed my eyes.

  And when I opened my eyes again, it was morning, and she was there again, smiling cheerfully down on me, holding a bouquet of flowers and some walnuts, and I felt it, her compassion, as I looked up at her sunburned face, smiling wide and eager like a blessing.

  I did not hesitate. I jumped out of that gurney and out into her waiting Mini Cooper, and we drove off.

  “Washington Heights,” I said.

  The truth is, I didn’t care where. All I knew was that I was going and I wanted to go, wherever Zena was. I wanted to be with her, to protect her, because she needed protection from what was coming. Or was that me?

  FIFTEEN

  Washington Heights. 166th Street and Riverside Drive. Community Center lunchroom. Esther Sanchez was loved. People lined the walls again to remember her. And again, so many turned up that people had to take turns going in and out of the Community Center.

  Zena had dropped me off and excused herself. She just wanted to make sure that I was okay. But a memorial for Esther Sanchez was all too bloody much.

  I watched the Dominican teenagers, students at George Washington High School and members of the Washington Heights Comic Book Club (originally founded by Pablo and Elvis Hernandez when they were in high school), dressed in superhero costumes. Pablo’s idea.

  The usual suspects. Aquaman held hands with Elektra. I’d never seen anything like it outside of Halloween. The kids were a smattering of awkward boys and girls, so quiet and shy, no one, except teachers and bullies, ever took notice, with glasses and backpacks full of comic books. They were there to pay homage to their friend and neighbor.

  A Dominican female, dark-skinned, and a taller, pale-skinned Dominican male were arguing.

  “Superman can’t be black! Why would you want a black Superman?”

  “Because I’m black,” said the female.

  “You are not black,” said the male. “You are Dominican.”

  “No. You’re white Dominican and I’m black Dominican.”

  “Que-ba-he-na!” said the male.

  “It’s v-aina with a V! Meaning sheath for a knife. Or a woman’s thing. Not b-aina with a b. There’s no such word as b-aina.”

  “Chopa!”

  “I’m a Dominican American if anything.”

  “I’m European,” said the pale young man.

  “What!” yelled the crowd of teens.

  “The Spanish conquered Santo Domingo. The Spanish are European. I am European.”

  “Well, I’m Taino Indian,” someone else chimed in.

  “The Arawaks were mostly killed off by the Spanish conquistadors in the Dominican Republic, in Haiti, in Cuba, in Puerto Rico. You probably don’t have any Indian blood. You have white Spanish blood. And I have black African blood. That’s why I look like me and you look like you.”

  “Look, Sandra,” said the pale young man. “You can be a Duyorcian, African, or a black whatever. I’m still European no matter what you say!”

  “Chopa.”

  “I’m a snob?” said the male. “And what’re you, a sugar-cane cutter?”

  “Maybe I’m educated, but I’m no Doreo.”

  “What the hell is a Doreo?”

  “Dominican on the outside and white in the middle.”

  “Now,” said the pale young man, “you’re just making shit up!”

  “You’re both wrong,” said a younger Dominican girl with braces. “All Superman has to be is willing to lay down his life or sacrifice his powers for good, help the community. Superman is modest and humble. He catches his foes. He spends his life helping others and doing good. White or black.”

  “Yeah,” said one boy in glasses. “We’re all Superman. Or none of us are.”

  “Shut up!” everyone yelled in unison.

  The memorial began. Everyone stood along the walls or sat in small rows on red plastic chairs. Pablo, slicked black hair, decked out in his cheap blue suit, yellow polyester shirt, red polyester tie, and red polyester handkerchief again, was trembling before the red, white, and blue flower arrangement and a large photo of Esther Sanchez. In the photo, Esther was wearing a long dark brown leather jacket with a big silver buckle and dark sunglasses. Her hair was long and dark. She was healthy and plump and looked to be in her early forties.

  Pablo read his memorial speech from a piece of white lined notebook paper without ever taking his eyes off the doc
ument: “My mother Esther Sanchez was one of the most beautiful people. In the ghettos, all over the world, no matter where, life is not cheap, just more fragile. And when you live in these places you learn, as those before you learned, that you do not dwell on tragedy, you put away the sick and the dead as quickly as possible and you sweep the tragedy under the rug and you try not to look under that rug, because it’s dark in there. You try to forget, to go on, past the dirty old man and his trash bags, because if you stopped too long to think and maybe even feel sorry for the old man or, God forbid, yourself, it’s over, you’re done, all that would be left was ordering the marble and the flowers. Whatever was chasing you, whatever had caught up to that old man, would catch up to you. So you have to walk past the old man, that’s what you’re taught; you have to make him invisible, or you, like him, would not make it. My mother was one of those people who refused to walk past the old man and his trash bags. To ignore the need, the poverty, the pain. My mother would stop and talk to the homeless on the street and hand them money and offer to find them shelter. This was a woman with no experience in social work, no degrees in law, no college degrees of any kind. But caring doesn’t need a degree. The heart and the mind don’t need degrees to do something to help make the world a better place. Some would even say my mother was naïve. But hope is always naïve. My mother was hope. If people who believe in God and the afterlife are correct, this is not my mother’s last voyage, and for my sake and yours, I hope that’s true.”

  Pablo stopped speaking, looked up from his paper for the first time, tears welling up in his eyes. He asked the audience for a minute of silence in remembrance of Esther Sanchez.

  Everyone applauded the gentle-voiced Pablo after the moment of silence. Then came a few more testimonies.

  “Esther was a great friend of our Comic Book Club and always fed us when we’d have meetings at her house, yucca and rice and pork chops. We can’t read a comic book from now on without remembering her and talking about her,” said a boy named Jarrife.

  “I came here to pay tribute to one of the sweetest and most tough ladies I ever met,” said a girl named Barbra.