by A. E. Roman
The boy’s stepfather looked at the boy’s mother and said, “You better teach that boy some respect, or one day you’re going to be picking him up from jail or worse, the morgue.”
The boy’s mother looked at her husband and then down at her son. He looked up. He did not want to live there anymore. He would not.
His mother said, “So you don’t want to live here?”
“No.”
The boy’s stepfather slapped a greasy hand against his upper thigh. “This boy is something else!”
The boy, thinking it was a compliment, smiled at his stepfather. He did not see his mother’s hand coming as she slapped him, her forefinger stabbing his right eye, blinding him in a flash of white light.
The boy did not cry. He had had his fill of tears. He looked at his mother with his left eye, and he saw in her what he saw in his stepfather, what he saw in himself, what he was finally beginning to see.
He saw the light. And it was not good.
The boy’s mother went into the kitchen and came back with a man’s leather belt and a green tin full of uncooked rice. She grabbed the boy by the arm and dragged him to the small bedroom he shared with his half brother, the son of his stepfather. The boy’s mother stood in the dark and scooped out some rice with one fist.
She spread the rice in a corner of the room. The boy’s half brother woke in the dark and cried.
The boy’s mother went over to the crib and cooed, “Sleep, sleep, sleep, mi amor.”
The boy removed his clothes in the dark.
His mother whipped his bare bottom and legs with the leather belt. Then he knelt down on the uncooked rice she had scattered on the wood floor.
The boy’s mother said, “You stay there until you learn.”
She left the dark bedroom and shut the door. The boy knelt there, in the black, facing the white wall, kneeling on the rice. It cut into his bare knees.
The boy cursed as he knelt. He cursed his stepfather, his mother, the world, life.
When his mother entered the room again and sat on his bed and cried hysterically and said, “I only do this because I love you,” the boy cursed her again, in his heart, and wished her dead.
His mother said, “It hurts me more than it hurts you.”
“I know, Ma.”
“Don’t be like your father.”
“I won’t. Don’t cry.”
But still the boy’s mother sat on the small bed and sobbed, so much that the baby began crying, too.
The boy got up and went to his mother and touched her blond hair, touched her wet cheeks, and kissed her face. He held her close to his small chest and they stayed there, a child holding his mother as she cried in the dark.
She picked the boy up and held him close. Then she put him down in his bed, stepped back and looked upon him as if she might have remembered something about herself and her own childhood.
She wiped her face. She kissed him and went over and kissed the baby and said, “Sleep, niño. Everything will look better in the morning.”
When she was gone, the boy jumped out of bed, packed a small knapsack with comic books and old movie stubs.
He went over to the glass tank where he kept his hamster and fed him green pellets one last time. He had made up his mind. He would go to Hollywood. He would live with his real father.
Everybody would be happier.
He grabbed his coat, then went over, in the dark, to the old crib his half-brother slept in, kissed each of his cheeks, and closed the bedroom door.
The boy passed his stepfather asleep on the sofa. Matches, a spoon, and a freshly used needle lay on the rickety coffee table; he had a smoking cigarette in his left hand. He had fallen asleep in front of the TV watching Sunset Boulevard.
Saliva slipped from his stepfather’s open mouth, down his white shirt. Cigarette ash dropped off the bright-red burning end of the cigarette, hitting the floor. The boy thought about stubbing the cigarette out.
But he’ll wake up. He’ll stop me. Maybe start touching me again like he does. Go!
The boy cracked the front door slowly, went out, and closed it slowly behind him. He flew down the staircase, to freedom.
Outside, he thought about taking the train at Hunts Point, but he had no money. So he walked in the opposite direction. When he reached a highway he would hitchhike, something he had seen someone do in a movie.
He walked not far from the wide steps and pillars of his public school, down the broad hill past rows and rows of tenements and lampposts dripping with Christmas lights. He walked the deserted streets and came to a stop at the highway.
The boy stood on the corner, put out his hand, and tried to stop a car or truck that would drive him to Hollywood.
Ten minutes later a tall woman approached in a red wig and red heels, her large breasts sneaking out of a tight worn-out dress and red leather jacket. She looked at the skinny boy, surprised, and said, “Hey, you, what you doin’ out here?”
The boy thought fast. “I got lost.”
“Lost,” said the woman, mistrust in her eyes. “Where were you goin’?”
“Find my father.”
“Your father isn’t at home?”
The boy shook his head.
“You don’t know where your father is?”
“He’s in Hollywood. He’s a movie star. He lives in a house.”
The woman’s eyes turned to slits as she studied the boy’s face.
“You’re Puerto Rican, right?”
The boy said no, “El Salvador.”
“That some kinda Spanish, right?”
“I think so. My mother and father is from El Salvador.”
The woman screwed up her face and said, “C’mon.”
The boy followed the woman to a small park where a tall, thin man wearing a dark coat and a knitted skullcap came away from a van parked at the corner. The man yelled, “What the fuck, Wanda?”
“Kid’s lost.”
The man in the dark coat looked at the boy suspiciously. “So what?”
“So he needs to get home.”
“Send him home.”
“He’s lookin’ for his father, Jason.”
Jason looked at Wanda, eyes wide. “You either drunk, stupid, or crazy. I don’t know which.”
“Jason! He’s a fuckin’ kid. It’s late. Let’s get him home.”
“What’s goin’ on?” said a short, fat man in a fur coat, walking out of the shadows of the small park.
“This is bullshit!” Jason said, no longer looking at Wanda but walking toward the dark van. He signaled for the man in fur to follow. Wanda grabbed the boy’s hand and said, “C’mon.”
The boy sat beside Wanda in the sticky front seat of the van, which smelled of cigarettes and car oil. They stopped and he happily took and ate a grilled cheese sandwich and drank a Coke that Wanda bought for him. When he was finished, Wanda pulled him close to her soft breasts. The boy smelled strong perfume and bath powder and sweat. Her warm thigh pressed against him. He liked it.
The boy looked up at Wanda and said, “Can I stay with you, Wanda?”
The three good Samaritans laughed and kept laughing. Jason laughed the hardest.
The boy looked at Jason and scowled. Jason stopped laughing. He lit his cigarette, and said to Wanda, “You see the way he lookin’ at me?”
Wanda bent to the side to look at the boy’s angry face and said, “What’s wrong, little man?”
“He’s laughin’ at me,” the boy said, pointing at Jason.
The fat man in fur, sitting in a back seat, took a hit from a small joint of marijuana. “He think you laughin’ at ’im, Jason. He gonna kick your ass. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee!”
“Sugar Ray, Sugar Ray!” Wanda said, placing her arms around the boy and squeezing him close.
The fat man in fur slapped Jason on the back and laughed some more. Jason looked at the boy and raised his cigarette hand as if about to slap him. Wanda pulled the boy close to her breast and yelled, “Do
n’t you fuckin’ dare!”
“I’m jokin’, bitch.”
When Wanda pulled the boy away from her breasts, he had a big smile on his face. He tried to put his face between them again. Wanda pushed the boy away and said, “Niggas are all the same.”
The fat man in fur took another hit of marijuana and said, “A man after my own heart.”
The fat man handed the boy the small joint. Wanda looked back at the fat man in fur. “What the fuck you doin’?”
The man in fur said, “He gotta learn sometime.”
Jason took a drag of his cigarette and looked at the boy. “Go ahead, little man.”
Wanda looked at the boy disapprovingly, “Go ahead if you want.”
The boy took a quick hit from the joint. Then the burning started, in his throat, in his eyes, in his belly.
He doubled over and started coughing. Wanda snatched the joint away from the boy and passed it back to the fat man in fur.
Jason started the van and the boy said, “I don’t wanna go home,” coughing as they screeched away from the curb. “I don’t wanna.”
But he told them where he lived and they drove until they saw the light of the tenement fire raging red and angry in the dark. Red lights from the fire trucks streamed across faces in the gathered crowd. Some were gawking. Some were crying. Some were standing out in the cold in bathrobes and slippers or half naked and barefoot.
Watching the blaze from the parked van, Wanda said, “Honey? You live in there?”
The boy pressed himself close to Wanda. He was speechless and helpless and sick as he watched his building burn, and he knew that his family was dead. He knew they had not gotten out. Not his mother, not his stepfather, not the baby, not his hamster. He knew they were dead before anyone could tell him, before the police knew, before the hospital knew. The boy watched his building and his family burn and he didn’t say a word.
THIRTY-ONE
The Willis Avenue Bridge was covered by snow, a white slate of no-place-to-be-right-about-now. The dark streets of the South Bronx were a trail of brightly lit windows. Snow fell in great torn sheets, on wind that chilled me down to my Fruit of the Looms. I saw hints of buildings buried beneath white on distant Manhattan, and walked onto the bridge.
Albert and Tiffany were in the middle.
Albert wore no hat, scarf, or overcoat. He had not changed clothes since Pilar’s funeral. He was holding something.
Tiffany stood still on the pedestrian walk when she saw me. Albert, at the railing, stared down at the river. He held up the thing he was holding. It was a black VHS cassette case. Tiffany, standing a few feet behind Albert, gave me a desperate look.
Man, Albert. I thought back to the kid he was at St. Mary’s, wishing everything could’ve turned out different. But we were many miles away from Sister Irene and Father Gregory and those kids who called themselves the Dirty Dozen. No matter what you want, it’s now, you’re here, and time keeps on steppin’.
“Albert!” I yelled, standing a few feet away from him.
Albert stood still. Finally, he saw me, a look of agony, of despair, scratched into every crease of his face. “Clarence?”
“No,” I said. “It’s me, Chico.”
“There is no moral order in the universe, Chico,” said Albert. “I thought there was. There isn’t. We’re just a bunch of ungrateful and greedy bipeds.”
“Speak for yourself, bro. Why you out here?”
“I just wanted to go somewhere and think. I can think out here.”
“Let’s go think somewhere else. We can all have some rice pudding at Mimi’s. You remember Mimi.”
“Mimi,” said Albert and his face lit up. “Yeah.”
“Let’s go,” I said.
“Yes,” said Tiffany, “Let’s go, Albert.”
His face dropped again. “I can’t.”
He held up the VHS tape. “I could dump it,” said Albert. “I could turn it over. Either way, I’m damned. I didn’t know, Chico. I didn’t know about Pilar’s blackmail. I didn’t know about Benjamin or Olga being molested or those stories. I didn’t.”
“I believe you,” I said.
“Irving is innocent.”
“Bro,” I said. “It’s me, Chico. Let’s get off this bridge.”
“What is going on?” Tiffany pleaded. “What is on that tape?”
I edged closer.
Albert leaned into the railing. I stepped back.
“If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking,” I said.
“I’m not going to kill myself,” said Albert.
“That’s right, you’re not.”
“You can’t kill yourself when you’re already dead,” said Albert.
“Albert!” said Tiffany. “Don’t talk stupid!”
“I’m dead, Tiffany!” Albert yelled. “I’m already dead!”
“You’re not dead,” Tiffany yelled. “Don’t say that!”
“I died a long time ago. I died in a fire. I just didn’t know it yet.”
“Albert,” Tiffany said in a soothing voice.
“I had nothing but my pride and my dignity,” said Albert. “And I sold that out when I agreed to do Doomsday with Marcos. I sold myself. I cheated and I lied. So Olga killed me.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“She killed me with the truth,” Albert said, holding up the videotape.
Tiffany looked worried out of her head.
“Marcos is a snake,” said Albert, “and Pilar and Irving were children. And I am nothing.”
“I understand, Albert,” I said. “You’re all mixed up. You did what you thought was right to make your film. I’m your friend, Albert.”
“Friend?” Albert laughed. And he went on laughing all the time he was leaning into the barrier, staring down at the dark and quiet waters.
“I never stood a chance,” Albert repeated. “I just didn’t know it.”
“Stop it!” said Tiffany. “Stop it!”
Albert looked down at the water.
“Maybe I should just jump,” Albert said. “Maybe Pilar had a point.”
“Don’t say that!” Tiffany said.
“Prison I’m not afraid of,” said Albert. “I’ll trade places with Irving.”
“Albert,” Tiffany cried. “Albert, please! What is happening?”
“Let’s get off this bridge, Albert,” I said. “I don’t know what’s going on, but we can figure this out.”
Albert stared at the water. Maybe he was worried that he would be seen as he threw himself into the ocean, that people would stop their cars to stare and look round, as if they had nothing to do but to watch him drown.
“What do you want, Albert?” I said.
Looking around once more, with his hand still on the barrier, Albert closed his eyes. I could hear the traffic passing.
“Think, Albert,” I said. “You’re a smart guy.”
“I am thinking, Chico,” said Albert. “There is nothing left to film.”
He hunched himself as though about to jump.
“Albert!” yelled Tiffany. “This isn’t what we agreed to!”
“What can I do for you, Albert?” I shouted.
“We called Chico out here so that you could tell him,” said Tiffany. “So you could both be on this bridge together one last time like when you were kids, remember? And you could tell him what Olga told you and show him what’s on that tape!”
“I wish I’d never been born, Chico. Can you do that for me?”
“What’s going on, man?” I asked.
“I want to tell,” said Albert. His voice was filled with a great weight. “I want to tell everything and accept my punishment. I killed Benjamin. I’m tired.”
He looked at Tiffany, face bunched up like a prune with teeth, lower lip trembling. “I’m tired.”
“Why did you kill Pilar, Albert?” I asked.
“Nobody killed Pilar,” said Albert, clutching at his head as if to stop it from flying away. “Pilar committed su
icide.”
“Why did you kill Benjamin?”
“Benjamin killed my family,” said Albert. He banged at his chest and at his head as he spoke. “He killed my mother. I didn’t remember, Chico. Olga told me. I remember, now. Benjamin Rivera was my stepfather! He killed my family! And I killed him!”
Albert lifted the VHS cassette and was about to fling it off the bridge into the ocean.
“Someone’s coming!” yelled Tiffany.
I turned and saw someone walking briskly toward us in the snowstorm.
“Albert?” said Tiffany. There was worry in her voice.
“What the hell?” said Albert, squinting, trying to make out who it was. I saw the approaching figure’s hand lift and then I heard and saw the flash of gunshots in the dark.
I saw someone else, a larger figure running behind the shooter. I felt a smashing blow to the side of my head. I heard more running and someone who sounded like Nicky yelling. I heard more gunshots and the screech of car wheels. And as I fell I saw a helicopter circling the skyscrapers and the million lights of Manhattan and then the waters that passed beneath the bridge.
I always knew I would end up like that, murdered like my father.
There I was and there was darkness and in the darkness there was a face. Ramona, sitting on our old sofa reading her manuscript, The Detective, a colorful rug at her naked feet. And on the rug, Boo, the Chihuahua you love to hate. And before there was nothing, there were pinks, reds, yellows, many shades of brown and black. Before the dark, before I felt my arms and legs go as light as though they had been cut off, there was Ramona, there was love. And then there was nothing.
THIRTY-TWO
Slowly waking, I heard a shower running and B.B. King singing “We’re Gonna Make It.” I opened my eyes. I looked around the room, confused. I was naked under a sheet, lying in a king-size bed. My head had a fat welt on it and felt like it had been a piñata at a birthday party for hyperactive children on steroids.
The room was dark. My neck and my back hurt. I felt as though I’d been lying there forever. I struggled to sit up, and eventually I stood and pulled open a curtain at the window. The sun came shining into the room, throwing streaks of light on the green walls and the polished wood floors.
