On the other side, Graciela Ruiz, a tiny crippled girl in a battered oversize wheelchair, is delirious with joy, screaming her pleasure, as she is pushed in and out of the spray by Juan, her brother.
Farther on, beyond the reach of the water, a cluster of small wet children, each with a nickle in a grimy fist, crowd around the orange-and-white-striped umbrella cart of a street vendor who scrapes finely shaved ice into a paper cup, sprinkling and soaking it to the rim with flavored, dye-colored sugar water.
Their cries—“I’m nex’!” “I wuz heah afore yew!” “Gimmie the strawbarry!”—reach Fenister’s ears. Sadly, he remembers himself as one of these same skinny kids, a nickel clutched in his hand, waiting his turn, hungering for the taste of that sweet, icy water that stained his tongue so happily green, glowing red, or darkly yellow.
A white-and-blue police car turns a corner and begins to nose its way down the street, moving slowly, a white officer at the wheel, his companion black.
One by one, in pairs, by groups, the people in the street become aware of the car and fall silent. Some move off, others become still and watch. Soon all is a tableau except for the faint wail of a baby and the sporadic bark of a dog. And, of course, the splatter and hiss of the water, rivers of it at each cluttered curb. If there are sewer openings, they’re so choked with trash and debris that half the street is now a shallow lake, against and over which the hydrant fans out water as heavy as tropical rain.
The car moves into and through the cloudburst, coming out clean and glistening, the windshields humming.
The officers seem slow and weary, thoroughly bored, as if they had done what they are doing a thousand times that day.
The black cop comes over to the hydrant, twists the water off, then loosens the bite of the great black wrench on the bolt that had opened the flood.
“Whose is this?”—holding up the tool for the crowd to see.
Silence. Someone coughs. Dripping kids sniffle. Subdued laughter. The wail of the baby. The dog.
“—Your’s, Julio?”—seeing a small dark man fidget, half lost in the crowd. And in Spanish: “It looks like a plumber’s wrench.”
Julio tosses a shock of ink-black hair from his furrowed forehead only to have it fall back again immediately. His Picasso-bright eyes peer out like a small animal’s from the underbrush.
“No.” Laboriously shaping, forming, saying the words in English—“Some—kid’s. He brought it. I saw him.”
Vigorous nods, hushed murmurs of agreement from the crowd.
The officer smiles dubiously.
“Yeah. Some kid . . . some kid about fifty years old.” He turns to his companion officer. “You heard? You could make it out? He says it belongs to some kid.”
The white officer shrugs. “Looks like it belongs to a plumber.”
The dark cop nods. “That’s what I told him; it’s his all right.” He turns back to Julio. And in Spanish: “Well, since it isn’t yours, you won’t mind if we keep it.”
The little man steps forward, stammering words impossible to say in English: “But— I promised to give it back. I think it belongs—to the kid’s father. Maybe he’s a plumber.”
The officer ignores him, throwing the wrench through the car’s back window.
He faces the crowd. His voice is strong, but it’s tone weary.
“It’s a misdemeanor to turn on the water yourself. No one’s allowed. Every hydrant in the city would be on—day and night. It lowers the pressure. It’s bad. Understand? You want water, you call the department. They have special spray nozzles. You know that.” He repeats the whole speech in Spanish, then pauses. “Okay?”
Faintly, from somewhere in the crowd: “Go fuck yourself.” And in Spanish: “Eat shit.”
The officer suffers patiently, shaking his head sadly.
Watching, Star-Glory mutters underbreath: “Mother-fuckers !”
The police car moves on. Fenister improves the epithet.
“Father-fuckers!”
Nohung loves the innovation and instantly both are manic with laughter, giddily hugging and kissing, posturing absurdly, as if two brothers separated and lost for twenty years had suddenly found each other.
On the west side of the street, opposite them, the last of the day’s sun is trapped in a brief fire between two buildings. Sharp as a laser, it suddenly pierces the outerflung reaches of a cloud of fine mist left suspended in the air from the water, shattering into a vast instant arc of color, gone in the blink of an eye.
Over the shoulder of his friend, Nohung’s jaw hangs open in surprise.
“I just saw a rainbow !”
Fenister pulls back, glances around and up, his bored eyebrows arching, forgetting his accent.
“You just saw shit, honey. That’s what you saw.”
His languorous eyes sweep the street again, this time stopping short at the rusted black rail fronting 6913.
His interest is keen now, instantly focused, for there, separated from the thinning crowd, perched on a battered trash can, sits Julia Ortiz: small, too thin for her thirteen years, pale, but almost beautiful of face. Somewhere, way back, there must have been Oriental blood: the cheekbones are high, the dark, shadowed eyes lidded but oblique; fine, straight black hair hangs to her waist. She wears a T-shirt and faded boys’ Levi’s, a jagged hole in one knee, a red patch sewn near the crotch. Her feet are bare and dirty.
Fenister paws Star-Glory’s arm.
“There! I told you. The Ortiz girl. Right on time. And soon the others will follow; the moment the sun goes down; like a gathering of—” he couldn’t think what “—of bats! You’ll see!”
Even as he speaks, another of them (in Fenister’s use, the word usually bristles with queer emphasis) arrives: Angel Rodriguez, who was deaf and born with a tongue so malformed and twisted, he never learned to speak, but is so remarkably handsome at twelve years of age, so finely made of face and body, his color as light and warm as ground nutmeg, that Fenister would gladly kill him, or, short of that, himself.
The hatred has always been mutual. Whenever he happens to pass “that crazy black giant of a fairy” (the language would have to be sign) Angel spits vigorously on the ground, never quite looking directly, always pretending not to see.
He does so now though they are separated by a hundred feet or more, spitting not once but twice, and with a screwed-up expression, as if he had some vile and unbearably bitter taste in his mouth, or smelled something fantastically malodorous nearby. Watching him, Fenister feels the blood pound in his head, seeking a passage to erupt.
“I’ll get him; oh, one day I’ll get the little mother-fucker; then we’ll see who spits!
The few words he can manage are edged out between his teeth.
“That’s two.”
Star-Glory looks at them as directed; the first pair: Julia Oritz and Angel Rodriguez, and then the others as, indeed, they soon arrive: Jamie Santana, Kathy Whatshername?—Sanchez or Santos, and Maria . . . he can never remember how to pronounce the name though he can spell it out in his head . . . del Vallejo. But to him there is never really very much to see: just a few ordinary neighborhood kids: two Spanish, one black, one (possibly) white, and the other—godknows—all dressed, as always, in what he considers rags: faded jeans and T-shirts, the Santana boy in a loose-fitting tank top that must have come down from an older brother.
If they appeared at all, it was where they were now—in front of 6913, an empty, boarded-up building, and always, yes, at about dusk, sometimes later, so at least that much must have been prearranged. But why make anything of it?
Nohung had decided long ago, without interest, that they were probably part of a street gang, or some kids’ club: every child around seemed to belong to some stupid thing, like “The Blue Sharks” (why blue?—because the paint in their spray cans for subway graffiti was always in shades of blue!) or a new one he had heard of recently: “The Satanics.” The Satanics! Boy, some real dopey, juiced-up kid must have jacked that one off! Anywa
y—
Whoever, whatever they were, if anything beyond what he could plainly see, to him they were in a way “mysterious” or “sinister”—qualities his friend insisted they possessed.
“Mysterious!” “Sinister!”
Shit! That Fenister!
THE CHILDREN
THEY HAD GROWN to hate shoes, and none of them wore them, except Julia who, before she went home, put on a pair of old gray sneakers, broken and threadbare, which she kept hidden in the trash under the hallway stairs. Otherwise her mother would scream and beat her, though the beating usually came anyway, barefoot or not.
“Shoes! No shoes !?”—shrill, strident: “what are you, a gypsy? Do you want some lousy prick of a cop to arrest you for vagrancy? Do I have money for that?!”
And clothes were a bother, too: somehow repellant, uneasy to touch, unpleasant next to one’s skin; except for worn T-shirts, and Levi’s so smooth and thin from repeated washings thick with lye and bleach, you could actually see through the denim.
Strong light had begun to hurt their eyes—at least, that is the way Jamie explained it, as if all five simultaneously had contracted a rare ocular disease. No one believed him, including himself, yet all agreed to it. Somehow each was ashamed to admit that “the change,” as they first called it, which had so subtly begun to transform them (into “what” initially remained as inexplicable as the “why”) had made them simply “like” the night-time hours. They felt more alive then, their senses more alert, their nerves sharpened.
But sleep they must and they had taken to doing so in the daytime when they could, together if possible, and it was not unusual, since none could do so at home, for two or more, sometimes all five, to curl up in a tangle of closeness and intertwined limbs in the small, cool secret cave Angel had found high up in a remote, mountainous part of the park where a shaft of immense rock jutted out over a stream.
It had been difficult to climb at first; one exposed wall flat and almost sheerly perpendicular for several yards, with only small natural niches in the rock to cling to with fingers and toes.
The girls, Kathy and Maria, had fallen initially, and Julia on the second try, to hoots of derision and laughter from Angel and Jamie, even though they could have been seriously hurt were there not two feet of muddy water below to break their fall. But it had been spring then, and now, after a summer’s practice, all of them could leap and scramble up over the wall as nimble and sure as mountain goats.
Another thing—
And this, at its discovery, was greeted with shrieks and shocks of laughter and surprise: Jamie’s eyes now shone in the dark, so the others said!—at least sometimes, and they were forever crowding him into dark corners to see if it would happen, each curious and concerned about himself, half-longing for, half-dreading the moment when their own eyes, like Jamie’s would flash glints of green-to-orange fire, becoming glowing coals in shadow and darkness.
And something else—
Perhaps the oddest of all—
They seldom talked to each other anymore. Decisions were made, meanings communicated and explored, questions asked—and answered—but through the intimacy of touch and sign: the flicker of an eye, a slight smile or nod; even less, even nothing discernible—as if they had all become as speechless as Angel, with tongues so twisted they could no longer form proper words. But so becoming, they became, like him, even more subtly articulate, observant, and sensitive, sharing an instant community of feeling.
So they touched, and nodded, and smiled, and made signs no other mortal could decipher, adding soft murmurs, grunts, occasionally a bewildering, deep-throated sound that, so strangely, if it came rumbling up from one’s own throat, seemed an incipient growl, and with this came . . . came. . . .
But memory was not yet whole, or connected, if ever it would be, and the ravenous howl in the night, the chase, the rending cry of the kill remained, for now, subliminal, and so without reality: only the barest hint of it grazing consciousness, glazing a child’s eye for a stricken moment, or slackening his jaw.
If Angel, whose sensibilities and memory were keenest, “remembered” kneeling in the shallow water at the edge of the lake washing away with the others the drying blood that covered them, so thick and clotting it was a gelatinous slime, he was remembering a “dream,” or a small facet of one dream’s madness, quickly blurred, then forgotten.
What emerged from memory as totally real, was the “forest”—the swiftness of his own feet which, flashing below him, seemed like the flight of two white birds . . . and the rustle and rush of leaves splashed silver-wet with moonlight . . . or the whiplash of wind and rain crashing against his grinning face, stinging his shoulders and thighs . . . or the fog, like one’s winter breath, settling in the tortured paths that wound through an intricate maze of trees and rocks, so thick in patches by the lake he could actually kick it, and roll in it, while he laughed, and shouted, and howled with the others who, as naked as he, played out their games.
Like him, they had escaped—for a few “dreamed” hours, for a blessed night. “How” they had done it remained unknown; but it had “happened” now, several times, each time with more power and surrender, when they became creatures reborn, rather—new to an ancient, buried life; and they would learn the secret.
JULIA
THE LITTLE BLACK BOY with the corn-rowed hair who pulled at Julia’s shirt had spoken to her three times.
“You’re going to get it !”
And the second time: “Your mother’s goin’ t’kick your ass.”
And the third: “I mean it. She seen yuh from the window when yuh passed. She’s screaming like everything’s all bloody.”
And maybe it was. —All bloody. Julia looked down at the child, though vacantly. —Maybe Mama’s finally used that kitchen knife she keeps grabbing for and shaking at us. Maybe she’s killed Gabriel and Bruno and Danilio. And Raphael. And Delores and Teresa. And maybe she’s sliced up Papa too, and thrown the pieces all over the kitchen floor.
She looked at Kathy and Maria, but spoke to Jamie who, for no specific reason, perhaps only because he was so big and strong for his age, was regarded as their “leader.” Or maybe it was because—the thought was a funny one and Julia smiled—it was his eyes that shone in the dark.
“I’m going. I haven’t been home in three days. My mother will call the police; she has before.”
She signaled most of this to Angel whose brow was wrinkled, watching her lips, and indicated to him with angled, prayer-held hands and tilted head that she was going to sleep at home that night.
The thought so depressed her she couldn’t move, and it was she who was still standing there alone in the darkness after the others had left. Angel had been the last to leave and as he walked away slowly, he kept turning his head, smiling his lovely impish smile until his face was a small white blur that finally disappeared.
Two of the street lamps nearest her were out; there was a boy in the neighborhood with a rifle who shot from the roofs, making a career, it seemed, of plunging streets into darkness. Once a bullet had whizzed by her ear, smashing into a cement wall behind her. He was being hunted, twice pursued by the police but not caught. Still, perhaps one should be grateful. The darkness, the semidarkness, really, since the house windows provided enough light to find one’s way, was preferable to the harsh glare of the street lamps which exposed, even more than daylight it seemed, the incredible squalor and filth of the streets.
And Julia smiled, thinking blindness must have at least one blessed side. One moved through a clean world, as ordered and beautiful as thought could make it.
Why wouldn’t her legs move? How profound could depression be?—that it paralyzed her where she was standing—but then she jumped as a sudden furry black blur of movement shot from an alley to a waist-high pile of cans and refuse at the curb.
The rat had startled her, returning power to her legs, as well as alertness and curiosity to her brain. She took a step closer to discover where the creature ha
d gone, anxious to see it more clearly, but it had hidden itself well. She could hear it, however, and stood death-still, listening with slightly bewildered pleasure. It was making a fascinating sound, more like chirping than squeaks, its tiny sharp nails clawing and rattling at something metallic. She knew it was a young rat; hungry, half-starved, perhaps; its belly aching for food.
A mere four blocks away, the walk home took more than an hour. She made it do so, zigzagging the streets, stopping to watch anything that provided the slightest interest. A few things did. —Two prostitutes in wild getups, out for the evening, picking their way daintily through the littered street, giggling at a private joke they were sharing in whispers. Julia decided they were men, then, as they passed and she perceived somewhat narrow shoulders and wide, plump asses, changed her mind. —A weaving drunk pissing smack in the middle of the street under a street lamp, his limp long cock wetting his shoes. —Two small kids fighting sixty-nine, rolling and tumbling like spitting cats until an immense woman in curlers and kimono rushed from a building to separate them, dragging each of them in by one ear.
An empty beer can barely missed Julia; when she looked up, a grinning face with a glinting gold tooth stuck itself out from a shadowed doorway, speaking to her thickly. The tone was inviting and seductive in a language she didn’t know.
And suddenly, inevitably, she was home, on her own doorstep, looking up at her older brother Gabriel, who was peering down from a third-story window, his chin resting idly on his hands.
Presently—
“Mama’s sure going to kick your ass.”
Well . . . That seemed to be the consensus: she’d get her ass kicked. Before entering the hall, Julia stared down at her naked, dirty feet. To wear sneakers or not to wear them, that was the question. Whether ’twere nobler maybe to get only half her ass kicked by wearing them, or. . . . She decided on defiance and bravado. She’d go naked and dirty to the slaughter.
Dracula's Children Page 4
