This Side of Providence

by Rachel M. Harper

“It wasn’t for me,” he says, calling after me. “The pills were for my friend César, the one who got shot. He lost his eye.”

  I stop walking. When I look back he’s picking a scab on his hand.

  “Why?”

  He keeps his head down when he talks, still picking at the scab. “He’s got a prescription for painkillers, something real strong, but his grandmother can’t afford them. I thought these could help.”

  I walk back to him slowly, shortening my steps to avoid the chill of my skin touching the inside of my pant legs, wishing I’d grabbed the pair with the fleece lining. When I get to him he’s still looking down.

  “You gotta stop taking care of everybody else and start taking care of yourself. Otherwise you’re gonna end up like your friend.”

  I reach out and palm his head with my hand. His skull feels so small under all that hair.

  “You hear me under all that hair?”

  He nods.

  “You better watch out, kid. You’re about to have a real Afro.”

  He shrugs and finally looks up. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing, I guess. Shit, if I had your hair I’d grow it out, too.”

  “You still could.”

  “Please, you ever seen a white Afro? It ain’t pretty.”

  “Is that why you shave your head?”

  I nod. “It’s just easier to keep it short.”

  We start walking together, through the alley and back onto Manton. The night is still and dark, and we walk for a while without talking. No cars pass by on the street.

  “You heading home?” I ask him.

  “Nope,” he says, shaking his head harder than he needs to. “I’m going to Kim’s.”

  “Come on, I’ll walk you.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I know, kid. I don’t have to do any of this.”

  I can feel him look over at me. “Then why do you do it?”

  “’Cause you’re a good kid,” I say. “And I like you.” What I don’t say out loud is that I like myself when I’m with him.

  His ears are bright red, so I zip his sweatshirt all the way up and tighten the drawstring on his hood. “Didn’t your momma teach you to cover your head in the cold?”

  He tries to pull away from me, but I can see him smile in the dark. “Mami’s from Puerto Rico, what’s she know about the cold?”

  “Good point,” I say, stepping off the sidewalk to take a shortcut down Pope. We pass behind a taco stand and the smell of grilled meat fills the air. Cristo inhales the scent like it’s oxygen.

  “You hungry?” I ask him. “I was just sitting down to eat when Tony called. I got extra.”

  “Nah, that’s cool. I already ate.”

  “I thought kids could always eat.”

  “I’m straight. I can find something at Kim’s.”

  I stop walking. “I’m asking you to eat with me.”

  He looks at me. I can tell he’s choosing his words carefully. “I thought that was one of your rules. That nobody knows where you live.”

  I spit on the ground next to him. “You ain’t nobody.”

  He chews on the string to his hood and smiles. “Is it far?”

  I point to the rooftop towers of Atlantic Mills, twin globes that make the skyline look like some Russian ghetto. “Right over there.”

  “Atlantic Mills?” he says. “I thought that was just a factory.”

  “Used to be.”

  Along with the needle exchange, it’s home to the loft I bought when I was eighteen, on the same floor where the Providence Jewelry Exchange used to make engagement rings for the Kennedys.

  “I didn’t know anybody lived there,” he says, his feet falling into step with mine.

  I look down at him and wink. “Nobody does.”

  We enter through the back, beside the loading dock, since the building has no official front door. There’s an elevator for freight, but I never use it. We climb the stairs—six flights—and at the top Cristo pretends he isn’t winded. The hallway is cluttered with boxes from the manufacturing company that shares the floor with me. My downstairs neighbors are a wholesale furniture dealer and a gospel music producer. I’m the only one who actually lives here.

  Cristo keeps looking around as we walk down the hallway. He notices the stack of pizza boxes by my front door, a tower as high as his waist.

  “Damn,” he says. “Guess you like yourself some pizza.” He starts to count the boxes.

  “Not really.” I look down at them. I want to tell him that I never eat the stuff, that the boxes are strictly for transport, but I decide against it. The less the kid knows the better.

  “Don’t worry, I recycle.”

  The door to my unit is oversized, like a barn door, and it slides on wheels as big as a plate. Cristo holds his breath, tapping his fingers against his jeans as I unlock the door. I can tell he’s scared—not of what’s out here in the hallway, but of what’s inside. I slide the door open slowly, revealing my home inch by inch. His mouth falls open.

  “Wow, this place is huge. Like a supermarket.”

  I laugh. “Come inside. Don’t let all the heat out.”

  He closes the door and stares at all the deadbolts.

  “Which do I lock?”

  “All of them.”

  I turn on the lights as he walks into the living room.

  “I don’t get it,” he says. “Where are the walls?”

  “It’s a loft. There are no walls.”

  “You like it like that?” He stands in the same spot, slowly spinning around.

  I shrug, walking toward the kitchen. “Without walls, I don’t have to worry about who’s hiding on the other side.” I open the fridge. “You thirsty?”

  “Sure,” he says. “Whatever you got.”

  “I got rice milk and green tea.”

  “I’ll take water,” he says.

  “Wow. The kid’s got jokes.”

  Across the room, he’s smiling to himself. He walks to the other end of the living room, where there’s a pool table next to a long wall of windows. The billiard balls are scattered across the tabletop, but he lines them up along one side, ordering them based on number. He puts the cue ball at the head of the line.

  “You got cats?” he calls to me.

  “No.”

  “Good. A cat could get lost up in here.”

  He walks up to the thirty-gallon glass tank where my python lives. He peeks inside, stepping back when he sees the snake.

  “He’s sleeping or I’d let you pick him up.”

  “No thanks. I only like animals with legs.”

  I shrug. “He’s quiet. And he doesn’t need a lot of attention.”

  “You had him a long time?”

  “Since high school. I got him after my momma died.”

  He looks surprised, like he thought I didn’t have one.

  “You got any other family?”

  “No. Not anymore.”

  He taps the side of the glass, trying to wake Kingston up. “So you’re like me then?”

  “Nope. You got family. You’re just separated right now. They’ll come back.”

  “How you know that?”

  “Some people are meant to be alone. You’re not one of them.”

  He looks at me. “Are you?”

  I open my mouth to answer, but end up telling him we need to eat soon so I can walk him home.

  “Okay, boss. Whatever you say.”

  We sit in the dining room, at a wide mahogany table that came from my Uncle Dayton’s estate. It was the only thing I kept when I sold the house. I like it because it’s massive—it sits twenty people with elbow room—but it’s made from one solid piece of wood. It took four men to carry it inside. Cristo is the first person to sit down at the table to eat with me.

  Dinner is takeout from Thai Patio, where I eat almost every day. Cristo says he’s never had Thai food, but he eats a few spring rolls and all the noodles from the pad thai, and says the chicken
satay is the best chicken he ever ate. He leaves the coconut soup for me. We eat in silence; him staring at his food, me staring at him. The light from the candle makes him look darker than he really is, and with his hair all curly he looks like any black kid I could have brought home from the South Side, including my own son. The thought of having a son makes me smile. Imagine that—having somebody walking around with my blood, somebody I made.

  He looks up and sees me smiling, which makes him look away.

  “You want some more?” I hold up a piece of chicken.

  “Nah. I’m good.” A second later he points to the extra spring rolls. “You gonna eat those?”

  “Help yourself,” I tell him.

  He wraps the rolls in a napkin and puts them in his pocket. “For Luz,” he says, looking through the containers for anything else he could bring her.

  I don’t take Cristo with me when I start working on his old apartment on Sophia Street. No need to bring up the past. I leave the front door half open to air out the room while I paint, risking cats and other riffraff sneaking in. I like the smell of paint, even though it gives me a headache. It’s the closest I ever get to being intoxicated.

  The lady from DCYF shows up unannounced. They usually do. She slips in sideways without touching anything, and waits until she’s standing in the middle of the kitchen to call out hello. She startles me, but I pretend I’m not surprised to see her standing there. I get down from the ladder, a paintbrush in my hand.

  “Can I help you with something?”

  “I certainly hope so. Do you work here?”

  “I own the building.”

  “Well that’s even better.” She crosses the room to approach me. “My name is Sylvia Sousa and I’m from the Department of Children, Youth, and Their Families.” She holds out a business card but I don’t take it. “I’m looking for information about a family that used to live here. Mom’s name was Arcelia Perez De La Cruz. Obviously you knew her…?” She looks down at her clipboard and back up at me.

  “Yeah, she lived here about six months ago. Haven’t seen her since.”

  “Well, no, you wouldn’t have. She’s currently incarcerated.” She clicks the top of her ballpoint pen, making marks on the paper. “What can you tell me about her children?”

  I gesture around the empty room. “They’re not here.”

  “Well I can see that.” She looks at her paper again. “It says here there are three children. A son, Cristoval Luna Perez, age eleven; daughter, Lucila Luna Perez, age ten; and daughter, Trinidad Collazo, age three, currently residing with her biological father. The older children were placed with one guardian at this address for several months, a Luciana Cuaron, and were recently relocated to a nearby family member.”

  I turn around to dip the brush into the paint can. “Are you asking me a question, lady?”

  She flashes a fake smile, a line of offensively white partials. “I’m simply reviewing the facts I’ve gathered thus far. I’m newly assigned to the case.”

  “So what do you want from me?”

  “General impressions would be helpful. Of the children and their relationships with their mother, as a start. If there were any signs of neglect or abuse in the children, or if you saw any illegal activity on the part of the guardians, that would be helpful to know. That sort of thing…”

  “I really don’t get that involved with my tenants,” I say, turning to go back to work.

  “Of course, yes, I understand. It’s just that it’s hard to make a determination about whether or not these people are suitable caretakers, without getting a few more impressions from people who actually knew them.”

  I begin painting the wall in smooth, even strokes. “I wouldn’t say I knew them. I saw them around, that’s it.”

  “Recently?” She clicks her pen again.

  “I can’t say for sure.” I keep painting.

  “Do you have any reason to believe the children shouldn’t be reunited with their mother, assuming she passes random drug tests and finds suitable housing?”

  “That’s not my call to make. Isn’t that your job?”

  “Ideally my job wouldn’t need to exist. If every parent was a reliable, law-abiding citizen.”

  “Sorry, lady, but I can’t help you.” I move around the room, using the ladder to reach the high parts of the wall. She watches me for a while, before losing interest and walking around the apartment to peer into the empty rooms. When she returns, her pen is once again hovering over the clipboard.

  “Listen, Mister…” she pauses, wanting me to fill in my name, but I ignore her. “Listen, we’re not trying to get anyone in trouble here. We just want to do what’s best for the children. And the family.”

  I rest the paintbrush on the edge of the can and turn around to face her. “And how do you know what that is?” I peel dried paint from my hands and roll the gummy drops into a ball.

  “That’s a very good question,” she says. She bites down on the stem of her eyeglasses. “How do you know the best color for this room? The best price for this apartment?” She puts her glasses back on her face. She looks almost pretty now, or at least smart. “We all struggle to uphold the standards in any line of work.”

  “I’m dealing with a rental unit, not someone’s life,” I tell her. “I don’t have to worry about the best, I worry about good enough.”

  “Hmmm,” she says, with exaggerated thoughtfulness, “I guess we’re not that dissimilar after all.” She leans into the doorway to examine the trim, which is covered in layers of old paint. “It must be a lot of work, to cover up all the lead paint in these old houses. But that’s what you have to do, isn’t it, in order to follow the law?” She touches a loose part with her fingernail and a large chip of paint breaks off.

  “That trim’s next on my list,” I say. “A little more work and this place will look new again.”

  “I’m sure it will,” she says, nodding her head firmly. “Either way, I doubt you’ll have trouble renting it. As long as everything’s up to code.”

  I try to read her face but I can’t get much from across the room. I wonder if she really has the nerve to threaten me.

  “Do you happen to know if she has any other family in town?” she asks, changing her voice to sound like we’re talking about a friend we have in common.

  “Nope.”

  “I’m trying to track down her cousin, but all of his contact information seems to have changed. These people move around so much.”

  I look at her. “These people? What kind of people is that?”

  She clears her throat. “You know what I mean. All the foreigners, and the Spanish people on state aid. It’s hard for them to find steady work and keep up with the rent. You must know that better than anyone.”

  “There was a time when we were all foreign,” I tell her.

  “Yes, of course. But that was a long time ago. My family has been here for three generations. All in Fox Point.”

  “And my family came here in chains—what’s your point, lady?”

  She puts up her hand, shielding her eyes as if I’m too bright to look at.

  “I’m sorry, I’ve overstayed my welcome. I’ll let you get back to your work.” She places her business card on the counter, and backs out of the room. “Thank you for your time,” she calls out, closing the door behind her. “Please get in touch if you remember anything else.”

  There’s just enough daylight left for me to finish painting the ceiling and the front half of the living room. The paint is a bright white acrylic that dries quickly, and when I walk back into the room it doesn’t look like I painted at all. It looks like I just washed the dirt from half the walls. The unpainted part looks so dingy I force myself to quickly finish the room, painting in the half-dark with large, sloppy strokes just to cover it all up. I rinse out my roller in the kitchen, leaving white droplets in the sink that look like spilt milk.

  Before I leave, I walk through the darkening rooms, trying to imagine living in this apartment
myself. I wonder if I would feel comfortable and safe, if I would think of it as my home. I try to imagine being Cristo, or being any kid really, and coming here after school and eating dinner, doing my homework, and falling asleep. I see myself at eight or ten, standing on the ripped linoleum floor in my bare feet, lying down to watch TV on the matted carpet, counting watermarks on the ceiling instead of saying my prayers. I see Justin. At four, six, eight—ages when I no longer knew him—and wonder, what would be good enough for him?

  I remember the home I grew up in, how it smelled like Pine Sol, lilacs, and cornbread all at the same time. How big and clean it was, how silent. I walk into the smaller bedroom, where Cristo and his sisters lived in an eight-by-eight-foot space, and lift up a corner of the carpet to check the hardwood floors. They’re old and dirty, but they can be salvaged, I realize, and if I have them sanded and refinished they would look almost new again. I glance around the room. A ceiling fan would help, and a new pane of glass in the front window. I could do that for the next family that moves in here. It doesn’t have to be the best, but it can be better than it was. It can be good.

  When I move the dresser to tear up more carpet, I come across a wall covered with pencil marks. I look closer and see that it’s handwriting: the word Luz written over and over again in a flowery script, like an after-school punishment on a chalkboard. My walls were tagged by a ten-year-old. Either this kid is an egomaniac, or she’s proving to someone somewhere that she does exist.

  Cristo once told me that his sister’s name means “light” in Spanish, but that everything about her is dark. He said her hair is black, and her eyes are the color of Coca-Cola. I move the dresser back to its place and return her name to the darkness for one more night.

  Luz

  When I get back from school on a rainy day after Thanksgiving there’s a package waiting for me. A small, flat square with my name written on the outside in black magic marker, a mix of upper and lowercase letters like how a child would write it. It’s from my mother, no surprise there, but I’m not sure if it’s a very late birthday present or an early Christmas gift. I can instantly tell it’s a book, which makes me feel like there’s a flower blooming in my chest. But then I read the title: A Cat’s Meow, Sounds and Shapes for Your Toddler. My flower dies before I can pick it.