This Side of Providence

by Rachel M. Harper

  I used to imagine bringing Justin to this pool when he got bigger, to swim laps with me and do backflips off the diving board. After he got adopted, I wouldn’t let myself think about him too much—not while I ate his favorite chicken potpie dinners or walked to the corner store to buy ice pops and orange soda, his favorite combo during a heat wave. But I did keep seeing him whenever I was in the water. I heard his laugh echoing across the crowded pool. I could see his smile on the faces of all the little boys in the preschool swim class. For years I would come here every day and swim laps for over an hour, just so I could have that time with my brother. So I could see his face and remember how much I missed him. So I could cry without any trace of tears.

  Cristo’s a natural and by the end of the first lesson he can swim a few laps without resting. As he gets more confident, his strokes get stronger until next thing I know he’s slipping into the fast lane, trying to catch me.

  When we walk out of the locker room I ask him if he wants me to put him on my membership. “That way, you don’t have to keep sneaking in.”

  He looks at me, water still dripping from his hair. “You’d let me do that?”

  “Of course. It’s no big deal.”

  I stop at the counter and tell the lady I want to update my card so I can add him on. She scans the card in the computer.

  “You have an individual membership, Mr. Lewis. The only way to add him is if you change to a family one.”

  “Okay.”

  “Is he part of your family?”

  “Yes.”

  She looks at me.

  “He’s my son.” I don’t even hesitate. I don’t even think about the lie.

  She opens her mouth to speak. She’s wondering how she could see me almost every day for years and never have seen him before. She thought she knew me.

  I smile at her, which makes her close her mouth. “Okay,” she says.

  They take his picture and make him his own card so he can get in anytime, even when I’m not there. Cristo holds the card like it’s a driver’s license or a credit card, something that makes him a grownup. He stares at the photograph as if he doesn’t recognize himself.

  “What’s up? You don’t like it?”

  “No. It’s not that. It’s just the first photograph I seen of myself since the class picture last year.” He raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t know I looked so old.”

  Maybe it’s putting him on my card, with the name Cristoval Lewis printed next to his picture, or maybe it’s the form I have to sign about being the responsible party if he gets hurt on their property, but something changes for me right then and I realize I have to take care of this kid no matter what. I have to watch out for him. And I have to trust that nobody’s going to take him away from me—not his teacher, not his mother, not the state.

  After Justin I used to swear I’d never get attached to anyone again, and I kept that promise for more than fifteen years, till this skinny Puerto Rican kid with an Afro and an attitude as big as Rhode Island made me break it.

  I know it’s a bad sign when I hear she’s looking for me. First in the Laundromat, then from Lorenzo, my corner man, and finally from the ladies at Dunkin’ Donuts.

  “Arcelia’s looking for you,” they say when I stop by for a bran muffin after my swim. “She acted like she was going to die if she didn’t find you right then.”

  “When was that?”

  “Last night sometime.”

  I nod like it’s no big deal but inside my stomach twists and when I walk out the door I throw the muffin away without even taking a bite. I have work to do on a house in the Armory but instead of going straight there I head over to her apartment first. I wait for almost half an hour but nobody’s home. I go around to the back and peek in the kitchen window. There’s no sign of anything wrong so I decide not to let myself in. No reason to panic.

  I’m walking down Westminster when I notice a car driving slow behind me. I sneak a look at the driver and recognize Lucho’s sullen expression instantly. She turns her head away, as if not looking at me means that I can’t see her. She pulls into a driveway, figuring I’ll walk away I guess, but instead I walk straight up to the car. All the windows are down and she’s blasting some Spanish dance music.

  “You looking for someone?” I bend down to scan the inside of her car, making sure it’s empty.

  “No.” She turns the music down.

  “Why you driving so slow then?”

  She puts up her hands like I’m a cop. “I’m just driving around the neighborhood.”

  “I thought you might be looking for me, since you owe me some rent on the last place. You’re not looking to pay up, are you?”

  “My name wasn’t on that lease,” she says.

  “Oh, so now you pay attention to the law, huh?”

  She looks away. “How much does she owe?”

  “You just said it wasn’t your business, didn’t you?”

  “Fine.” She puts the car in reverse. “Don’t say I didn’t offer.”

  “You’re about six months too late, champ. Somebody else paid your debts.”

  She shrugs. “Anything I owe Arcelia is between her and me.”

  “I wasn’t talking about Arcelia.”

  She stares at me with a confused look.

  “The kid covered your ass,” I tell her. “Cristo. He’s the one you owe.”

  “Cristo?” She says his name like she doesn’t know who I’m talking about.

  “Arcelia’s son.”

  “I know who he is.”

  “You don’t act like it.”

  She taps on the steering wheel, which is covered in fake leather. The car, a Honda that can’t be more than a few years old, is a great improvement over the last junker I saw her in. I stand back and admire it, the silvery green paint shimmering in the sunlight.

  “Nice car.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You pay it off yet?”

  “Almost. Not everybody has the cash flow you got, Snowman.”

  “Shit, I don’t even own a car.”

  That makes her laugh, which takes several years off her face. “That’s ’cause you’re cheap, not poor.”

  I shrug. “Walking clears my head. Just like the Indians. I figure if I can’t walk there, I probably don’t need to go that far.”

  “If my people followed that rule they never would’ve left Puerto Rico.”

  “And would that have been such a bad thing?”

  She lights a cigarette. “Do the math, man. If all the Spanish people left this city tomorrow, half your houses would be empty. And let’s not even count your other business.” She offers me the pack but I decline. The only chemical I allow into my body is the chlorine from the swimming pool.

  “You’re right,” I say. “But it wouldn’t take long for another group to show up and fill them back up. If you’ve got a good product there’s always someone willing to buy.”

  She exhales a long stream of smoke. “And you always had the best, didn’t you?”

  I cross my arms. “I guess the customer’s always right.”

  She flicks the cigarette onto the sidewalk. “Listen, I know after last summer you said it was over for me and you, but the guy I been using just got popped and I’m kind of in a jam.” She tucks her hands into her armpits. “I’m not talking a lot, just something to help me out until I find somebody else. A couple of dime bags and some weed. Whatever you got laying around.”

  I look up and down the street before answering. “I can’t do it, Lucho. It’s not the right time.”

  “What’s that mean? I got the money.”

  I look toward Arcelia’s apartment, a thin red house on the other side of the park. I wonder if Lucho knows how close we are to her ex. I look back at her.

  “Have you seen her, since she got out?”

  “No.” Lucho answers, too quickly. “But I heard she was doing good. And that she was still clean.” She cracks her knuckles, which sounds like her fingers breaking.

&
nbsp; I nod. “I just want to keep it that way.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  I tap my fingers on the roof of her car. “Can you promise that you’ll stay away from her?”

  She drops her head. “Give me a fucking break, Snowman.”

  “Exactly.” I say, nodding my head as I back away from the car. “That’s exactly why I can’t help you.”

  “You don’t make any sense, man. I thought you were a businessman.”

  “Some things are more important than business. Some people.”

  I walk back through the park so I don’t have to worry about her following me. I wish I could get lost in this city. I want to find a neighborhood so foreign it feels like I’m walking through the woods at night with only the stars to guide me. But I know every alley and back road in Providence and even when I try to disorient myself, I always know exactly where I am.

  Arcelia finds me at the flea market. I see her first, picking through piles of tube socks, and a part of me wants to hide, but I know I have to face her sooner or later. No point putting it off any longer.

  When she sees me she waves, like we’re old friends, and something about the gesture makes me feel sorry for her. She walks over to me with a crooked smile, trying to hide the fact that she’s missing a tooth, and suddenly she looks exactly like her son. That makes me smile. She’s a pretty lady, no doubt, but she looks older than she is, and her body seems burdened by all she’s been through.

  “Hey,” she says.

  “Hey. I heard you were looking for me.”

  She nods. “Yeah. I need a favor.”

  “I thought I just did you a favor.” I’ve never had a girlfriend, but I can imagine conversations like this one being part of the territory.

  “You did. And I’m grateful.” She rubs my arm just above the elbow. “But now I need something else.”

  I stare down at her, trying to ignore the feeling of her hand on my arm. It’s hard to focus when she’s this close to me, hard to keep the distance we both need. Her eyes dart around and she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. She’s jonesing.

  “I need to buy some stuff from you.”

  I knew this moment would come, but it still surprises me. Saddens me, really.

  “It wasn’t that long ago you asked me not to sell to you,” I remind her.

  “It’s not for me, it’s for a friend. Really.” She lets go of my arm.

  I take a step back, so I can see her more clearly. “A friend?”

  She nods. “His dealer got arrested. He’s got a small stash, but he’s gonna get sick real soon if he runs out. You know the deal.”

  “He? So your friend is a man?”

  She bites her fingernail. “Is that a problem?”

  I shake my head. “Go on.” I want to see how many lies she’ll tell.

  “That’s it. That’s the story.” She spits a piece of her fingernail onto the ground between us.

  “Sorry, Arcelia.” I shrug. “I made a promise.”

  “But it was with me,” she says, her voice pleading. “And I don’t care if you break it. Honestly.” She grabs my sleeve again. “I want you to. Need you to.”

  I look down at her hand. Her skin is dry and the polish on her nails is chipped. “That’s not the promise I’m talking about.”

  She drops her head and softens the tone of her voice. “Do I have to beg?”

  “Please don’t do that.” I look around to see if anyone is watching. The streets are empty except for the occasional car rolling down Manton.

  When she speaks again she sounds almost angry. “So what are you saying, you want me to go to somebody else?”

  I shrug. “I can’t control what you do.”

  “Come on, you know how fucked up most of the shit out there is. Half of it’s cut with baby formula, brick dust, or gasoline. You want my friend to end up in the ER?”

  “Of course not. Don’t be stupid.” I glance toward the ENCORE van, which is parked by the front door to Atlantic Mills. “At least go to the needle exchange. Find someone who knows what they’re getting.”

  “They only give you the works,” she says, “they’re not handing out dime bags.”

  “I know that. I meant someone who goes there, someone you used to score with maybe.” I can’t believe I’m suggesting this, but what else can I do?

  “I spent the last nine months trying to forget all those motherfuckers. Now I’m supposed to walk back in there and beg for a connection? You must be crazy.”

  “You’re supposed to walk away,” I tell her, leaning in close so I don’t have to raise my voice. “If you really want to take care of yourself. If you want to help your family. You have to leave it all behind.”

  “Pretty easy for you to say.”

  “Actually, no, it isn’t easy. Giving in would be a lot easier.”

  She spits onto the muddy ground. “I thought you were one of the good guys.”

  “Guess you were wrong.”

  I walk away before I change my mind. Saying no to her shouldn’t be this hard. I try to ignore it, but the sound of her voice fills my head, her desperation like a drum beating against my skull. I don’t want to think about how much power I have over someone else’s life. Someone I don’t even love. Or can’t.

  The sun is warm on my neck and I smell barbecue in the air, floating across the parking lot from Wes’s Rib Shack. I think of Cristo, of taking him out for pulled pork after our last swim lesson, and picturing his face makes me turn around and go back for her. Maybe I do love her, through her son. Or maybe I love him through her.

  When I get back to the flea market, she’s gone. The spot where I left her just a few minutes before is empty. But I still call out her name, like a lost child calling for his mother. I walk up and down Manton Avenue looking for her, but she’s not in any of the usual places. She just vanished. Like a passing car picked her up off the street.

  Nobody can run that fast.

  Cristo

  When Mrs. Reed passes our essays back, it turns out I got my first A. Crazy, huh? Especially since I wrote the whole thing in English and didn’t even make any mistakes. I gotta give some credit to Graciela because I got her to read it before I turned it in and she made a lot of changes. But still. It was all my own ideas and had my name across the top.

  To celebrate, I ask Mami when I get home if we can go out for Chinese food. She says she’s got a meeting later and besides we don’t have the money.

  “I can pay for it.” I pull a wad of cash from my pocket, but she waves my money away.

  “Thanks, mijo, but I got to stay home anyway. In case my case manager comes by.”

  I stand in front of her, holding my essay like a shield against my chest. “You wanna read it?”

  “Of course I do. But maybe later, okay?” She lies down on the couch. “I can’t focus on words right now.”

  “You sick, Mami?”

  “No, cariño. I’m okay. Just got a little headache.”

  “You need me to make you something?”

  She curls under a blanket, even though it’s warm in the apartment and outside it’s almost seventy degrees.

  She shakes her head. “No tengo hambre.”

  “But you didn’t eat anything. For breakfast or lunch.”

  “Nothing sounds good right now. Nothing we got anyway.”

  She covers her face with the blanket, trying to block out the sunlight. I leave her alone for a while, but then I go back and tell her what I really want is for her to teach me how to make pasteles.

  “Come on, Mami. I’ll go to the market and get everything, you won’t even have to move.”

  When I pull back the blanket she opens her eyes halfway.

  “I’ll even wash all the vegetables myself.”

  “Are you serious?” She blinks and I can see the veins in her eyelids. “That’s a lot of work. Just order a pizza, okay?”

  “We eat pizza all the time. That’s not special.” I wave the essay in her face
. “Mami. It’s my first A. Ever.”

  She finally gives in. “Go to the market on Broad Street, even though it’s far, ’cause the prices are better and his banana leaves are nice and oily.” She points to the kitchen. “Go get my purse.”

  “That’s okay, I got it.” I kiss her on the cheek. “Thanks, Mami. I’ll be right back. So quick you won’t have time to miss me.”

  She closes her eyes again. “I always miss you,” she says, which is something we started saying to each other after she left me in Puerto Rico.

  “I always miss you, too.” Then I run out of the apartment before she changes her mind.

  On the way to the market I see a guy getting into a green Honda parked in front of the liquor store. Something about him seems familiar so I look back again. He pulls up his hood and drives away before I can see his face. Nobody I know drives a nice car, except some of the teachers at my school, so I figure I must be wrong about knowing him. He rolls through a stop sign at the next block and drives around a school bus with blinking red lights, almost hitting two kids as they cross the street.

  When I get to the market it takes me a while to collect all the vegetables because I know Mami’s picky about getting the best ones. I ask the lady at the register to help, and without saying anything she comes around from behind the counter and grabs the calabaza from my basket, testing the weight of each squash in her hand. Then she knocks on the shells before handing me the ones to keep. She exchanges my ripe plantains for green ones, gives me two more pounds of malanga, and throws an extra head of garlic into the bag. Her husband uses a butcher’s knife to cut twenty-five plantain leaf squares, which he ties together with a long piece of twine, like a binding for some primitive book. He asks if I have more twine at home, to tie around each pastel after we wrap them, and when I say no he gives me the rest of the roll for free.

  My bags are too heavy to carry all the way home so I decide to take the bus. I run into Graciela at the bus stop, coming back from her piano lesson. At first she’s just looking at the ground, but when she recognizes me, she finally smiles.