by Paul Hond
He went inside the adjacent drugstore and walked the aisles, trying to think. Did Bread know about the firing? What had he been told? What did he believe? He picked up a candy bar, unwrapped it, took a nervous bite. He knew he was being watched by the cashiers. He grabbed a pack of Wrigley’s and walked on.
It had been a crazy twenty-four hours. By the time he’d gotten home from Seven Pines (he’d ended up wishing Rattner had driven him all the way to his house, it was a longer walk than he’d thought), he was ready to go straight to bed, but when he turned the corner at Washburn and Percy, he saw, under the street lamp, a group of young teenagers, two or three of whom were astride bicycles, their attention focused on a bouncing, hooded figure in the middle whose words seemed to hold them spellbound.
Nelson knew, even before he saw or heard him, that the speaker was Hawk. Was he talking about what had happened? But that would kill the theory that he was waiting to go to the police, to finger Nelson and collect some money; he’d be quiet then. Drawing closer, Nelson wondered if Hawk was not only discussing the evening’s events, but taking credit for the shooting. And wouldn’t that just be like Hawk? But that still didn’t answer the question of why he and Chuckie had fled in the car, and Nelson, noting Hawk’s rapt, loyal audience, wasn’t sure if this was the best time to confront him.
“Yo—there he is,” came a voice from the group, and Nelson froze in his tracks as five or six faces—Hawk’s included—turned to him, their eyes all sparkling like some ominous constellation.
Nelson advanced, as if summoned, hands deep in his pockets. He held the cards, he felt; if Hawk had told lies and built himself up as a brazen killer, he would know better than to antagonize Nelson, who, angry and deranged (so Hawk must have seen him, given what had happened at Seven Pines), might dare to contradict him. But as he got closer, Nelson saw in the faces not hostility, or scorn, or amusement, but rather—and he’d seen the look before, in Crumb’s eyes—a fear, a reverence; glances were exchanged, there were whispers; and Nelson knew, as the group parted eagerly to let him through to the center, that Hawk, standing there like a minor god, his angels scattered, had told his, Nelson’s, story, told it with relish, perhaps even pride, had, perhaps to ease his guilt over having abandoned him, remained, in this peculiar way, loyal; had given credit to Nelson.
“Yo,” said Hawk. “Nelson. You a’ight?”
“What happened, Hawk?” Nelson said icily.
Hawk glanced around at the kids, who were gathering again, an audience now to this meeting of neighborhood giants.
“Yo, son,” said Hawk, shaking his head. “Chuckie just took off. The boy panicked. The second that gun went off, he just put on the gas.”
“Yo, Nelson,” said one of the kids. “You really shoot a white man?”
“Naw,” said Nelson.
The kids looked at one another knowingly, as if this denial was the ultimate confirmation of Hawk’s story.
Hawk took Nelson aside. “Don’t worry,” he said. “These niggas ain’t gonna say nothin’.”
Nelson laughed to himself. Had there really been a murder, it would have been Hawk after all who’d have done him in. In bragging of Nelson’s exploits, Hawk’s loyalty had taken its final idiotic turn: the whole neighborhood had been informed.
“Yo,” said Hawk, turning to the kids. “Y’all need to go now. Me and Nelson havin’ a private conversation.”
The kids didn’t move; they were, Nelson saw, staring at him, as though awaiting from him some sign that would tell them how to proceed with their lives.
“Y’all better go,” Nelson said, and watched with disbelief as the kids, without so much as a grumble of protest, backed off, turned and dispersed, running, riding, occasionally looking back.
“So what happened?” said Hawk. “How’d you get here?”
Nelson spat on the ground. “Took the white boy’s car,” he said. “Left his ass there on the lot. Took the car down to that chop shop over near Rogers Avenue.”
“Damn,” said Hawk. He shook his head. “I can’t believe it.”
“What did you expect?” said Nelson.
“Not this,” said Hawk. “I didn’t think you’d do it, yo.” There was fear in his voice. “I didn’t think you’d do it.”
“Then why,” said Nelson, “did you bring Chuckie?”
Hawk took a step back. He looked away from Nelson as he spoke. “I didn’t think you’d do it. I thought it would just be, you know, something to do. Thought you’d go soft at the last minute, embarrass yourself in front of Chuck. That way you wouldn’t be askin’ me anymore to run with us. See, I couldn’t be tellin’ you no without givin’ you a chance. I thought for sure you’d mess up your own chances, get me off the hook. I told Chuck, I said, ‘Yo. This nigga ain’t gonna shoot nobody. Shit just gonna be for laughs, you know?’ Now Chuckie think you a crazy nigga. Made me promise I can’t have nothin’ to do with you if me and him gonna work together.”
Nelson listened to this, nodded. “And what did you tell him?”
“Yo. I got to look out for my own self too. You mixed up in some serious bullshit. I mean, it ain’t nothin’ personal. But yo. I’m tryin’ to get my life together.”
Nelson nodded some more. So that was it: he’d scared everyone off. He wanted to laugh, to shout: totally isolated now, he had only himself: it was like a second chance. Having come within an inch, literally, of murder, he now found himself rid of all the vile influences that had led him to that point in the first place. He felt he’d been given a gift.
When he awoke the following morning he felt like a new person. He knew Mama would get on him again about his not going to work at the bakery, but he was determined to beat her to the punch by finding another job. And would it really be so hard, so impossible to find work? Hadn’t he done it once before?
He took the bus way out Falls Road to the Green Garden Nursery and asked the white lady there if she was hiring. He knew she recognized him as a customer—he’d bought his African violets there, and had inquired once about some narcissus bulbs, which he’d once read could grow in a bowl of pebbles and water—and knew, too, that on several occasions she’d watched him study the plants with the special intensity of one who sees beyond the spectacle of blossom. The air smelled of pine, of wood chips, of the basil, sage, rosemary and sweet bay that grew in tiny white pots, of roses and hibiscus, of red and yellow marigolds. It was December, but everything was growing here; the whole nursery was crawling and creeping with life. Yes: this was where he belonged. He would learn the names of all these growing things, these strong-smelling flowers and shrubs, would learn how to care for each and every one of them. Who could deny his will, his enthusiasm? Still, he had expected rejection—there was, he knew, this kernel of anxiety that rattled loudly through his body whenever he tried to appear composed and professional—and was therefore astonished when the lady told him that she was looking for someone to perform general duties—potting, watering, pruning—and handed him an application and told him to come back as soon as possible.
He’d filled out the application on the bus, dreaming of a future of flowers, vegetables, bushes, trees, of dirt under his nails, of the rainbow mist of sprinklers. Who knew where it might lead? Who knew what he would learn?
And he would learn. He’d listen and watch and ask questions and learn everything he could. But when he came to the part on the application requesting a recommendation from a former employer, he stopped: his hopes collapsed. How could he ask for a good reference, after all that had happened?
Well, he’d thought after a moment: Crumb owes me. And wasn’t it true? Didn’t Crumb owe him at least that much? Finally he convinced himself that Crumb—if not by coercion, then out of his own guilt over the firing—would almost certainly provide him with a glowing reference.
But now, slinking through the aisles of the drugstore, he felt a deep foreboding. Crumb was not there, and Mickey Lerner, who was, might, for all he knew, turn on him (for Ben would have told him sto
ries, if Jay Rattner hadn’t already), order him from his store with a stiff, hateful finger.
Nelson grew defensive over this imagined treatment. What about his side of things? The way he’d been treated? And what right did Bread have to judge him, when he hadn’t even been there, when he didn’t even know the facts?
Nelson paid for the candy bar and gum and walked out of the store, his blood running hot with the righteous indignation of the falsely accused. He had nothing to fear from Bread. He’d enter the bakery a proud man and demand justice, make Bread understand that it was in his interest to write a good recommendation, lest the weight of protest come crashing down upon his store in some fiery, time-honored form.
Nelson took a breath, raised his chin and advanced to the bakery door. Bread was alone, he saw. That was bad; with people around he might be more agreeable, more cooperative. Nelson considered coming back when things were busier, but he needed to get back to the nursery as soon as possible.
Bread would have to be dealt with.
“Well, look who it is!” the voice called out as Nelson opened the door. A hand shot out over the counter.
Nelson was confused. “Hi, Mr. Lerner,” he said. He shook the man’s hand, and was thrilled by the strength of the grip. Somehow he wasn’t quite Bread anymore; he was someone else. Something bigger. “How you doin’?”
“Doing well, knock wood.” Mr. Lerner rapped the glass countertop with his knuckles, drawing brief attention to the bright buns and pastries underneath. “How about yourself?”
“I’m good,” said Nelson, fingering the folded application in his pocket. What did Mr. Lerner know? What had he been told?
“Benjie tells me you left us.”
Nelson stroked his chin, looked askance. “Yeah. Morris okay?”
“He’s fine. You get a new job?”
Nelson shrugged. “You know,” he said. “I got an opportunity.” A heat broke out on his back.
“Is that right?”
Nelson pulled out the application, unfolded it. “Yeah,” he said. He couldn’t meet the man’s eyes. “I got this application. They want me to get a reference. You know. Something nice.” He was aware of a slight anger in his tone. He laid the paper on the counter between them: it looked shabby with its creases.
Mr. Lerner picked it up, looked at it. “The Green Garden Nursery,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “You’re interested in gardening, are you?”
Nelson stroked his chin. Did Mr. Lerner know that he’d made special trips in the van, just to admire his garden?
“So they want a few words of praise, do they?”
Mr. Lerner took a pen from his pocket and bore down on the paper, and Nelson felt his entire future squirm under the point. Should he stop him, ask him what he meant to write?
But he knew it was too late. The man was writing slowly, intently; his concentration demanded silence.
Nelson swallowed. Should he say something anyway? Ask about his trip?
“Here you go.” Mr. Lerner slid the paper across the counter.
Nelson quickly folded it. He’d read it outside.
“You know, Nelson, if things don’t work out over there at the nursery, and I’m still looking for a delivery man, maybe we can work something out.”
“Thanks,” Nelson said. But he knew—just as Mr. Lerner must have known—that he would never return. He wondered if he’d ever see the man again.
“By the way,” said Mr. Lerner. “If you’re not busy tomorrow, why not stop by my house? I’ll be baking some bread and puttering around in the garden, weather permitting. If you want to taste some real good bread—”
“Maybe I’ll do that,” said Nelson. He doubted he would, though; it would be awkward, with Crumb around, and besides, it was Saturday, which meant ball games on television. Still, it might be nice, especially if Mr. Lerner was going to be working in his yard. He said, “I better get going.” He met the man’s eyes and gave a shy smile, then quickly looked away. This was just how they’d met, back when Nelson was hired: Mr. Lerner handing him an application over the counter. Now they’d come full circle.
Nelson took one last look at the bakery—the baskets of bread, the glass cases, the counter, the corny snowflake decorations; already it was a place deep in his memory, viewed from a distance, a pinpoint of light at the end of a wistful backward vision.
His reverie was broken by a voice: “So long.” Mickey Lerner raised his hand like a man taking an oath.
Nelson mirrored that. Then he turned and walked out.
It now seemed odd to him that no one had mentioned Ben. Had Mr. Lerner avoided it on purpose? Had they both avoided it? Again he wondered what the man knew.
At the bus stop he unfolded the application. He closed his eyes, opened them, and read.
Nelson is hard-working, honest and dependable. He is responsible and a pleasure to work with. He was a valuable addition to my staff. I can recommend him without hesitation.
Nelson read the paragraph several times, occasionally glancing back at the bakery. No one had ever said these things about him. He wasn’t sure what to feel or think. Did Mr. Lerner really mean it? He wanted to shout with joy, but something stopped him. The words, the praise. Suddenly he wasn’t sure if he deserved it.
He’d done a lot of things. Time and again he’d gone off his route to play ball or just to drive around; he’d invented traffic stories to explain lateness, burned unnecessary gas. There’d been abuses, lies. If anything, he deserved to be punished. Taken to task. It was crazy, but he wished Mr. Lerner had hauled off on him. He wanted to be taken aside, dealt with, forgiven. It sickened him to think that he’d gotten over on his former boss.
In his great confusion of feeling he vowed to do everything he could to live up to the man’s opinion of him. He did not want to make Mickey Lerner a fool.
On the bus heading to the nursery, he read the incredible words again and again.
The moment Nelson walked out of the bakery, Mickey began to second-guess himself. Should he have made the invitation for tomorrow more definite? Nelson, as he well knew, was his only link to Donna, and though he had planned, just as soon as he got up his nerve, on calling Donna at work (some kind of massage place downtown: he’d look it up), it made him sick to think that he’d just seen his former employee for the last time, that he’d blown the chance to build a bridge to a woman whose beauty had come back to him at the first sight of her son (he saw it now, the resemblance: the eyes, the nose), and whose ready laughter—he remembered it well—still rang in his ears like the bells of the bakery door on a quiet day: the sound of hope, of the entrance of possibilities.
Though maybe, he told himself, maybe such a casual invitation warranted—why not?—a follow-up phone call; sure: he could call Donna on the pretext of reminding Nelson about Saturday, and, if she sounded the least bit receptive to him, suggest that she might like to come along too. Or maybe he ought to propose something else, a more intimate get-together, offer it as a sort of apology for his having stood her up in November—yes, he ought to at least call and apologize, tell her how he’d been so terribly confused, and that he wouldn’t mind, if it was okay with her, talking about it, which was, of course, true, he would like to talk, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat down with someone and talked.
No sense sitting around; it was put up or shut up. Still, it bothered him that he could be yearning for Donna when he’d yet to sit down and talk with his son—Benjie being home alone, up in his room, withdrawn as if in protest of his father’s return, which comprised a threat to the new life he’d carved out for himself at the bakery—but he assured himself that the kid would reject him anyhow, that he needed a few days, maybe even more, to get used to the idea of relinquishing his power, no, sharing it, sharing his power with the man who had granted it, the man who had hastily outfitted him and then left him alone in the jungle wilds of business. And yet Mickey’d have thought the kid would have shown at least some gratitude, having been given such a rare oppo
rtunity.
He called Morris at home and asked him—told him—to come in, that he had to make some deliveries and would be gone for a couple of hours.
Cathedral Street, Mickey thought, his hands tight on the steering wheel of the van. He remembered the place exactly. And hadn’t Donna herself suggested that he drop by sometime, for a massage? Not that she had really meant it—there was such a thing, after all, as just being polite—but it did provide him with a humorous opening line (“You told me I ought to drop by sometime”), which was better than nothing, and though he’d never been a smooth talker, he could see as how a man of his hard experience ought to at least have the nerve to give it a try, to charge headlong into battle with both fists swinging. And while it did seem incredible to him, what with all he’d been through, that he should be at all intimidated by the notion of meeting Donna Childs, it was this selfsame nervousness that assured him his feelings were genuine, and that Donna, the very thought of whom could put a foolish, self-conscious grin on his face, was the one person in the world for whom he’d put off a talk with his son.
When he arrived downtown, it occurred to him that he would have to pass within blocks of the spot where Emi was killed. As he drove nearer, he felt a physical revulsion, and though in the weeks following the murder he would not have been able to bring himself to come here, he did have a history of returning to a scene: after his bakery had burned, he used to visit the site regularly, as if on the chance that the building had risen again. It was always strange to see that empty space —and strange, too, to be faced, each time, with that sudden snatch of alleyway and the backs of the row houses beyond it, whose windows were now painfully exposed.
Now he had an even grimmer scene to visit. He turned onto the street where the shooting had taken place, then parked the van just yards from the spot and got out.
Two months had passed, which was not enough for him to be able to say that it felt like any less. Two months was still yesterday. And as he stepped onto the cracked, disjointed pavement, he could recall, like a macabre rhyme learned in childhood, every last detail, from the sound of their own footsteps to the car keys being passed to him as they walked more hurriedly (“I’m not wearing the right shoes”) to the moment of the confrontation itself, right here, yes, by this slab of curb. Mickey swallowed hard and lowered his eyes to the ground.
