Fear of Heights

by Mara White

  Thanks to both of these men, Ideal and Jaylee, I would never dare say I haven’t been lucky in love.

  I pull out my phone and scroll through my photos of the makeshift altar that went up near his corner, right after his death. Cardboard and candles, flowered wreaths, and bottles of cognac alongside empty forties. So many messages written in marker, words that bled and expanded into nonsense with the drenching summer rains.

  Ideal didn’t have a lot of family, but he had so many friends. He was a neighborhood fixture, a gentle soul in the guise of the ghetto. I’ll show Sarah the photos. Emily already knows. She went with me to leave flowers right after his death. Emily, in her new persona, has taken Ideal’s passing like the second coming. She worships him in a bizarre sort of way that could border on unhealthy, depending on who’s doing the talking. She’s gone back to her normal life in many ways, but Ideal is her soft spot, her personal mission. She believes he saved her, and she takes care of his matters with evangelical zeal—such as the mausoleum space she’s secured him at Trinity Cemetery. It makes sense, as it is close to his home, but it’s the oldest cemetery in Manhattan, and those spots don’t come easy or free. We had him cremated with the family’s permission, and next week Emily will fly to the Dominican Republic to scatter the other half of his ashes in the Caribbean Sea. She wanted me to go with her, but I didn’t dare. His aunts and uncles, cousins, and one half-brother there won’t know her from me. I’ll stay with Robert and avoid making waves.

  I pass by a barbershop—there’s at least one on each block in this part of the city. They often seem to function more as hangouts than places of business. They’re usually crowded with young men, drinking or cajoling, always listening to music, very few of them actually getting their hair cut or doing any cutting. The music reaches outside and spills into the busy street; it’s often reggaetón, dembow, or occasionally some hip-hop in English. An intimidating environment: a masculine territory if ever there was one.

  On a strange impulse, I step in the door of the one I’m passing. I like to think both Jaylee and Ideal have stepped through this same threshold before. I imagine their jovial greetings, with handshakes and hugs and unlimited teasing. There are a few men getting a straight razor shave with their necks exposed, and one young man sitting for a shape-up under the skilled hand of a barber with clippers.

  “En qué le puedo ayudar?” asks the man with the clippers.

  What, am I sightseeing? Is there a reason I walked myself in here? I’m acting on impulse, driven by nostalgia and sentimental thinking.

  “Yes…. Can you stripe my brow? A catscratch? I think that’s what it’s called.”

  Now all the heads that weren’t already turned in my direction suddenly swivel with interest. I’m so nervous I can’t even speak Spanish.

  “You serious?”

  “Yes, I want one,” I nod.

  “Yeah, OK, sit down. I’ be with you in a minute.”

  So of course now they’re all staring. I guess people who look like me don’t come in here that often. When they do, it’s probably to ask directions or try to use the bathroom.

  The chubby barber motions me over and dusts the seat for fallen hair. He’s got a fancily shaved chinstrap beard and patterns buzzed into his hair.

  When I sit and face the mirror, I can see all of the men in the shop have stopped what they were doing and gathered around behind me.

  “It doesn’t mean gang stuff, or drugs, or anything like that, does it?” I’ve got to make some effort to stay away from that shit.

  “Nah, no’ really. Maybe before, but not now. Most guys get it done for style. It looks good with a new cut.”

  “Okay then, let’s do it.”

  “You sure? I never did it to no chick before.”

  “I want it. It’s an homage to a friend.”

  “What’s that? On the left or right you want it?”

  “Does it matter? Either side—do the right. What’s an homage? It’s a memory. For a good friend.”

  Sarah and Emily are inside the main office at the edge of the cemetery, but as soon as Sarah sees me, she barrels out and hugs me like a bear.

  “God, you fucking troll! I was afraid you weren’t going to show and I was going to have to sing Kumbayah with your Stepford sister while she cries her eyes out on my chest!”

  “Em looks good lately, don’t you think? We’ve been spending time together. Can you believe it?”

  “You look great, Great! I was afraid you might have shriveled up into a bitter old hag. What the hell is that? Did you have a shaving accident?”

  “It’s a tribute. Does it look bad?”

  “Shit, I volunteer as tribute! Where can I get one?”

  “At the barbershop down the block. They only charge three bucks.”

  “Fuck that; I don’t want one. It looks really stupid. They’re gonna kick you out of Connecticut. What’s the deal with the move? You converted to full yuppie.”

  “I don’t know. I guess it was part of our arrangement.”

  “’Cause you can’t keep your drawers up when it comes to Dominican men!” Sarah yells loudly as we walk through the doors. Of course all of the cemetery administrators are conveniently Dominican.

  “I told you we shouldn’t bring her!” Emily huffs. “We don’t need a clown, Sarah, this is serious.”

  “Sorry, Emily. Look, I know about Ideal. From what I hear, he was a special kind of dude.”

  Emily straightens from signing some papers. She’s dressed in Chanel; she chose all white for this joyless occasion.

  “The plaque is up already. You guys will love how they did it. It’s got his real name, and then of course I had them put ‘Ideal’ underneath in quotes.”

  “I’m sure it’s perfect, Em,” I say as the three of us leave the office and make our way to the mausoleum, where at least some of our friend Ideal will rest.

  The sun is high over the Hudson, and is taking on the slightly whitish tinge of fall. None of us speak as we watch the old man, a cemetery employee, gently place the urn in a gilded drawer lined with deep red velvet. He shuts it softly and we sigh together at the permanency of the name engraved on the plate of the little door. We’ve all brought bouquets of flowers that we place in front of his spot on the floor. I kiss my fingers and place them over his name.

  Thank you, Ideal. I’m sorry. I’ll never forget you.

  It’s so strange that it’s the three of us attending his burial. I could never have foreseen this the first time we met. Who knew he’d become such a huge part of my life. Ideal was a sweet anomaly. A sheep in wolf’s clothes.

  We stand shoulder to shoulder in silence in front of his grave.

  “Sarah, Kate thinks he was an angel, right, sis?”

  “Well, not literally. I just meant that he was really good to me. He was a very special man.”

  Emily holds my hand as we stand there in silence. She wouldn’t be standing here if not for Ideal. But I wonder if he would be here if it hadn’t been for me. If our lives hadn’t intersected, he’d still be around—probably standing right down the street, listening to his headphones, doing a dance on the corner. Ideal’s death will always affect my sister and me. He forever marked us both, and now together we suffer his heavy absence. He wasn’t just another drug dealer occupying a neighborhood corner.

  The media would have you believe that young men like Ideal, raised on gang values and born into the “game,” are useless and dispensable. Tomorrow someone else, another thug, will take his place. His death didn’t make the news—it flashed for a second in the papers, to be easily forgotten the very next day.

  “Is that it? Should we go get some food?” Sarah asks as she puts her arm across Emily’s shoulder.

  “Christ, Kate, I swear. Don’t invite your friends to my funeral!”

  “Let’s walk, guys. I don’t know. It’s been so long since I wandered around the Heights.”

  “You sure it’s safe, Great? Wasn’t there just a hit out on your life?”
>
  “I think it’s safe to say that the debt has been paid in full.”

  I’m no longer scared of the drug wars controlling the action on these streets. I believe the hand that truly orchestrates my destiny lies much closer to me.

  “Oh my God, Kate. I am so totally scoring some weed!”

  I look at Sarah and throw my hands up to scold her, but then realize it’s Sarah—she’ll never quit and that’s part of the reason why I love her.

  “I don’t need your help. I’ll get it myself. I saw some guys just down the street.”

  We walk down the hill that will take us to the lowest part of the Heights, past Ideal’s corner, and after that, to Jaylee’s.

  I’ll never be able to walk past here without visualizing these men, and I can’t even come near the Heights without feeling Jaylee’s presence. I hear his laugh; I can taste a lick of sunshine on his warm brown skin. It lingers in me—his intensity, his confidence, the last, gentle time he made love to me.

  We pass through the territory that shaped him from a young boy into a man. These streets were his teacher; he told me himself he could never leave them. The loss of Jaylee’s love feels catastrophic, but the value of the love we did share is immeasurable to me.

  His absence is piercing; it’s a loss I struggle with everyday. He is absent everywhere, in whatever I do, in whatever I see. It isn’t a silent vacancy; it’s one that constantly screams at me. But at least I know his life continues. At least he’s not another casualty. Drug dealing in the Heights is a high-risk production, and the life these men lead is not a forgiving one. He’s lucky to have made it out alive. Ideal wasn’t so lucky.

  Jaylee is safe in hiding somewhere. I know he’s that he’s protected. This is my only comfort, but it’s the only comfort I really need. I was weak enough to take him, but in the end I was strong enough to let him go.

  I remember the first time we held each other’s eyes on the playground that day, mere blocks from where I now stand. In that first encounter, the divide between us was too great to even fathom. But our connection proved stronger than either one of us imagined. With Jaylee, I dropped all pretense and submitted to pure love to guide me. I won’t say that I didn’t make mistakes along the way—but the biggest mistake of all would have been not to love him.

  “How you doing without him, kid?” Sarah asks me throwing her arm around my neck and kissing me on the cheek.

  “Barely holding my head above water,” I whisper.

  “At least we know he’s safe,” Emily says, trying to soften the sting.

  I nod, and narrow my eyes to peer up his street.

  I can still taste the heat of his furious kiss on my lips. I often wake to the rush of his breath in my ear; my name suspended in the silence, secretly spoken by him somewhere. I still can’t live without him. But I’m making myself do it, heartbeat by reluctant beat.

  Epilogue

  Southport, Fairfield County, Connecticut

  Two years later . . .

  Bed feels so good that I peek at the alarm clock with reluctant eyes, not quite ready to get up. I listen for sounds of Carmen in the kitchen and hear nothing at all. Through the veil of half-sleep I realize that the air is devoid of the cinnamon scent of the special coffee she makes each morning as soon as she arrives. My eyes immediately flick to the silent baby monitor.

  I leap out of bed and rush to the nursery. The side of the crib is down and the blankets are strewn about on the ground.

  “Robert?” I ask as I race to the stairs, knowing that it’s after 6:00 and he’s already left for work. I reach the top of the stairs and see that the safety gate has been moved to the side.

  “Pearl?” I question as I dash down the stairs.

  Our kitchen is at the back of the house overlooking the garden. Pearl stands at the island counter with her back to me buttering toasted bagels in her pajamas. Ada and James are at the table with serving size bowls of sugar cereal—the kind I hide at the very back of the pantry cupboard.

  Ada is in her green turtleneck and swimming goggles. James is wearing nothing but a diaper, his round belly covered in pastel tinted milk and the occasional brightly covered cereal loop.

  “Hi Mom,” Pearl says. “Carmen’s late. She called and will be here by noon. I turned on the coffee maker for you and toasted some of the bagels Dad brought in from the city. ”

  “Yeah, cause Connecticut bagels are crap!” Ada pipes in, then resumes slurping milk from her huge bowl.

  “Crap!” James mimics and smiles with admiration up at his big sister.

  He reaches his arms out to me and I pull him onto my hip. He’s still got his baby chub, with adorably thick thighs and sweet rolls at his wrists. I kiss his tight curls and squeeze him gently to me.

  “Ada, you’re not supposed to say crap,” Pearl tells her as she brings our bagels to the table.

  “That’s what Aunt Sarah calls them,” Ada says and she flips her swimming goggles up to her forehead.

  “Don’t listen to Aunt Sarah,” Pearl and I say in unison.

  Pearl sets the bagel in front of me and leans in to rub noses with James. He giggles and pats a pudgy hand against her cheek

  “Thanks for getting them breakfast, Pearl. You should have woken me up.”

  “Sure, Mom,” Pearl says, then sweetly kisses my cheek.

  James coos at her and bounces in my lap. Pearl takes him from me and nuzzles him cooing back.

  “He adores you, honey. Did you see how his face lit up?”

  “I just love JJ’s eyes, Mom, sometimes I could swear they were made of gold.”

  Dear Readers,

  Thank you so much for coming on this journey!

  Look for The Delivery, by Mara White coming in 2015!

  About me

  I’m a reader, a writer, and a lover of all things romantic. I’m also a coffee, hot sauce, ink, telenovela, and Bikram Yoga enthusiast. I live in New York City with my husband and two children, and I spend a lot of time on the playground.

  I’d love to hear from you, so follow me, email me, look me up—reach out!

  authormarawhite@gmail.com

  https://twitter.com/authormarawhite

  https://www.facebook.com/heightsbound

  marawhite.com

  Playlist II for Heightsbound

  Created by Leslie de Jesus of Sinistergirlz

  http://sinistergirlz.com/blog/

  These songs will hopefully give the reader a taste of the flavor and culture in Washington Heights. If you only have time for one, listen to “Odio,” by Romeo Santos.

  Romeo Santos “Odio”

  Jennifer Lopez “I Luh Ya Papi”

  Wisin y Yandel “Mayor que yo pt.2”

  Omega El Fuerte “Las mujeres bailan solas”

  Monkey Black “El sol la playa”

  Shakira “Rabiosa”

  Omega El Fuerte “Llorarás”

  Romeo Santos “Eres Mía”

  Alex Matos “Una noche no es bastante”

  Yoskar Sarante “No tengo suerte en el amor”

  Los Rakas “La kalle”

  La Insuperable ft. Chimbala “Damelo”

  Kirko Bangz and Paul Wall “My Life”

  Bodega Bamz “My Name Is” (explicit)

  Don Miguelo “Le gusta cómo yo le doy”

  Fernando Villalona “Caramelo”

  Toño Rosario “Resistiré”

  Sneak Peek at:

  The Delivery

  Coming in 2015!

  Janey pushes open my door and walks toward my desk with a dangerously tall pile of case files.

  “Don’t even think about giving those to me. There’s no way I can take on that many new clients.”

  She hasn’t even bothered to shuffle them together so that they look somewhat cohesive. Another pile to add to the one that I may have only gotten halfway through from last week. Janey blows her bangs up and sighs as she plops the files down on my desk.

  “The AC is out again on the records floor. I almost suffocat
ed. My shirt is wet all the way through. If we don’t move away from paper soon, I’m setting that room on fire.”

  “Is there coffee?”

  “Yeah, but you got an interview in the lobby already. Been here since Amir unlocked the front door. His file is on top.”

  “Give me five and then send him in. Can you get me a coffee, though?” I ask, handing her my embarrassingly stained mug.

  I drink too much coffee on this job and eat too much crap food. I’m always trying to catch up, but there are too many delinquents in the city of Los Angeles for a tiny non-profit like ours to manage. We’re only able to take the cases the county sends directly to us, because of excess demand. I hate having to turn anyone away. I wish we could do more preventative intervention, but then I tell myself that this is preventative, because our clients are still young. It’s not too late for them to turn their lives around.

  I grab the first blue folder off of the top of the pile and stare down at it: Moisés Roberto Robles de la Cruz, DOB 11.21.96.

  I open the file to his mugshot and date of arrest. Just two months ago: first major offense, attempted armed robbery. Pled guilty, mandated to Juvie. Showed promise, sent to Pathways to Success. Same story, new face.

  Our job is to make sure it’s their first and last offense, steer them down another path, and try to prevent the next stop from being San Quentin.

  I close his file and then try shuffling the files together so that the loose papers hanging out appear more presentable. It doesn’t work, so I pick them up and shaking the folder until the individual documents fall into place. If it looks like garbage, it will make the kids feel like garbage. My job is to show them that they have potential and that they deserve success.