Sharon, wearing her floppy beige beret, looks at it.
“There’s no phone,” says Hayward, “and, anyway, a phone is the very last thing you need. You might as well send up flares. But it isn’t hard to find. Just follow your nose.”
They stare at each other.
“Now,” says Hayward, with his really painful smile, “just to make things easier for you, I must tell you that we are not really certain under which name she is living. Her maiden name is Sanchez—but that’s a little like looking for a Mrs. Jones or a Mr. Smith. Her married name is Rogers; but I am sure that that appears only on her passport. The name of what we must call her common-law husband”—and now he pauses to look down at another sheet of paper, and then at Sharon and then at me—“is Pietro Thomasino Alvarez.”
He hands Sharon this piece of paper; and, again, Sharon studies it.
“And,” says Hayward, “take this with you. I hope it will help. She still looks this way. It was snapped last week.”
And he hands Sharon a photograph, slightly larger than passport size.
I have never seen her. I stand, to peer over Sharon’s shoulder. She is blond—but are Puerto Ricans blond? She is smiling up into the camera a constipated smile; yet, there is life in the eyes. The eyes and the eyebrows are dark, and the dark shoulders are bare.
“This from a night club?” Sharon asks; and, “Yes,” Hayward answers, she watching him, he watching her: and:
“Does she work there?” Sharon asks.
“No,” says Hayward. “But Pietro does.”
I keep studying, over my mother’s shoulder, the face of my most mortal enemy.
Mama turns the photograph over, and holds it in her lap.
“And how old is this Pietro?”
“About—twenty-two,” says Hayward.
And just exactly like, as the song puts it, God arose! In a windstorm! And he troubled everybody’s mind! silence fell in the office. Mama leans forward, thinking ahead.
“Twenty-two,” she says, slowly.
“Yes,” says Hayward. “I’m afraid that detail may present us with a brand new ball game.”
“What do you want me to do exactly?” Sharon asks.
“Help me,” Hayward says.
“Well,” says Sharon, after a moment, opening her purse, then opening her wallet, carefully placing the bits of paper in her wallet, closing the wallet, burying the wallet in the depths of her purse, and snapping shut the purse, “then I’ll be leaving sometime tomorrow. I’ll call, or have somebody call, before I go. Just so you’ll know where I am.”
And she rises, and Hayward rises, and we walk to the door.
“Do you have a photograph of Fonny with you?” Hayward asks.
“I do,” I say.
And I open my bag and find my wallet. I actually have two photographs, one of Fonny and me leaning against the railing of the house on Bank Street. His shirt is open to the belly button, he has one arm around me, and we are both laughing. The other is of Fonny alone, sitting in the house near the record player, somber and peaceful; and it’s my favorite photograph of him.
Mama takes the photographs, hands them to Hayward, who studies them. Then she takes them back from Hayward.
“These the only ones you got?” she asks me.
“Yes,” I say.
She hands me back the photograph of Fonny alone. She puts the one of Fonny and me into her wallet, which again descends into the bottom of her purse. “This one ought to get it,” she says. “After all, it is my daughter, and she ain’t been raped.” She shakes hands with Hayward. “Keep your fingers crossed, son, and let’s hope the old lady can bring home the goods.”
She turns toward the door. But Hayward checks her again.
“The fact that you are going to Puerto Rico makes me feel better than I have felt for weeks. But: I must also tell you that the D.A.’s office is in constant touch with the Hunt family—that is, the mother and the two sisters—and their position appears to be that Fonny has always been incorrigible and worthless.”
Hayward pauses, and looks steadily at us both.
“Now: if the state can get three respectable black women to depose, or to testify, that their son and brother has always been a dangerously antisocial creature, this is a very serious blow for us.”
He pauses again, and he turns toward the window.
“As a matter of fact—for Galileo Santini is not a stupid man—it might be vastly more effective if he does not call them as character witnesses, for then they cannot be crossexamined—he need merely convey to the jury that these respectable churchgoing women are prostrate with shame and grief. And the father can be dismissed as a hard-drinking good-for-nothing, a dreadful example to his son—especially as he has publicly threatened to blow Santini’s head off.”
He turns from the window, to watch us very carefully.
“I think I will probably call on you, Sharon, and on Mr. Rivers, as character witnesses. But you see what we are up against.”
“It’s always better,” says Sharon, “to know than not to know.”
Hayward claps Sharon gently on the shoulder. “So try to bring home the goods.”
I think to myself: and I will take care of those sisters, and that mother. But I don’t say anything, except “Thanks, Hayward. Good-bye.”
And Sharon says, “Okay. Got you. Good-bye.” And we walk down the hall to the elevator.
I remember the night the baby was conceived because it was the night of the day we finally found our loft. And this cat, whose name was Levy, really was going to rent it to us, he wasn’t full of shit. He was an olive-skinned, curly-haired, merry-faced boy from the Bronx, about thirty-three, maybe, with big, kind of electrical black eyes, and he dug us. He dug people who loved each other. The loft was off Canal Street, and it was big and in pretty good condition. It had two big windows on the street, and the two back windows opened onto a roof, with a railing. There was a room for Fonny to work, and, with all the windows open, you wouldn’t die of heat prostration in the summertime. We were very excited about the roof because you could have dinner on it, or serve drinks, or just sit there in the evenings, if you wanted to, with your arms around each other. “Hell,” Levy said, “drag out the blankets and sleep on it.” He smiled at Fonny. “Make babies on it. That’s how I got here.” What I most remember about him is that he didn’t make either of us feel self-conscious. We all laughed together. “You two should have some beautiful babies,” he said, “and, take it from me, kids, the world damn sure needs them.”
He asked us for only one month in advance, and, about a week later, I took the money over to him. And then, when Fonny got into trouble, he did something very strange, and, I think, very beautiful. He called me and he said that I could have the money back, anytime I wanted it. But, he said, he wouldn’t rent that loft to anybody but us. “I can’t,” he said. “The bastards. That loft stays empty until your man gets out of jail, and I ain’t just whistling Dixie, honey.” And he gave me his number and asked me please to let him know if there was anything at all he could do. “I want you kids to have your babies. I’m funny that way.”
Levy explained and exhibited the somewhat complicated structure of locks and keys. Our loft was the top, up three or four stories. The stairs were steep. There was a set of keys for our loft, which had double locks. Then, there was the door at the top of the steps, which locked us away from the rest of the building.
“Man,” Fonny asked, “what do we do in case of fire?”
“Oh,” said Levy, “I forgot,” and he unlocked the doors again and we went back into the loft. He took us onto the roof and led us to the edge, where the railing was. On the far right of the roof the railing opened, extending itself into a narrow catwalk. This railing led to the metal steps, by which steps one descended into the courtyard. Once in this courtyard, which seemed to be closed in by walls, one might wonder what on earth to do: it was something of a trap. Still, one would not have had to leap from the burning building. Onc
e on the ground, one had to hope, merely, not to be buried beneath the flaming, crashing walls.
“Well,” said Fonny, carefully holding me by one elbow, and leading me back onto the roof, “I can dig that.” We again went through the ritual of the locking of the doors, and descended into the street. “Don’t worry about the neighbors,” Levy said, “because, after five or six o’clock, you won’t have any. All you got between you and the street are small, failing sweatshops.”
And we got into the streets and he showed us how to lock and unlock the street door.
“Got it?” he asked Fonny.
“Got it,” Fonny said.
“Come on. I’ll buy you a milk shake.”
And we had three milk shakes on the corner, and Levy shook hands, and left us, saying that he had to get home to his wife and kids—two boys, one aged two, one aged three and a half. But before he left us, he said, “Look. I told you not to worry about the neighbors. But watch out for the cops. They’re murder.”
One of the most terrible, most mysterious things about a life is that a warning can be heeded only in retrospect: too late.
Levy left us, and Fonny and I walked, hand in hand, up the broad, bright, crowded streets, toward the Village, toward our pad. We talked and talked and laughed and laughed. We crossed Houston and started up Sixth Avenue—Avenue of the Americas!—with all those fucking flags on it, which we didn’t see. I wanted to stop at one of the markets on Bleecker Street, to buy some tomatoes. We crossed the Avenue of the Americas and started west, on Bleecker. Fonny had one hand around my waist. We stopped at a vegetable stand. I started looking.
Fonny hates shopping. He said, “Wait one minute. I’m going to buy some cigarettes,” and he went up the street, just around the corner.
I started picking out the tomatoes, and I remember that I was kind of humming to myself. I started looking around for a scale and for the man or the woman who would weigh the tomatoes for me and tell me what I owed.
Fonny is right about me when he says I’m not very bright. When I first felt this hand on my behind, I thought it was Fonny: then I realized that Fonny would never, never touch me that way, in public.
I turned, my six tomatoes in both hands, and found myself facing a small, young, greasy Italian punk.
“I can sure dig a tomato who digs tomatoes,” he said, and he licked his lips, and smiled.
Two things happened in me, all at the same time—three. This was a very crowded street. I knew that Fonny would be back at any moment. I wanted to smash my tomatoes in the boy’s face. But no one had really noticed us yet, and I didn’t want Fonny to get into a fight. I saw a white cop coming slowly up the street.
I realized that I was black and that the crowded streets were white and so I turned away and walked into the shop, still with my tomatoes in my hands. I found a scale and I put the tomatoes on the scale and I looked around for someone to weigh them, so that I could pay and get out of this store before Fonny came back from around the corner. The cop was now on the other side of the street; and the boy had followed me into the store.
“Hey, sweet tomato. You know I dig tomatoes.”
And now people were watching us. I did not know what to do—the only thing to do was to get out of there before Fonny turned the corner. I tried to move: but the boy blocked my way. I looked around, for someone to help me—people were staring, but no one moved. I decided, in despair, to call the cop. But, when I moved, the boy grabbed my arm. He was, really, probably, just a broken-down junkie—but when he grabbed my arm, I slapped his face and I spat in it: and exactly at that moment, Fonny entered the store.
Fonny grabbed the boy by the hair, knocked him to the ground, picked him up and kicked him in the balls and dragged him to the sidewalk and knocked him down again. I screamed and held on to Fonny with all my might, for I saw that the cop, who had been on the far corner, was now crossing the street, on the run; and the white boy lay bleeding and retching in the gutter. I was sure that the cop intended to kill Fonny; but he could not kill Fonny if I could keep my body between Fonny and this cop; and with all my strength, with all my love, my prayers, and armed with the knowledge that Fonny was not, after all, going to knock me to the ground, I held the back of my head against Fonny’s chest, held both his wrists between my two hands, and looked up into the face of this cop. I said, “That man—there—attacked me. Right in this store. Right now. Everybody saw it.”
No one said a word.
The cop looked at them all. Then, he looked back at me. Then, he looked at Fonny. I could not see Fonny’s face. But I could see the cop’s face: and I knew that I must not move, nor, if I could possibly help it, allow Fonny to move.
“And where were you,” the cop elaborately asked Fonny, “while all this”—his eyes flicked over me in exactly the same way the boy’s eyes had—“while all this was going on between junior, there, and”—his eyes took me in again—“and your girl?”
“He was around the corner,” I said, “buying cigarettes.”
For I did not want Fonny to speak.
I hoped that he would forgive me, later.
“Is that so, boy?”
I said, “He’s not a boy. Officer.”
Now, he looked at me, really looked at me for the first time, and, therefore, for the first time, he really looked at Fonny.
Meanwhile, some people had got junior to his feet.
“You live around here?” the cop asked Fonny.
The back of my head was still on Fonny’s chest, but he had released his wrists from my hands.
“Yes,” Fonny said, “on Bank Street,” and he gave the officer the address.
I knew that, in a moment, Fonny would push me away.
“We’re going to take you down, boy,” the cop said, “for assault and battery.”
I do not know what would now have happened if the Italian lady who ran the store had not spoken up. “Oh, no,” she said, “I know both these young people. They shop here very often. What the young lady has told you is the truth. I saw them both, just now, when they came, and I watched her choose her tomatoes and her young man left her and he said he would be right back. I was busy, I could not get to her right away; her tomatoes are still on the scale. And that little good-for-nothing shit over there, he did attack her. And he has got exactly what he deserved. What would you do if a man attacked your wife? if you have one.” The crowd snickered, and the cop flushed. “I saw exactly what happened. I am a witness. And I will swear to it.”
She and the cop stared at each other.
“Funny way to run a business,” he said, and licked his lower lip.
“You will not tell me how to run my business,” she said. “I was on this street before you got here and I will be here when you are gone. Take,” she said, gesturing toward the boy now sitting on the curbstone, with some of his friends around him, “that miserable urchin away with you, to Bellevue, or to Rikers’ Island—or drop him in the river, he is of no earthly use to anyone. But do not try to frighten me—basta!”
I notice, for the first time, that Bell’s eyes are blue and that what I can see of his hair is red.
He looks again at me and then again at Fonny.
He licks his lips again.
The Italian lady reenters the store and takes my tomatoes off the scale and puts them in a bag.
“Well,” says Bell, staring at Fonny, “be seeing you around.”
“You may,” says Fonny, “and then again, you may not.”
“Not,” says the Italian lady, coming back into the street, “if they, or I, see you first.” She turns me around and puts the bag of tomatoes into my hands. She is standing between myself and Bell. She stares into my eyes. “You have a good man,” she says. “Take him home. Away from these diseased pigs.” I look at her. She touches my face. “I have been in America a long time,” she says. “I hope I do not die here.”
She goes back into her store. Fonny takes the tomatoes from me, and holds the bag in the crook of one arm; the oth
er arm he entwines through mine, interlocking his fingers through mine. We walk slowly away, toward our pad.
“Tish,” says Fonny—very quietly; with a dreadful quietness.
I almost know what he is going to say.
“Yes?”
“Don’t ever try to protect me again. Don’t do that.”
I know I am saying the wrong thing: “But you were trying to protect me,”
“It’s not,” he says, with the same terrifying quietness, “the same thing, Tish.”
And he suddenly takes the bag of tomatoes and smashes them against the nearest wall. Thank God the wall is blank, thank God it is now beginning to be dark. Thank God tomatoes spatter but do not ring.
I know what he is saying. I know he is right. I know I must not say anything. Thank God, he does not let go my hand. I look down at the sidewalk, which I cannot see. I hope he cannot hear my tears.
But he does.
He stops and turns me to him, and he kisses me. He pulls away and looks at me and kisses me again.
“Don’t think I don’t know you love me. You believe we going to make it?”
Then, I am calm. There are tears on his face, his or mine, I don’t know. I kiss him where our tears fall. I start to say something. He puts one finger on my lips. He smiles his little smile.
“Hush. Don’t say a word. I’m going to take you out to dinner. At our Spanish place, you remember? Only, this time, it’s got to be on credit.”
And he smiles and I smile and we keep on walking.
“We have no money,” Fonny says to Pedrocito, when we enter the restaurant, “but we are very hungry. And I will have some money in a couple of days.”
“In a couple of days,” says Pedrocito, furiously, “that is what they all say! And, furthermore”—striking an incredulous hand to his forehead—“I suppose that you would like to eat sitting down!”
“Why, yes,” says Fonny, grinning, “if you could arrange it, that would be nice.”
If Beale Street Could Talk Page 12
