At dinner that first night, Mr. Brodsky said, Pearl, you’ve been smoking, right?
Yes.
I can smell it.
Yes, yes, I answered, because I’d never been a liar. I was not raised up to deceive. My mother always said that a liar never recovers, never gets better, never gives it up and, if I looked around I’d see, there was no AA for liars.
Do you smoke a lot? Mr. Brodsky asked.
Whenever I can.
Don’t worry, Mr. Brodsky said. If you want cigarettes I’ll get them for you. You’re a little girl whose mother just died so, if you want cigarettes, you can have them.
What brand do you like?
Camels.
Camels it is, he said.
The cigarette god was giving me faith.
23
The first night at the foster home, rocks were thrown at my window. A night rainbow arched over the sky. Bullets fell instead of rain and Indian ghosts prowled outside in the garden, under the trees. I learned my lesson. This is the kind of dream you have if you sleep with a gun under your pillow.
The next morning I awoke to the sound of Leo, Helen, and Mr. Brodsky getting ready to leave. Mr. Brodsky was helping Helen fix her hair. I could hear him asking what color hair clips she wanted.
Only yesterday I’d awoken in the car with my mother. Only yesterday we’d said goodbye as I went off to school. She’d leaned against the Mercury in the lavender-colored nightgown as I walked away. The dump behind her was no longer a white mountain covered with hail.
My mother’s last words were, You know, Pearl, when I played the piano God was there like a shadow.
Now it sounded like an omen and maybe every person’s last words had importance. They were the full stop on a life.
When I heard Mr. Brodsky’s car drive away with Leo and Helen, I tiptoed out of my room to go out on a field trip of the house.
Leo’s bedroom door was ajar and so I looked inside.
His bed was unmade and in a mess. The pillow held the shape of Leo’s head and the bottom bedsheet formed the imprint of his body.
I walked over and got inside the covers and placed my head where Leo’s head had been. My cheek lay in the hollow mark of his cheek.
The warmth of his body was still inside the sheets and encircled me and warmed my legs and waist. I burrowed deep under the covers and breathed in his young-man-boy smell.
I placed my hand under his pillow. In the cool cotton I found a round, old, hard pebble of chewing gum. It lay there like a pearl. I placed it in my mouth to taste him. A faint flavor of mint remained.
I lay in Leo’s bed as if I lay inside him.
The storm of tears came because I’d lost my mother, because a gun had killed her words, and because this was not in the Lamb’s Book of Life.
24
Two days later a detective came to question me about my mother’s death.
Mr. Brodsky let us sit in his study.
The detective was a black man with gray curly hair. His light-brown skin was covered in freckles and tiny dark moles. He had light-brown, droopy eyes.
The man smiled with his mouth closed. He’d learned never to show his teeth to a scared girl.
I’m sorry about the loss of your mother, he said. I knew he’d said those words many times before because they sounded like a prayer you know by heart.
I’m sorry about your mother, he said again. And you know we really want to understand what happened. Do you mind talking to me?
No, I answered. I don’t mind. The social worker said you’d be coming.
That’s right, he said. So, did you know the kid who shot your mother?
Yes.
You sure.
Yes.
The detective took a photograph out from a file of papers he’d placed on the coffee table between us.
I’m sorry, he said. But could you just look at his face just to make sure.
I looked at the photo of Mr. Don’t Come Back. It was one of those high school graduation photos. He was wearing his graduation cap with the tassel falling to one side.
When I looked at his face, I remembered how my mother spoke about him. She said he was sweet and lost but that she knew he was also a firecracker you could burn your fingers on.
Yes, I said. I’ve seen him. He stayed with us for two nights once. He was a runaway.
Okay, the detective said, and slipped the photograph back into his pile of papers. Can you think of any reason he might have wanted to kill your mother?
No, I said.
What about the Mexicans? the detective asked.
Corazón and Ray? They live in the trailer park. Do you mean Corazón and Ray?
Yes, those two. Were they up to anything suspicious?
No. What do you mean?
Were they selling? Heroin, you know. They’re bringing it in from Mexico.
No. I don’t know about that.
You sure? Was Ray around much?
No, not much. He had to go back and forth to Mexico all the time.
Now, the detective continued, I’d like to talk about Eli Redmond. Do you mind if we talk about him for a minute?
When the detective said Eli’s name, I could hear my mother inside of me saying, Oh my baby, my baby, there are words that are so sharp you can cut yourself on them.
Who was Eli to your mother?
I could hear the whetstone grinding and honing Eli’s name. I looked out the window toward the front garden. I didn’t want to look into the detective’s kind animal eyes that belonged to a deer or rabbit.
He was her boyfriend, I guess.
Did you know he was selling guns?
No. Not that. No. He was helping Pastor Rex get guns off the street. They were buying guns.
Okay, the policeman said. Yes, that’s right.
The policeman reached over and placed his hand on my shoulder. It wasn’t a light touch. He pressed with strength.
Listen, he said. We questioned Eli right after your mother was killed, but now we can’t find him. If you see him or if he calls you, please let us know.
Yes, I said. You don’t think Eli killed my mother, do you?
No. No. Of course not. And we now know that boy was crazy. He had a history of paranoia. And with guns you’re always in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The policeman stood up and reached into his wallet and gave me his card.
Call me, he said. If you remember something let me know. As I said, I’m sorry for your loss. Eli Redmond is wanted in five states in this country.
What for?
Killing a policeman. Armed robbery. Identity theft. You name it. And you can be sure his name is not Eli Redmond. He’s a liar.
My mother knew it. I remembered the day in the car when I found her sitting in the backseat with her shoes on. She said she couldn’t see inside of Eli. The windowpane of the man needed a wash.
25
On those mornings after Leo, Helen, and Mr. Brodsky left the house, I’d go and get into Leo’s bed.
Every night Leo went to sleep in my my-mother-was-shot-and-killed tears.
Every day, alone in the house, I’d walk around and open drawers, run up and down the stairs, and lean against the walls. I wore the house like a dress.
In the kitchen I found a half-full box of Domino sugar cubes. This would have made my mother happy. I ate them all up in one morning.
Mr. Brodsky drove Helen and Leo to school and then he went to work. Later I learned that he was retired and was doing charity work at a nearby synagogue.
Leo had been with Mr. Brodsky for two years and Helen had been there for six months. This was unusual, because Mr. Brodsky was supposed to offer only temporary housing for emergency cases before the children moved to a more permanent foster home. Leo explained that as
soon as Mr. Brodsky turned eighty years old, in only a few months, all three of us would be removed from his care because of his age.
Soon after my arrival at Mr. Brodsky’s house, I was standing at my window, lighting up a Camel, when I saw the car drive up and park in the driveway. It was the social worker’s car. She looked up and I quickly leaned away from the window, but she’d seen me.
I threw my lit cigarette in the water glass by my bed and stood near the window. The car door opened and closed. I heard her footsteps as she walked toward the house.
She rang the doorbell.
I was going to be moved to another house. I knew it. I wanted to hide under my bed. I wanted to run away. I wanted to lock myself up in the room.
Leo and Helen had explained that the worst thing about being a foster child was being moved from house to house and school to school.
Helen said, When you go, you see, you don’t have a mommy, so everybody’s clothes get mixed up. All these kids are wearing your T-shirt or you think it’s yours but you don’t know if you don’t have your mommy to tell you. This girl, this girl who was always scratching me, she took my sweater and said it was her sweater but there was no mommy to say it was Helen’s sweater.
Leo had been in one foster home where an older boy had hit him all the time. Leo used to stuff towels around the waist of his jeans and inside his sleeves so it wouldn’t hurt as much.
Leo said, if you’re a foster child and you have a fever, no one ever touches your forehead to feel your heat. All they do is hand you a thermometer.
Mr. Brodsky was the best foster parent they’d ever had. Helen said Leo chewed his sleeves because he was scared he’d have to leave Mr. Brodsky. Leo said that Helen rocked back and forth all the time because she didn’t want to leave this home. They knew each other better than a brother and sister.
After spending time with Leo and Helen and hearing their stories, I swore I’d run away before I was moved to another house.
The social worker rang the doorbell again.
I walked down the stairs and opened the door.
The social worker wore the same suit she’d had on the week before.
The front door let in the garden smells. The scent of magnolia flowers, roses, and dew-wet grass blew into the house.
The social worker was holding a box in her hands and had a yellow manila envelope tucked under one arm.
So, are you talking these days? she asked.
Yes.
Are you getting along with the other shoots?
Yes.
Does Mr. Brodsky know you smoke? Where are you getting those cigarettes? I’ll have to put in a report about this.
No, he doesn’t know, I answered. They’re mine. I brought them with me when I came here.
Well, I’m putting it in the report. You could burn this house down.
I’ll stop, I said. I promise.
Addicts always say that. Do you know how many kids like you promise me they’re going to give up drugs, like pot or heroin? Huh? Sure you’re going to give up cigarettes. You think I can believe that? It’s going in the report. It’s against the law for you to smoke.
I’ll stop, I said again. I promise.
Listen, she said. Maybe don’t even bother to unpack. I hear that you’re going to be moved to another home within a month. I’ve seen the paperwork. Don’t get too comfortable.
I didn’t answer.
And here, the social worker said. This is yours. They gave me these things to give to you. Here.
The box moved from her hands into my hands.
No, I said. You’re mistaken. This box isn’t mine. I’ve never seen it before.
This is also for you, she said, and placed the yellow manila envelope on the hallway table. It’s the coroner’s report. The police said to hand these things over to you.
What is it? I asked again.
Listen, Pearl, she said. I’ve got to go now. I’ll be in touch. I’m sorry about all of this. I think the police made a mistake. You’re not supposed to get these things until you turn eighteen, but who am I to get in an argument with the police? I follow orders. I’m not here to question.
I looked down at the box.
That box has your mother’s ashes inside, so be careful with it, she said.
I didn’t answer.
She walked out of the hallway and closed the front door behind her. The sweet garden air also left with her steps.
If Noelle had been there, she would have said, Mistakes and deaths come in threes.
If April May had been there with me, she would have said, Let’s just go and throw it all away in some river. You cannot run around the world with that box.
If my mother had been with me she would have said, Go have a dream that I’m still alive. Go have a nap, sweet baby girl.
The manila envelope contained the small opal ring Mr. Rodrigo, the piano teacher, had given to my mother. I placed it, and all those Cuban superstitions, on my finger.
The envelope also contained the bullets.
The coroner and the police had sent me those twenty bullets as if they belonged to my mother because they were found inside her body. It was as if they were jewels. The bullets were my inheritance.
26
For several weeks before my arrival, Mr. Brodsky had planned to take Helen and Leo to visit a circus museum, which was in Sarasota and only an hour’s drive from the house. Mr. Brodsky said I didn’t have to go but was welcome to go with them.
You have to come, Leo said, and so I went.
Leo sat in the front seat next to Mr. Brodsky and I sat in the back with Helen, who talked nonstop the whole way.
Why are we interested in asking questions? Helen said. That’s simple. Don’t you want to know why a kite works? Or if black is a color or if white is a color? And what about the first question? Who thought about that first? And what about this? Has anybody heard footsteps outside your room at night and then you realize it’s just your own heartbeat? Does anybody else confuse heartbeats with footsteps?
Mr. Brodsky, Leo, and I just let her talk. Helen was never looking for conversation.
The Ringling Museum was in a huge pink palace built by one of the Ringling brothers, who’d made his fortune from the circus. The building, which was a copy of a Venetian palace, also housed a great art collection.
In the museum, Leo, Helen, and I walked together, looking at the small clown cars, wagons, a model of a woman on stilts whose head touched the ceiling, cannons that shot people into the air, and displays of circus costumes.
There was a model of a miniature circus made up of thousands of pieces. It re-created what the circus had been like when it traveled around the country by train. The model circus was laid out on display tables covered in green felt. It was so complete it even had the medical and barber tents on display. The reproductions of Ferris wheels and merry-go-rounds were electrically wired so they worked and went around and around. Helen was most fascinated by this, as it was all dollhouse-size and even had miniature circus people and animals.
Leo was beside me at all times because we knew walking close to someone you love never lasts.
Leo was most interested in the Ballyhoo posters. We learned that these were the free shows given outside a circus to attract a crowd and was also known as the freak show. Under the words “Shocking” and “Amazing” were drawings of the Frog Man, Birdlady, Bearded Woman, and Human Torso, which was a man without arms or legs. The Human Ostrich was a man who could swallow anything, including lightbulbs and knives. The Human Pincushion was an act where the performer pushed hatpins, meat skewers, and needles into his flesh.
The Sword Swallower, who swallowed not only swords, mesmerized Leo. The performer also ingested fly swatters, neon tubes, rifle barrels, and coat hangers.
On one wall there was a poster of Siames
e twins. I stopped and stared at the images of the original conjoined twins called Chang and Eng.
I’ve seen real Siamese twins, I said to Leo. They were alligators. They were born on our beach right on the river.
As I looked into the Asian faces of Chang and Eng Bunker, who were joined at the chest, I remembered the day my mother and I had walked hand in hand to the river to look at the baby alligators. The odors of the dump came to me with the memory, along with the recollection of clouds of blue-and-yellow dragonflies that lived near our river. I was glad my mother wasn’t here because I knew that her ability to see into peoples’ pain and the freak show were a bad mix. I, who’d inherited this trait, had to stand in front of almost every poster about the freaks with my eyes closed.
Why don’t you look? Leo asked.
He still didn’t know everything about me.
Mr. Brodsky liked the reproduction of a painting of Tom Thumb and his wife when they appeared at a formal reception in London standing like salt and pepper shakers on a table, dressed in tails and a gown.
In the museum shop there were postcards of the image for sale.
Kids, would you like a postcard? he asked.
When Mr. Brodsky called the three of us kids we felt like we were part of a family and belonged. That word was a blanket tucked around us.
Every once in a while Mr. Brodsky would say something important that I wanted to remember, but it always began with the word “kids.”
Once at dinner he said, Kids, death is the place of the unknown but you should know the unknown is also here on Earth.
Of course we know this, Mr. Brodsky, Helen answered. Everyone knows this. It is not any kind of a new idea.
As we drove back home from the circus museum, we were quiet inside the car. Leo, Helen, and I had been on a Saturday-afternoon outing. We were in a car driving home to a meal of hamburgers and ice cream with cones. On that night we were going to sleep in bedrooms in beds with white cotton sheets.
Gun Love Page 12
