Trading Dreams at Midnight

by Diane McKinney-Whetstone

  “More?” he said as he looked at the bracelet and earrings on the felt square. “Dead sister’s?”

  “Dead self,” she said, biting the corner of her lip, feigning shame, except that she really felt the shame.

  He inspected the bracelet and earrings with the clinical finesse of an oncologist, no indication from his face how much the cancer had spread. He cupped his hand over a sheet of tablet paper and wrote, scratched out, turned the page, then wrote again, tore the page from the tablet and slid it around so Neena could see. “We give this amount,” he said. “Final. No haggling here. You take?”

  “I take,” Neena said. She watched him hit the buzzer on the wall and disappear again. The few hundred he offered at least gave her the illusion that she had options. Enough money now to catch a bus back to Chicago to try to reason with Cade, try to talk Cade out of what was legitimately hers. Sighed on the thought, knew that the very thought was a land mine poised to explode in her face should she try to put it into action. Knew she needed sleep before she crafted her next move.

  He was back. She signed four contract-sized sheets of paper, not even bothering to read them. What could they say anyhow, you’re a broke ass, take what we’re offering and then go on and get your broke ass on outta here. When her man asked her if he could help her with anything else, she said that she needed a phone, could he direct her, so hard to find a pay phone anymore. Put on her gushy smile as he stood there looking at her deciding. “You come with me,” he said finally as he motioned her to the end of the counter, then pressed a buzzer to lift up a square of counter for Neena to pass through to get to the other side.

  She was in his office; he pointed to a cordless phone almost hidden on the desk cluttered with coffee-ringed sheets of paper. “Local?” he asked.

  “Definitely,” she said as he looked up at the ceiling; her eyes followed his. A camera pointed at her head like a cannon, its red light blinking as if to say, Don’t try shit. Realized then that this wasn’t even his office; the camera watching him too as he stared back at it with a longing hanging from his face; face seeming to say that he wished he could punch the lights out of the camera. “You press buzzer when you finish, I let you out,” he said. She nodded and picked up the phone and walked over to the window. She dialed Tish’s number and counted the rings as she watched the people on Eighth Street in that rush-to-get-to-work stampede, such hostility on their way to work. A break in the phone rings matched the break in her breathing as she hoped for Tish’s voice, braced herself for Nan’s. Tish’s voice again saying, “This is the day the Lord Hath Made, I rejoice and am glad that you called.” She didn’t leave a message. Part of her wished that she was religious right now. If she believed just a little in the power of prayer right now she would pray for Tish, that Tish could hold on to the pregnancy. Had the thought then that wishing she believed—at least for the moment—and actually believing might be the same thing. Said into the camera pointing at her head, “Bless my sister, would you please.” Said it with arrogance, but said it.

  She pressed the phone off and placed it back on the desk. Hit the buzzer on the wall and looked at her feet as she waited for her man to let her out. Decided that a pair of vinyl-type snow boots would be among her first purchases with her newly acquired cash. Concentrated on that thought, the thought reassuring.

  When her man opened the door she thanked him profusely. “We both have color,” he said, looking beyond her to eye the camera as if it was a monster that might pounce. Looked as if he was about to cry. “Next time you help me, or somebody who look like me.”

  “God, I would so love to,” Neena said as he led her back out into store/selling area and she pushed through the door onto Eighth Street, thinking that he should watch what he says, all the surveillance in that store he could get shot for suggesting that black people and brown people get together. The blast of cold air as she started up the street reminding her how tired she was.

  She knew of a cheap hotel that used to be on Arch Street. Walked in that direction, stopping along the way to buy a wool cap from a stand on Market Street; clearance underwear from Big K at the Gallery at Market East; and from the Salvation Army Thrift Store, a secondhand peach-colored sweater, black corduroy pants, and a pair of rubber-soled vinyl boots. Never imagined that she’d be shopping thus accustomed as she was to sinking into the designer collections at upscale department and specialty stores. Could see herself over and over in the everyday people as she walked through town. The people shopping with that look of fanaticism that said that it didn’t even matter what they were buying as long as they were spending because to consume was both an opiate and a speed, a snort, a skin pop, a simultaneous rush and nod intended to divert the everyday people. Neena had succumbed to that euphoria over the things she’d buy. Meaningless things; overpriced excesses.

  Not today, though. Every purchase today a necessity. In addition to underwear and secondhand clothes, she added to her haul Dollar Store soap—Dove, who knew you could buy Dove soap at the Dollar Store—deodorant, cocoa butter lotion, and Alberto VO5 for her hair. She was left with enough to buy a week of nights at the Arch Street Hotel.

  She fought dizziness as she looked around the hotel room with its cigarette-burned particle-board furniture and framed Dollar Store art that was in such stark opposition to how she had lived. Like she’d worn nice things: she’d surrounded herself with nice things. She wished right now as she looked at the limp pillows on the bed in here that she had at least enough money left to replace them with feather down. Knew that she was being excessive though she did buy new pillowcases, reasoned that her face, her nose and mouth and eyes deserved at least assurance that the pillowcases were not infected with the germs of those forced to lie here prior to her being forced to lie here, germs that couldn’t be washed and tumble-dried out.

  She thought of germs most of the first night in the hotel. Though consoled herself that at least she could wake in the morning without the likes of a Cade’s breath all in her face. Felt an unhinging in her legs and arms the way she’d feel on Fridays when she worked a day job and right before she fell asleep would remember that the next day was a day off. One of the hardest parts about living the way she had of late came when the likes of Cade gave his wife a preposterous line so that he could spend the night with Neena (once he’d told his wife that he was participating in a sleep study), which meant that he’d be pulling on her first thing in the morning and she cherished her mornings alone. The morning air was like pink eyelet lace, floating and innocent. Not heavy and dramatic and slow to move the way it would be when the night lumbered in and Cade would walk through the door with a three-pack of condoms and his cell phone on mute.

  She tossed and turned the first night in the hotel and woke up every hour or so with a racing heart. Even got tangled up in the chasm between deep sleep and wakefulness and thought that she saw Cade’s brother standing over her, laughing the way the devil laughed in Rod Serling’s Night Gallery when he’d tricked a child into doing wrong. Thought he was coming at her with a pitchfork, heard her grandmother’s voice then saying to Cade’s brother to just go ahead and take her, she was tired of fighting for a demon who just wasn’t made up to do right; heard Tish screaming, then saying No, no, Nan, don’t let the devil take Neena, please Nan, I’ll pray, I’ll pray for Neena too. She rocked herself then to help ease herself back to sleep. Rocked herself the way she did when her mother would leave. Rolled herself up into a ball and hugged the pillow and rocked and finally fell into a good dreamless sleep, thought she heard the melodious chime and whistle of Bow Peep’s flute as she fell asleep. Slept continuously for two nights and days straight. She was sure she must have gotten up to go to the bathroom, to sip the God-awful spigot water, but she didn’t remember. Remembered only the rocking.

  Neena woke the third morning to a blast of sunlight rushing through the dingy sheer curtains. She showered and pulled her getting-denser-by-the-day hair into a puffy ball. She walked around the corner to a WaWa and
bought a phone card, a large coffee, and a breakfast sandwich. Her money was melting but she consoled herself with the thought that at least she had a bed for the next few nights. She’d surely reach Tish in that space of time. Tish would provide her a room in her lovely new home until she found a job. She jumped at the thought. Had not considered really that she was here to settle down. Why was she here? Mr. Cook used to say that when you find yourself in desperate straights, that’s when you become who you really are. She sat on a bench on the Parkway and sipped her coffee and thought about that as she devoured the sandwich.

  It was warmer out today, the snow from the night she’d arrived long gone, and as she looked up and down the block she saw that every other bench was occupied. Looked closer and noticed adjacent to the occupied benches shopping carts showing plaid and shoes and pillows; stuffed green trash bags; crates covered over with blankets and coats. She finished her meal and walked the length of the block and listened to the listless bench-dwellers call out the times and locations of the food give-aways. She felt herself being eyed. Wondered if they could see through her cashmere coat that this is who she was, one of them right now too.

  She stopped at the pay phone in the hotel lobby and once again tried Tish’s number. Hung up as soon as she heard the click of the answering machine.

  Back in her room she slept some more. It was mid-afternoon when she woke. Woke famished. Counted her money. Twelve dollars and sixty-five cents. She ripped the name of the designer from her black cashmere coat and wore the coat inside out and found one of the places the people occupying the benches on the Parkway had called out. She stood in a long line with other suffering people: drug addicts and alcoholics, schizophrenics, casualties of the jobless recovery. Though some standing in line she was sure suffered from plain old indolence, sloth, most it seemed had legitimate claim to a meal. Mostly young, mostly black, mostly male. How did this happen, she wondered? All this energy, the accumulations of so many mothers’ prayers and tears, all this hope on hold standing out here waiting in line for a soup-kitchen meal. Did they all happen to be in the same vicinity when a despairing fog settled and turned them into this. Where were their families, their communities? She could explain away her own situation. Fell through the net, she had. But there were too many men out here to have just fallen through a net. Figured the net had been intentionally cut to facilitate whole piles of young black men falling through.

  Today’s meal was a tomato bisque soup, a chicken and rice dish, half a Kaiser roll. She left the chicken untouched as she considered the possibility that the government was not above experimenting with bird flu, its transference from cooked chicken to disposable humans. She was still hungry when she finished. Looked around the cramped room, actually generous to call it a room, more like an unfinished breezeway between the street and the alley out back with tables crammed in and fold-up chairs with their legs interlocking so it was hard to get up once squeezed in at the table. An altar made of a milk crate atop a table covered with white plastic, an oversized Bible on the crate. Two bud vases with paper carnations stood up front where a thin-faced man had blessed the food for a full half hour before anyone could eat. “It is fruitless,” he’d interrupted himself mid-grace to say, responding to the muttered complaints, “to nourish a man’s stomach without first feeding his soul.” Neena thought it a nice idea that flew like a wingless bird in this room as she pushed against the back of her chair trying to get a couple of inches so that she could wiggle herself up. Just three seats in from the aisle, though, it seemed like an acre when she considered she’d have to ask six people to move. She felt a thick finger against her shoulder, looked around, and saw the bear-sized man who sat next to her pointing at her Styrofoam plate. “Can I finish that if you’re not?” he asked. At first Neena thought that he was joking, that he was on clean-up and charged with clearing away the garbage. She looked in his eyes then. Wished she hadn’t seen it, the bottomless hunger, the shame. That kind of look could keep her up at night, could make her cry, and she didn’t cry easily.

  She swallowed hard, forced a smile, and said, “I’ll cut a deal with you, you help me get up from here and it’s all yours.” Before she could check his face for a response, she felt herself being lifted, chair and all, clearing the heads of the three sets of people who’d had her trapped, wondering from on high how he was going to set the chair down. His arms couldn’t be that long, she thought, as she felt a shrill in her stomach on the descent, then the landing as the chair came to rest—all four legs at once—softly in the aisle. By the time she’d recovered herself enough to thank him, he’d already set her plate in the space in front of him, his profile intense as he tore into the chicken.

  The thin-faced man who’d said Grace for a half hour stopped her at the exit, handed her a pamphlet, a religious tract, and said, “Jesus loves you, sister.” She took the tract and nodded more at the penciled face of Jesus on the tract than at the man standing in the doorway smiling. She walked out the door, folding the pamphlet into where her coat pocket should be. It fluttered to the ground and she remembered that she’d turned her coat inside out. She stooped to pick up the tract; saw about a half dozen others strewn where she leaned. She picked those up as well. Even as she moved up the street, she bent to pick up the tossed tracts and piled them into her purse.

  She headed into town then. The night air, though cool, was absent teeth and soft to walk through. She went into the chain bookstore and browsed the new releases. Thought about and then abandoned the thought of stealing a couple of books. She felt the security guard’s eyes like a laser beam in the center of her back as if he’d just read her thoughts. She looked up at him and winked. Then realized that her coat was still turned inside out. “Oh well,” she thought, “like I care.” She told herself that she’d have to soon get a library card, reminded herself that first she needed an address.

  She took what looked interesting up to the café area and bought a cup of tea and tried to nestle in the hard seat. The tea was disappointing, for all that money it was no better than a cup of Lipton. She sipped it slowly, hoping for it to at least take the edge off her hunger. The most it did, though, was to remind her that dinner had been a cup of tomato bisque soup and half a Kaiser roll. She walked over to where the oversized windows looked down on Broad Street. No available chairs, of course. Wanted to ask the people sitting there didn’t they have twenty-five dollars to buy the books they were reading? Didn’t they have homes with sinkable armchairs where they could curl up and read instead of hogging all the seats here with their cheap, privileged selves? She let go a sigh and looked out the window, and when she did, saw on the other side of the street, Bow Peep, the street-corner musician whose arm had tapped her shoulder while she cried the other night. She put the books on the ledge and headed out of the store. Held her arms up when she passed the security guard in a mock frisk-me move and then she laughed. He didn’t laugh, though a young boy on the way into the store thought it hilarious.

  Bow Peep was immersed in his playing when Neena stopped in front of him. It was high tide on this corner as people splashed around: the young brothers strutting as if they owned the streets with their coyote-trimmed hooded coats wide open, their side-to-side footfalls matching the bass rhythms throbbing from every other Cadillac Escalade. Various pin-striped hustlers from lawyers to bankers to wannabe CFOs; newly minted city dwellers buying up the sky and turning the city white again. Middle-aged motherly types hightailing it up to Lord & Taylor for stockings for tomorrow and maybe a blouse on the 15 percent off coupon. People on their way home from work, or stepping out to a dinner, a happy hour, a show at the Kimmel or the Academy.

  Neena thought Bow Peep could be on a stage himself with what he could do with that flute, the clarity of each note that hung in the air until it was joined by the one that followed. He was playing “What a Friend We Have in Jesus”—a song Neena knew well, would have to know well considering that she’d mostly grown up in Nan’s house—and though Neena had long since st
opped believing in the Jesus that had been defined by Nan, by the church, as she listened to Bow Peep play, she thought, Man, what a hell of friend that must be.

  Bow Peep pulled his flute from his mouth and smiled at Neena. Extended his hand that she took. He was wearing blue and white knitted gloves with the finger tips cut off. Reminded Neena of the type of gloves Nan would have knitted with their perfectly even alternating rows of knit and purl, blue and white, decent and in order like everything Nan did.

  “How goes it?” he asked as he set his flute in the case propped on top of a milk crate. He reached into the pocket of his long green wool coat, pocket large enough to hold a fishing boat. He pulled out a small silver tin and opened the tin and rubbed his naked fingertip inside, then smoothed a balm across his lips. The insides of his lips were cracked and swollen.

  Neena hunched her shoulders. “I’m well, I guess.”

  She was being jostled standing there by the to-and-fro foot traffic so Bow Peep touched her elbow and pulled her closer in. “Did Granny show through?” he asked.