by Meg Medina
In desperation, Mima made up some flyers and advertised herself for cleaning jobs. They’re in every shop on the block, except Sal’s. GOOD HOUSECLEANING. GOOD PRICE. CALL ALBA, followed by our phone number. I know I should have put one up on the bulletin board out front, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it, not with Pablo around. His family had servants back in Colombia, mujeres like Mima to wash their dirty underwear and wipe the crumbs from their tables.
I close my eyes and let the sunshine warm my cheeks. Please, God, let the summer come soon. I make a mental list of all the things I love about summer. High school will be over forever. I’ll hang out at Jones Beach and swim past the breaking waves to the deep. My skin will clear up, and I’ll be tan. I’ll flash my ID and dance where and when I feel like it. And, if I’m lucky, I’ll save up again and move out, far away from Mima and Hector.
I’m just starting to relax a little when a loud metal bang makes me jump. Through the fence slats, I can see into the lot next door where we all dump our trash. Matt wrestles two garbage bags toward the Dumpster. He hasn’t said much to me since I almost ran him over with Mr. Mac’s Impala.
The stink of rotting trash wafts in my direction, and I wish he’d hurry up and close the lid.
Matt tosses the first bag over his head, and it lands with a thud. But he doesn’t toss the second one right away. Instead, he pulls out a marker and makes a large X on the side of the bag before pitching it in. The lid slams down with a head-splitting bang, and he walks off.
What the hell is that about?
“Gross.”
Pablo stands behind me, fanning off the stink in the air.
“Tell me about it,” I say. “I don’t know how you can stand dumping the trash back here.”
“The smell isn’t even the worst part,” he says. “There was a rat the size of a beaver in there two nights ago.”
Pablo sits down beside me and nudges my ribs with his elbow. When he’s sure we aren’t being watched, he puts his arm around my shoulder. “You okay?” he asks. “You seem a little freaked out.”
I shrug. “You don’t look so relaxed yourself, you know.” And it’s true. His eyes are bloodshot and he’s got a day-old beard.
“Tax Accounting is kicking my ass, and finals are coming up. I’m working a D right now. I have to talk to Sal about time off to do some studying.”
The thought depresses me. Seeing Pablo every day at work is one of the few things that keeps me sane.
“You wouldn’t miss this cushy job?” I wave my Coke over the expanse of the loading dock.
“Just for a couple of weeks — if Sal goes for it.”
“I can help cover you, I guess,” I say. “I’ll be here anyway.” I don’t add a word about needing some extra cash. He doesn’t need to know.
“Yeah?”
“And then you’ll owe me a favor.” I arch my brow. “That will be fun to hang over your head.”
“It’s pretty physical,” he says. “And not in a good way.” He smiles wickedly and gives me a quick peck. “You have to tackle that rancid heap, for one thing.” He points at the Dumpster. “You sure you want to deal with that?”
“It’ll be better than being trapped at home, believe me.”
He stares at his feet, thinking. “I won’t be here to give you a ride home after work,” he says quietly.
I know what he’s getting at. I’ll have to wait for the bus or else walk home alone in the dark. But who says that it’s any safer with him at my side? Look at Val and Alex.
I drain my soda and crush the can against the ledge.
“It’s four blocks,” I say, trying to brush it off. “Nothing is going to happen.”
Stiller moved into Mrs. Murga’s old apartment while her place gets completely repainted. I have no idea how she talked Manny into it, but Stiller obviously doesn’t see it as a favor.
“It’s the least that man can do for an inconvenienced and displaced tenant,” she says.
She pushes a chair to the center of the room and looks around at the studio. She looks out of place here, if you ask me. Mrs. Murga was tiny and shriveled, the perfect size for a studio. But Stiller is different. Everything about her is big. Her height, her hair, her personality — all jumbo size.
“It’s kind of tight, isn’t it?”
“I’ve lived with less,” she says simply. “Besides, this is the perfect way to keep my eye on the repairs. Who knows how that chump will try to take his time or cut corners?”
“So, are they still trying to find out how the fire started?” I ask casually.
“Hmpf,” she says. “It’ll be months before we get that report, and it’ll be inconclusive. It’s a racket, I tell you. You’ll see.” She turns to me. “Why? You have any theories?”
“No,” I say quickly.
It’s been two weeks since the blaze, but the whole building still smells faintly of a cold hearth. Worse, we’re all crowded with our junk from the storage units. Manny won’t let us keep anything in the hall, either. I’ve been trying to make the best of it, but it’s a pain to use my bike as a drying rack for bras.
This is why I’m here to see Stiller.
“So, I need a favor,” I say.
She turns around from taping up her posters. This one is a big ink drawing of Flo Kennedy wearing big peace earrings. DON’T AGONIZE. ORGANIZE.
“Manny’s hassling you.” Her eyes practically glimmer at the prospect of a good fight.
“Not any more than usual.”
“Oh.”
“I was wondering if I could park my bike in here for a couple weeks.”
“Why?”
“I want to ride to work. The shooter is after girls in cars. Nobody’s been shot on a bike, right?”
She holds my gaze a moment too long. “Your mom still looking for work?”
I nod. She must have seen the flyer on the lobby bulletin board and put things together.
“That thing’s pretty big,” she says, checking out my bike. I’ve got it leaned against the wall in the hallway.
“It’ll be at work most of the time.”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s hard to climb the stairs with it,” I say. “You’d really be helping me out.”
Stiller sighs and points to the wall. “Over there.”
It’s actually nice to ride again the way I used to when I was little. I pump my legs and lean into the turns as I go around the block for a trial run. The tires feel low. Mr. Mac is washing the Impala in his driveway, so I stop.
“Borrowing supplies, Mr. Mac,” I tell him. I grab the tire pump and the oilcan off his work shelf in the garage and get to work. “Is Kathleen around?” I ask.
“She’s inside studying with Eddie,” he says.
“Oh, good.”
He gives me a knowing look and then bends down to suds up the Impala’s tires.
Studying. Yes, I’m sure. Kathleen and I talked about Eddie last night, in fact.
“I’m going to lose you again,” I told her on the phone. “You always forget me when you’re in love.” Only last weekend, she canceled our plans because Eddie wanted to go dancing with her.
“I’m not in love. I’m in boredom. And how about you? Pablo is all you think about.”
“Touché.”
“I promise. We won’t let that happen again,” she said. “Men won’t crowd out our friendship. We agreed, remember?”
We’ll see.
When I’m done filling the tires, I put everything back on the shelf and get on my bike.
“So, what do you think of my wheels?” I ask Mr. Mac.
“Sharp. Getting exercise?”
“Getting to work.” I pedal to the end of the driveway and ring my dorky bell. “Tell Kathleen I’ll call her later,” I call to Mr. Mac. Then I take the long way, just to have a few more minutes before I have to get to Sal’s.
• • •
SON OF SAM —
WE KNOW YOU ARE NOT A WOMAN HATER — AND KNOW HOW YOU HAVE SUFFE
RED. WE WISH TO HELP YOU AND IT IS NOT TOO LATE. CALL CAPTAIN BORELLI OR INSPECTOR DOWD AT 844-0999 OR WRITE TO THEM AT THE 109th PRECINCT, FLUSHING, NEW YORK.
“Some pen pals,” Annemarie mutters as she closes the Daily News. “He’s suffered? What about those families who aren’t going to see their kids anymore? That’s suffering.”
She puts one copy of the paper aside and ties a string around the rest of the unsold newspapers that I’m supposed to put in the trash. The copy she keeps out is for her creepy scrapbook of disasters. She has cutouts from Pearl Harbor, Nixon’s impeachment, and (strangely) Woodstock. Today’s paper is going in, too, as part of history.
So far, no paper has run the whole letter left by the shooter at the murder scene last week — and that’s driving Annemarie crazy. She reads the Daily News and the Post every day to get the gory details. Today’s tidbit: he calls himself by a strange new name: Son of Sam.
Who the hell is Sam?
I toss the bundle of newspapers out on the curb near my bike.
The sun sets around eight o’clock now — closing time — but thanks to having to cover Pablo duties, I’m at Sal’s much later. I cash out and write up the deposit slip, as usual. But then I sweep the aisles, lock up the vault, pull the grates, and (my least favorite) dump the trash, too. It’s tough to get it all done before nine, and by then it’s pitch-dark, like now. I never knew the five minutes that it takes to pedal home could feel so long.
Sal cuts off the lights and locks the front door. He watches as I unchain my bike. “I don’t know how you can steer a bike with no hands.”
“It’s in the hips, Sal,” I tell him. “Besides, it’s faster than going back and forth to the alley on foot.” I make a muscle. “And look at these biceps I’m getting.”
Up the street, the neon sign on the Satin Lady Lounge is blinking brightly, and a few men are already gathering outside. Naturally Sergio is one of them. I see the dome light shining inside his Monte Carlo.
Sal frowns at the sight of him. “The good-for-nothin’ is starting early tonight, I see.” He yanks down the grate and clicks the padlock in place.
“Good night,” I say.
“Take care, then, sweetcakes,” he says.
The walkway that leads back to the shared Dumpster is right behind the pharmacy. If you don’t know it’s there, you can miss it: just a narrow stretch of brick that sits between Mr. Farina’s place and the candy store. Twice a week, one of the store owners opens the back fence at the other end of the alley for the dump truck to clear it all out.
I lean my bike against the candy store’s stoop, grab up the bags, and head toward the dim lights.
The smell makes me gag, even before I get close. Soon enough, I see why. Someone left the top open by mistake. The late spring sun during the day is hot enough to cook the trash into a rank heap.
I’ve already discovered that the Dumpster is crawling with roaches, but rodents in there all night would be a nightmare, especially the rats that Pablo mentioned. Without the lid down, they’ll drag everybody’s trash all over the place. It’ll get strewn everywhere, and guess who will have to clean it all up?
Just as I’m about to toss in my bag and slam the lid, I hear something moving inside that metal box. I take a step back and look around for something to scare away the rats. A chunk of broken cement will have to do.
I step back a few paces and send it sailing, praying that whatever animal is rummaging inside will take off instead of charging at me.
The clang is enormous.
But to my shock, it isn’t a rat or a raccoon that pops its head out and snarls at me.
It’s Hector.
He stands up waist deep in that smelly pile and stares over the side.
For a second, neither one of us moves. But then he recognizes me, and his eyes narrow to angry slits.
I walk toward him slowly, the smell catching at the back of my throat.
“What are you doing?” I ask as I reach the side of the Dumpster. The thought of vermin crawling all around him makes me shudder. Is he hungry? I wonder. Is he Dumpster diving? Has it come to this? “It’s filthy in there. Get out of there before you get the plague!”
“Get out of here, Nora,” he says. He turns from me and grabs something out of an open bag near his leg. When I look, I see that it’s marked with a large X on its side.
I remember Matt right away. Something’s up.
“Why are you going through Mr. Farina’s trash?”
But Hector ignores me. He shoves what he’s taken into his pocket and lifts himself over the side. Bits of trash cling to his clothes. Suddenly I understand the rancid smell that always hangs on his leather jacket. He’s been doing this for a while.
He starts to walk off, but I reach for his arm. “Hector, I asked you a question. Answer me.”
He twists violently and gets out of my grip, but I’m not about to let him off without some answers. Just as he turns, I stuff my hand inside that grimy pocket to pull free what he’s hiding.
It’s a plastic sandwich bag filled with about a dozen yellow pills.
My heart sinks. I know what they are. There was a time when Mima had to take them for her nerves, but everybody knows that Lemmons are good for a buzz, too.
And everybody around here also knows where to find them.
Sergio.
“What are you doing with quaaludes?” I ask. “Are you taking this shit now, too?”
Hector doesn’t answer. Instead, he shoves me with all his might. I hold tight to the plastic bag as he presses me against the brick wall.
“Give it!” His spittle flies in my face.
“No.”
We’re too far in the alley for anyone to see what’s happening. Suddenly my brother’s expression goes as dark as I’ve ever seen it. Before I can scramble away, he leans his forearm against my windpipe and presses hard.
“I could kill you,” he growls. “I could just fucking kill you.”
The last shred of my little brother disappears. I tug on his arm, but he leans in harder until I can’t get air. My eyes water and bulge as I claw at his jacket, trying to break free, but the only sound I can manage is a series of little gasps. I kick and squirm, but his eyes fix on mine, and I feel my tongue grow fat, and a ringing sound starts in my ears. The smell of rot rises between us. Silver pinpricks dance in front of my eyes as a cold wave starts at the base of my skull. Finally my hands go limp, and I slump to the ground, gagging.
He snatches the bag from where I’ve dropped it and shoves it back in his pocket. He’s breathing hard, as though he’s run a marathon.
I hug my knees, waiting for him to kick me the way he did Tripod, but in the end, he doesn’t. He adjusts his jacket collar and wipes some filth off the sleeve. Then he stalks off and leaves me alone.
I drop my bike outside Stiller’s door. I don’t give a shit if it gets stolen or if Manny complains. I’m halfway up the stairs when I hear her door open.
“Hey.” She takes one look at me and frowns. “What’s the matter, Nora?”
I don’t answer.
Instead, I run all the way up to the fourth floor and go straight to the bathroom.
“Nora?” Mima calls. “¿Llegaste?”
I let the water get as hot as I can take it. Steam clouds the mirror as I strip down. Only when the scalding water hits my skin do I finally let myself cry.
Hours later, and the skin on my neck still feels raw.
I lie perfectly still and listen to him pee in the bathroom. I cover my mouth and nose with my sheets and pretend to sleep; the stench from the jacket he’s dropped in the hall makes me more nauseous than usual.
Click! The only light is the orange ember from his cigarette.
“Stay out of my business,” he says.
Silence.
“Why do you care, anyway?” he asks.
I don’t answer. Why do I care? Because he’s my brother? What does that mean beyond DNA?
He takes a few more drags and then comes to my
bed. I clench my fist, ready to punch him hard in the face if I have to, scream like I’m being killed. But instead of hitting me, he stands there until I finally open my eyes. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of bills.
“See this? Sergio pays nice for Lemmons, Nora. Five bucks for Matt, who skims them, and five bucks for me, a finder’s fee.”
“You’re stealing from an old man,” I say. “Not to mention helping a sleazoid like Sergio.”
“That blind bastard probably drops more of these than I’m stealing, idiot. Besides, they go to people who want them, Nora, so what the fuck do you care?”
I’m shaking now. “The question is why don’t you care, Hector? Why can’t you think about how you’re hurting other people with this shit?”
He rains a fistful of bills on my head as though they’re rose petals. “Sorry to disappoint you, Mother Superior,” he says. “I guess I’m just a disciple of hell.”
The bruise on my neck is compact and the color of liver. It’s right at my voice box, too, so when I stand at the mirror, it looks like a bullet hole to the throat.
Mima pretends she doesn’t see it.
We’re in a secret club together. All those times I never asked about her wrists, about the fleshy part of her thigh, even the faint circle of teeth at her cheek all those years ago after one of Hector’s tantrums. More recently, the days she uses my CoverGirl without my permission.
Her eyes flit across my throat, but she looks away and goes back to the dishes in the sink.
“I need you to read a letter that came yesterday,” she tells me. “It’s from the school.”
There’s a small stack of mail propped up against the bowl of plastic fruit. There’s a fat one addressed to me from the City University system, which I slide into my back pocket.
Then I find the one she means. It’s from the guidance office at school, and it’s addressed to PARENTS OF HECTOR LÓPEZ.
Mima scrubs the black bottom of her frying pan as I translate each sentence. He’s flunked English and math, and he’s racked up so many absences he’ll have to attend summer school if he’s going to graduate next year at all.
