Life on Mars

by Lori McNulty

  “All I see are crackers and Jews, man.” Lewis shrugs, still holding his belly.

  Ducking inside a bodega, they buy sodas. Tu smiles, says the news is bigger than he knows.

  “Jello’s gonna hook us up East Side,” he says, swallowing half the can in one gulp. “Set us up in some co-op his uncle owns.”

  “Why he do that? Fat man isn’t about giving.”

  Tu pulls Lewis closer. “We bring in more cash for Jello than he could ever make on his own.”

  “Where is this place?” Lewis says, folding his arms.

  “A studio in Sunset Park,” Tu replies, pressing his sweating can against Lewis’s flushed cheek.

  “Free rent for three months,” Tu says, laying out the images for Lewis in neat rows, tapping them down, the dream setting hard in his mortar mouth, until he builds a wall so high around Brooklyn neither of them can see past it. Soon they’ll be living three stories up, like all those Brooklyn Italians, passing lawn Madonnas through the generations. He can picture Lewis standing in the honeyed space of their walk-up, living on slices and red Italian sodas. Put away money, maybe get Lewis set up for college. See the truth and set them free.

  “What do we got to do?” asks Lewis.

  “Business as usual.”

  “He’s not doing us favours.”

  “Got to think long term, man. We’ll work with Jello. Year or two, make enough money to set up a place in Mott Haven.”

  “I don’t know, man,” Lewis says, shaking his head.

  Tu pats the space between Lewis’s shoulder blades.

  Walking toward 21st Avenue, they find Jello leaning against his uncle’s old Merc, putting the moves on some bored guidette. He’s sagging in his Steelers shirt, his white belly fold rimmed by a thick band of underwear, a soft, ovoid shape against the gleaming grill of the ice-blue-and-grey Merc. Seeing Tu and Lewis approach, the guidette slips behind Jello.

  “No time to hit that,” Tu says, flashing the girl a toothy smile. She retreats inside the candy store, staring out at them from behind glass.

  Tu crouches low and tries but fails to heave Jello off the sidewalk.

  “Big man never budges,” Lewis says, folding his arms.

  Jello smirks when Tu makes a big show of opening the passenger door for him.

  “Yeah, right. I’ll drop you at Bay Ridge, let the white boys jump your ass,” Jello says but climbs in on the passenger side anyway, three belly rolls from the glove compartment.

  Tu takes the wheel and pushes the seat forward.

  “How much you cop?” Jello asks.

  Tu sees Lewis give him a surprised look then glare at him in the rear-view. Avoiding Lewis’s gaze, Tu grabs the duffel from behind the driver’s seat, dropping it in Jello’s lap.

  Removing the brick, Jello whistles. “How did you do it?”

  “Can you move it?” Tu replies, looking into the rear-view as the Merc hums in heavy traffic.

  “I can move Manhattan to Detroit and bring along the Hudson.”

  Tu slaps the steering wheel. With Jello along for the ride, they are on a speeding train. Two bucks and change your luck. Work on the straight with Jello scalping seats. Build up their stash in Brooklyn. One day, he and Lewis can make their way back to their corner of the South Bronx, set up someplace they should have been living all along.

  Tu notices Lewis shoot him a pained look in the rear-view. His are sad, mortal eyes, but they can see a long way. He only wants Lewis to be safe. Boy is all chicken bones and asthma, lung-whipped on truck exhaust and soda. Just this one stake, he wants to say. Lewis keeps living every day like he’s hungry. Tu only raises his eyebrow and nods into the rear-view, flashing a look that says, It’s okay, Lewis. You’ve got to seed the sycamores to watch them grow.

  Tu turns up the tunes, Grandmaster Flashing all the way down the boulevard. Fat blue-and-yellow cubes start to mount his syncopated skyline. He rubs his eyes. Rainbow colours twist and collide, stretch out across his mind. Tu has never told anyone he can see music. It’s between him and Lady Liberty, who can see everything.

  Jello gestures ahead to a crowd of students weighed down with books and backpacks. “Look at them. Too scared to get their hands on anything harder than their own dicks.” He motions for Tu to turn right up ahead.

  At the intersection, a young man approaches the Merc. Adrift in his hoodie and black Boston College ball cap, he stands awkwardly raising his shoulders. Jello rolls down the window partway.

  “I’m looking,” hoodie says, coolly, keeping his hands deep in his pockets.

  “Best blow in Brooklyn, College Boy,” Jello says with a nod. “Discounts for good Catholics.”

  Jello motions for the man to walk on. They pull up around the corner.

  “We got a party going up in Jersey,” he tells Jello. “Gonna wreck the place.”

  “Hang on,” Jello says, rolling up the window.

  Lewis leans forward. “Looks like some uptown junkie.”

  “Seen him around some,” Jello replies. “He’s Richie Rich. Heard he could take the rims off a Beemer on a red light. Now he’s studying to be a fucking city planner,” Jello laughs.

  Tu is tapping the wheel, impatient. “How much?” he asks Jello.

  Jello rolls the window back down. “What you need?”

  “All you got,” College Boy answers, hopping from one foot to the other. “Brothers got a McMansion up there.”

  “Nine large,” Jello says, showing the brick portion with his hands, in a tone that suggests there’s no room for negotiating.

  “Gimme two hours,” College Boy replies, pulling his black brim below his brow. “I’ll get the cash together.”

  “No way,” Jello says and gestures for Tu to drive on.

  The man races ahead to meet the moving Merc, already rumbling halfway down the block. He knocks hard at the window that Jello reluctantly cracks open.

  “Two large now,” College Boy says. “Seven more this afternoon. Need time to collect,” he insists, out of breath. “I’m fucking solid. Ask around.”

  Too many cars. Too many eyes. Neighbourhood’s crawling with kids and cops. Jello has Tu pull up ahead and around the corner, suggests they meet College Boy in a low-rise they both know in Gravesend.

  “We knock twice, do a count,” Jello instructs, taking the young man’s stack of bills and handing it over to Tu. “All good. Never heard of you.”

  With a few hours to kill before the meet, they drive on to Giovanni’s and luck into three open stools. On fire with slices of spicy Italian sausage, Lewis drowns his throat in grape soda.

  “You still seeing that pretty Sheyla?” Jello asks Lewis, throwing his shoulder into the younger man so he has to slide off his seat to avoid it. Lewis opens his mouth but says nothing.

  “Academy girl. Works at the Walgreens on weekends,” Tu pipes in, folding up his pepperoni slice. “Bossy, I hear,” he jokes and flicks at Lewis’s soda can, so the sticky grape spatters the teen’s sneakers and jeans.

  Tu presses his heel into Jello’s Pumas. “Step off, man.”

  Laughing, the big man hip-checks Lewis again, staining the front of the teen’s white T-shirt.

  The owner orders them out.

  On the sidewalk, Jello wipes his oily chin with the back of his hand. “We’re just playing.” He unfolds a crisp bill and slides it into Lewis’s front T-shirt pocket. “Got you covered.”

  Same shit, different story is the look Lewis shoots Tu, who is watching Lewis blot the soda stain on his chest with napkins and spit.

  Raise a hand to Lewis, Tu knew, and it was like beating clouds. He wasn’t any kind of fighter. Never complained about anything but a missed meal. Lewis had a good mother holding up a good man who suffered a broken back and bad cataracts when he lost his job. His mother could stretch a meatloaf for days, filling it with oatmeal and ground beans. Lewis is scrawnier than shit and the strongest person he knows. Boy has learned to live on next to nothing, and that is his power.

  Dance club
trash explodes from Giovanni’s house speakers; the sound pops and whines, shedding sound dust across Tu’s feet.

  “Chill out, Lewis,” Jello says, still laughing. He offers to buy Lewis a fresh slice, keeping a grip on the boy’s left shoulder.

  “Get off me,” Lewis says, knocking his arm away.

  Bright and glittering, the music sprinkling between Tu’s temples keeps crowding his courage. He isn’t so sure. About Jello. About Lady Liberty’s muffled voice in his ears.

  Jello was rooted in Brooklyn. Tu and Lewis were mere shadows hanging over this stretch of the borough.

  Jello looks up at the clock. “It’s time.”

  Tense, bloated, and mean, they drive up to the building in Gravesend and park.

  At two p.m., the back door to the low-rise is propped open, as agreed. Climbing the stairs to the second floor, they hear the roar of TV applause as they knock at 19B.

  College Boy opens up. “It’s all there,” he says, handing Jello a Folgers coffee can stuffed with cash.

  Jello passes it to Tu who counts the cash out then hands over the partial brick.

  “Hold on,” says College Boy. The door closes. After a minute, he opens up. “We’re good.”

  Against a blast of TV cheers, they hear the bar latch and a chain slide across. More laughter.

  The trio turn and walk back down the hall, Tu holding the coffee can tight to his chest. Lewis slaps the handrail, skipping two stairs when the bat strikes him behind the knees. Tu is struck, hits the carpet, inhaling ammonia and cat piss. He turns his head in time to see two men in balaclavas slam Jello against the wall.

  “Be cool,” one of the men orders, punching Jello in the chest, the other sends a knuckle swing skipping off his chin.

  The taller of the two men retrieves the dropped Folgers can and collects the rolled bills, dropping them back inside the can. Another shoves an elbow against Jello’s throat, pinning him against the wall.

  “Nah, nah, nah.” The man holding the pistol shakes his head when Jello tries to struggle free. He orders him to lie down by Tu and Lewis.

  Tu tries to get up but feels a boot tip strike his rib. Someone clips Lewis behind the neck. While Tu and Lewis are on their bellies, the men rifle through their pockets, extracting coins, a wallet, a Yankees keychain. Then Tu throws himself over Lewis when they begin launching kicks, absorbing most of the blows. The keys to the Merc are deep inside Tu’s front pocket. The men throw him off Lewis, roll him over, find the keys, and toss them out the metal door, sending the trio tumbling out after them. Tangled arms and legs unwinding, Jello finds his feet first. He rushes the door, but the men take aim.

  “Be good,” the tall man says, his arm level with Jello’s throat.

  They retreat while the metal door closes with a coarse, heavy clink.

  “Never got rolled like this,” Jello says, pressing his jersey sleeve to his bloody mouth.

  Lewis is elevating his fat, throbbing wrist.

  “College Boy was known,” Jello keeps saying, shaking his head. “Fucking cokehead.” He bashes the dash with his high tops.

  Tu closes his eyes. His head falls heavy against the headrest in the idle Merc. He won’t go back to Dar, stuck between East 134th and a twenty-four-hour watch.

  Tu peels back out into traffic, his mind driving him around. Gripping the steering wheel tight, Tu feels the Merc front-end dip at the intersection, sending an electric shock through his fingertips.

  “Give him a hit,” Jello orders Lewis.

  “No way,” Lewis replies, refusing to hand over the small bag of what they’ve left behind under the seat.

  Without another word, Tu wings the car around and points the chrome grill toward Gravesend.

  Lewis leans forward, barking at Jello, “You led us right to them!”

  With a sweep of his arm, Jello sends Lewis sideways across the back seat. Tu swerves across the line, corrects the Merc, then pulls in behind a parked van.

  Throwing the Merc into park, he reaches over to grab a fist of Steelers jersey. “What are you doing?”

  Jello has Tu’s left arm behind his back while Lewis keeps yelling at him to stop.

  They sit back in silence.

  “We go back,” Tu says, defiant.

  Jello places his sweaty hand on Tu’s shoulder, shaking his head. “Nah, nah. College Boy is probably reselling with his crew. They’ll be hooked up with the pushers in Park Slope by now.”

  Tu turns the ignition over, pulling the Merc back into traffic.

  “It’s okay, man. I got big things coming down the line,” Jello implores.

  Only the thrum of the Merc in Tu’s ears as they roar through Park Slope in heavy traffic, then south toward Bensonhurst. He is staring over the dash, thinks he can see all the way across the bay to Lady Liberty, seven spikes in her thorny crown. Broken shackles at her feet. Into the wide open you can sail, she whispers to him.

  Jello tells Tu that he needs to take a leak, so they pull over near a McDonald’s not far from the 79th Street station.

  When Jello’s gone, Tu looks back at Lewis, who is folded up in the back seat.

  “You a’right?”

  Lewis shakes his head. “Think fat man gonna take us in now?”

  “He made promises,” Tu shouts, and turns back to spin the radio dial. A crackling buzz, then a jazz trio striking up a smooth rhythm, the sound full and ringing, a blues-infused “Sweet Georgia Brown,” taking the long way home.

  Closing his eyes, Tu digs his fists into his eye sockets, watching yellow swirls soar and drift away from him.

  When Jello returns, Tu has questions.

  “We’ll get a little more cash together first,” Jello tells him, and puts his arm around Tu’s shoulder. “You know I got you, man.”

  “We got nothing,” Lewis says and leans forward, his hand almost brushing the back of Tu’s neck. “Let’s go. Get the D. Go back.”

  Jello interrupts. “Got an inside track. We’ll score five times, six times face for the playoffs. Split the profits three ways.”

  This time Tu can hear the strain in Jello’s voice. The Merc has finally run out of road.

  Tu sees steam rising from the hood of the Merc. He sits back, listens to the rhythmic thump, thump, thump of the train spiking the elevated rail above them. Thump. Thump. And the Dixie blues erupt in greys and greens. Thump. Thump. Sounds knocking in his ears.

  “Come on, Tu,” Jello repeats. “Whatchu think?”

  “Think you’ve been doing us dirty all along,” Tu replies.

  Jello scoffs. He zips open his jacket, pulls out the handle of a pistol from his inside pocket.

  “You think I don’t know who’s dealing?” he shouts, his belly jumping. “College Boy been running with me for five years.”

  Tu lunges.

  They hear a pop.

  Lewis slaps his neck like he’s flicking a mosquito bite. Jello’s whole arm is trembling.

  “The fuck you do?” Tu screams.

  Lewis is holding his wrist. He turns his arm over. The bullet hasn’t even grazed his skin.

  Jello drops his arm across the seat back, soaking sweat up with his sleeve. “Get out,” he orders them, raising his arm toward Tu, then pointing back at Lewis.

  While Tu is fumbling with the driver-side door handle, Lewis slides across the bench, managing to cuff Jello’s neck while climbing out the passenger’s side.

  Fat man jerks. A pop like a dog’s bark.

  Tu feels a sudden wetness below his armpit.

  Sweet Dixie sounds are a piano promenade in Tu’s skull, a chain of blue cubes twisting up to the top of his hairline. He tries to count backward from zero, feeling the skin tighten around his skull. Heat begins shredding his veins, a liquid warmth slowly filling his torso.

  “Fuck! Oh Fuck!” Lewis cries, and opens the passenger door Jello has left ajar.

  He curses Jello who is lumbering hard down the street.

  Tu is slumped down in his seat. Closing his eyes, he hears the orange so
und, the street roaring in under them. He turns his head toward Lewis, tries to speak. Something in him, something private he can share with no one.

  The way Lewis held him together when Dar drove him down. How they circled the stadium wearing identical number two jerseys, copping lower levels with their missing-brother routine. Chewing on the Boogie Down scratch and flow, bone-deep defiant as they strutted their way onto the D train. Holding the line on the single track while the loose-limbed b-boys danced windmill from the platform all the way home.

  Lewis palms the horn twice.

  In the honeyed light of the Merc, the warm yellow grooves swinging into his skull, Tu is drowning in love. Coney Island. Express line. Two of them, cruising the block on fat tires, bouncing around the park before everything fell apart.

  An ambulance siren pulls a long, slow ache through Tu’s chest. A bouncing red cube rises up and splashes red rain around his ears when the radio strikes up Duke’s “C Jam Blues.”

  Lewis removes his hoodie and presses it against Tu’s ribs.

  Tu can hear muffled words, a sharp sting under his arm, but he needs to close his eyes for a while. The sound, a soothing percussive rhythm shimmering gold-green, is flooding his eyes.

  He can feel his left hand being peeled open, another hand pressed inside his own.

  “Hold on,” he hears Lewis say, the voice rough and drawn, but Tu’s slipping through sound.

  The Merc door opens.

  Tu’s eyes flutter. Lewis is his beacon in the gathering darkness. Tu feels an arm braced behind his shoulder blades, hears Lewis saying something like please.

  The piano notes strike up bright orange hues, are climbing a Technicolor pedestal in Tu’s skull.

  From her mount, the Lady descends, one arm draped around his waist, a warm blanket shrouding his body.

  “It’s all right, honey, we got you,” a gloved woman says, reaching across Tu’s lap. Tu feels a sharp prick on his left arm.

  His eyelids heavy, Tu beams up at Lewis and feels the music drain from his face.

  Ticker

  You were weak when I brought you home from the hospital. Lying back, a hum ran the length of my breastbone and back. When I listened too closely, there was no beating. They told me to expect that.