Property Of, the Drowning Season, Fortune's Daughter, and At Risk

by Alice Hoffman

  “McKay,” said the voice of Kid Harris.

  “I hear you,” McKay’s voice answered. I held the leather jacket around my shoulders and walked with Tony toward the Avenue. The sound of the battle was behind us, and at the mouth of the tunnel stood the Dolphin. He gazed at the fight as he leaned against the wall of the tunnel. There was a smile at the Dolphin’s lips. He reached into a pocket and flashed a switchblade; the silver glowed in the dark. For the first time the Dolphin looked at me and he nodded. Then he walked on, through the tunnel and toward the battleground. Tony and I climbed the far bank of the creek. On the Avenue Jose waited.

  As Tony opened the door of Jose’s Mustang his hands shook, and I whispered, “Do you like what you see? Do you like the game that’s being played?”

  We heard one gunshot. I waited for another, but no other sound echoed from the creek and I knew that shot had not been Harris’s signal. The sound of one gun firing was McKay’s answer to Kid Harris.

  “Hurry up,” said Jose as I sat in the front seat of the Mustang. Now I realized that McKay’s jacket was around me. It had been an error of McKay’s; he could not have forgotten the jacket. I wanted to run back through the smoke, past the Dolphin, so that McKay could wear the leather as he fought the Pack. But I only held the jacket around myself, and stroked the leather, and sat in silence.

  “Come on. Come on,” said Jose. “I’m not waiting for the Department to arrive. I can kiss the force goodbye if they see me here.”

  Tony slammed the door of Jose’s car shut and began to run. “Fucking kid,” said Jose. Tony ran down the Avenue, away from the creek. Even without hearing, I knew the sound of his deep intakes of breath; I knew the wheezing sound of fear. Jose started the engine and floored the Mustang down the Avenue. I leaned my head out the open window and strands of hair blew like whips across my face.

  “Don’t tell me anything,” said Jose. “Don’t give me any depositions.” I could feel his eyes on me. “Shit,” he said, “don’t tell me anything.”

  Sirens sounded from the direction of the creek. I held the leather of the jacket between my fingers.

  “Shit,” said Jose.

  “You know the way,” I said.

  “You want to go there?”

  There was nowhere else to go.

  “You know the way,” I repeated, and Jose nodded. There was no one to drive toward but Starry.

  We drove through the night in silence on the highway that led to the city. The wind was both hot and cold. On the ramp of the Queensboro Bridge I remembered the color of the Sweet’s Pontiac. The color was red and white, the mag wheels were silver-spoked. We drove and there was night and wind and leather and the color of the Sweet’s Pontiac. And finally there were tears. I began to cry.

  SEVEN

  DANCING IN THE DARK

  1

  At breakfast we had orange juice, Hostess cupcakes, and smiles.

  “I do believe,” said Starry as she rolled marijuana into a thin wheat-colored joint, “every summer gets hotter.”

  When Jose had brought me to Starry’s apartment no questions were asked. Without a word or a blink of an eye, Starry brought from her closet a shirt with sleeves too short, to replace my torn blouse, and a skirt too small at the waist, to replace my ripped, mud-stained jeans. Jose promised to leave a message at Monty’s, and lined yellow paper with my scrawl on it waited at the counter for McKay. Days passed with no word from him. In the Daily News and on six-o’clock TV broadcasts, there were descriptions of Kid Harris and hints of the gang warfare that began with the death of Danny the Sweet, with the body found in the back seat of a Pontiac.

  I lit a cigarette and tossed the match into a plate already full of ashes and ancient butts. There had not yet been a chance to talk to Starry alone. Flash was close to her always, his hand on her shoulder, his eyes seeing only her. Now Flash and his dealer sat in the bedroom, arguing over the price of dope, sniffing and tasting white powder, and passing glassine envelopes of heroin back and forth. Now that we were alone and could talk, I did not know what to say. In the days after the creek I had become afraid of words. I mistrusted anything but silence and marijuana. “Starry,” I said finally, “this is no good.”

  “It’s very good.” She smiled.

  Starry was thinner than I had ever seen her. Her arms were covered by long sleeves, her blond hair was paler where it had been streaked with platinum tint. Her eyes were large and heavy-lidded; sometimes they appeared almost closed.

  “You look like a junkie,” I said, and Starry smiled.

  “Look in the mirror,” she told me. “You’re looking more strung out than me. Leastwise I know where my man is.”

  I shrugged. McKay would appear at the door sooner or later. It was only a matter of time. Somewhere on the Avenue McKay was waiting for the newspapers to forget gang warfare, for the Police Department to erase Kid Harris’s fingerprints from its files. It was only a matter of time until McKay came for me.

  Starry and I stared at each other. We both knew there were scars. The bruises on my face, the tracks on her arm were nothing. We did not have to see to know there were scars. And we did not, we could not, speak of violence.

  Speaking would break the code, would violate the remedy for recovery. We stared at each other; we stared away. Many remedies are suggested for brutality; some recommend jasmine tea with honey, others suggest lobotomy. But I remembered that most recommend one thing as an antidote for violence: silence. The remedy, the magic, the potion, the key: silence.

  I knew the prescription: take one act of violence (a rape, a knife at the throat, a fist in the small of the back, etc.), add widened eyes, possibly one short stifled scream (possibly not), the shaking of hands, and not one word. Mix up all the facts (until unsure of what was real and what was imagined, whether indeed there was an act of violence at all). Store in a cool dry place (possibly the back of the mind, somewhere near the base of the neck will do). And forget.

  The “not one word” is the trick; although references are, of course, allowable. Preferably unspoken references: a twitch will do. An occasional shudder is just fine.

  But silence, I knew, was the key to recovery. Better still, removal of any violence-related word from the mind. When the eyes tear, think it is pollution; smog has attacked the iris. When the hands shake there is always the possibility of earthquake. Never admit to anything; never let the words take over and make the violence live. No one will pose a question to a victim of violence when there can be no answer but a widened eye; when the magic balm of silence is at work.

  Starry knew the formula. I watched her not watching me. She did not look because most of the permanent scars of violence are invisible and are only reactivated by words. Keep silence, keep silent.

  Shut up and do not think. All the theorists agree: shut up and keep the words from being said. And all of the scars will remain invisible; and all of the scars will be dreams; and all of the scars will remain under the skin. Where they belong.

  “Enough of McKay,” Starry said, her eyes looking everywhere but into mine, “let me tell you ’bout my man.”

  And I smiled because we both knew that any violation of the magic of silence might cause complications, including a scream, including sight. And we knew this could be fatal.

  “About your man.” I laughed. “Now what about him?”

  She could look at me now; we were conspirators; there would be no talk of violence, of screams, of scars.

  “He treats me good,” Starry said. “Flash gets me high and he’s in love with me. He thinks he’s in love with me.”

  Although Flash was a heroin connection for some of the Orphans, he himself only smoked reefer. Occasionally he got high with Starry the way I got high with McKay, only to know something of the dream and to share in the nod.

  “And you?” I asked.

  Starry smiled. “It makes him happy if I pretend. He knows I’m pretending, I know I’m pretending, but it makes him happy.”

  Flash and the
dealer walked from the bedroom. The dealer placed a broad-brimmed velvet hat on his head; he nodded to Starry. As Flash and the dealer stood in the hallway, engaging in some last-minute arguments, Starry frowned. “He’s a no-gooder, that one,” she whispered. “Glad I don’t have no dealings with him anymore. Flash takes care of it all now.” She smiled.

  Flash came to sit with us at the table. “Pure stuff,” he whispered. I felt the way a third person feels when words are intimate and are of love and are meant for only two. “Beautiful dope,” Flash said and Starry touched his hand. “Got some news,” Flash said to me. “Jose called last night and there’s news on McKay.” He pushed himself away from the table and leaned far back in his chair.

  There was silence and I lit another cigarette. I feared news about McKay. I listened to the street voices and the sound of Manhattan summer filter up and through the open window like ashes, like soot. I was afraid of anything but silence.

  “Don’t be dramatic,” Starry said. “Give us the news from your cousin, the peace officer.”

  “Well,” Flash said to me, “the news is not good.”

  “Well, give it to us,” said Starry and her eyes shone like an Orphan’s for news of McKay.

  “He’ll be here tonight,” said Flash.

  Why did Flash think that was not good news? I tried to catch Starry’s eye, but her vision was now focused on the door which led to the pure, to the beautiful stuff: the stuff that let her forget the Orphans with ease.

  “He’ll be here tonight, but he’s on the run,” Flash said. “The Man’s after his ass, now. They looking for to nail him.”

  I was silent.

  “For murder,” Flash said.

  On the couch where I had slept the past few nights was the leather jacket I used now as a pillow. Was it that McKay had been unprotected? Was it my fault?

  “They’ll never find him,” I said.

  Flash shrugged. “Whatever,” he said. “He can’t stay here more than one night. I can’t risk getting busted.” He held his hand over Starry’s as her fingers tapped anxiously on the tabletop. She nodded agreement, and I understood. I would have nodded also. I for McKay; Starry for heroin. For beautiful stuff.

  Through the morning and the afternoon I waited, and still there was no knock at the door. That night, after Flash and Starry had gone to bed, I waited until it was very late, and the streets were quiet and still. Then I fell asleep with my head upon the leather jacket. When there was a knock at the door I didn’t move. In this apartment silence greeted every knock. Flash stood at the door, looking through the peephole into the hallway. No lights were turned on. In the bedroom Starry dreamed.

  “Who there?” Flash whispered. I felt cramps in my legs from sleeping on the thin width of the couch, but I did not move.

  There was a muffled answer from the hallway. As Flash opened the door a thin stream of light filtered into the apartment. I could see the outline of Flash’s bare back and the darkness of another figure. It was McKay. But still I was silent, still I did not move.

  “I’m in need,” I heard his voice say. The voice did not sound like McKay’s.

  There was darkness again as Flash closed the door and bolted the locks.

  “Are you holding?” said McKay’s voice. “I haven’t gotten off in two days. Are you holding?”

  I heard Flash whisper reassuringly. “Man, you know you can count on Flash.”

  There was some noise in the bathroom; running water and voices. I waited. Finally he walked to the couch, to me. He kneeled on the floor and rested his head close to mine. I reached out my arm.

  I moved closer toward the back of the couch so that McKay could lie with me. Already, even as he spoke, he was dreaming.

  “I took care of it all,” he whispered and I held a finger to his lips to stop the words. “I took care of everything,” he said. There was darkness, shadows. I had to touch McKay to make sure he was really with me.

  McKay slept deeply. I dreamed and woke throughout the night. In the morning I waited for McKay’s eyes to open. Starry and Flash already sat in the kitchen; there was the odor of coffee and of marijuana. Starry nodded at McKay; this was their first meeting since McKay had forced Starry to leave the Orphans. Starry smiled. “So it comes to this?”

  McKay wore the leather jacket of the Orphans once more. He lit a cigarette and jangled the Chevy’s keys in his fingers. “To what, girl?” McKay said softly. “To what?”

  “It’s too early in the day to be uptight,” Flash said. “Have some reefer.” I accepted a joint and shared it with Starry. Her eyes were on the President of the Orphans.

  “Them Pack boys gonna need a new President, I hear,” said Flash.

  “That’s right,” McKay said. “But then, the Orphans got to find themselves a new idiot and a new …” Starry’s eyes were on McKay and he did not finish the sentence.

  Starry’s knuckles were white as she held a coffee cup tightly. Her eyes continued to stare.

  “War?” Flash said.

  “War,” said McKay, shrugging. “There’s always war. We can get by. We did when Cantinni was wasted, we will now.”

  “I know a place where you can stay,” Starry told me. She touched my hand and then wrote down an address on a match-book cover. Beyond the limits of the city: Long Beach. Irene.

  I showed the matchbook to McKay. “Irene?” said McKay. He nodded his head.

  “Irene hasn’t been on the Avenue for months,” I said.

  “That’s ’cause she’s out on the Island with Viet Nam. They got, can you dig it, married.” Starry began to laugh and I joined her. The Chevy’s car keys were rattled impatiently.

  “Married?” I said and we laughed.

  “To Viet Nam,” Starry said. We laughed again.

  “Hey,” McKay said to me. “Enough.” I held my hand over my mouth.

  “She could do it,” Starry said. “All of Viet Nam.”

  “Enough,” McKay said. Starry and I could not look at one another for fear of smiles.

  “My cousin, the peace officer, says you should keep low for a while. Says it wouldn’t hurt to disappear from the Avenue.”

  McKay nodded. “Just give me enough shit for a couple of days,” he said. There were no more smiles. I lit a cigarette and watched Flash and McKay walk from the room.

  “He has got it bad,” Starry whispered. “Don’t you see he got it bad?”

  “You’re wrong,” I said. “He’s the same as he always was.”

  “Don’t you think I know when I see a dope fiend? He’d eat shit to get high.”

  “No,” I said.

  Starry stared after Flash and McKay. She brushed stray wisps of platinum hair from her face. “I don’t hold no grudges against the man,” she said. “ ’Specially not a man whose hands shake when he lights a match.”

  “Bullshit,” I said.

  “Bullshit,” she said. “All right, bullshit. See what you want to see. It’s your business. It’s your man.”

  McKay walked into the living room and held open the door. I walked to him. “Hey,” Starry called. “Hey, President. Where’s your main man? How come you’re here without your main man?”

  “Shut up,” Flash said.

  Starry smiled. “It’s the Dolphin that makes the connections, how come you hustling for yourself?”

  “Starry,” I said.

  McKay walked toward her and I stood by the open door. “Were you talking to me?” he said. There was a faint smile on Starry’s lips.

  “She didn’t say nothing,” said Flash.

  “That’s right, President,” McKay said to Starry. “The Dolphin goes where I want him to go. The Dolphin makes a connection when I want him to make a connection.”

  Starry smiled. “Sure,” she said. “President,” she whispered.

  McKay walked out of the apartment, his boot heels sounding loudly on wood. I could hear the downstairs door of the apartment building slam. I followed him; I ran. I did not have time to say goodbye or grab my cigarette
s from the table or stare into Starry’s eyes. McKay waited in the Chevy. We began to drive. The Chevy was covered with grease and dust, it no longer shone. But on the highway it moved like air.

  We did not speak. We drove out on the Island, toward Irene’s Long Beach address. After a while McKay pulled the Chevy off the highway; we stopped at a diner in Levittown. In neon, the diner advised us to eat, but as we sat in the red plastic booth and McKay kept his eyes focused on the traffic of Hempstead Turnpike, I was not hungry. I turned the leaves of the jukebox that hung on the wall.

  “Do we talk?” I said. I did not want to know much; a word or a paragraph would do.

  “Nothing to say,” said McKay. He was demanding a conspiracy of silence; the memory of the night at the creek lay heavy in the air. White porcelain dinner dishes were set before us, and outside trucks and trailers rolled by.

  “All of what has happened and we don’t say a word?” I said. McKay glared at me as he ate scrambled eggs. I was going against magic; I knew that. I felt for the locket I wore; I touched the silver.

  “What happened to me,” I began, holding the locket in my fingers.

  “Shut up,” said McKay.

  “What happened to me that night,” I said, “by the creek was that I was raped.” I closed my eyes. I opened my eyes. I had said it; I had violated our pact. I had gone against silence.

  McKay picked up his plate and slammed it down on the tabletop. “Shut up,” he said.

  The eyes of truck drivers and of the white-coated short-order cook were upon us now.

  “And Kid Harris is dead,” I said. Small pieces of egg had spilled from McKay’s plate and now dusted the tabletop.

  “That’s right,” said McKay. “That’s goddamn right Kid Harris is dead. He paid for the Sweet’s death. He paid for what he did to you.”

  “For what he did to me?” I said. “And for the ‘idiot’s’ death?”

  “That’s right,” said McKay, and his eyes avoided mine.