Brooklyn Story (27 page)

Richie ran both hands through his disheveled hair. “My fuckin' head's still poundin',” he said. He didn't see Janice's narrow smile as he perused a menu. “Don' know what the fuck I feel like havin'.”

“Stomach okay?” Janice asked.

“Fuck no,” Richie replied. “Prayed to the porcelain god all night and it's still rumblin'.” He missed both of our smiles after he said that. “I'll just get a double order a toast and some coffee,” Richie said as he closed his menu and looked up. “What're youse two talkin' about?”

Janice's eyes met mine. “Nuthin',” she said. “Girl stuff.”

“Sorry I missed it,” Richie cracked. “Where's Tone?” he asked me.

“No idea,” I said.

“Seein' him later?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Well, I'm seein' 'im an' Vin in an hour. Wanna send a message?”

“Just tell him I said hi, and that I'll be at home.”

Janice turned toward her boyfriend. “Willya be long?” she asked.

“Don' know,” Richie said, and then he smiled. “Vin said he's got sumthin' for me.”

Janice and I caught each other's eyes again. “That's great,” she said. “We gonna hook up after?”

“Don' count on it.”

“Okay. I'll be home, too,” Janice said, and then looked at me. “Ya wanna hang at my place?”

“Can't,” I said. “I got homework. School starts tomorrow.”

Respect was the topic as I pounded away on my Smith-Corona that evening. Over a couple of pages, exploration of that theme
led to expanding it to include acknowledgment of oneself. You can't respect someone else, I wrote, if you don't respect yourself. I wrestled with where one should draw the line, and counseled that one should pay attention to what the head is saying while also listening to the heart.

I sat back and took my own advice for a few minutes. I had to deal with what Tony had done. While there may not have been any outward signs on my cheek, the sting remained with me. The thought that he had crossed my own line nagged at me. And then I thought about my mother.

Although it hadn't been physical abuse at home, I'd put up with a lot more from her, I reasoned. Was it just because of a blood tie? I wondered. Did Grandma's deflecting of some of the shit that came my way help me to maintain my dignity? Regardless, I concluded, I wouldn't have to deal with it too much longer. I was headed for the real world, which would bestow enough affirmation to remove me from Bensonhurst and insulate me from the slings at home … and from Tony's. I decided I wouldn't let him cross that line again.

My fingers moved once more to the keyboard. He always talked about respect, but it can't be one-sided, I wrote. It can't be just about the other person. And it can't be just about two people, either. There were others, such as my grandma and Father Rinaldi, whose feelings needed consideration, and times with those such as Mom and Pamela when accommodation had to be sought. You may not be as close to them, but you had to give them their space as you fought to establish your own.

I finished the article and slipped it into my bookcase. It's a good start to the year, I said to myself. I rose from my desk, straightened my hair, and took another look at my face in the mirror even though neither Mom nor Grandma had said anything about it during dinner. When I had assured myself that an unpleasant chapter in my life couldn't be read on my face, I
shut off the light and opened my bedroom door. As I headed down the short hallway, Lawrence Welk's familiar “an' a one, an' a two, an' a three” reached my ears. Grandma sure held sway over her space, I chuckled to myself.

New Keiser High School was abuzz the next morning. Everyone was upbeat despite the vacation being over, showing off some of their presents and trading tales of holiday revelry. I fit right in; more than a few girls remarked about the bracelet that jangled on my wrist. A gift like that said a lot to my peers, as did getting picked up at school with a Harley or a Porsche. The grapevine had already spread the news about me and Tony, and I garnered more interest from the girls, who probed me for some juicy details about a local hunk. The word “respect” popped into my head again as we chatted in the hallways and stairwells. Did they sense how close Tony and I had gotten on Friday night? I wondered. Did my passage into womanhood and the hard-won confidence that came with it show on my face? Regardless, pieces of the article that I had turned in came to me along with the girls' questions, and I gave them just enough to confirm my standing with Tony without violating my relationship with him.

As I headed to a conference with Mr. Wainright at the end of the day, I wondered, too, if Tony respected me. I had given myself to him; did that lessen me in his eyes? I asked myself but dismissed that thought right away. If nothing else, Tony sure had a powerful regard for my virginity, I said to myself as I recalled the scene in the bedroom after he had taken it. But would he be able to respect the line I had drawn? I pondered as I turned the knob outside Mr. Wainright's office and entered.

The cramped room was filled with bookcases and a small, worn couch that was against the wall opposite Mr. Wainright's desk. I sat on a wood armchair across from him. Dust particles
were suspended in the rays of light that pierced the multiple panes of a tall window behind him. The room smelled and felt like the bookstore.

“Well,” Mr. Wainright began, my pages in his hand, “I see it wasn't just partying for you over the last week.”

“No, sir. Writers write … right?” I smiled at my play on words.

Mr. Wainright's face was expressionless. “It's nice to see you so upbeat, Sam.”

“The whole place is,” I said.

“I'm not talking about holiday cheer,” he said. I scrunched my eyebrows. Mr. Wainright placed the pages on his desk and looked me in the eye. “Writers write what they know, too, Sam,” he said. “I can read between the lines, too.” I sat back in my chair and he continued after a downward glance. “There's some heavy stuff in there.”

“Too much bleeding?”

“No, realism brings people into a story. Makes them relate. Makes for good writing.” Mr. Wainright sat back in his large swivel chair and clasped his hands behind his head as was his wont. He raised an eyebrow. “I have some concerns about
your
reality.”

“I can only write about my life,” I said.

“That's the point, Sam,” he said, and then rested his arms on his desk. “I know all about what goes on in the neighborhood streets. I don't want to see you get sidetracked.”

“You know me, Mr. Wainright,” I said with smiling eyes. “I'm just passin' through.”

“I hope so. But don't hesitate to come to me—or someone else you trust who has your best interests in mind.” I nodded as he grabbed the pages and stood. He squeezed around his desk and put a hand on my shoulder. “Now, let's get this published,” Mr. Wainright said.

I did my best to concentrate on my work at the bookstore—had to, returns were still pouring in—but that had become increasingly harder to do over the previous weeks. My life and my writing demanded more and more of my attention, and I found myself easily distracted, as I was on that Monday. I just couldn't get Tony or the people who made reference to who he was out of my mind.

I hadn't heard from him since he had dropped me off, and he wasn't outside the school that day to drive me to work. Not that I looked that hard at the usual gathering of vehicles at the curb; I didn't really expect him to be there after hearing the way Richie talked about a meeting that seemed pressing and exciting to him. Tony and Vin would no doubt be worked up about it, too, I thought.

I was glad when closing time came and I bolted out the door. I only gave a cursory glance to the vehicles outside before huddling under my coat and heading for the subway. I knew Tony wouldn't be there, either.

I didn't make any detours that day on the way to my apartment because I didn't want to miss his call. I waited as long as I could after arriving there before asking Mom and Grandma if I had any messages. When told there were none, I threw myself into dinner preparations and decided that I would enjoy another evening at home. When life deals you lemons, make lemonade, I reminded myself. I chuckled inside as I thought that I had sure been handed enough of that yellow citrus.

“First day back go okay?” Grandma asked as we worked at the kitchen counter, side by side. Mom had shown no interest in making it a threesome and had remained on the living room couch, wrapped tightly in her robe.

“Great,” I said. “Writing's going better than expected.”

“We didn't have much of a chance to talk about New Year's. That Pamela behave herself?”

“She was fine. Why do you ask?”

“I saw how she barely tolerates you. She lives for that son of hers.”

“Like I don't?” I chuckled.

Grandma let go of her mixing spoon and turned to me. “That's fine, Samelah, as long as you live for each other.”

I gave her a quick hug. “I'm the one writing the story, Gram, remember?” I said.

I was startled after school the following day when I found Janice waiting for me outside her Camaro at the curb, and was concerned the instant I approached her and saw her dark face. She barely said hello before waving me into the front seat.

Shock is the only word to describe my reaction when Janice dumped the reason for her unannounced appearance as soon as her door closed. “Richie's been shot!” she shouted, on the verge of tears. From the looks of her eyes, it seemed like she'd been bawling for a while.

“Jesus Christ! Jan,” I exclaimed as I reached for her across the console. “Is he okay?”

She started to sob. “No, Sam, he's in Methodist,” she said, her chest heaving, “and … he … might not … make it!” The floodgates opened and Janice wept bitterly. I held her for a couple of minutes until her shaking body calmed down.

“What the fuck happened?”

“Haven't ya seen the
News
?” Janice asked, and reached for the paper on the rear seat. I hadn't; that daily, for the most part, reflected Brooklyn. I had always made it a point to scan the
Times
instead, in the school library. It described the world I was headed for, even if I didn't know half the words and spent as much time with the dictionary as I did with the broadsheet.

“No,” I said as Janice spread the paper on the dashboard. I wondered for the first time whether circumstances would keep me stuck on the wrong side of the bridge.

A drug deal gone bad was spread all over page four. A
photo of a covered body on a sidewalk dominated the adjacent story. My eyes flew over the article. “I don't see his name anywhere,” I said.

“That's a black coke dealer there in the picture. Cops found a gun and said it was fired three times.”

“So?”

“Aldo said they took three slugs out of Richie last night.”

“Did his brother say it was connected?”

“Didn't hafta. What else would anyone think?”

“Listen, Jan,” I said as I stroked her tousled hair. “There's a lot of shootings in this godforsaken borough.”

“Do the math, Sam,” she grunted.

“Okay, even if Richie was there, maybe it was self-defense,” I said, and shuddered as I thought that maybe he wasn't the only one who had to defend himself. “Were Vin and Tony with him?”

“Nobody knows,” Janice said, “or is sayin' anythin' if they do. Aldo couldn't reach out to either of them.” She began to sob and shake again. “What am I gonna do if he dies, Sam?”

“He'll pull through. I just know it,” I lied. I had no idea how this unplanned chapter was going to work itself out. I opened the glove box and pulled out a few tissues that I stuffed into her hand.

“I've … got … to go … see … him,” Janice said with labored breathing. She wiped her eyes and pulled herself together as best she could.

“Want me to drive?” I asked, though the thought scared me. I had gotten a license but had driven only a couple of times since my road test.

“No, but can you come with me? I'm so scared, Sam.”

I hugged my best friend again. “Of course,” I said. I was plenty scared, too. And not just about Richie, though that was more than enough. I pictured Tony in some cell again or, worse, holed up bleeding somewhere, and I was afraid all of
this was becoming too much for me to handle, too much to carry across the bridge that was in walking distance from the hospital where we were headed. But I forced my worries into the recesses of my mind; my friend needed me then.

Richie's family was gathered in the small waiting room adjacent to the CCU. Their grave faces told me how critical his condition was. I let go of Janice's hand and stood near the doorway because I didn't know Richie's family well and wasn't comfortable enough to approach them. Janice hugged everyone as she sobbed anew. I fidgeted near the door for a long minute and then decided to go back downstairs to the small chapel off the main lobby.