Everyday People (17 page)

The road dropped down to the level of the neighborhood streets, the North Side pawn shops and sports bars around the stadium. Bail bonds, checks cashed. Painted on the sides of old brick buildings, faded signs advertised stores that had closed before he was born. The road gained another lane, then two. He could see the white concrete tire of Three Rivers ahead, the desolate parking fields under the curved ramps of the Fort Duquesne Bridge. The Pirates were out of town, so it was possible the Steelers were there, practicing for Sunday's game in the rain. He and Nene had gone once, with the church. Their Granmoms gave them five dollars each to get whatever they wanted. The lines at the concession stand were endless, the steps of the upper deck dizzyingly steep. He remembered dropping his hot dog when they finally got back to their seats, and wanting to pick it up, but Nene stepped on it on purpose, squishing it, then ripped his own in half and gave him the bigger piece. And still he cried, thinking he'd been mean.

That was the Nene he'd remember, not the one who sold his Gameboy on the corner and then twenty minutes later came back looking for the games. Not the one who smashed in the back door after their Granmoms changed the locks on him. Not the one stressing his friends for a dollar on the way to school, his lips silver from huffing aluminum paint. Not the one peeing on parked cars like some old
drunk. Not the one under the sheet on the sidewalk, the can of ice tea he'd been drinking lying in a chalk box next to him.

Driving, he remembered not just good things or bad things, but everything. That was why he did it, he figured. Sometimes he even pretended Nene was with him, riding shotgun, talking shit about the places they'd been. They'd lived their entire lives in the city, and every street had some of them in it. He was coming up on the high fences and concertina wire of Western Pen. “Remember when we went to visit U that time and they wouldn't let us in?” LJ would say, and Nene would help him tell the whole story. “'member the time Granmoms ran over Cardell's bike?” and they'd laugh and laugh.

The Caprice was quiet, the Ohio flowing muddy beside him, downtown filling the rearview mirror. He turned on the heater again and blinked, the air drying his eyes. Ohio River Boulevard ran out past Western Pen and along the railroad tracks. He crossed into Bellevue and then Avalon, quiet towns, the supermarket lots full of Jeep Wagoneers and Ford Explorers, not a face like his anywhere. LJ had never been this far, but there was nothing new or interesting here, only a barge pushing upriver. Somehow he'd gone too far and lost Nene, lost the feeling he needed. For the first time, it wasn't working.

At Neville Island he crossed the Ohio and came back, driving by the chemical plants pumping out clouds, the waste-treatment facility, a graveyard in the middle of nowhere. He took West Carson Street back in, crossing the Fort Pitt Bridge for the postcard view of downtown, then swung onto the Parkway East, the Mon on his right, all
bridges and old steel mills. The hill of the South Side looked gray in the rain, cheap company houses crammed onto steep streets, clouds right down on top of them. He had nothing to be back for, yet he was heading straight home, the needle on 65. Most days it worked, driving around. What was different today—the rain?

It always rained in Pittsburgh.

In his disappointment, he couldn't think of any one place to lay the blame. He was tired of thinking, maybe that was it. He needed to find another way to take his mind off Nene.

And he'd thought this one would last him, that was the sad part. It was the one place he felt safe.

There was nothing he could have done, that was clear. He'd been watching TV at Cardell's when it happened. He'd even heard the shots and then the car taking off, or he thought he did afterward. It was
Comic View,
and they were laughing at something dumb. He didn't know until twenty minutes later when Mrs. Brown came in holding a hand over the phone and told him it was his Granmoms. He took it into the hall so he could hear. At first he couldn't understand what she was saying, and then it all fit together like a puzzle. He ran out of the house, leaving his Seahawks jacket; the next day Cardell brought it over, saying he was sorry.

Everyone was sorry.

The Oakland exit came up fast, and he slowed for the ramp and merged onto Forbes. Traffic was bumper to bumper between the lights, trucks double-parked and unloading on both sides. The sidewalks were busy here, even in the rain—students from Pitt, street people hustling
change outside the Giant Eagle. There was a cop car there, facing the street, and he kept his eyes straight ahead.

He was through the first light when the siren came up behind him. He squashed the urge to look back. He was boxed in, there was nowhere to go. The sound was louder, and a streak of red light bounced off the storefronts. He would not fight them. He would not say a word, just sit in the caged backseat like a killer, the handcuffs biting his wrists.

Was that what he wanted—to use that as an excuse?

He knew he should have killed B-Mo the same night, or died trying, should have brought an army of Treys down on his shit, all of Spofford mobbing through Brushton.

The siren gave way to a blast of noise like a horn, and the van beside him pulled over to make way.

It was an ambulance, probably for one of the hospitals up on Fifth. He angled the Caprice beside the van to let it through, then spun the wheel and gunned into the open space.

At Craig he cut over to Centre, sliding by a whole row of churches and expensive funeral homes. He'd cried at Nene's service. He didn't expect to, and then when he was helping their Granmoms up to see him, his whole body turned to rubber and he couldn't breathe. Nene had a new suit on, and someone had done his hair. The shotgun had left holes in his face but they'd covered them with makeup, and he looked like the Nene he wanted to remember, not the Nene who ripped him off, the Nene who shorted him a quarter ounce, the Nene who dared him to try and get back what was his.

“Fucking step up or step off, bitch,” Nene said in front of his friends, and LJ backed down. “Yeah, I thought so.”

“Fuck you,” LJ said, walking away, and Nene got him in a headlock so his Pirates hat fell in the mud.

“Don't you
ever
mess with me.”

Cardell just stood there, waiting for him to let go.

“Don't know why I fuck with your punk ass.” Nene threw him to the ground and walked off, not bothering to do his pimp strut. Because it wasn't a joke. Cardell picked up the hat and gave it to LJ. There was mud on the gold button, and rubbing it off just rubbed it in.

“I'ma
kill
that motherfucker,” LJ said, and Cardell didn't say anything. Because he knew he wouldn't do shit.

He was almost home now, driving past Shadyside Hospital and then the projects, Centre empty, beer bottles caught in the storm grates. Ahead, the light went red for no reason; the intersection was deserted, not a car in sight. Babyland had closed a few years ago but no one had rented it; the sign was faded, the name spelled out in children's blocks. The bar next to it was open, the metal door scarred, half kicked in. He sighed and waited for the light, careful now that he was so close.

Did he really think he could get away from it? He could drive all night, all the way across the country, nonstop, and Nene would be sitting right beside him. Always would. The best he could hope for was talking with him once in a while, remembering when he was still his brother.

The circle, then Highland and into the side streets. Stop signs, no cops. Long puddles in the alleys. The windows of Sacred Heart glowed yellow. He signaled and turned down
Wayland. His parking spot was there; everyone was at work. It took him two tries to get it right, riding up on the curb. He looked around before pulling out the screwdriver, carefully replaced the cracked shell over the hole.

The one door he left unlocked. He crossed in front of the hood, a drop falling on his cheek, making him blink. As he walked away he looked back at the Caprice like he owned it, like someone might steal it, like this was the last time, and he thought maybe now he really was finished with it. Like U said, he had to stop. He had to change. It made sense.

The wind kicked up, and a loud shower fell from the trees. LJ shoved his hands in his pockets and ducked his face against the rain, headed home, knowing he'd be back tomorrow.

HE CALLED ANDRE
from somewhere over South Dakota, fuzzy, saying he'd be in around midnight and there was champagne in the liquor cabinet.

“Don't put it in the freezer,” Michel said, as if they'd never done this before.

He wanted to say no, he needed his sleep, but the machine was across the room.

“And if you could, on your way over pick up some milk for breakfast. I'm sure mine's cottage cheese by now.”

“I'm not staying for breakfast,” Andre said into the article he was reading.

“See you soon,” Michel said, and the line cut off. The machine clicked and rewound until the green light flickered.

Andre slowly got up and walked over in his slippers, the
Advocate
hanging open in one hand. He stood there with his finger on the button, frozen, as if trying to decide.

He'd told Harold he wasn't seeing Michel anymore. It wasn't a lie; he was off in the Pacific, pulling three full
months of Bangkok, Hong Kong and Tokyo. The flights were long, and the time difference was tough to get used to, so they kept the crews together, then gave them two weeks off to decompress. When they were living together, Michel always came home exhausted, happy to see him, even when they were having a bad time. For a night, a day, a week, everything was forgiven, but then a backhanded remark, a chipped dish, an overdue bill, and they fought like dogs, each of them lunging for the other's weakness, digging their teeth in. Andre wanted to say he'd finally left, sick of his constant criticism, but Michel never gave him the choice, shouting and pitching his things down the stairs in the middle of the night in just his underwear, like some overdone Tennessee Williams thing.

It had been nearly a year now, and they'd made up, seen each other around. Twice, late spring nights in Shadyside, Andre had ended up in his bed—not drunk, just sweetly buzzed on Campari—and things had been good. Michel knew how to love him, where and how much and when to be still. It seemed to both of them a mistake that they'd broken up. How did it happen, they asked; we're so good together. Then Michel had to do his Pacific route. He promised to call, though Andre said he'd rather have a letter. Of course he hadn't heard from him until now, when he wanted Andre.

Like takeout, he thought. It's late and he's hungry and there's nothing open, just me.

He did miss him, he couldn't deny it. Harold asked about him all the time, suspicious. Have you talked to him lately? Gotten any interesting mail? It was so typical, that
hypocritical straight-guy possessiveness; secretly for a while Andre kind of liked it, but finally it wasn't romantic, just another hassle.

Michel called Harold Mrs. Jones, after the Billy Paul song. He'd sing it every time he mentioned him—“We got a thinnnnnnnng goin o-on.” As usual, he thought Andre was being foolish, leading with his heart. “Or maybe it isn't your heart?” he insinuated, and Andre told him to fuck off.

“Married men.” Michel shook his head. “My little homewrecker.” It was a joke to him, and Andre laughed, but deep down he accused himself, and had all along. He could see how futile it was from the outset, how damaging. He promised he'd never ask Harold to leave his family, but from time to time, alone in his apartment, he thought it was only fair: He wanted the man he loved to be by his side. It couldn't help but slip out, and then it became this big thing that ruined their few hours together. After a while, all they did was fight. Even their lovemaking was part of a larger argument, a test of their true feelings. And though they proved again and again that they fit perfectly (despite the age difference and Harold's chronic worrying about his body), this knowledge only bred resentment. The whole thing was pointless. Finally they decided to just stop seeing each other.

It had been a week now of sitting home alone, a week of opening novels and ending up watching TV. He was used to killing time, waiting for Harold to break free of his wife, but now there was no possibility of his feet on the stairs, his knock at the door, his arms. So many times this week Andre had caught himself checking the time as if expecting him, then sighing, disgusted with everything, and he felt stupid.
Just as Michel warned, he'd let Harold mean too much to him, and now nothing satisfied him.

He hit the button and the machine whirred, deleting Michel. It was already past ten. He sat down with the
Advocate
and read about Jodie Foster finally coming out (duh!) as if nothing had happened, as if he wasn't thinking of Michel's down comforter, his clean sheets. There was an art to drinking in bed. He imagined the shock of a cold mouthful, the bubbles tickling his skin, and he thought of Harold at home, too timid to give in to love.

When he was finished with the article, he went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. He waited for the steam to pour up and curl in a thin layer beneath the ceiling. He wanted it scalding.

He closed his eyes and let the water pound down over him, trying to pretend this wasn't a mistake. He let his arms go limp, bent his head and stood there until there was nothing but the warm spot on the back of his neck, continually repeating. Did he resent Michel for assuming he'd be waiting for him? He wasn't; he was still waiting for Harold. But wasn't this what he wanted—Michel back and Harold gone? It was probably best for everyone. And the sex was better with Michel, no doubt. Andre was no size queen like some people he knew, but Michel was special, he had the total package—youth, beauty and a long cock with a pretty curve to it. It was what won him in the first place, not so long ago.