Man Gone Down (16 page)

—
T. S. Eliot, “Little Gidding” I

C had looked at my knees one morning. We were staying at an inn and had gotten up early to watch the World Cup final from Korea. I was trying to walk quietly down the groaning steps. My legs were stiff, having danced with Claire the night before at her cousin's wedding, and I had to use the rail. There's not much worse, socially, than being a brown person on the dance floor at an otherwise all-white event. I don't like dancing anywhere, certainly not sober. And to have them watch me shift my weight, conservatively on creaking knees and ankles, emulating the sexual act with their Brahmin jewel while flanked by my children, X every so often slamming into me like a blitzing linebacker. Claire thought it was fun.

C watched me struggling and wondered aloud if Ronaldo's injuries had been worse than mine.

“Worse. Much worse.”

“What did he do?”

“One year a fractured tibia. Ruptured patellar tendon the next.”

“That's bad?”

“Yes.”

“But he's better now?”

“Yes.”

“Good. They need him.”

We were alone at the start—seven o'clock. It was a chilly New Hampshire mountain morning. And as the den began to fill with guests and the morning warmed, C left his sweater on, sensing from the crowd that they, for a reason he couldn't understand, were rooting for Germany. It was tense going—more people entered, sat, voiced
their opinions, and talked about their children's teams or their own former athletic glory. And even when his hero broke the scoreless tie, he remained silent. He looked around nervously and pressed a bit closer to me on the couch—trying to read my expression. I patted his head. One woman kept looking from C to the television, trying to link him to the Brazilian players who celebrated. She wouldn't look at me. When Ronaldo scored the second goal to seal the victory, C couldn't help himself. He jumped up, tore his sweater off to reveal the homemade shirt. He pointed into the air, waving the index finger slightly—just like the man on the TV—and ran out of the room, triumphant.

Still no sleep. It's amazing what happens when the adrenaline tapers off, the endorphins disappear. I sit on the bed in the dark kiddie room and feel the pulsing, dull ache of twenty years of long distance running, hundreds of soccer games, hundreds of slides on hard-packed infields, fence jumping, sprints down alleys, nightsticks to the ribs and handcuffs, knees threatening to collapse while playing with the kids on a Brooklyn schoolyard's asphalt top. They, unknowingly undercutting me, me not wanting to trample them. Then later, C watching me pop Motrin and sit on the floor strapped in ice.

I get ready to leave before Claire can call to wish me a happy birthday—to ask me what I'm doing. I feed Thomas three pellets. He's slow to react. They start to sink into the bowl. I want to give him more. The food instructions say that he should eat fresh pellets taken from the surface of the water, but they also warn against overfeeding. I'll give him more later if those aren't gone.

Because of its southern exposure, the great window room is already bright. Marco is asleep on the couch. His laptop is next to him and the brief in question is spread across his knees. The television is on—
Cool Hand Luke.
He's preaching his gospel to George Kennedy, just before they shoot him. I shut it off. He stirs, kicking the paper in the air. He gropes the couch for his glasses.

“What time is it?”

“Six thirty.”

“You're out early.”

“Meeting.”

“Right.”

He closes his eyes again. I think that I should make sure he's up for good, but he's the boss. He can be late. I go down to the cellar to where my tools are stashed. I open the gang box and proceed to lay the items I want to take on the floor. I don't know who I'm working for or what I'll be doing so I take out my
cordless and my half-inch drill. I take out my twenty-ounce hammer, five pencils, try square, twenty-five-foot tape, speed square, chalk line and extra chalk, grease pencil, Sharpie, utility knife, extra bits, #2, and #3 Phillips, #1 and #2 trim square, slot-head bits,
hex head, channel locks, tin snips, needle-nose, small C-clamps, Besseys, speed-bore set, masonry and metal bits, plumb bob and line, torpedo level, wooden rule with depth gauge, five-in-one, battery charger and extra battery for the cordless. I leave the ratchet set, pipe wrench, and the remaining power tools behind. I look over the assemblage—call each tool out by name. I do it again, touching each one, as well. Then I put them, one by one, into my large canvas bag. I stuff my tool belt in last and sling the bag over my shoulder.

Marco's still on the couch, but he's awake, sitting up, rubbing his eyes. He stops and looks my way. He's too nearsighted to see me from across the house. He waves to the sounds of the street coming through the open door.

I set off. It's already hot outside. The air's loaded with water. On the corner of Wyckoff and Court is a Chinese takeout booth. As I pass, someone turns on the exhaust fan and I get a blast of celery and ancient chicken in my face along with the rust tint of the fan blade and whatever greasy filth is trapped in the housing. I turn right—north—up the slight grade. I walk past the travel agent, the gourmet shop, past the coffee shop in which, ten years ago the kid at the counter checked to see if the ten I had given him was counterfeit. I walk past
the realtor who never seemed to be able to find Claire and me an apartment when we first looked at the neighborhood. Past the closed Taqueria. I cross Bergen Street, looking down the hill to the F-train stop at the bottom.

A kid from the bagel store is hosing down the concrete, washing the scum left behind from last night's trash. He stops the water so I can pass. He's used bleach. It burns my eyes and nostrils as I walk by, but it's failed to kill all the stink. The milky, oily water collects in the gutter because there's a slight depression in the road. The sun will have to dry it all up.

I pass and hear him turn the spray on again. I walk past the vet and wait at the corner of Dean, where cars always make the illegal dogleg turn against the traffic on Court. They've finished the facade of the funeral home. Instead of stucco they used Styrofoam sheathing and epoxy paint. Down the hill is the gym I used to go to. A couple walks up past the little firehouse toward me. They're both very tall and thin. I've seen them for years. They're both graying. They walk with their squash racquets poking out from their bags. He, as always, is still wearing his safety goggles. He sees me and shoots a quick, high wave. She doesn't. I wave back.

A neighborhood mom I recognize from the playground passes them. She jogs slowly. She's sweaty and heavy. She wears big shorts and a tentlike T-shirt. She nears, does a double take, and waves. She looks at my tool bag and nods as though it's answered a question for her. She passes and I recall her face—little eyes, rodentine, lidless, and her pinched nose. I turn to look at her. I've overheard her talking about her battles with her weight with her pals. She's been shuffling in the early morn for a half decade now. She's dieted, fasted. Nothing's changed. Now, she's just older.

There used to be a café—Roberto's—owned by a screwball Puerto Rican who passed himself off as Italian. He made the best coffee, nice little sandwiches, too. No cell phones allowed. No laptops. He had iron lawn chairs and an oak church pew and two
long plywood tables. One day he got sick of breaking even, serving the privileged stroller brigade, and left the shutter down.

It surprises some people that I go to a chain store for my coffee, but I won't support the incompetent mom-and-pop operations that keep springing up around the neighborhood, subsidize half-wit entrepreneurial fantasies by agreeing to their criminal markups. Besides, black girls work in the Starbucks. Sometimes I even call them
my girls.
I don't know if their personal stakes in the company are myth or fact, but they always brew a good strong cup and treat me well. Besides, my girls have taken over this outpost—shed the caps and shirts. Shed the greetings. I never have to order. They always slide my large black to me with six ice cubes dropped in on top so as to take the coffee out of the lawsuit temperature range.

Kelly is short and round faced, with dark chocolate skin. She waves me off when I go for my money.

“How are the babies?”

“Babies are good—good. You?”

“I'm good. It's all good. You look tired.”

The others in line are perplexed by our exchange. Kelly takes the next order. I drop some of Marco's change into the tip jar and leave.

Across the street the ice cream store is closed, as well as the two pubs I've never been to. One, Coopers, has a blackboard in the window advertising an open-mike night Wednesdays at nine. Farther down the block the church steeple rises up above the adolescent trees and low buildings. It's newly clad with brown sheet metal, but the old copper trim and gutters are oxidized. It can't, from the way the seams appear to be bent, be watertight. Behind the big louvered panels is the broken bell. I missed its last sounding. I figure I'll wait until the next clang and slowly make my way to work—eight to four. Then at four I'll call on Marta for our check, perhaps even make it up to school to plead my case for the boy's tuition installments. If I get paid
in cash, four days of work will net me a thousand. Then I'll have two weeks till Labor Day: tuition, new apartment deposit, miscellaneous bills, the bus ticket, the Ronaldo shirt—not likely but possible.

A paddy wagon pulls up and one of the cops gets out, repeats his partner's coffee order twice, and goes inside. Somebody yells something from the back and the cop without turning snickers, “Sorry, the AC's broken.” He listens to another complaint and replies, “I'll give you my badge number now.” The “brown like poop” kid's mother power walks toward me. She's holding little dumbbells. She sees me. I can tell she'd like to avoid me, but that would require a change of pace and a turn into the street. She readjusts her face to look happy—surprised but happy.

“You're up early.”

“Sure.”

“What are you doing? Are you having a good summer?”

“Sure.”

“How's everyone?”

“Great. Yours?”

“They're great. We signed Eli up for German lessons. He loves it.”

“German, huh?”

“Well, I'm half German.”

She's wearing a mauve sport bra and long, black tights that would seem to be suffocating in the wet August heat. The elastic bands of both are too tight. They cut into her ribs, her waist, creasing her flesh, intensifying the shapelessness of her exposed gut—one big fleshy roll on display—pink and peach and white and sweaty. I don't want to stare at it so I look at her face. She has a little head even for a small person, but she's tall, about five-ten. She has chestnut hair. It's short, but she wears it pulled back, revealing her ears, which would fit the head size she should have. Her nose is large, too, and her eyes seem to cross a bit—forever inclined to follow its length. She wipes her cheek with the back of her hand.

“What's Cecil up to?”

“He's at the beach.”

“That's great. Did you guys find a place?” She asks cautiously, as though she's unsure whether our problems are common knowledge.

“Not yet.”

She shifts her right side forward. Her shoulders and arms are skinny but shapeless. Her body doesn't start to widen until her navel—that wide ring of flesh—then it keeps expanding. She's bottom heavy, but she tapers toward the knee. Her calves are thin. Her feet are tiny.

“I'll keep my ears open.”

“Great. Thanks.”

“Good to see you.” She leaves but waits half a block to resume her power walk. I sip my coffee and watch her—hands high, head forward, ass out, like some poorly conceived bird, a problematic emu, lost in Brooklyn.

I feel mean as I watch her disappear down the street. I had a knack once, for a short while, of talking to her—people like her—or, at least, listening. That's gone now, too. Before Claire left, we'd walk these streets as a family. She'd stop and talk or give a bright smile and wave, without breaking stride but slowing down and turning just enough to make the greeting seem customized and sincere.