Miracle's Boys (6 page)

I had followed her as far as the kitchen doorway and stood there leaning against it nodding, not sure what she was talking about.

“What's Fresh Air Fund?” I asked.

Mama sighed and started washing the dishes left over from breakfast. She ran some hot water over them then rubbed Ivory soap on a washcloth before answering.

“It's a camp,” she said.

“I
want
to go to camp.”

“It's a camp for kids whose parents can't afford to send them somewhere else. For poor kids.”

I watched Mama wash dishes and let the words sink in.

“Are we
poor?”
I asked.

“Poor enough,” Mama said. She scratched her forehead with her soapy hand, then wiped the soap away with her arm. “But not that poor. And we won't always be this way, either.”

When I was a baby, we all went to Bayamón, Puerto Rico, for my grandmother's funeral. Ty'ree said Puerto Rico was like what pictures of Paradise look like—all green and warm and pure. Mama always promised we'd go back again one summer when we had enough money.

“We ain't ever gonna have enough money,” Charlie had said.

“Yes we will, Charlie,” Mama told him. She pressed her hand against his cheek.

“When?” I asked, wanting to feel her hand on
my
cheek. Wanting her to look in
my
eyes and promise we'd have enough money.

“Soon,” Mama said, still keeping her hand on Charlie's cheek. “Soon.”

But it seemed most days we barely had enough money to pay the rent, let alone fly to Paradise.

“Soon ain't coming soon enough,” Charlie said. We were poorer now. Sometimes if Ty‘ree didn't figure money out right or if something came up—like the time I lost three textbooks and had to pay for them before I could get new ones—we'd end up having stuff I didn't much care to eat, like cornbread that Ty'ree stretched with flour, and powdered vegetable soup with pieces of hot dogs in it. Or sometimes Ty'ree would send me to the store around the corner for seventy-five cents' worth of spiced ham and fifty cents' worth of cheese—enough for two sandwiches, three if you cut the meat in half and used a lot of mayonnaise. We got food stamps from the city and a little bit of money once a month, but there was always something one of us needed that seemed to cost just a little bit more than we had.

“You wish we were rich, T?”

Ty'ree nodded. “Every day. Maybe not
every
day, but most days.”

“How come?”

“Life would just be easier. I could go to school.”

Me and Ty‘ree walked by a group of boys passing a bottle around on the corner of Fourteenth Street and Sixth Avenue. I eyed them, and one of them eyed me back, then said, “W's up.” Me and Ty'ree said what's up back. They reminded me of Newcharlie and his friends hanging out on the corner of my block. I'd seen them in the same position—huddled in a circle passing a bottle of beer around. I wondered if that's what Newcharlie was doing right now. I missed him suddenly. He'd never come with us to see an art flick, though. He said they bored the living mess out of him.

“It ain't
my
fault you're not in college, you know.”

“Nobody's blaming anybody, Laf,” Ty'ree said, sounding tired and old. “You just asked a question and I answered it. That's all.”

It had stopped raining and gotten a little bit colder out now I pulled my coat sleeves down over my hands. A limousine drove past us slowly, and I wondered if there was a famous rapper inside. Rappers and basketball players were always talking about buying their mamas houses and cars. If Newcharlie became a rapper, I wondered what he'd buy us. I looked down at my boots. They were black and scuffed. Ty'ree had promised he'd have some money to get me another pair in two weeks. The boots felt kind of tight too. They made me remember that guy David and the shoehorn.

After Mama died, we started getting some money from the state. I think we got some when Daddy died too, but I'm not sure. When the checks came, Ty‘ree usually used them to pay rent and buy food. He used the money he made at work to buy us clothes and school supplies. After the textbook thing he started trying to put a little in the bank for hard times. Sometimes I sat at the dining-room table with him and helped him figure stuff out. By the time we got through figuring, there wasn't much left over. On pay-days, if the rent wasn't due, Ty'ree always made sure there was some left to see a movie or rent a video. And sometimes we'd stop at McDonald's or get a slice of pizza. I looked at Ty‘ree. He was walking with his head down and frowning, like he was thinking serious about things. He needed a haircut, so his hair kind of fell toward his forehead a little. I looked down at his sneakers. They were old and dirty-looking. He'd bought them before Mama died. They were Adidas but the kind nobody wore anymore. I moved a little bit closer to him, wondering if people could tell we were poor. He
couldn't
go back to school. Not right now anyway. Because of me. Because of Newcharlie. He couldn't quit his job, and he couldn't go at night 'cause the caseworker would be on us talking about how me and Newcharlie were home alone too much. The only way he'd be able to go to college was if me and Newcharlie went to live down south.

“I don't like being poor, T.”

Ty'ree looked at me. “We won't always be this way. You know that. It's just a temp thing.”

He put his arm around my shoulder and I nodded. But I didn't see a way out. Just years and years of us this way. Us moving in a circle. A circle called Time.

“Ty'ree,” I said. “That guy David from Rahway? He ever killed anybody with that shoehorn?” I wanted to change the subject, to stop thinking about being poor.

Ty'ree thought for a moment. “That's the story Charlie tells about the guy making a knife out of it?”

I nodded.

“Correction officer found it under his bed. That kid's probably still doing time.”

“Newchar—I mean
Charlie
tries to make it seem like he killed someone.”

“You ever try to just talk to Charlie?” Ty'ree asked. We turned onto Thirteenth Street.

I shrugged. “And say
what?”

“You know, just talk. Say w's up. Ask him how his life is going. What kind of things he likes to do. Stuff like that.”

“I know where his life is going—down the toilet.”

Ty'ree eyed me. “Maybe he knows you think that and that's why he acts the way he does.”

I felt myself starting to shake. I
hated
when Ty'ree did this. “It's not
my
fault!” I said. “Everything ain't my fault, all right?”

Some people turned to look at me, but I didn't care. I started walking fast down Thirteenth Street, past the Quad. Ty'ree was somewhere behind me. I didn't care. I hoped he would turn into dust. Hoped he would disappear. Forever and ever amen. I sniffed. I could feel tears running down my nose.

“Lafayette!” Ty'ree's hand was on my shoulder, yanking me around.

“It ain't my fault,” I said, my voice choking up in the back of my throat. “He burned all of Mama's pictures!” I felt cold suddenly, cold and sweaty at the same time. I hated Newcharlie and I hated Ty'ree. I wanted to be dead. Dead like Mama. Maybe I'd die of hypothermia. Then it'd just be the two of them in that house, every day thinking about what they could have done to keep
me
alive.

“Just sat in the window and lit a match to them and let the little—” I gulped. I couldn't catch my breath. “He... he let the little fires float down.”

A man with a little girl looked at us, then grabbed the little girl's hand and crossed the street.

“He didn't mean it, Lafayette.” Ty'ree kept his hand on my shoulder. When I tried to jerk away, he held tighter. “It was just his way—”

“Those two pictures I got are the only ones left.” I hated Newcharlie. Hated him. “Wish he'd never come home. Least then we'd have some other pictures.”

“I know,” he said. “I know.”

I felt myself sagging into Ty‘ree like he was a wall, felt him put his arms around me. “Then he got the nerve to put plants in all the windows, Ty'ree. Like plants was gonna change something.”

“I know, Laf,” Ty'ree kept saying. “I know.”

“He's all bad, T,” I cried. “And you're all good and I ain't nothing.”

Ty'ree let out a little laugh. “Nah, Lafayette. Charlie ain't all bad. And you know you got it going on.” He was quiet for a moment. “And I... I
definitely
am not all good.”

I was getting colder and colder. Ty'ree kept his arms around me to keep me from shivering.

“Brother to brother, Lafayette?”

I nodded. “B to B,” I whispered. It was something Ty'ree had started saying right after Mama died. It meant I love you, but we'd never really said that to each other. He'd said brother to brother meant that and then some. It meant we'd be there for each other, no matter what.

“Hey, let's bag the movie and go get something hot to drink, okay?” Ty'ree said.

“Yeah. Let's.” Ty‘ree kept his arm around my shoulder as we walked back toward Sixth Avenue. We went into a coffee shop on the corner of Sixth and Tenth. There weren't that many people in it, and me and Ty'ree took seats in the back. There was soft music playing and a couple of people sitting at tables writing in notebooks and on laptop computers. I ordered a hot chocolate and an apple Danish, and Ty‘ree ordered coffee. He handed me his napkin, and I wiped my eyes and blew my nose. I felt tired. Tired and empty, and even with Ty'ree right across the table from me, I felt a little bit alone.

Our stuff came and Ty'ree started talking. I picked at my Danish, hoping he'd tell me about Mama, about the day she died. I hoped he'd change the story around and make me the hero, the one who saved her. But he didn't. He started talking about our daddy. And when he started talking, we weren't in that coffee shop anymore. We were in Central Park. I stopped picking at my Danish and leaned in close. Not wanting to miss any of it.