The Boy in the Black Suit (15 page)

So for the first time in three months I was on my own in the middle of the day, which is totally different from being alone at night. At night it seems like all the bad things creep in, like the fact that I can't see my mother again, and that I didn't want my father to get out of the hospital because then he couldn't get into the bottle. But in the daytime when you're alone, all you think about is what to do before nighttime comes. Either that, or you try to think of things to do to take the place of the something you've been trying to avoid doing. Everybody got that thing they keep putting off, for whatever reason. And that's how it was for me. I knew what I had to do, but I kept using the funerals and work and hanging out with Chris all as excuses to not do it. But on that day I felt like a giant, like nothing could stop me or break me down. So I decided to do what I knew I needed to do—go see my mother.

The A train. Mom used to call it the world's best traveling circus. There's always a couple kids busting out their latest dance routine, flipping and pop-locking up and down the aisle while the train rocks back and forth. Or how about the two brothers who get on with bongo drums to provide some theme music for the ride. And
of course, the salesmen, whether it be kids selling candy or dudes moving
DVD
s, one for five, three for ten. Everybody puts on a show in the A train circus, not to mention all the clowns who get on. From the girl who pretends like her cell phone is a boombox and we're still in the eighties, blasting her music loud enough for the whole train to hear, to the middle-school kids who try to crack as many jokes on as many people as possible, you just have to know what you're getting yourself into when you take the A. But it's the only train in my hood, so I don't really have a choice.

Luckily for me, it was the middle of the day, so the train was pretty empty. Just me, a woman dressed in workout clothes reading a book, and a homeless man all the way down at the end. He was alive, even though his dry skin made him look like he was dead. A zombie.

I rode for about ten minutes, shooting through the tunnels underground, the tracks screeching and knocking like a rocket about to take off. The conductor slammed on the brakes every time he came to the next station. The doors would open. No one would get on. Then, the doors would close again.

When we got to Hoyt Street, the woman with the book got off. Just me and the homeless man were left. And if it were any other day, I would've thought to myself that me and him were the same. Living and dead. But I didn't because it was my good day. On my way off the train I dropped a dollar in his cup, something I never do, hoping to make it his good day too. That's what girls do to you, I guess.

I transferred to the R train and zipped four or five more stops
before getting off at Twenty-fifth Street, which was pretty much like getting off in another state. Quiet. Trees. It even seemed like the sidewalks were bigger, even though I knew they probably weren't. I used to come to this part of Brooklyn all the time before my mother died. Every summer when I was a kid she would bring me to Prospect Park, which wasn't too far from where the cemetery was. We'd just walk around and talk. Well, she did most of the talking, which was really just joke after joke about silly stuff. Like how black people named the butterfly, butterfly. Before that, she said, they were called “flutter-bys,” which, when I think about it, made a lot of sense. But black folks put a twist on it, switched it around—or as my mother said, put some funk on it—and made it butterfly. She told me later that was a joke she heard from her father, who was told that story by someone else. Either way, it was funny, and I'll probably tell it to my kids. Maybe even in that same park.

Even though I had been in this area a bunch of times, I don't think I ever noticed how peaceful it really was. Maybe I was too young. Maybe I was too busy laughing, making all the noise. But now that I was alone, walking toward the cemetery in the middle of the day (couldn't have done it at night—would've gone from peaceful to scary), I realized it was probably the perfect place to be buried. I know that's a weird thing to say, but it's true. Not a whole bunch of noise or nothing. Just peace and space.

When we came here after the funeral to do the whole burial thing, one of the ladies who works at the cemetery gave my father and me a piece of paper with a map on it, leading to my mother's grave. That's how big this place is. You gotta have a map! I mean,
all my life living in New York City, I never even thought about the fact that most of the people who live here die here, and I couldn't help but wonder if most of them get buried in this place.

I stood at the gate and looked out at all the tombstones, white and gray, sprouting from the ground like weird teeth. Most tombstones look exactly alike, and even though I think my memory is pretty good, trying to find my mom's grave without directions would've been like running around in one of those mirror mazes they have at Coney Island.

The map said to follow the road straight, make the first left, then follow the path over the hill. As I walked, the wind picked up, blowing my suit jacket open and making my eyes water. Like I said, if this was nighttime, this would've been a scary moment for me. I walked and looked at every headstone I was passing. Holmes, Forsythe, Briscoe, Wilson, Waymon, Flushing, Carson, Morton, and on and on. As I read the names of the tombstones in my head, it was almost like a weird roll call, like I was saying hello to all these people. Thinking of their families, their funerals. Dwyer, Piedmont, Lee, Miller (no relation), Radison, Former. The names kept coming as I walked into the wind, pushing myself up the hill, my suit jacket now a black cape flapping behind me.

And just like the map said, over the hill, there it was, with a bunch of sad-looking flowers dozing in front of it.
IN LOVING MEMORY
OF DAISY MILLER
carved into a big—well, more like a medium gray stone.

“‘In Loving Memory'?” I said out loud. “Is that what you would've wanted on there? ‘In Loving Memory'?”

I chuckled because it was weird to talk to myself, even though I wasn't really; I was talking to her—my mother—which was weird too. I was also laughing, because if me and dad weren't so screwed up about the fact that my mom was going to die, we could've talked to her about what she really would've wanted on her stone. It probably would've been something like
IN LAUGHING MEMORY
, or even something like
LOL
, which she was totally obsessed with when she first learned how to text message.

I stood there staring at the marble block, trying to imagine what
LOL
would've looked like, when the feeling of being a giant that I had carried with me all day started to wear off. I wasn't expecting that to happen, even though when I think about it now, I should've known it would.

“I don't know why I'm here,” I said to the tombstone. To no one. To her.

“I don't know what I'm doing here.” I felt nervous, antsy. Stupid tears marched up my throat. A few more words and they'd be at my eyes. “I don't know what
you're
doing here,” I managed to get out, but decided that those would be the last words I'd say. Not that I would be able to say anything else, anyway. If I opened my mouth, even a little bit, whatever was left in me would come pouring out.

I bit down on my bottom lip and looked out at all the other tombstones. After a few seconds everything blurred into hills of gray. So many burials, and here I was wishing that I could bury a few things of my own. Bury the fact that I'm standing at my mother's grave after she left me in the world to fend for myself. Bury the
fact that my father is a drunk and now can't even walk, so he can't help me. Bury the fact that almost every kid in my school thinks I'm a damn crackpot. Bury the fact that I'm empty. Empty. Empty! I wish I could bury every damn thing!

I dropped my head, now dizzy with anger. My eyes, going in and out of focus, locked in on the bunch of flowers on the ground—most of which I recognized from the funeral.

I squatted down and stared at them.

“Look at this,” I managed to squeeze out under my breath. “Look at your flowers, all dry and wrinkled up like trash. Like crap.” I poked a petal. It crumbled. “They're all cracked up and brown and nasty. Overrated and overpriced, all for what? They're dead.
DEAD
. I just don't get why you were so head over heels for stupid flowers. Why everybody is. Look at them. They're wilted already. So damn stupid.” I stared for about five more seconds before the anger came crashing over me like a wave. And before you knew it, I had grabbed a fistful of the flowers by their brittle stems and began beating them against the ground. I banged them on the dry grass over and over again, as if I were hitting a drum, the leaves crunching and exploding into chips and tiny shards. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!”

I went on and on until I had totally destroyed the flowers. It was like they had become ashes in my hand and I didn't even realize that there was nothing left of them until I was pounding just my fist on the ground. “Stupid,” I whimpered one last time, now trying to catch my breath.

I stayed a while longer, not saying anything. Just trying to
calm down. Just trying to be there. With her. I really felt like she was with me. I couldn't hear her, but I felt like she could hear me, and that helped me, sort of, get myself together. I thought I should maybe apologize for what I did to her lovelies. But I decided to skip that and just say what I really came to say.

“Mom,” I started. I took a deep breath like I was actually standing in front of her about to break some big news. I continued, “I met a girl.” It seemed like such a small statement after all the crying. But I continued anyway.

“Her name is Love. Her real name. And it's nothing yet, but I like her a lot.”

Then I stood there staring at her name.
DAISY MILLER
. I was going to ask my mother to make me and Love work out, like maybe she had some kind of magic power, or could ask God and the angels to fool around with Love's mind to make sure this whole thing goes smooth. But then I imagined that
LOL
on her tombstone again and suddenly felt too silly to say anything else.

Chapter 10

HOMEMADE AND HOMELESS

“A
RE THEY AT LEAST GONNA
give y'all turkey?”

“Hope so,” my father said, reaching for the dinner menu. “Says right here, turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberries, and a roll, with a choice of sweet potato pie or pumpkin pie for dessert.”

“Sounds good.”

“Yeah, it does, but let's see if it actually
tastes
good. If it tastes anything like this shit they been serving, I'm a beg Dr. Fisher to get Dr. Winston to come put that tube back down my throat.” He laughed and reached for the remote control.

Thanksgiving morning at the rehab center, unfortunately, was the same as every other day, except for the construction paper turkeys pasted all along the walls of the waiting room. My father was propped up in his bed, his legs elevated and wrapped.

“It'll probably be pretty good,” I said, smiling.

He paused for a second. “Not as good as your mother's.”

I nodded in agreement and looked away.

He was right. There wasn't going to be any Thanksgiving dinner as good as hers, for us, ever again. It was like magic the way she made so much food, all by herself, and we never really saw her do it. I mean, one minute you'd see her snapping string beans and cutting corn off the cob. Then you'd see her stirring a pot of brown liquid with turkey neck bones floating at the top. Then you'd see her performing surgery on the turkey, which was always the grossest thing in the world, shoving her hand up its butt and pulling out all the slime. Then you'd hear the eggs cracking and the mixer running. And then, all of a sudden, dinner would be ready. Turkey, mashed potatoes, greens, stuffing, cranberries, corn, biscuits, pies and cakes, and a special tea she made to go with it all. No measuring cups. No boxes or cans. When she cooked Thanksgiving, Brooklyn Daisy went on break and Carolina Daisy ran the show. It's the only time she wouldn't let me help. This meal was hers, and hers alone.

“Yeah, you right about that,” I said. I was trying not to make this a sad thing, but the whole vibe in the room changed. So I went with it and hoped for the best. “I went to see her yesterday. Her grave.”

My father shimmied up the pillow behind him.

“How was she?” He caught himself. Pressed his lips tight. Tried again. “I mean, how was it?”

“It was good,” I said. Then I thought about it. “She was good.” I had told myself no crying on Thanksgiving, and I was determined to stick to it. But I could feel the rumble.

My father looked out the window, which he did every time
he
wanted to keep from crying. He took a deep breath and blew out like he was smoking an imaginary cigarette.

“I'm glad you went,” he said. When he looked back at me, his eyes were glassy. “When I get outta here, and can walk again, maybe we can go together.” His voice sounded strained.

I gave a shrug. Part of me wanted to ask him what he had been going through, trapped in the rehab wing of the hospital, not being able to really move on his own, forced to just lie there with his own thoughts all the time. I wondered if he ever cried when he was alone, or if he ever called out for her, or if he was having dreams about her like I was every night. Mainly, I wondered how he was dealing with it. I had the funerals. And now I had Lovey—someone new to talk to, and someone new to be excited about. But what did he have besides new metal bones in his legs?

We sat in silence that felt peaceful and heavy and weird and sad—pretty much everything but happy. So I changed the subject.

“So, I'm having Thanksgiving dinner today with a girl.” Just came right out with it.

Dad squinted his eyes like he didn't believe me. “Who? I thought you were eating over at Willie Ray's.”

“Nope. I'm eating with this girl I met named Love.”

Of course my father looked at me sideways like I was losing my mind.

“Love, huh?” The mood of the room went instantly light again.

“Yes, that's her real name, Dad. Love.”

He snickered. “Okay, okay. Well, does her crazy parents—'cause they gotta be crazy to name her Love—know you coming to crash their table?”

“No parents, man. She lives alone. Folks passed away.”

“Ah. Wow. Sorry to hear that, man,” he said, now regretting the joke he had made. “Where'd you meet her?”

I was a little embarrassed to tell him.

“At her grandmother's funeral.”

“You pick up women at these funerals? That's why you like this job so much!” He howled, but I didn't laugh at all, because that's not the reason I loved the funerals, and if he knew the real reason he wouldn't have found it so funny.

Noticing I wasn't sharing in his joke, he eased up.

“Okay, son, well, let me ask you this. She smart?”

“Yeah.”

“She in school?”

“Yeah.”

“She gotta job?”

“Yep.”

“Nice?”

“Of course.”

“Pretty?”

I just squished my face up, like it hurt me to think of how pretty she was.

My father busted out laughing again.

“Well then, enjoy your dinner. And if for some reason you feel
like having
dessert
, think twice, son. One slice of her pie could equal a lifetime of your cake, if you know what I mean.”

“What?!”

Mr. Ray and I left the hospital around noon. The second we got in the big black car he picked up the discussion we'd been having on the way to the hospital a few hours earlier.

“So, have you thought about what you're bringing?” he asked.

He had been explaining to me—really, it was more like preaching—how you never go over nobody's house empty-handed. Especially when you're going for dinner.

“Naw, I can't really think of nothing, and to be honest, I don't even think Love would trip if I didn't bring anything. I mean, we both said we were just gonna eat leftovers.”

Mr. Ray looked at me like he couldn't believe what I was saying.

“You really green, huh?” he said, eyes back on the road. He began rolling the sleeves of his white shirt up to his forearm. Mr. Ray wore a suit, even on holidays. But he didn't wear a tie, so I guess to him he was dressed down.

“Matt,” Mr. Ray said, putting on his blinker. “Trust me. You want her to like you, right?”

“Of course.”

Mr. Ray jerked the car over the side of the road, pulling up in front of a bodega.

“Then don't show up empty-handed.”

In the store I walked down the aisles looking for something that Love might like. Mr. Ray told me that this whole process would've been so much easier if we were older, because then I could just get a bottle of wine and be done with it. But because I can't buy wine, I'm stuck trying to figure out whether or not to go with soda, juice, cookies, or chips.

“Man, don't go with chips,” Mr. Ray demanded.

“Why not?”

“Breath. Can't risk it. You might luck up and get a kiss.”

Didn't even think about that. Chips were out.

“And soda isn't a good choice either, because girls her age are trying to make sure they don't get no unexpected bumps on their faces.”

“Pimples.”

“Right.”

We walked up and down the cluttered aisles as he continued to shoot down my options.

“And juice, well, juice ain't bad. But we don't know what kind of juice she likes, and you don't want to bring grape when she loves apple. And Lord knows, she might even like one of these fancy ones with the kiwi and passion fruit and all that mixed up in there. So cookies it is.”

Dude was nuts.

“Yeah, but I don't know what kind of cookies she likes either,” I explained.

“Chocolate chip,” he said right away. “I ain't never met a person that didn't like chocolate chip cookies.”

Me neither, I realized. I started looking around the bodega for the cookies. Oreos, those nasty wafer things that taste like dirty air, and those cheap strawberry cookies. No chocolate chip? I looked and looked. No chocolate chip! Then, out of pure instinct, I went for the eggs. And the flour. Some sugar. There were chocolate chips in the house from when my mother and I baked cookies for my dad's birthday.

“But what if
she
don't like them?” I said, as I tried to non­chalantly put the ingredients up on the counter.

“What's all this?” Mr. Ray asked, confused.

“Well, they didn't have any chocolate chip cookies, so I'm just going to make some,” I said, matter-of-factly.

He studied me hard. “You serious?” he asked. “You know we could just try another store down the block.”

“Naw. I think I'd rather just make them myself,” I said, a little embarrassed. “They'll be better, and it's easy. No big deal.” No big deal? Who was I kidding?
Huge
deal!

Mr. Ray just looked at me strange. Who knows what he was thinking. Probably that I was weirder than he thought.

“But answer my question.” I put a ten-dollar bill on the counter. “What if she doesn't like chocolate chip cookies?”

Mr. Ray snatched the money off the counter and gave it back to me, replacing it with his own. He collected his change, grabbed the bag of cookie ingredients, and turned back toward me.

“Then run.”

Love had texted me her address and what time to be there the day before.

8
1
5 Greene Ave

Be here around 2:30 :)

I'd been surprised—I had no idea she lived so close. Greene Avenue was only, like, ten blocks from me. Definitely walkable.

That gave me about two hours now to make the cookies. I broke out the sifter, the mixing bowl, the mixer, some measuring cups, and the old wooden spoon my mother loved to use. Then, finally, I opened up the notebook—
TH
E SECRET TO GETTING GIRLS, FOR MATTY
—and flipped through until I found the recipe.

Daisy's Damn Good Choco Chip Cookies (for Matty)

What you need:

1 cup of white sugar

1 cup of brown sugar

1 cup of veggie oil

an egg (no shells, son)

1 tblspn of milk

4 cups of flour

a pinch of salt

a pinch of baking soda

a few drops of vanilla extract

2 cups of choco chips (nonsweet)

What to do: Mix up everything but the choco chips. Those go into the batter last. Then scoop out two
pinches of batter at a time (or you'll have cookie pancakes) and put them on a nonstick pan. Put them bad boys in the oven at 350 and let them bake for ten minutes. Boom. You got yourself some damn good choco chips. Love ya, Matty, but I'll tease you if you burn these.

Mom

I could actually hear my mom's voice while reading the recipe. I checked to make sure we had everything—the vegetable oil, the brown sugar. Check and check. The vanilla extract. Check. Everything was there. For a minute it felt like fate, but then I realized it wasn't that deep. I was just baking cookies, and my mom cooked a lot, so of course we had everything. It's like walking into a funeral home and being surprised there are caskets.

I measured and poured and pinched and mixed until the batter was done. (My mother was a master pincher.) Then I poured the chocolate chips in, and some honey, which I just added because I figured it would be a nice touch. I stuck my finger in the batter, which my mother would've tripped about, but I just had to. She used to let me lick the spoon, but my finger? No-no. I gave it a taste. Oh . . . man. Slammin'. Then I scooped out little nugget-size chunks and lined them up on the pan, eight rows of four, and into the oven they went.

I checked my phone. One o'clock. I was tempted to run upstairs and wash up and get dressed, but my mom always said never to leave the stove. I had already set the timer for ten minutes,
so might as well wait. Plus, the recipe clearly stated that she'd laugh at me if I burned these cookies, and I kinda felt like she would figure out a way to let me know she was laughing. Even if it was by showing up in a dream or something. So I sat at the kitchen table and waited, flipping through the notebook—through the recipes.