The Boy in the Black Suit (20 page)

“I know it sounds kinda weird, but something about it does something for me. Like, I like working with Mr. Ray. He's just mad cool.” I could've stopped there. That sounded normal. But suddenly I had to tell her. I
wanted
to tell her. So . . .“But I also sit in on the funerals, and sort of, I don't know, be a part of them.”

“Wait. So you're saying you like sitting in on funerals of people you never knew?”

I took another sip. A bigger one. A gulp. It was honesty time.

“I guess so. Yeah.”

“
Yeah
, that's pretty weird,” Lovey said, standing back up. “Why would you want to be around sadness all the time?” she asked.

Dang, I was freaking her out, but now I was all in. I could feel my stomach knotting up.

“I guess because seeing other people deal with what I've had to deal with, y'know, with losing my mom and everything, makes me feel less . . . lonely. Like I ain't the only person going through tough times.”

I switched the glass from my right hand to my left hand, wiped my right hand on my jeans, and switched the glass back.

“I guess I can understand that.” To my surprise her face suddenly relaxed. She leaned against the arm of the couch. “So what about Grams's funeral? I mean, I know you were there to work, but, were you
there
?” she asked.

“Yeah.” My eyes went back to my juice. I couldn't look at her, suddenly ashamed. “I was . . . uh, sitting in the back row. It's hard to explain. It's like . . .” I tried to figure out the best way to say it. “It's like, I always look for the closest person to whoever passed away, y'know, like maybe a daughter or a son, or a wife or husband. That's who I focus on. And this time . . .” I glanced up at Lovey just for a second, then I dove back into my glass. “This time . . .”

“This time I was the closest person,” she finished my sentence.

I nodded, embarrassed. “Yeah. You were the closest person.”

I raised my eyes again. Lovey's mouth looked like it was going back and forth between a smile and a frown. “Wow,” she said in disbelief. “And what did you see?”

I gulped down the last few swallows of juice and ran my finger over the rim of the glass.

“Someone with a lot more strength than me, that's for sure. I mean, I could tell you were sad, but not falling apart like I was—” I caught myself. “I mean, am. When my mother died, it felt like my entire body was flipping and turning inside out. Like everything in me was falling apart, and usually that's what I see in other people. But with you, I don't know. I guess I saw some kind of peace, or something. Like you were somehow more together about it all.”

Lovey didn't say anything. She just made a sound with her mouth, like a grunt, that I couldn't read. I couldn't tell if the grunt
was a good thing or if it was the sound that came right before she kicked me out of her house.

“And what did you see yesterday?” she asked.

“What you mean?”

“I mean,
yesterday
.” She fiddled with the chain around her neck, twisting it so that the clasp was in the back. “When you asked me about Valentine's Day. What did you see then?” Her voice got softer as she sort of seemed to be shrinking.

“Honestly, I don't know what I saw. You just shut down.”

And for the first time I saw hurt in her eyes. The pain, a chink in her armor. I finally saw a little bit of me. Whatever she wanted to say next, she swallowed, and instead reached down, grabbed my empty cup, and went back into the kitchen. I could hear the water running. The glasses clanged together, ringing out like a bell. Then the water stopped, and a few moments later Lovey walked through the living room into what I guessed was her bedroom. Fifteen seconds in there, then she was back.

“I wanna show you something,” she said, gazing at whatever was in her hands. “And I don't know why I'm showing you this, because I just met you a few days ago, but I'm gonna show you anyway, because”—now she looked up, right at me, her eyes turning me into dust—“because, I don't know.” The weird thing was that I understood exactly what she was trying to say, and I was right there with her.

She held out her hand, and in it was a picture. It was obviously an old photo because just like the one of me and my parents, it had started to fade and turn colors. It was also curling at the corners.

“Is that . . .” I looked at the young woman standing in front of a building holding a little girl in her arms.

“Yeah. My mom.” Lovey pointed to the little girl. “And that's me.”

From Lovey, to the photo, to Lovey again.

“It's me, trust me.” She flashed the same kiddie smile the little girl in the picture had. “See?”

I smirked.

“This is the only picture I have of her,” she explained. “She hated taking them. Hated it. Didn't like the way she looked in them.”

I could relate.

“Well, at least you have this one,” I said.

“Yeah, I guess,” Lovey said, plain. “Recognize that building behind us?”

I studied the picture carefully. It was so faded, I could barely tell what was what, other than the obvious two people.

Then I saw it. The building number. 516.

“Hey, this is on my block! Chris lives in that building. Grew up there! What were y'all doing around there?”

“We used to live around there. In that building. Building 516. But I haven't been around there in a long time. I refuse to go. Even when the cab dropped you off the day of the funeral, I got a little nervous. Just being on that block.”

“Pretty rough around there,” I agreed.

“Don't I know it. See, this photo was taken about two weeks before Valentine's Day,” Lovey started to explain, then she got all choked up. She held the photo, ran her finger over her mother's face
as if trying to remember what her skin felt like. “It . . . um . . . ,” she stuttered, “it . . . it was taken by the man who killed her.”

I didn't know what to say. It was as if all the air in my body had been instantly sucked away. “I'm so sorry, Love. That must've been . . . terrible.”

“You have no idea,” she said, now sniffling. Tears slid down her cheeks and she backhanded them away. Then, she told me the story.

“We lived on the third floor. Ten years ago, for Valentine's Day, Mom decided to stay home with me and have a mother-daughter date. It was something we did all the time—our thing—and because she was dealing with this crazy dude that she really wasn't trying to be bothered with, it was the perfect excuse to not go out with him.

“All I remember is we were putting frosting on cupcakes when he started banging on the door.” She paused, and her face looked as though she still couldn't believe it after all these years. “Banging and banging and banging. He started yelling all kinds of crap about how he knew my mom was in there”—Love's eyes, now puffy, lowered into slits—“and that the only reason she ditched him for Valentine's Day was because she had another man in the house, which, of course, wasn't true. So, Mom . . . she, uh . . . she told me that she'd be right back.” Love shook her head. “But she never came back. I heard her outside the door, yelling at him to get out of the building. Then, I heard them walking down the hall, now both shouting at each other, him accusing her of cheating. He called her all types of names.” She took a deep breath. “Then they hit the stairwell, which is where most people in that building went
to argue, or fight, or just be loud. About five minutes later”—she toothed her top lip, and tears rolled from her eyes—“gunshot.” She looked at me, ghostly. “That was it.”

The knot in my tie seemed to have gotten tighter, like it had come to life and was choking me. I couldn't say a word. Nothing. All I could do was try to contain the burning sensation in my chest and all the thoughts crashing around my head. I tried to imagine the pain Lovey must've felt seeing her mother like that in the hallway. The blood. How many nights the sound of that gun must've rang out in her mind, over and over again. I wondered if she blamed herself. And with all the hurt I felt for her, I also struggled with the idea that maybe . . . couldn't be . . . but maybe me and Lovey somehow shared that day, in different ways. My thoughts flashed to Chris. The sleepover. The gunshot. His mother yelling at us to get back. But . . . that couldn't be the case. Could it?

“You mind if I have some water?” I asked her, shaky.

Lovey was staring at the photo, one hand covering her mouth. She nodded, set the picture down, and, without saying another word, headed to the kitchen. I glared at the photo as if it were toxic, because it was dragging me back, dragging me back to ten years ago. Building 516. I shook my head.
Can't be true. It just can't be.
Valentine's Day. The funk of Chris's feet stinging my nose all over again. The tiptoeing through the dark.
Can't be.
The arguing from outside. Loud. Angry. The clicking of the lock.
Can't be.
The sound, the horrible, horrible sound. Gunshot. Screams. Dog barking. Screams. A child crying. Lovey? A child crying? Oh, man.
Can't be. It just
can't
be true.

“You . . . uh . . . you okay?” Lovey was back with the water. But when I tried to take a sip, I couldn't swallow it, as if the water had somehow become too thick. My throat was so dry, but I just couldn't drink it. Couldn't get it down. My hands trembled so violently that I had no choice but to set the glass of water on the table before I dropped it.

“Yeah,” I wheezed, squeezing my hands together. “But now I need to tell you a story.”

Chapter 14

MY SIDE OF THE STORY

T
HE ONLY WAY
I
WAS
going to be able to tell Lovey what I needed to tell her was if I could get some fresh air, so we walked about ten minutes to Fulton Park as I tried to calm down. I could tell Lovey was nervous about what I had to say, but she was doing her best not to press me about it.

We sat on a bench directly across from the grossest couple ever. The girl was sitting on the guy's lap, and they were just . . . going for it. I mean, it looked like she was trying to eat his face. But all the other benches were taken by a man and his dog, an old lady sitting with a bunch of groceries waiting on someone to come pick her up, and the bird guy who feeds the pigeons whatever he has left over from his dinner the night before. I had no idea pigeons ate pizza.

Now that we were sitting, Lovey couldn't hold back any longer.
“Matt, can you just tell me?” She asked desperately. “You're making me nervous.”

The girl across from us moved her mouth to her boyfriend's neck. Yuck.

“I know, I know.” I turned to Lovey. “And I'm sorry. I wasn't expecting . . . to react like that. I guess I was just so surprised by what you told me.”

“Oh . . . well . . . I'm sorry it did that to you,” she said, uncomfortable.

“No, no! It's not that! It's just, I . . .” I was stuck. I took a deep breath. “Lovey, everything that happened to you—to your mother that night—I was there.”

Lovey straightened up, as if someone had sent an electrical shock through her. “What you mean?”

“I mean”—I swallowed hard—“I was
there
. In 516.”

A crease formed in Lovey's forehead. “I . . . don't . . . understand.”

“I know.” A guy on a bike road through the flock of pigeons, causing them to flap and flitter around, pepperoni hanging from their beaks. “I didn't know either. I had no idea it was you—your mom.”

I couldn't read the look on her face, so I just plunged on. “Listen, I was sleeping over Chris's that night. And, y'know, after dinner, his mom sent us to bed, and all of a sudden we hear all this noise coming from the hallway.” I had an urge to reach over and grab Lovey's hand. But I didn't. I paused a second to see if she would connect the dots. But she was just staring at me.

“People screaming. A man and a woman.”

Lovey's eyes began to fill up again.

“I can stop,” I said.

“No,” she said, blinking away the tears. “No. Finish.”

I guess that's what made her so strong—being able to just face reality straight up. I don't know if I would've wanted to hear anymore.

“You sure?” Now I reached over and put my hand on top of hers. It was just a natural reaction. Then after a few seconds I pulled it back. Also a natural reaction.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“Okay. I convinced Chris that we should go and see what was happening in the hallway. So we went to the front door, and when we opened it . . .” I stopped.

“What?” she asked. Then she demanded, “Say it.” She grabbed my arm and squeezed. “Matt, say it!”

I swallowed. “The gunshot.”

Chapter 15

SIMPLE WHAT?

T
HERE
'
S ONLY ONE OF TWO
things that could've happened after a conversation like that. Either we could've decided to never speak again, both totally freaked out by what I guess was fate, or a hell of a coincidence, or whatever, or we could've decided to see it as a sign to at least go on a real date. I mean, we definitely had a moment, even if it was caused by the worst possible situation ever. Lucky for me, Lovey felt the same way and chose real date. It took another few days of texting to get us back to normal, after all that damn
real
talking Mr. Ray was kicking. But he was right. And when I saw him, I thanked him.

“You understand now, why I couldn't tell you?” he said as we headed to the next funeral—Brendan Wilson, a firefighter who died while saving a family.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Everything's cool between y'all?”

I looked at my phone and scrolled through the text messages from Lovey. “Yeah, I think so.”

The only catch about going on a real date with Lovey was that she said she would only go if she got to pick the place, which for me wasn't really a catch at all. Naw, I didn't have to deal with the stress of trying to figure out where to take her, which would've been like rummaging through the bodega trying to figure out if I should bring juice or cookies to dinner all over again. Mr. Ray would've said to take her out for a meal, of course. Chris would've said movies. My dad would've said both. Too much pressure! So it was her call, and that was fine with me.

Next thing I knew it was date day and I was sitting in the back of a cab with her, the Jamaican driver slamming on his brakes every few seconds, and I had no idea where we were headed. I knew the guy was Jamaican because he had the flag hanging from the mirror. His car was old and still had a tape deck, and he spent the first few minutes of the ride rewinding and fast-forwarding, trying to find a song. He kept looking through the rearview at us, and then back to the radio, and occasionally, thankfully, he would look at the road.

“Where are we going?” I asked. All I knew was that Lovey had told the cabbie to drop us at the corner of Washington Avenue and Eastern Parkway. But that's it. She looked out the window, pretending to ignore me. But I saw her reflection in the glass. “You smiling!” I said. “Why don't you just tell me?”

Lovey turned and tried to shrink her smile. But she couldn't. “Why don't you just wait and see?”

I sucked my teeth. “Fine.”

I never really been one for surprises, because every big surprise in my life has somehow been bad. I like things normal and consistent. Safe. Which wasn't really an option at this point, because we had already gotten into a cab with a man who was more concerned about his music than the car in front of us, or the ones coming toward us, for that matter.

The cabbie slammed on brakes for what seemed like the tenth time. He glanced at me through the rearview mirror and must've noticed the look on my face. Fear. He was scaring the hell out of me fooling around with that stupid, old-ass radio.

“You okay up there?” I asked, trying not to lose it or come across like a punk. Not on the first
real
date.

“Yeah,” he said, looking back down at the radio, then back up at me. “Weh you ah-fret fuh?”

I looked at Lovey, who was looking out the window again, but I could tell she was sniggering.

“I'm not. I'm cool.” Cool and about to puke! I looked around the cab for the guy's license and all that stuff, just to make sure I knew a.) whose name to say if something crazy happened, and b.) whose cab to never get back in. On the back of the driver seat I found his info. Ivan Renson, Island Cab Company, Brooklyn, New York.

With one hand on the wheel, one hand on the radio, and a heavy foot on the gas, Ivan Renson said, “Yuh need fi relax, mon. Mi 'ave it,” and finally pushed play.

Bob Marley. I didn't know the actual name of the song, but it was one of the popular ones that everybody knows.

Rise up this mornin', smiled with the risin' sun, three little birds, pitch by my doorstep, singin' sweet songs, a melody pure and true, sayin' this is my message to you-oo-oo. Singin' don't worry about a thing, 'cause every little thing, is gonna be all right . . .

The cab driver sang loud and free, clapping his hands and rocking his head back and forth. He looked at me again through the mirror.

“Jus lissen ahn vibe out,” he said, turning the reggae up louder. “Now, we go to Washington ahn Eastern Parkway, seen?”

I wondered if this was just his favorite song, or if he picks new music for every person who gets in his cab. Like, he figures out what would be good for the person to hear. I mean, the Bob Marley song
was
great riding music for us, even though he almost killed us just to find it. Lovey started singing it, and before I knew it I was humming along.
Every little thing is gonna be all right.
As the cabbie pulled up to the corner of Eastern Parkway and Washington Avenue, Lovey told him to go a little farther down Washington.

“Just to the middle of the block, then we're good,” she said, reaching into her pocket. Of course, as soon as she started digging for her money, I started searching for mine, y'know, to be a gentleman.

She reached over and put her hand on mine, still in my pocket.

“I got it,” she said, beaming. “I invited you, I pay. You get the next one.”

The next one. Nice.

My mom would've loved her.

Mr. Renson turned around and gave me a pound, then opened
his hand and gave Lovey a gentle handshake and a wink. It was the first time I actually saw his face. It was slim and sharp, but his wild beard covered most of it. All I could see were his eyes and his bottom lip. If he hit someone, all he'd have to do is shave and he'd look like a totally different person. No one would ever find him.

When we opened the door there was already another couple waiting to take the cab. They looked cold, and were clearly in the middle of a fight. Mr. Renson hit stop on the tape player. As me and Lovey climbed out and the new people climbed in, the fast-forwarding and rewinding started all over again. I guess it was time for a new song. A song for them.

I popped the collar up on my coat to keep the chill off my neck. I looked around. Where the hell were we? So I asked her, just as “I Shot the Sheriff,” a Bob Marley song I did know the name of, came blaring from the cab, pulling off.

Lovey wrapped a scarf around her neck. Then she smiled and reached for my hand.

“You promise to be open?”

“Of course.”

“Well, this is what I wanted to show you,” she said, turning around with a hand flourish. “The Botanic Garden.”

The Botanic Garden? What? I was stuck. I mean, flowers?
Flowers?
But I liked Lovey, so I had to go along with it. And she knew that, which is why she stood there giving me her cutest face, and held my hand—which, by the way, felt like . . . more than holding my hand.

I didn't know what to say.

“Just come on,” Lovey demanded, dragging me toward the gate.

Inside was like being somewhere far away from Brooklyn. And I have to admit, that part of it I liked. I mean, you couldn't even hear cars, like as soon as we walked through the gates, we entered some new dimension—some secret land where drama didn't exist. Only flowers.

“My grandmother used to bring me here,” Lovey said as we walked around looking at what had to be millions of flowers. I looked at all the crazy names: Clematis, Chrysanthemum, Calli­carpa. White, yellow, and purple.

“We'd come every week after my mom died,” she went on.

“Why?”

Lovey brushed her hand against a plant. “Because it was Grams's favorite place in the whole city, other than the shelter. She just felt like it was good to keep living things around you, y'know, to remind you of the beauty of life. That was her whole thing. The beauty of life.” A sweet smile lit up Lovey's face.

I looked at the name of the plant and tried to pronounce it in my head. Then I gave up. “I guess.”

“You guess?” There was an edge to Lovey's voice. “Oh, I see. Too tough for flowers, right?”

“Naw, not even. I just don't get the hype. I mean, let's say I buy you some flowers tomorrow. You'll be all happy about it, and then two days later you'll be throwing them away. It's like they're these things that everybody waits to grow into something beautiful, and as soon as they do, they die. No disrespect to your grandma, but I
don't think there's all that much beauty in that.”

Lovey didn't respond. She just pulled out an old Polaroid camera, which I wasn't expecting. I figured she'd have her fancy one. At first I was going to ask her where she found that retro camera, y'know, for small talk, but I figured it must've been her grandma's and would pretty much come across as a stupid question. We looked at a few more plants before the silence just began to eat at me.

“So,” I started.

“So,” she replied.

“What do you think about my theory on flowers?”

“Oh. Actually, I agree.” She held her camera up to her face and clicked at a sunflower (one I could at least pronounce). The camera spit out a picture. Lovey pulled it free and started waving it around until the image started to appear.

“So then why do you like it here?” I asked, surprised that she agreed.

She snapped a few more and waved them all. I have to admit it made me curious.

“Look at these,” she said, holding the Polaroids up so I could see the images she had just taken slowly come into focus. They were dope, but no different from just looking at the real deal. I still didn't see where this was going.

“Grams gave me this camera, and brought me here to take pictures of the flowers. I would walk around, and whenever I saw one I really, really liked, she would tell me to snap a picture of it so that I would always remember it in case it went away. I know
it sounds kinda corny now, but it was her way of making sure I held on to things I loved—things that were living—since when my mom died we only had that one picture of her. At least as a grown-up. Grams had pictures of her as a little girl, but those aren't the same—to me, at any rate.”

We kept walking and Lovey kept stopping to take flicks of other plants: Ivy, and something called Anemone. She would get right up on the flower and then snap the shot, again and again, pulling the pictures from the mouth of the camera and waving them around in the air. When she liked the way they came out, she'd show them to me.

“You wanna try?” she asked. At this point, she had probably shot about ten different flowers.

“Do I have a choice?”

“Of course not,” she said, changing the film cartridge. “Just aim and hit the button on the side”—she handed me the camera—“but only when you see something you really, really like.”

“Got it,” I said sarcastically, holding the camera down by my side. I wasn't going to take pictures of plants. But I played along and pretended like I was looking for my “special” flower because, at the end of the day, I didn't want to blow this date.

We kept on walking through the maze of green, brown, and orange, the weird shapes and smells, sprinklers misting over the flowers, people in green suits spraying and trimming. There were tons of old people, arms wrapped around each other for protection from the nippy wind, probably on their hundredth date. The women would lean over and sniff the flowers, and the men would
smile and pretend they weren't bored to death. I let myself imagine that that might end up being me and Lovey one day. Then there were a bunch of kids just running around, happy to be in a place where there were no cars or noise except for their own laughter. For them this was paradise. But there weren't too many people our age there. And it dawned on me, the reason why—because people our age go on dates at the movies. Chris would've been right again.

After a bunch of walking and me pretending to look for a flower that I
really, really liked,
Lovey stopped. We were by the biggest heads of cabbage I've ever seen, but that didn't really impress me, probably because, well, it was cabbage! I mean, seriously, cabbage isn't a flower! Cabbage is . . .
cabbage!

“You're not even trying,” she said, frustrated now and, I could tell, a little disappointed in me.

“I am!” I yelped.

“No, you're not,” she said, tucking her hair back behind her ears. She looked at me and just shook her head, and for a second it seemed like she regretted bringing me to the garden. Damn.

“Okay, okay,” I said, rubbing my hand along her arm. “You said the rule was to take a picture only when I saw a flower I really liked.”

“Exactly,” Lovey said, turning toward the massive cabbages.

“Well . . .” I spun her back toward me and held the camera to my face. “Smile.”

I hit the button once. Then again, and again, backing away, coming in closer, dropping to one knee, pretending I knew how to get good angles.

Lovey stood there obviously embarrassed as people walked by watching me act ridiculous. I knew it was working though, because she was laughing. I stood to my feet and checked the photos.

“Oh, God, this flower is unbelievable! Oh, I'm so moved! The most beautiful flower I've ever seen! I mean, you should see this!” I fanned the photos out like a deck of cards, so she could see all the pictures of herself.

“Okay, okay,” she said, pushing the camera away. Her cheeks were lit up, red as roses. And then, the moment happened. You know the moment when everything fades to black and the soft music comes out of nowhere—violins and romantic instruments, and everything starts moving in slow motion, except for your hearts, which pound faster than ever, and each of you can somehow hear them thumping in your brain, and all you have to do is take one step and meet each other for that first awkward, electric kiss? That moment.