The Ruby Slippers (5 page)

For James, though, the message is not lost. In his mind the words echo, urgent and fully formed: ‘Remember me.’ A last earthly request. James unwraps his hand from Paolo’s and bursts into tears. He will not,
must not
, ever forget.

■ ♦ ■

Harrison sits on the bench under the big lonely tree and takes in the view. Safe. Whichever direction anyone came from, he would see them in good time. He takes out the joint, holds it up to eye level, reading in its smooth cylinder the craft he has invested in the making. He rolls it between finger and thumb and turns it to engage, his hand gliding machine-slow towards his mouth. White teeth behind dry lips close gently on the tip as he conjures a flame and draws on it, deep and easy, opening up the vault of his lungs to take in the last pocket of air in the world. First come the empty seconds, and then the release, the sleepy exhalation as crack steals silver across his senses. His amber eyes close, soft and dreaming; his mouth slacks to a wide ‘O’, and silky tendrils curl over the ledges of his lips to hang ghostly in the cold air. How hungry he is for this, how greedy for every last atom. If there is any magic in this world, it is here – begins here and so soon ends.

For the moment, though, his mind has become a vessel so clear that he sees into and through everything, and everything is complete. And all that was ever harmful and hurtful in life is replaced with a sure knowledge of things and a total command over them. Harrison knows he would only have to push, in the right way and the right place, against that big old tree and it would surely go over. He would only have to stand up and put one foot in front of the other and he could outrun the fastest thing on two legs. All kinds of pleasing notions materialize and evaporate with each stolen breath, and for all of ten minutes, Harrison is cool and easy with the world, because even a troubled person has a desire for peace and the knowledge that he, too, has the right to possess it.

But then something totally out of the blue announces itself, and he sits up with a jolt, his child-eyes widening in surprise. For into the oceanic expanse inside Harrison’s head has floated the biggest, bestest thought that ever came into any dude’s mind, and it makes him say out loud, ‘My God!’ There and then, he decides he will do it – he will surely do it! He jumps to his feet, totally taken up with his big idea.

Here be the magic.

■ ♦ ■

The Parade has long ended, the rows of marchers melted away after the final surge at 86
^th
Street, and the public spilling back through the floodgates of the streets to their quarters of the city and beyond.

He is just about to take off his apron and send Benjy down to bring up new stock when he hears Grace over at the front say, ‘What the . . .?!’ He follows her gaze and is met by a sight so odd he actually rubs his eyes. There, sitting outside on the sidewalk opposite, occupying his appointed place, is Barrell the dog. Just sitting there watching them, his head dipped and motionless, his stare fixed and sorrowful, and not a sign, or even the faintest sniff, of Old Aunt Rosa. Michael steps to the door, with Grace scuttling up to his side. He stares at the dog, she stares at the dog, they stare at each other. It is all strange, unheard of.

‘This doesn’t look good,’ pronounces Michael, crossing the road, a whole tangle of unhappy scenarios slowly slipping and twisting from the spool inside his head and looping into chaos.

■ ♦ ■

Harrison shuts the door on New York City and takes off his jacket in Goose Creek, South Carolina. The joke of it used to make him smile when he was a child, but now it has worn thin and he simply puts up with this place called home because he knows that it will never change so long as Great Aunt Crystal is alive, which will surely be a long time yet. It is nice enough, even if it was last done twenty years back, when Uncle Henry was still alive: all in blues and pinks to keep up the country look; cottage sofa and set suggesting solidity and comfort, with jolly old ornaments and southern prints under glass for tradition and good cheer. A perfect finishing touch is supplied by gingham tiebacks, to frame the city through the window and make it just another picture on the wall.

Jesus is here, too, of course. His image hangs above the piano – dreamy-looking, eyes raised to heaven, long-haired white man – surrounded by the family photographs. Generations of sad-but-smiling black people, some dignified by sepia, some bleached of colour. His holy face imparts dignity to their passing. Of course, none of this tells us that Great Aunt Crystal has no one left in the world – apart from Harrison, who is the source of her anxieties and the subject of her prayers. Nothing in this quaint preservation of a time and place that once was her world hints at the fact that she is penniless, housebound pretty much, and dependent on kind members of the congregation to take her Sundays to the Tabernacle. In each fretful week of cleaning and scrubbing, Crystal has just one allotted hour to make her prayers, speak in tongues and cleanse her spirit in the bosom of the Lord.

As Harrison comes from the hallway into the living room, Great Aunt Crystal enters from the kitchen, carrying a freshly baked cake and offering greetings: ‘Hello, my honey,’ she coos, ignoring his gruffness as he throws down his coat, pushes past her to the refrigerator in the kitchen and gulps down milk straight from the carton – all as if she didn’t exist. It is her Christian duty to soak up the sins of others and offer serenity in return. She goes to the table and transfers the cake to a cake stand, all the while watching him sideways, avoiding unpleasantness, keeping things sweet. Somewhat needlessly, she announces, ‘I baked a cake.’ But Harrison just picks up the remote and flicks through channels on the TV. It is, of course, wounding to Crystal, and she has often wondered what he gains from these ill-mannered displays, consoling herself with the idea that young people are all like this these days. With a sigh, she starts to divide up the cake, following her age-old ritual: ‘One for you . . . one for me . . . one for Henry.’ Smart. She knows Harrison won’t be able to resist saying how crazy she is, and she gets a reaction at last:

‘Uncle Henry been dead ten year!’ It’s something, even if the tone is hurtful.

She goes to the kitchen, doggedly cleaving to the way of the righteous: ‘Uncle Henry always loved my cakes.’ She returns with a tea tray, pours two cups of tea and holds out a slice on a plate. Harrison picks up instead a neatly folded pile of ironed clothes she has left for him and makes for the hallway. But she hasn’t quite given in: ‘Have a piece, please.’ She insists. He strides moodily to his room down the hallway. ‘I don’t want your fucking cake!’ Crystal shakes her head, sharing her sorrows with Jesus up on the wall, who doesn’t look in the least bit fazed. She arranges the cake plate, with both unclaimed pieces, in the middle of the table, knowing that he will take them later when she is gone from the room. Forgiveness, forgiveness is everything, she tells herself. After all, didn’t she herself have such a happy childhood with loving parents, who worked their days, took their rest when their labours were done and who passed on when at last their time came? While he – oh, it was all so terrible. To have one parent pick up and walk out when you are five years old, that’s cruel, shocking; but to have the other, but a year after, go off never to return, that is wickedness beyond imagining. That is abandonment. So, Great Aunt Crystal feels sorry for Harrison, and has often wondered if he ever felt sorry for himself. If he did, it might be a good thing: only when a person knows that they are broken can they offer themselves up to be fixed.

At this moment, though, self-pity is the last thing on Harrison’s mind. In the storm-dark space that is his room, he peels off his top and gazes into the mirror. The last of the sun oozes in through the window, spreading a pale gold wash over his bare torso and casting him even more into the shadows. He stares himself down, hard and cold but alive to the moment, seeing himself the free spirit of his own making: he who dares. Slipping on a tan T-shirt, he goes to the closet, takes out a combat top and wraps himself in it, zipping it up to the neck. Then he pulls on a black beanie. With the collar of the jacket turned up to his ears and the hat pulled down to the same place, he is anonymous, eclipsed. It doesn’t occur to him that the image he has made of himself threatens darkness and violence. Reaching down the back of the room heater, he draws out a long, slim army dagger, dark and lethal. Smooth and easy – it was bought to fit – he sheathes it in the thigh pocket of his pants, lowers his arms to his sides and stands stock-still and ready. But this is only the try-out. Today is too soon. Tomorrow he will go there and it will be so fucking sweet, and nothing, nothing can possibly go wrong.

B
EFORE
he set off for Old Rosa’s place, Michael had the bright idea to fashion a leash from a length of twine. Science was in the making, Michael having observed that Barrell always walked ten feet ahead of Old Rosa, and therefore cutting the string to the right length. The dog has taken surprisingly well to it. So far as Michael knows, Barrell had never sported such a thing in his life, yet he seems quite happy with the arrangement, trundling along up front and allowing Michael to shuffle after him in his own sweet way.

The day has turned melancholy with the light, and the strollers and joggers who usually flit about the Park in numbers have paled away, leaving only the lost and the lonely. Michael goes through every permutation of possibility that might have separated dog from owner. Apart from the slim chance that the Parade might have parted them in some way, each one comes up spelling disaster.

Crossing Central Park West, where the sun lies slain behind grey battlements, Michael feels as though he is being swallowed up by forces dark and oppressive. He passes between the defiant facades and enters the dwindling street that leads to Aunt Rosa’s apartment block. The dog picks up pace and the two arrive outside the building, noisily panting against each other like a misfiring steam engine. But then Barrell finds the energy to tug Michael into the hallway and they start up the stairs. Rattling back through the years he realizes, frighteningly, that it has been at least twenty since he and Grace were last here. It had been unclean and untidy even then, so he dreads to imagine what it might be like now. He stands in front of her door, which is solid enough, though the paintwork has peeled to a bygone colour in places, and presses the bell push, which is dead of sound. He raps smartly at the letterbox and stands back, respectful, for her to appear and take away his fears. Nothing. He raps again and then pounds on the door, growing more forceful as he allows himself to imagine her lying dead inside. ‘Rosa,’ he calls. ‘Rosa, it’s me, Michael. Open the door!’

Behind him, he hears locks being turned and chains rattling. A black woman, wild-haired and carrying a baby, peers out from the apartment opposite Rosa’s. Her door, like her eyes, is half open out of curiosity and half closed in suspicion. ‘Can I help you?’ she ventures.

‘Sorry . . . Um, would you know if the old lady here is at home?’

‘I wouldn’t know nuthin’ ’cept I seen her go out this morning. Ain’t that her dog?’

‘Yes it is. He came to my place all on his own. I’m related to her. You didn’t see her come back?’

‘Uh uh.’

‘Are you sure of that?’

‘Sure as I can be. You don’t miss it when Old Rosa come passing by. Anyhow, I didn’t know she had no relatives.’

‘Well. Look, if you do see her tell her her nephew Michael came by.’

‘I don’t never speak to her. I give up on that years ago.’

The woman pulls shut her door, and Michael turns and heads downstairs again, dragging Barrell, who has got used to the idea of being home and dry. He doesn’t think twice when a policeman brushes past them, going two steps at a time. Then the penny drops and he about-turns, allowing Barrell to drag him upstairs again. The man’s arm is raised to knock when Michael calls out, ‘Can I help you, Officer? If you’re here about Rosa Petraidis, that is.’

‘I am. And who might you be?’ demands the officer gruffly. But before Michael can reply there comes a new rattle of locks and chains and the neighbour is at the door again, which is wide open now to give full vent to her suspicions: ‘He say he a relative, but I sure as hell ain’t never seen him before!’

Refusing to be goaded, Michael looks the officer in the eye and speaks up, quiet and polite: ‘I am her nephew, her next of kin, and this is her dog. Has something happened to her?’ The policeman looks him up and down, then turns to go eye-to-eye with the woman, until she backs off through her own door and he has Michael to himself.

‘Yes. Yes it has,’ he says. ‘So, how exactly might you be related to her?’

■ ♦ ■

But she was not dead. She did not die. The truck ran over her, yes. And her head cracked terrible on the road, yes. And the eyes rolled back in their sockets and the officers fell back helpless. But within seconds an ambulance arrived in a dying howl, gliding into the tableau made by the policemen so still and solemn. And medics then sprang out, bristling with cables, and pads and interfaces; and having no respect for death in its rankness, ran across and sprang their searching shock three times over until, like the scene in
Frankenstein
, she came back with a shudder so terrible it might break her dead again. Then they eased a stretcher under her and carried her to the ambulance and slid her in and away, the siren now a high whining sentinel. And no one gave a thought for the dog, who sat there panting and stuck in his confusion, until the noise had died and the policemen had melted away and the staring, yapping people had folded back into themselves. At which point, Barrell the dog heaved himself, trembling, onto his haunches, put his head down to the world and lumbered away.

And so they rushed Old Rosa to the hospital, and took her in and deftly sliced through the matted carapace to release the bile-coloured armature of her body, and put it in a robe and trundled it into theatre. And figures in gowns came and pinned it with tubes and went inside its head and followed their unknowable ways. With slow, practised actions and incantations, the doctors introduced one mysterious instrument after another, probing and incising. And their voices rose a little and quickened as, at last, the unknown gave way to the known and the disorder of the beginning gave way to the symmetry of the end, and nurses fell to suturing and bandaging and the surgeons stood back, their work done.