This Side of Providence (12 page)

I walk down the driveway, not knowing what to do next. I could evict them, of course, on several grounds, but the process takes months and is a total pain in the ass.

“Hey Snowman, wait up.” The kid runs onto the porch to stop me. “Listen, what if I started working for you, so I could pay off the rent?”

“Who said I was hiring?”

“Come on, I'll do anything.” He flashes a crooked smile. “And I'm real cheap.”

I scratch my chin, like I'm seriously debating. “You got any skills?”

“Like what you mean?”

“Can you fix cars or toilets or refrigerators, anything like that?”

He looks at me like I'm crazy. “I'm eleven,” he says.

I shrug. “Hey, you seem like a smart kid.”

He thinks for a few seconds. “I can wash and wax a car in fifteen minutes. And I can paint, even with one of those roller things. They taught me how at the Rec Center before it burned down.” He stands on the edge of the railing, as if to make himself look taller. “And I'm good with kids and animals. Cats not so much, but dogs like me. And I'm a good runner; I can run all the way to the pineapple on Atwells and back without taking a break.”

“See what I mean? Sounds like you've got a lot of skills.”

He gives me that crooked grin again. “Any you want to pay me for?”

“I'll have to think about it,” I say, already knowing that if I was going to have an assistant this kid would be it.

“Cool,” he says, crossing his arms. “Get back to me whenever.”

He sounds so serious I have to laugh. “Sure, I'll call you.”

His smile turns into a look of panic. “Uhh…we don't have a phone anymore. It's better to just come by.”

“Okay,” I say, forcing myself to walk away before I agree to something I can't even begin to justify.

Something makes me stop at the end of the driveway and I turn around to see the boy still standing on the porch, his eyes locked on me like he can't bear to see me leave. I think of Justin again, of saying good-bye that final time after our momma died when we were in our second foster home. It was so easy for him to let me go that day; to hug me, to wave, to call out “Love you, love you,” and blow me a kiss so hard it could have knocked me over if it was solid. He had the freedom of ignorance, while I was burdened with knowing the truth. Justin was going to a new family, one that wanted to eventually adopt him, but I (fifteen, black, colorless) would be staying in the system indefinitely. No matter what the social workers told me, I knew I would never see him again.

I call to the boy. “Hey kid, tell me something. When was the last time you saw Lucho, for real?”

He's quiet for a minute, deciding if he should tell me the truth.

“About two weeks,” he finally says.

There's a flash of something close to heartbreak in his eyes, for just a second, and then it's gone. That look of loss, of a fear and loneliness so great it vanishes the instant it's formed, is so familiar it's like I'm looking at myself as a child. My eyes begin to burn and for a second I think I might cry, which surprises me as much as if I suddenly bent over and vomited onto the sidewalk. I am not a person who cries. Not as a child, and definitely not now. I didn't cry when my daddy left or when my momma died, or when my baby brother, the only person in my life who never looked at me with pity or shame, was taken from me. I never cried for the boy he was, or for the boy I used to be, and I will not cry for the one who stands before me now, as lost and motherless as I am today.

I blink several times and look to the ground. Garbage litters the sidewalk but the spot around my feet is clean. The white of my sneakers stands out against the dull cement, like
how my face must stand out in a crowd. I inhale deeply before I look up. The boy stands with his arms at his sides, his hands opened like he's ready to catch whatever the world throws his way. His eyes look straight at me, but I refuse to meet his gaze.

“You've got the job, kid,” I say, walking away before I change my mind.

“Thanks, Snowman,” he calls out after me, his voice conjuring the boy I'd tried so hard to forget.

I start him off with small jobs: hand-delivering letters; picking up weekly checks from tenants on payment plans; running general errands. When I have to fix something in one of the houses I bring him along and try to teach him how to do it. He never runs out of questions, which sometimes makes me regret my decision to hire him, but most days I like having the kid around. He's funny as hell, and since he's small he blends in everywhere and nobody asks any questions about him. And he can translate for me when I want to curse somebody out in Spanish. Ten years ago this whole neighborhood was black and Italian, but now I'd say almost half of it is Spanish of some kind: Puerto Rican, Dominican, Guatemalan, Mexican. They come from all over. This must be what New York felt like in the 1950s. Integration—ain't it a trip.

Cristo promises every day that Lucho will be back. He says she leaves like this all the time, and always comes back. I don't believe him but I let him stay in the apartment with his sisters anyway. Who's it gonna hurt? Better than sending them to DCYF. I've seen what happens to kids in the system and it ain't pretty.

One day I take him with me to install a ceiling fan for an old lady in a third-floor apartment. It's not covered in the lease, which means I don't have to do it, but it's hot as hell this week and I don't want the lady paging me at night to complain. Plus, I've seen on the news how so many old people die during heat waves and I don't want that on my conscience. She lives alone and almost never goes out, probably because she's real
heavy and walking up the stairs is too much for her. She says she has kids but I've never seen them around and whenever I do something for her she always feeds me and says I wish I had a son just like you.

As soon as we get there the old lady starts cooking. She says she doesn't mind the oven being on since the kitchen's so hot she can't tell the difference. She brings us lemonade with ice cubes that have melted before I take my first sip. Cristo drinks his down quickly, sucking on the one remaining ice cube like it's a Jolly Rancher. It takes a while to get the old light fixture off, but once that's done I get the new one up pretty quick. Cristo stands on a chair next to my ladder and hands me all the tools before I have to ask for them. He's quiet for most of the job, and then right as I'm hanging the new fan he asks me about my skin color.

“Did something happen to you, for your skin to look like that?”

He hands me the screwdriver, which I use to tighten the blades.

“Nothing happened. I was born like this.”

“Does it hurt?”

I laugh. “No, it doesn't hurt. Unless I'm in the sun too long. Then I burn as quick as a match.” I screw in the light bulb, then pull on the string to test the lights.

“It must be weird, though, to not look like other black people.”

I shrug. “To me it's just normal.”

“Do you ever miss being able to blend in?”

“Sure, I guess.” I get down from the ladder. “I imagine it's nice to fit in, to disappear into a crowd. But I wouldn't want to always look like everyone else. Then I wouldn't be me.” With my back to him, I say something I could never say to his face. “I might look like a freak, but I look like myself, and nobody can take that away from me. Nobody else can be me.”

I can feel him looking at the back of my head. I gather up the tools and lock them in my toolbox.

“You don't look like a freak,” he says, pausing to choose his words carefully. “You just look different, like you're from the
future or something.”

I want to laugh but I don't. I can tell he's serious. Like he's been to the future and saw me there.

“I hope you're right,” I say, handing him the toolbox. He has to hold it with two hands, but he acts like it's easy. “It's better to look like the future than the past.”

He shrugs. “I look like my mother.”

“I know,” I tell him. “That's a good thing. She's a pretty lady.”

“I don't want to look pretty. I want to look tough.” He lifts the toolbox, flexing the small muscles in his arms.

A few seconds later I ask him what's more important—to look tough or to be tough—but he never answers me.

I call out to the old lady that we're done and when she comes out she's got a plate of rolls and a pot of spaghetti and meatballs on a serving tray. She sets it on the card table and tells us to hurry up and eat before it gets cold, while she lies on the couch under the ceiling fan and watches
Jeopardy!
I've never seen anyone eat as much as this kid. He even stuffs a few rolls into his pocket when the old lady leaves the room to get more meatballs.

“Here, finish mine.” I offer him my plate.

“Nah, I'm good,” he says. “I'm bringing these home for my sisters.”

I take a sip of my water. “You got enough food at home?”

He shrugs. “We're all right.”

“What does that mean?” I push back from the table, having hardly touched my food. I prefer to eat with no witnesses.

“We eat where we can. At the neighbors, at my cousin's house, with Teacher. We make the rounds.”

“Well, let me know…if you need anything extra.”

“Thanks,” he says with his mouth full. “But I'm taking care of it.” He gets up from the table and carries our plates into the kitchen like a waiter with years of practice. Then he thanks the old lady and I grab the toolbox and we leave.

We walk a few blocks together and then he splits off down an alley, saying he knows a shortcut home. How can this kid know a route that I don't know? I watch him as he runs away
from me, his steps so light it's like he doesn't have a burden in the world. I stand there for a while, hoping he'll turn around to see me there, still watching over him, but he never looks back.

Cristo

I
t's been three weeks since I seen Lucho and I'm starting to think she's not coming back. All Mami's friends know how to disappear, but they usually come back in a few days, or even a week. Lucho left before, but not for this long. I don't tell anybody, but I'm thinking she's gone for good.

It don't bother me that much, but I think Luz misses her, or maybe she just misses having an adult around. Not that Lucho spent much time with us, but she did buy food and bring home new music once in a while. And having her here meant we weren't alone. I know she's not our family, but it did seem like we were something more than just strangers living in the same house. Maybe something like friends.

With Lucho gone, we run out of money real quick. Luz gives me her Discman to sell at the flea market, but once that money runs out I start stealing food from the Price Rite. It's easy to do if I go when it's real busy because then I get lost between people's legs. I wear an old jacket of Scottie's that's real big so I can hide all the food inside. Even though it's August it's the style to wear winter coats all year round, so nobody questions me. Mostly I take fruit and cans of soup that are small and easy to hide, but I once walked out with a package of tortillas and a dozen eggs tucked into the waist of my pants. I was nervous at first and my hands used to sweat, but it's getting easier with practice. Now I'm pretty good at getting in and out in less than five minutes with my pockets full.

I don't have much time to clean so the house gets dirty pretty
quick. Luz does the dishes when we have soap, but mostly I try to steal paper plates so we can just throw them away. Cleaning our clothes is harder because the boxes of laundry soap are way too big for me to sneak out of the store. Lately I've been going through the trash at the Laundromat looking for any leftovers, and when I find some I add it to a collection I got in an old peanut butter jar. The soap ends up looking kind of nasty, because all the colors get mixed up and turn into this brown paste, but it still works good enough. To get quarters I check pay phones or parking meters, and when that doesn't work I steal the tip jar from one of the coffee shops on Federal Hill. Sometimes I get lucky and find a few dollar bills in there, too, and then I can buy a slice of pizza for dinner.

But I'm not always that lucky. Once the guy caught me taking the tip jar and he yelled for me to stop and then grabbed me by the hood of my sweatshirt. I tried to jerk away but I couldn't move so I ended up zipping myself out of the sweatshirt and taking off without it. It sucks because it was my lucky sweatshirt, too. But at least I got the money.

So far my job with Snowman is working out pretty good. He writes down all my hours and puts that against the rent money Mami owes. I don't really know how he's gonna figure it, but I know I worked off at least a week or two of rent already. Mostly I run errands for him in the neighborhood, but a couple of times he took me along to fix things in some of his houses. It was kinda fun to see all the apartments from the inside, because a lot were real different from how they look on the outside. One place had a TV in every room, even the bathroom, and this other guy had a fish tank in the living room that was as tall as the ceiling, with all these huge fish in crazy colors swimming around. Snowman was pissed because he has a policy about no animals, but I thought it was cool as hell, especially when the guy fed them a bunch of minnows right in front of me.

Sometimes Snowman needs me at night and I have to leave my sisters alone in the apartment. When I sneak out I lock the bedroom door behind me, since the lock on the front door is busted. I don't like locking them in like that but I don't want anything to happen to them. Not when I'm gone and they can't
protect themselves. Scottie used to lock us in the same way, with a bike lock wrapped around the doorknob, but I don't think he was trying to protect us. He was only looking out for himself. Sometimes I get freaked out because strangers still walk right in the front door, looking for Mami. They come in packs: skinny white guys with long hair and scruffy beards, and ladies who talk real loud, their eyes flying around the room like mosquitoes. They haven't seen her in a few months and don't know she's in jail. They seem real sad when I tell them she's gone, and after a while they leave without ever telling us their names or why they stopped by.

Snowman gave me a pager to wear and he said not to turn it off, even when I go to sleep. He never pages me in the middle of the night, but I'm always ready, just in case. The only time I turn it off is when I go to visit César because the nurse says it messes with the machines that check his heartbeat. He should be getting off those soon and if everything checks out they'll let him come home before school starts. Now that he's awake they make him get out of bed every day and walk a few steps in the hallway. His right eye is still covered by the bandage and he says the left is kind of blurry so he's pretty much doing it blind. Today he's trying to walk from his room to the nurse's station 'cause he gets a lollipop if he makes it the whole way without stopping. Now he says it's his favorite candy, but before he got shot it was bubble gum. The chewing makes his head hurt so he had to stop.

His legs are so skinny and pale they remind me of chopsticks, and he looks like he could splinter with each step. At first he holds onto the wall and shuffles his feet, like how Trini used to when she was learning to walk, but when he's halfway there he steps into the middle of the hallway. All he's got to lean on is this metal pole, kinda like a cane on wheels, except this one holds a plastic bag hooked into his arm. The nurse says it feeds him sugar water through a tube so he never gets thirsty. The pole looks like it could snap, so I walk up next to him and give him my shoulder. I thought he would only use it to steady himself a little bit, but he wraps his arm around me and I walk with him down to the nurse's station. He keeps his eyes on the
ground with every step, not looking at any of us. I can hear how hard it is for him to breathe, how his chest rattles like an old man, and I'm scared that he's going to pass out right there with only me to catch him.

When we get to the end of the hallway he says he wants to rest and he leans against the wall with his free hand. The nurses clap and bring him the lollipop, which he slips into the pocket of his bathrobe.

I start to step away, but his fingers dig into my shoulder like he's falling off a cliff and he says, “Don't go, Cristo. Please.”

So I stand right next to him, holding him up, and promise to stay like that as long as he needs me.

There's mail waiting for me on the kitchen table when I get home from the hospital. The first letter I ever got. No return address, but I recognize the handwriting as Mami's. Hard to believe she sat still long enough to write anything down. It's funny to see my name on the envelope, like I'm somebody important.

I sit down and open the letter slowly. The only light in the room is coming from the streetlight outside. My stomach flips, like when you open a birthday present you think you're not going to like.

             
Dear Cristo,

             
Hello my sweet boy. This is your mother, in case you don't know my handwriting. I'm writing this letter slow so the ink don't smudge and you can read it clear. In case you want to know, I am good. My hair is long so I usually wear it back in a ponytail, like how you like it. The dye is growing out so half of it's dark now. I look like a skunk. If that ain't bad enough, I'm gaining weight from all the pasta they feed us in here. It's mushy like how Luz cooks it, you remember? But I'm not complaining. At least it's all free, right? I can hear you right now saying, “Mami, that's not funny,” and you're right, of
course. But people make jokes when they need them. So I guess that's my way of telling you I need it.

                  
How are you and your sisters? I know you are taking good care of them so I don't have to ask. You ready for school to start? I hope this was an OK summer. It's been hard I bet, but I know there were good times too. Even in here there are good times, like when they serve chocolate pudding for dessert or when we get to see a baseball game on TV. We live for those moments.

                  
I call you every Sunday, but the phone just rings and rings. I'm guessing Lucho turned it off. I know you can't hear my voice, but try to remember that I am with you always, in the air that we breathe and the sky that floats above us. I am always your mother. And I miss you very much.

                  
When I get home I'm going to tell you the truth. Life is hard for people like me. I made mistakes. But I'm OK now. I'm better. But I'm gonna need your help to stay that way. Can you do that for your mother? Can you help me?

             
Te quiero mucho, mijo. Siempre.

             
Your loving Mami

I fold the letter back up and leave it on the table like how I found it. The windows are closed and the room is hot, but I'm starting to feel cold, like I'm sitting in front of the AC. Kinda funny, since we don't even have a fan. All of a sudden I hear the ticking of a clock I don't remember we had. I look around the room and after a while I see it sitting on the wall above the cabinets, a small yellow clock with a picture of a bird on its face. An eagle, I think, with its wings spread wide like a cape. The time is way off so the batteries must almost be dead. Probably something Mami bought at the flea market because it reminded her of Puerto Rico. I wonder what she has on the walls in her jail cell to remind her of us. Not a picture, she needs something with weight. Maybe I should send her the clock, or a frying pan, or that radio she used to listen to for hours. Something she can hold onto or throw against the wall if she needs to. Something that will remind her of the things she left behind.

Hearing her voice in my head makes me miss her all over again. I thought it would be okay for her to be gone this long, since we never really spent that much time together, but it's not. I always knew she was around before. I could find her when I needed to.

I use my chair as a stool and reach for the clock. When I turn it over to check the batteries, I see a wad of bills taped to the backside. I tear off the tape and count the money: sixty-seven dollars in tens, fives, and ones.
The presents are with the birds
, Mami had said. Is this what she meant? I look at the front of the clock. The bird stares back at me. One bird. But then I see it: above the eagle's wing there's another bird, a smaller one flying back to the nest, back to his mother.
The presents are with the birds.
They've been here the whole time.

I tuck the money in my pocket and search the drawers for new batteries. When I can't find any I take one from the smoke alarm in the ceiling and put it in the clock. Then I set the time and clean the front with my T-shirt before putting it back on the wall. I look at the eagles, wishing I could be that little bird right now, flying across the city to see his mother.

Scottie shows up early the next Saturday, before we have time to get Trini ready. When he honks Luz is brushing Trini's hair and I'm looking through the dirty clothes for a semi-clean dress for her to wear. We take so long Scottie gets out of the car and walks into the house.

“What the fuck happened here?” He lifts his sunglasses and looks around the room, squinting.

“Nothing,” I say, shoving the clothes into a pile with my foot. “We've been busy.”

“Yeah, busy turning this place into a pigsty.” Scottie steps on a pizza box and almost trips. “What's wrong with that chick, it's like she's letting you guys run the house.”

“She works a lot,” I say.

“All the time,” Luz adds.

“And there's not a lot of time to clean.” I put the pile back
into the laundry hamper.