Visitation Street (34 page)

“Val,” Jonathan says. He sits on the bed.

“I’m going to be sick,” she says.

Jonathan pulls back the blanket. Val is stripped down to her underwear. He turns to Dirty. “You sick fuck,” he says.

“Jailbait’s not my style,” Dirty says.

“Bullshit.” Jonathan takes Val’s chin in his hand. “Did he touch you?”

“Not really,” Val says. “A little.”

“I guess you just saved the day, Maestro,” Dirty says. “Maybe Fireman Paulie will give you another hero’s welcome.”

Jonathan unclenches Val’s fist, takes the two blue pills from her grasp, and flings them at Dirty.

“What’s going to happen to me?” Val says.

“You’re going to remember who you were when you took that raft out. You’re going to start being that person again.”

Val puts her arms around Jonathan’s neck. She sinks her head onto his collarbone. He lets her rest for a moment.

“Cute,” Dirty says, sparking his joint.

Jonathan disengages Val’s arms. He finds her pants. Her sneakers are under the bed. Jonathan loosens the laces and slides her feet into them, then he swings her legs down to the floor. He kneels in front of her and ties her shoes. He adjusts her socks so they are not bunched around her ankles. Her peacoat is on a chair. Jonathan threads her arms into the sleeves, then buttons the coat and turns up the collar. He secures Val’s arm around his waist and loops his arm around her shoulder. He holds on tight as they head outside.

There’s a low sonic disturbance in the air, something that rattles the waterfront, its energy trapped behind the warehouses along the bay. Jonathan steadies Val, guiding her over the cobblestones. A foghorn hollows out Red Hook, rattling the skeletal buildings, bouncing off the solid brick walls. It envelops the neighborhood’s strength and frailty—the crumbling waterfront that endures.

They turn onto Visitation and look down toward the water. The lights of several tugs clear-cut the dark. The small boats take shape—four of them spread around a black mass. Jonathan can feel the
Queen Mary
idling as it’s pulled in. It’s passing right in front of the terminal, the lower levels, hundreds of dots of light, visible above the tugs’ wheelhouses. The rest of the ship is lost to the fog and dark.

Val lifts her head from Jonathan’s shoulder. “Birnam Wood,” she says. She lets her head drop. “We had it in English.”

The foghorn bellows again as the cruise ship starts easing into the terminal—the hulking mass stiffly taking its place in the dock. It towers over the narrow waterside streets, taller than the tallest of the Houses, an unreal skyline that eclipses the skyscrapers beyond. Its engine is cut—leaving the night to its silence. The tugs are untied. They chug away, slipping home underneath the fog, leaving the massive ship behind.

Jonathan and Val keep to the shadows as they approach Van Brunt. Jonathan stops before they reach the Dockyard. “This is my exit,” he says.

Val nods.

“You got it from here?”

“Yes.” Her voice is small. She looks over his shoulder to the looming ship in the distance. A light goes on and off in one of the portholes. “What do you think he sees?” Val says.

“I don’t know.” Jonathan kisses the top of her head. “I’ll be right behind you. I’ll be watching you home.”

Val crosses Visitation, then Van Brunt. Jonathan waits for her to pass the Greek’s. Then he follows. He stands underneath Fadi’s awning, in front of the mural that shows the ship that’s just come into port, and watches her stumble up the street. Val’s pink coat recedes, fading into the dark of Visitation. Jonathan takes a few more steps down the block, sheltering under the tree canopies. Val climbs her stoop. The front door opens. Then there is the bass drum beat as it slams behind her. Jonathan hesitates for a moment, wondering if she’ll peer out at him from behind her curtain. But before she can make it up to her room, he turns away. Tomorrow Val may look for Jonathan. But he will be gone. She will not be able to mistake him for a viable option.

Jonathan walks to Imlay Street where he parks his mother’s battered Mercedes wagon. The engine rumbles to life and the car lurches forward, bumping over the cobblestones. He turns up Visitation then onto Van Brunt.

From the parking lot of a rest stop on 95 he dials the custodian in Fishers Island. For the first time in eight years he lets the phone ring without hanging up. The voice that comes on the line is unfamiliar. Jonathan is tempted to apologize for dialing the wrong number. Then he hears himself say his name, explaining who he is. Only silence meets his words.

“Never mind,” Jonathan says.

“Hold on, I’ll get your father.”

Jonathan watches the red taillights of the northbound traffic streaming away from him.

His father’s voice, no longer ironclad and confident, wavers as he tests out Jonathan’s name.

“I’m coming out to the island,” Jonathan says. “If that’s okay.”

The only response is the wind rush static of the bad connection.

Jonathan takes a deep breath. He could turn back, join the sparse southbound traffic, head toward the city. But he cannot imagine where he would go, what new descent he would embark upon. “Dad,” he says, “I need to come home.”

“The boat will meet you,” his father says.

Jonathan leaves the car in the parking lot near the dock in New London and waits for his father’s custodian to arrive on their newest Chris-Craft. As they cross to Fishers Island, Jonathan tries to locate the spot in the water where Eden drowned. Halfway out, he tells the driver to kill the engine. They float in silence.

In the distance, Jonathan can make out the lamp on the edge of the rebuilt dock, holding steady as the boat rocks. Behind it is the large shadow of their massive, shingle-style house. A figure comes down toward the water, silhouetted against the backlit lawn beyond. If Jonathan jumped, it would take him more than ten minutes to swim to shore.

By the time he reached Eden, it would have been too late. He must have known that then. It’s only time that made saving her seem possible—clinging on to her convinced himself her death was something he might eventually undo. He closes his eyes, sees her tearing the boat from the dock, ripping across the water, and flipping too far out for him to have saved her.

He tells the driver to start the motor. They glide toward shore and he lets Eden go. Missing her does not mean he cannot forgive himself. He hopes Val can figure this out. But he cannot be the one to show her.

It’s nearly three
A.M.
when Jonathan collapses on an Adirondack chair on the wraparound porch overlooking the sound. He waits for the sun to rise, eager for it to crest behind the house and electrify the bay. The night owls he’s left behind will also be up late, but they will pull down the grates over the Dockyard’s windows to block out the sun when it arrives.

T
he day the
Queen Mary
docks will be the last time that Fadi prints his newsletter. He’d meant his pamphlet to unite the community. But all it has done is fracture his vision of the neighborhood. It’s made him aware of the pointless grievances, the petty arguments, the irrational hatreds. Now he cannot help trying to put faces to the complaints he receives, figure out which of his customers resents his neighbor for listening to music with the window open, who wants to prevent Local Harvest from opening, who thinks dogs should be banned from Coffey Park, who is demanding that the Dockyard close. The gripes are unceasing, self-generating—one complaint spawning a host of related complaints and retaliations.

In the last week the tone of the submissions has changed from civic concern to personal vendetta.

Did you hear the one about the drag queen and the fireman? You’ll never guess which one of them went down
.

What kind of self-respecting black man stoops to walk a white lady’s dog? Don’t debase yourself
.

I didn’t know that “Me and My Girl” was about statutory rape!

Fadi’s heard the gossip about Jonathan and Valerie, but he dismisses it with the rest of the misinformation that passes through his store every day. He wants to tell his customers that he’d witnessed the stricken look on Jonathan’s face when he carried Val into the store, the helpless panic that he’d gotten to her too late. Fadi can’t imagine he’d cause her harm. But he keeps his mouth shut. Fadi can’t stop himself from thinking that perhaps the Greek was right. He’d intended to give people a place to discuss June’s disappearance. But all he’s done is open up old wounds and create new ones. Now he wants to quiet the voices of complaint, go back to pretending that, after his customers leave with their six-packs or sandwiches, they are at peace with one another. From his station at the counter, he hopes that he can continue to see Red Hook as a neighborhood on the verge, instead of a community struggling against itself.

The cruise ship will be a new chapter. It will draw the attention of the city. It will allow the locals to show their neighborhood off to the world.

At seven
A.M.
on the morning of the first docking of the
Queen Mary
in the Red Hook Cruise Terminal, Fadi steps outside his deli and looks up and down Van Brunt. The remnants of a fall fog hover over the neighborhood, muting the slow sounds of a Sunday that’s barely started.

He spent the night in the store, getting ready for this arrival—the mad rush of passengers and those who’ve come to greet them. Around two
A.M.,
he’d walked down Visitation and watched four tugboats guide the massive ship into port. But the night was dense with fog that clung to the outline of the
Queen Mary
, dissolving her edges, transforming the boat into a vapory phantom. The ship devoured the coastline, blocking out New Jersey and the tip of Manhattan. What a shame to sneak into New York at night, Fadi thought, sleep through the magnificent arrival, the ocean giving way to the river, giving way to the glittering city.

Back in the store sleep eluded him. He put on the twenty-four-hour news channel and watched a cheerful reporter interview some of the Dockyard’s regulars who had gathered at the terminal. They were glazed with drink. They bellowed nonsense. The reporter tried to make light of their inebriation. But there was tension beneath her smile.

Fadi keeps the news on all morning. By seven, the reports show local catering companies arriving at the terminal, preparing a “Best of Brooklyn” festival—famous cheesecake, famous hot dogs, local beer. The borough president is set to arrive at ten to glad-hand the arriving passengers.

Out on Van Brunt, the only change is the clusters of cops on each corner, arms crossed over their chests, chatting, relaxing as the day starts to show. At the far end of the street, where Red Hook gives way to Carroll Gardens, Fadi can hear a distant bustle of traffic, a new noise of taxis and buses jostling for position as they approach the terminal.

Fadi had hoped that Ren would watch the store while he went down to the terminal. But he hasn’t seen the kid in a while. The last time Ren stopped by was when he put the finishing touches on the mural. On that last visit, Ren had filled two large grocery bags with supplies. He’d taken more than usual—more canned goods and pastries. Fadi hadn’t said anything. He just let Ren stock his bags and undercharged him.

After he loaded his bags, Fadi walked him out to the street. He watched him head toward the water, not the projects. Halfway down the block Ren looked over his shoulder. “I owe you.” He jostled the bags. “You think I don’t know?”

It didn’t sound like a good-bye.

Each time the door opens, Fadi expects to see Ren. He hides out behind his counter in the evenings, not wanting to see Christos and the wino having dinner together. The wino seems to sense that the coast is clear. Instead of hovering in the door, peeking inside to make sure Ren isn’t there, he resumes lingering by the coolers, pawing the forty-ounce bottles until Fadi gives him something for free.

Fadi has attracted a few new customers—both artsy-looking newcomers and younger kids from the Houses who stop in to comment on the ship mural and ask who the artist is. Fadi made up flyers advertising “The Daily Visitation” printed on glossy paper in full color—one side giving his address, the other a photograph of Ren’s mural. He plans to hand these out at the terminal, draw customers up the street, and send images of Ren’s work out on the ocean.

By eight, the sun has started to burn off the fog, restoring the sharp edges to the neighborhood. A beautiful day to land in Brooklyn, Fadi thinks—crisp and clear, with a sharp hint of fall. Fadi’s cousin Heba is sitting behind the counter, shoving coffee cake into his mouth and watching a talk show. Heba shows no interest in the ship.

Fadi pulls out the New York Lotto chalkboard where he sometimes posts the daily jackpot, squats down, writes: “Welcome to Brooklyn. Free Coffee.” He hangs a small pouch on the board that he fills with his flyers, then carries the board down Visitation to the terminal and draws an arrow pointing up the street toward his shop. He ties three balloons—red, white, and blue—to the board to match the balloons on his awning.

He returns to the store and dumps a box of donut holes onto a foil tray and pierces them with American flag toothpicks. He places this on the counter next to a stack of small coffee cups. One of the late-night newcomers—rumpled clothes and bleary eyes, out for a walk with his dog—pokes his head into the deli. “Free coffee? Iced?”

Fadi forces a smile. “Only hot. For the ship.”

Later, leaving Heba at the register, Fadi heads back out to Visitation, falling in line with a handful of joggers and early-morning locals there for the spectacle, ready to take stock of the ebb and flow of people heading for Van Brunt. As Fadi passes the Dockyard, he hears a mournful song slipping through the splintered doorway behind the half-pulled grate. He checks his watch and hopes it’s the cleaning lady who’s in there this early.

When Fadi closes in on the
Queen Mary
, perspective is lost. New York and New Jersey are lost. There is only the boat and the sky. The massive hull and looming prow block all the beyond that comes at the end of the street, the light bouncing off the water and the distant promise of the skyscrapers.