City of Boys Page 11

  In the morning one of my mother’s eyes is dark and puffy, but it’s the other one that looks bruised.

  —So, I say, unable to stop myself, —where’s Nicky?

  She reaches for her cigarettes wearily, as if she has been asked this question every morning for years, and still has not found an answer. —Don’t you get tired of toast? she asks, lighting a cigarette.

  She rises, as if with great effort, and walks slowly into the next room, the sash of her bathrobe trailing behind her.

  —Baby, she says from her chair by the window, —I could really use a drink.

  When she bends her head to look through her purse for money, I can see the thin wires of gray running through her hair. She looks up at me with one darkened eye, the other as thin and transparent as a child’s.

  —I’ve been a good mother to you kids, she says, and even though her dark eye is swollen almost shut, that’s the only one I can look at. —Haven’t I? she asks. —Haven’t I?

  Behind her the rush-hour crowd of feet passes, too quickly to tell anything at all about them. Finally I turn to leave, but her voice catches me at the door. —Honey, she says to the crowd of feet passing through the window. —You wouldn’t ever leave me, would you?

  She turns to face me and her dark eye settles heavily on my face. I shake my head. She smiles. —You can’t leave me, she says, turning back to the window. —I’m your mother. She lights her cigarette, and I wait in the doorway a moment, until the smoke has settled in a circle around her head.

  —Sweetheart, says the boy at the liquor store. —Darling. His new sneakers glow in the dim store, and his friends stand closer together on the corner as the temperature falls. They call as I pass and watch me with hungry, mean eyes. They mark the passing of days, moving together for warmth, glancing nervously at the sky when it threatens to snow. In our alley, the pigeons move stiffly, flying as if on mechanical wings. Upstairs, Mr. Rosenberg circles his room tirelessly, sometimes pounding for my company, sometimes forgetting me altogether. My mother sits at the window watching the last leaves blow away, until the dark bruise around her eye has faded.

  —Honey, she says, —say hello to your Uncle Bill.

  A tall black man smiles at me. —William, he corrects her patiently.

  —William, she says.

  —Nice to meet you, he says politely, but he’s already lost interest in me, and turns back to my mother. His skin gleams as he lights a cigarette. His teeth gleam. His hair gleams and his eyes gleam and the material of his shirt gleams as he moves. My mother smiles and touches it with the tips of her fingers.

  —Black men are different, she tells me, although I am not interested in hearing this. —They don’t hate women as much as white men do. She pauses to light a cigarette.

  —But they do hate them.

  I watch several pairs of feet pass by the window.

  —You’re going to have to know all of this someday, she says. —You are.

  —Honey, my mother says, —this is your Uncle Nathan. I take his hand, which he offers kindly to me. He shakes my hand kindly and he smiles kindly and lets go of my hand quickly and kindly. Everything about him is kind, and because of that he will be gone soon, before his kind eyes fill with anger.

  * * *

  When he has been gone a few days, my mother stands in front of the mirror and moves her head from side to side, pulling a few gray hairs away from her head.

  —I need a change, she says, and soon we are at the beauty parlor on the corner, where they make a great fuss over her, how little gray she has, how young she looks to have such a tall daughter; in a soft mix of Spanish and English they hover around her while I flip through magazines. Permanent-wave solution cuts through the air and makes my eyes water. She is so beautiful, they tell her, and she smiles and says, Oh, you should see my son. They all smile and nod and talk about their own sons, their own husbands. The prettiness of men is something for which they have all suffered. The woman behind the counter watches me as I turn the pages of hairstyle magazines. —You’ll be a beauty one day, too, she says, as though she is pronouncing a sentence of doom. When my mother is through, all of her hair is dark again, with a reddish tint, and she stands in front of me, looking at me as if she is trying to remember exactly where it is we met. She pats her stiff hair. —Well? How do I look? she asks, and turns around so I can see the back.

  Mr. Rosenberg is sitting in front of our apartment house, taking in the last days before winter. A circle of butts surrounds him and he is tossing pieces of bread to several pigeons gathered a few feet away. The chunks of bread he throws are too big to eat at once, or to carry off, and the birds peck at them, finally abandoning the larger pieces, then drifting back to pick at them again.

  —Well, ladies, he says as we come closer. —Out for a stroll? His skin looks bluish in the bright light of day.

  —Watch this, he says, and he holds up his bag of bread, then empties it over his feet and on the ground around his chair. One fat pigeon comes cautiously forward, then another, and in a moment the air around him is filled with the beating of wings; as the birds settle over the crumbs Mr. Rosenberg has dropped, his legs and the bottom of his chair disappear under a bobbing blanket of gray, and he smiles as they peck at the bread. They have never come this close to me.

  —Hah, he says. —Not bad for rats with wings.

  As my mother passes him, she bumps his chair, and the birds scatter in a flurry. —You’re going to turn to dust there, she says, —to a big heap of dust and ashes and then we’ll just sweep you away.

  He winks and smiles at me as I follow my mother. —Hey, sweetie, he says, but when I turn back, he is turned to ashes; the words come from a heap of dust and ashes gently smoldering on the sidewalk.

  Men come in and go out and my mother waits patiently by the window, tapping a beat to the radio station, smoking. Occasionally her hand moves to her hair, running through it, patting it softly. When she is out of gin, she sends me for more.

  —Hey, says the boy at the liquor store. —My cousin seen your brother.

  —Your cousin, I say. —He doesn’t even know my brother.

  —Oh, he knows him, the boy says. —He knows him real good. He seen him downtown. And he says he don’t look so hot.

  He passes the bottle through the slot and raises one eyebrow. —If you know what I mean, he says.

  I know what he means, but I pretend I don’t, and give him my money. When he pushes my change through, he leans forward and presses his lips against the glass. The greasy shimmer of his kiss hangs between us and I turn to go.

  —Hey, he says, —don’t you even want to know where he seen him?

  The street he named is full of men and boys, leaning against buildings, standing alert at windows, idly walking up and down past doorways. They cast out oblique glances, never looking directly into each other’s faces, and when they catch glimpses of their own reflections, they stop to adjust their scarves, or their ties, or their sunglasses.

  I am only here an hour or so when I see my brother walking down the street toward me. He is with a man, against whom he gently sways from time to time. Each time my brother leans into him, the man moves just slightly away, inching toward the curb. When my brother sees me, he straightens, his face changes.

  —Robbie, I say, —I’ve been looking all over for you.

  His companion looks uneasily up and down the street and takes a step back. —Listen, he says.

  —No, wait, Robbie says, and looks at me, staring right into my eyes.

  —I wanted to talk to you, I say. —Just for a minute.

  —Listen, the man says again. —Listen, I’ll call you, okay? He begins to edge away, already looking down the street.

  —Okay, Robbie says. —Wait. He pulls a matchbook from his pocket, digs for a pencil, and scribbles down a number.

  —Robert, he says, and hands the matchbook to the man, who puts it in his pocket without looking at it. —Don’t forget, Robbie says. —I’ll be home tonight.
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  —Yeah, the man says, and walks away. Robbie watches him for a moment, then turns to me.

  —I’ve been looking for you, I say. —I wanted to talk to you. Now that I have his attention, I can’t think of how to keep it. —Tony called, I finally say, although this was months ago.

  —Tony called? He brings his fingers to his red lips and rubs them over his mouth, leaving a pinkish smear across his chin.

  —He was in Buffalo. He wanted to talk to you.

  —Buffalo? He looks out over the street, searching out the particular tilt of a jaw, the turn of a glance, a pair of eyes looking directly at him. —Buffalo, he says again. He catches the glance of a boy down the street who is pretending to look in the window of a bookstore, and I can feel him slipping away.

  —Robbie, I say. —Listen.

  —Robert, he says absently, still looking at the boy. —Remember, I go by Robert?

  —Robert, I say. —Listen.

  He pulls his glance back to me with some effort. His lashes are clumped together in little black spikes. —What? he says. —I have to go soon.

  —Listen, I say again, and wonder what it is I am going to say, what I am going to do, but I know I have to say it quickly. —I’m going to New Jersey, to visit Dad.

  —New Jersey? he says.

  —I thought maybe we could move back there.

  —To Jersey? he says. —With Dad? He leans backward slightly, tilting gently back and forth.

  —Not with him. You know. Just there.

  As I say it, it all makes a kind of sense, and I can see us in our little house, making breakfast in our sunny, yellow kitchen, bright blue curtains at the windows.

  —Jersey, he says, and looks around him.

  His eyes are like black holes. When I turn to wave goodbye, he is leaning against the window of a laundromat, talking to the boy from the bookstore. He smiles, running his fingers through the boy’s shaggy hair.

  * * *

  Heading for New Jersey, the train rises up from underground. The man behind me rattles his paper and leans forward. I can feel his hot breath on my neck, and I keep my hand on the thin edge of the envelope holding my money and a picture of my mother and my brother.

  As we cut through the gray New York neighborhoods, I catch frozen glimpses of other people’s lives: behind a rusty fence, a boy leans high into the air, pushing a basketball toward a hoop, but we’re gone before it falls, and he hangs there, floating in the dirty air; on a street corner, a woman lifts her baby from its carriage, stretching her long neck toward it, the baby reaching out for her face; in a cluttered alley, a cat crouches behind a garbage can, its tail whipping as it gazes at a pigeon pecking at something flattened on the ground-we are gone before it leaps.

  At the station I get directions to the address I have gotten from the telephone book. The walk is no longer than those I have taken in search of my brother, but here the wide avenues are lined with trees and houses. Children and dogs and men stand around like lawn ornaments, paying almost no attention to me as I peer past them at house numbers. It is like another country. When I find my father’s house, I stand across the street from it. My father leans over the engine of his car. He is tall and thin and his hair is turning gray in little patches. I watch him for a while, then cross the street and stroll past him. He looks up briefly, then back down to the engine. I stroll back and stop in front of him. He glances up, smiles politely, then bends his head again, but only for a moment. My mother once told me I have his eyes, and he has seen them. He looks up at me as if he is trying to remember the words to a song, and I wonder what it is I am supposed to call him.

  —Catherine? he says, and I nod.

  —Well, he says, looking around. —Well, he says again, and then again: —Well. He wipes his hands on his khaki trousers, leaving long dark smears of grease, then looks with dismay at what he has done. He looks quickly back at me and opens his mouth to say “Well” again, but catches himself and closes it, smiling tightly.

  —Well, he finally says. —What brings you to New Jersey?

  —Oh, I say. —Nothing. Really.

  He looks with longing at his house. His yard is neatly mowed, with little trimmed hedges all around the sides. Even the trees are neatly stripped of leaves.

  —Oh, he says. —Well, how are you? He leans back against his car, settling stiffly in. All around us men rake up leaves, children wind around the legs of their mothers, dogs erupt in frantic little spasms of barking, then quiet just as suddenly.

  —Fine, I say. —I’m fine.

  —Good, he says. —Good. He looks again at his house. By now, several faces have appeared in the large front window. I smile at them, but they remain expressionless, and soon the curtain drops. My father watches the curtain fall, then looks back at me.

  —Well, he says, —I suppose you’d like to come in? For a minute?

  When I nod, he looks down at the black streaks on his pants, but does not move.

  There is no one at the window when he opens the door. There is no one anywhere, but the house vibrates with human noises. Upstairs a stereo plays, from the kitchen comes the sound of running water, and somewhere a television is on. I recognize, over all the noise, the commercial jingle that is playing.

  My father sighs, then calls out, —Roberta.

  His new wife comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel, and smiles at me as she might smile at the paperboy. From nowhere come a boy, a girl, another boy. They are all blond, with blank puffy faces.

  —This is Catherine, my father says, and he recites their names too quickly for me to catch any. The girl is closest to my age; maybe she is fourteen, clearly born before my father left us; she is not even his real daughter. Her eyes run up and down my body, and I try to remember without looking what I am wearing. The boys look at me with no real interest, just a kind of boy curiosity about what might happen next, and my father’s wife continues to smile and wipe her hands on the towel. Like this we all stand until my father interrupts the silence.

  —Well, he says, and we all look at him gratefully. —Well, he says again, and smooths his sweatshirt down over his pants. He looks at his wife.

  —I think Catherine could use a Coke, she says. —After her long trip. My father stares at her as if she has spoken in an unfamiliar language. —Don’t you, honey? she says, and he nods suddenly.

  —Yes, he says. —Of course I do. Of course she could.

  —You go on in the living room and sit down, she says, and waves me out of the hall. I walk a few steps into the living room and turn to wait for my father. All the children watch me, but he is staring at his wife and I realize that this is going to be harder than I thought. I try to remember or to imagine just what exactly I was going to say, but all I can think is that he has a nice house.

  —You have a nice house, I say, and he and his wife stare at me, startled, until she turns and he joins me.

  —Yes, he says. —I mean, thank you. Yes. I guess so.

  Scattered around the room are photographs in silver and wood frames. I don’t look closely enough to see the faces. He sits on the edge of a chair and I sink deep into the couch.

  —Well, he says, and his wife enters with a glass of Coke, which she puts carefully on a little wooden coaster. She smiles at me and leaves the room. My father watches her back until she is gone, then turns to me. When I pick up my glass, it leaves a wet ring on the coaster. My father smiles carefully.

  —How’s your brother? he asks.

  —Oh, I say. —Fine. I try to place my glass back exactly on the ring. —He doesn’t really live with us anymore.

  —Oh? my father says. —What’s he doing?

  Upstairs doors open and close, and voices come from the kitchen. I try to hear what they’re saying. While he waits for my answer, his hand reaches for a magazine on the coffee table. He strokes the cover, but does not pick it up.

  —Well, I say finally. —He has a job. A good job.

  —Yes, well, he says. —That’s good
. That’s terrific.

  —Yes, I say. —It is.

  —And your mother, he says, not looking at me. —How is your mother? He runs his finger along the edges of the magazine, flipping the pages. When I take a sip of Coke, his eyes flick to the cover, reading the headlines.

  —She’s fine, I say. —Just fine. Great.

  And for just one bright second, my father’s eyes meet mine, and in this moment, so brief it may not even have occurred, he looks at me as my father, who loved me once, and who knows this cannot be true. But then his eyes dart away, back to his magazine, and the moment passes, gone so suddenly I will have trouble believing it happened. It leaves us in an airless silence, and I move closer to the edge of the couch. In a few minutes I will go back to New York, where, right at this moment, the basketball player stumbles to the ground, his shot clanging, unmade, off the rim of the hoop; the woman with the baby smiles up at a man who happens to be passing, her child forgotten; and in the alley, the cat springs after the pigeon, leaping right to the center of feathers and flapping wings.

  My father sits back suddenly, putting his hands in his lap. A look of something almost like contentment settles on his face as he gazes across the room, and I try to think of something we have in common.

  —Thanks for the birthday cards, I say. —And the money.

  They have come regularly every year, more or less around the times of our birthdays, colorful impersonal cards with a ten or a twenty tucked inside, signed just Dad. For years I suspected that my mother was responsible for this, that she took the money from his regular child-care payments, and that this is what accounted for the rather terse signature. I suspected this even after it became clear to me that this was simply not something that would occur to my mother to do.

  —Oh, my father says, embarrassed. —Well, it’s the least I could do. He laughs nervously.

  —It’s nice of you to remember.

  He looks confused, shifts in his chair. —Well, yes, he says.

  —I guess it is. He looks around the room. —I guess your birthday is coming right up sometime soon, he says.