by Triss Stein
“Dad? Why are we stopping here? This is not one of my addresses.”
“One of mine, I guess.” He pointed. “Look over there.”
“Where? What am I looking at?”
“My grandparents lived there, upstairs, above the store. It was a coffee shop then. Theirs, I think.”
That was all news to me.
“Yeah, I just barely remember but my folks, your grandparents, had a photo that was taken outside. And you could see that building over there.” He pointed to a large sign painted on the side of the building. Bricks showed through the ghostly, faded paint. “Abrams. Finest wedding clothes for rent. Brides and grooms.” A second of surprise flitted across my brain and made a note. I didn’t know you could rent bridal gowns.
He looked around. “Everything else is different. Or who knows? I’m not remembering it all anyways.”
“Dad. How come you didn’t say anything about this before? I’m working on this chapter and you never told me we had a family connection?”
“To tell the truth, I forgot. We moved away when I was real little. My grandpa died and grandma moved to Aunt Sally’s building in Rockaway. I don’t think I’ve been on this street even once since then.”
“You know, you’re useless when it comes to family history. Didn’t your parents ever talk about it? Growing up here?”
“Not really. Not really at all. They were not at all interested in reminiscing about those so-called good old days. They weren’t as good as the ones we were in then, I guess.”
I knew it was true. Being very poor was being very poor, even in good times. I had Maurice Cohen to say it for me in print. And their early times were not good times for anyone. But the 1950s, that silent decade I had studied in a class? In the conforming suburbs of identical homes? Heck. For them, after the war, a brand new house of their very own, with a bit of lawn, was more than they had ever dreamed of. It was paradise. Not my idea of paradise, which is why I live in Park Slope, but then, I didn’t grow up in Brownsville. Hmmm. Was this something I should write about? Or maybe a museum exhibit?
Not for the first time, I wished I had asked them more while I had the chance.
“Is it weird to think that your childhood is now part of history? Like, studied in class? Did your parents ever think about all the events they had lived through?”
“Naah, not really. It was just regular everyday life to us at the time. You know? Especially when I was a kid. I thought about stuff like, when would we get a TV? And how could the Dodgers leave Brooklyn?”
“Funny thing is…” Dad said as he started the car, interrupting my free-associating. “Wait. Where to next?”
I told him. “And you were saying funny thing is….”
“Funny thing about my grandmother and their past. I always had a feeling there was more to it. It wasn’t just that she had no interest to talking about those days, she refused. Like, quick, change the subject and mutter a prayer. Or maybe it was a curse. Then she would bring out cake and that was that.”
“Your grandmother? Not mine?”
“Yes. Ya know, later, I knew a few guys who lived in this end of Brooklyn, and Grandma did not like that at all either.”
“Dad. What is this, dad’s time machine day? You never told me any of this!”
He shrugged. “Never any reason to. I’m telling you now.”
“No, you’re not. You’re just throwing me crumbs. Who did you know from around here? And what was it like then?”
“Like it is now, more or less. I guess. Sad. Angry. Rough. Lots of street fighting, even little kids. Most of those guys, their families moved away eventually. Really, I came to play pool. Somewhere around here. There was a place…yeah, it’s kind of coming back to me.” He made a sudden turn.
I looked around. “Dad, what are you doing?”
“Hold your horses, kiddo.” We went a few blocks and stopped across from a long building with many tiny storefronts, many empty, at street level.
“See? At least I think it’s here. The second floor was a pool hall. I did a certain amount of hanging out there in my misspent youth.”
“A pool hall? Really? What would you have said if I…?”
“Another subject altogether. I’m giving you some information here. Want it or not?”
He sounded irritated. I responded with a polite “Yes, please.”
“In my day, it was a pool hall. I was underage to even be there, but it’s not like anyone ever asked. And I could get a drink, too. Betting, yeah, always, that’s part of the game.” He glanced at me. “And a place to find someone who sold weed, if that’s what you wanted.”
“Dad? You?” I was shocked. My dad was always a very by-the-book guy.
“It was a very, very long time ago. But you get what I’m saying? And the building was owned by a guy who was the Brooklyn Borough president for a while. If anyone asked about the pool hall, I guess he would have said he didn’t know a thing about what his tenants did.” Dad kind of snorted.
“Dad?”
“Okay, you want me to get to the point?”
“If you have one, which I am beginning to doubt, yes.”
“There were old guys who hung out there. They always claimed this was the toughest neighborhood in the city and the pool hall used to be a through-and-through mob hangout back in the old days. I dunno. The storytellers were petty crooks, kind of gangster wannabes, I think. The gangsters were gone a long time by then.”
We turned a corner, heading toward the library.
“Now this street looks a little familiar but I’m just not sure.”
“They changed the name. It was Stone Avenue back then.”
“Yeah, I know it now. I rented my prom tux along here somewhere. Powder blue.”
“Please tell me you are kidding.”
“Nope. Thought I was as spiffy as, I don’t know, Frank Sinatra, maybe. Or The Four Tops. Yeah. This used to be the block where the wedding stores were.
“And here’s something I forgot, speaking of weddings. When I started dating your mother, her mother cried and cried. She was sure I must be a gangster if my family came from Brownsville.”
“Dad, you never told me any of this!”
He laughed at my indignant look. “It was such a long time ago. By then my folks lived in Levittown, the most ordinary place in the world, and I lived with them when I got out of the Army. But your grandmother, boy!” He shook his head in disbelief.
I thought hard. “But I remember visiting them when I was little, lots of hugging and kissing and me getting my cheeks pinched. It didn’t seem like she disliked you.”
He moved a hand off the steering wheel to make a dismissive gesture. “She got over it. I had too many cop friends, she decided, to be a crook. And I drove a cab every day for a living. That was proof to her. If I was a crook, I couldn’t be a very successful one.”
I had to laugh. “It sounds like Grandma’s logic!”
We drove around slowly. I had a few more addresses to find, a few more old buildings to look for. I kept my eyes open for those boys, without saying anything to my father. Dad spotted a few blocks with new rowhouses, small and neat and bright. A sign of renewal, perhaps?
And it was Dad who muttered, “Now there’s a sight you don’t see around here much, I bet.” He jerked his head toward the sidewalk without stopping. “White guy in the hood.”
“Dad!” But he was right. And I thought I had seen him before. Blond beard, raggedy clothes. He turned into a building doorway. I gasped when I saw who stepped up to meet him. “That’s…” And I stopped myself before I said, “the guy who threatened me.” Instead I finished that sentence with a small, “…unusual. Yes, that’s unusual.”
“Drug buy,” Dad said. “Or he’s an undercover cop.”
***
Late that night there was an e-mail message f
rom Zora Lafayette.
Were you that skinny little white girl who always looked worried? Yeah, I sort of remember you. My baby is doing badly, but we have a whole community of people praying for her. Yours would be appreciated too.
Ahh. My prayers couldn’t be worth much but my good thoughts were hers, of course. I told her so, and to my surprise, I had an instant response.
Good thoughts are kind if you are not a praying woman. Doctors at the hospital sent me home to get some sleep, but that’s not happening. I don’t want to take the pills they gave me, and I don’t keep alcohol in my home, so for now it’s just me and my buddy the iMac, working the midnight shift, trying real hard not to think. Can’t cry anymore. All cried out.
Those words hit home. Without stopping to consider it, I typed:
Been there. My Jeff died in an accident at 26, hit by a drunk driver. That’s how I became a single mom. Even now, once in awhile I find myself wide awake in the dark, in this unreal place of silence.
And that’s how we began. For the next hour, she wrote me about Savanna, her hopes and dreams for her only child, how she had kept her focused and safe in an unsupportive world; her rage at those lowlifes, whoever they are; her repeated belief that God would not take her. I wondered if she thought repeating that would make it true.
I offered understanding. That’s all I could offer, really, but it seemed to be something, out there in the darkness of the early morning hours. You can’t be warrior mom 24/7, but I was not in her real life. She did not have to be embarrassed by meeting me some time in daylight.
Finally, she wrote:
Well, damn. It’s 4 AM and my eyes are finally closing. Thank you, girl, for staying up on the late shift with me tonight. Good dreams to us both. And some advice. You wide wake before dawn? Go make your baby pancakes and bacon for breakfast and hug her tight. Hug her till she say to stop, and then hug her some more.
She signed off and I hit the cookbooks. And then I checked the kitchen for pancake ingredients and syrup.
***
When I woke up, late and foggy, there was already a message on my screen.
Hey, y’all. Sorry about the impersonal but there are so many of you out there, asking about Savvie. No change, no change at all. Doctors say now we wait and see. Thanking everyone for your prayers and wishes.
But looks like the cops did their job for once. Word out is they are holding these little wastes of oxygen that been bothering my girl. Everyone expects an arrest so there will be justice done. Personally I am hoping they spend the rest of their miserable lives in jail. And now we must pray for mercy for Savanna.
Ah, that sounded more like the somewhat scary Zora I remembered from class.
So half the story was over. Or at least, it was the beginning of the end chapter. One of the end chapters. Would it help Savanna? Not at all. Would it help provide some healing for Zora? Could you transform grief into the satisfaction of revenge? I thought back to the drunk driver who killed my husband and thought the answer was yes. Somewhat. Maybe. But it didn’t change a thing.
Chapter Seven
I had a dinner date. Sort of. Chris would scoff at the use of the word. In fact she did, carefully explaining that a date only applies if there is potential for romance. Otherwise it is just “dinner plans.”
I love being condescended to by my fifteen-year-old. Though she had a point. I was having dinner—which I would bring—with my friend Leary, who is older than my father and is overweight, grouchy, and ill. At least half of his many ailments are lifestyle related, a subject he chooses, vehemently, not to discuss. At his request, I would bring spaghetti and meatballs, garlic bread, and wine. I sneaked some broccoli onto the menu and some ground turkey into the meatballs. Good thing Chris likes broccoli, because I knew I’d be bringing it home.
Chris could come but she turned me down with homework as her excuse. She’s met Leary and though she won’t admit it, I think she finds him scary.
I had his number now, though. I first met him doing research. He covered Brooklyn as a reporter, way back when, and I needed to know what he knew about a long-ago notorious landlord. It took a while to get his cooperation. A long while, and several meals. Now I know the belligerence disguises loneliness, though he’d throw me out if I ever said so. I don’t know if he was ever married, in love, had children. Most of his old friends seem to have moved away or died or forgotten him.
I went over to see him once in awhile, and when the weather was nice, I might take him out in his wheelchair. I tried to make the visits on Wednesday, when a housekeeping aide comes and his place is clean enough not to be a health hazard. Besides being grouchy, the man is a slob.
He also knows more about Brooklyn before my time than any human being has a right to. He lost a leg to diabetes so he can’t get around easily, and he was never what you’d call a people person. To be honest, perhaps an anti-people person. I often wondered how he functioned as a reporter, asking questions, getting answers. Maybe he just scared people into telling him what he wanted to know.
He liked my visits, even if he would never say it.
His building is slowly deteriorating along with his neighborhood. The security door is often open, and often broken. I can get in easily.
“Leary!” I pounded on the door of his apartment. “Answer, dammit. I’m hauling heavy bags.” I always worry if he doesn’t respond quickly. Once I found him beaten up, and twice I’ve found him sick.
“Door’s open.”
I struggled in, and put my bags down. He rolled himself out in his wheelchair.
“I brought enough for two meals.” I found clean dishes in the dish rack and set the table. When l moved the stack of mail and papers to another table, with more mail on it, I saw a flyer for the Espy exhibit.
“Would you be interested in seeing this?” Maybe I should think before I speak. I had no idea how I would manage that.
“I did see it. You think you’re the only person I know with a car?”
“Drop the shoulder chip or I take the wine home.”
“Tut, tut, where are my manners?” He paused and said in another tone, “Once in awhile, social services arranges for an outing. Ya know, through one of those do-gooder organizations.”
“And? And?” I portioned out dinner.
“Okay, okay, it was a nice day out. Except for all the old ladies on the bus.” He looked at his plate. “That’s a bird-size serving.”
“Here. I’ll add garlic bread. ‘
“Ah, garlic, seasoning of the gods.” He considered the small piece of butter-soaked Italian bread. “Worth the heartburn.”
“Leary? Did you remember any of the Espy photos?”
“What? How old do you think I am? Sweet jaysus. But yeah, I have seen a lot of them before.” He focused on his food, but I knew the smug gleam in his eyes.
“There’s more. Spill it.” I moved the garlic bread out of reach, just to emphasize my point.
“You got me. I knew him.”
“Who?”
“Espy! What are we talking about? He was old by then, sick.”
“Forgotten?”
“Not really. Never, really, but he hadn’t chased a story in years. Naah, decades. He missed it. You never really lose that addiction, being an adrenaline junkie.”
Like someone else I knew?
“I met him because we were doing a story about him, some anniversary thing. They got out a bunch of old pictures he took, and got one of him, himself, very rare. He always said he belonged behind the lens, not in front of it. He lived upstate then, all retired.”
He reached for another piece of bread. “Really hated it. I mean, he could see cows out the window. This is a guy who lived across from a police station so he never missed out on a story.”
‘You’re making that up.”
“No, I am not and I didn’t just hear it from
him.” He grinned at me. “Always have to have some corroboration and I did. I got the address and believe me, it was a real dump.”
I looked around his living room without a word and he saw me do it.
“Worse. Way worse. One room, bathtub in the kitchen. But he could see the station out the one window, and could be out and on a cop call in two minutes. Like the man says, location, location, location.”
There he was, Leary the living, breathing time machine. That’s why I put up with him. And because I have become fond of him. Hard to explain but true.
“I have a book from the exhibit.”
“Yeah? Learn anything?” He was now scraping tomato sauce out of the pasta bowl.
“Did you know he was a Brooklyn boy? He came from Brownsville.”
Leary shrugged. “Don’t know if I did, or not. It wasn’t important. His whole career was shooting the dark side of Manhattan. And he started real young, like a kid. You could do that then. Ya know? No one cared about his roots.”
“Well, I care. I’m looking at Brownsville now for my dissertation.”
“When are you going to get that thing done?” He looked mischievous. He knows it’s not a welcome question.
I shocked us both by tearing up.
“Hey, hey.” It’s probably the only time I’ve ever seen him with no words. He handed me a napkin. I mopped my eyes, took a gulp of wine and a deep breath. Two deep breaths.
“Sorry about that. I just feel like…some days…I’m stuck in the swamp. Forever.”
He was silent, drinking. Finally he said, “Even been stuck in a real swamp?”
“What?”
“Your tears are clouding up your eyes, not your ears. You heard me. I said, ‘real swamp.’”
I stopped crying. “I live in Brooklyn. New York. Not in, like, Louisiana.”
“I thought so. No real swamps. Bet you’ve never even seen one?”
He seemed to be waiting for an answer. “True.”
“You got no idea. I was in ‘Nam. There are real swamps and then there are problems, okay? You have a problem. So fix it.”
Strangely, his lack of sympathy helped. I took another deep breath, looked him in the eyes and said, “What do you know about old-time Brownsville?”