The Turnaround

by George Pelecanos

  “It’s nice,” said Alex. “Reasonable, too. So don’t ask me for too much.”

  “Can I get forty dollars?” said Rafael.

  Alex reached into his pocket, produced a roll of bills, peeled off two twenties. “You want it all taken out the next payday?”

  “Half nex week, half the nex. Okay?”

  Alex handed him the money. “Wear a rubber, Rafael.”

  “Que?”

  “You heard me. You’re too young to be a father.”

  “I don’t like the raincoat.”

  “Do what I tell you, boy.”

  Rafael winked. “Thanks, boss.”

  Alex made a small wave of his hand. “Have fun.”

  Rafael headed for the back door with a cocky, athletic dip. Alex was reminded of Gus. He had had that kind of physicality and confidence. Alex had constantly reminded him to use condoms, too. “Your mother and I don’t want any grandchildren yet. You don’t want to mess up some girl’s life.” Gus, like Rafael, didn’t look past the pleasure at the consequences. It was not that they were insensitive, but rather, they were insensible. Alex never had to tell Johnny to use a condom. He knew little about his personal life, but he felt that Johnny would be cautious. Gus, on the other hand, made decisions based on desire and emotion. Gus was certain he would play football at a higher level, despite his average size, and wanted to move to Florida. Gus had joined the army behind his romantic vision of the warrior. Gus had dreams and fantasies. Johnny had plans.

  Alex heard a knocking sound and turned his head to see a tall black man rapping his knuckles on the glass of the front door.

  “I’ll get it, Dad,” said Johnny.

  “No, I will,” said Alex.

  He slipped the cash box under the counter, shut the register drawer, passed through the break in the counter, and stepped up to the door. Through the glass, he mouthed the word “Closed” to the man, but the man did not move. Alex flipped the dead bolt and opened the door just enough to speak to him.

  “We’re closed, sir.”

  “I’m not here for food or drink.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “My name is Raymond Monroe.”

  The name was a common one. It was also vaguely familiar. Alex had the growing feeling that he had seen this man before.

  “Can I come in for a minute?”

  “Why?”

  “Look, I’m not here to rob you.”

  “I know that,” said Alex, a bit embarrassed and also annoyed.

  “I saw you outside the Fisher House yesterday, at Walter Reed. You and I almost bumped into each other.”

  “Right,” said Alex. So that was where he recognized him from. He didn’t quite remember the encounter, but he had no reason to think this man would lie.

  “It was Peggy. You know Peggy, don’t you? She told me who you were. See, there was something about you. Well, it was your eye, you want the truth. And then, when she said your name . . . You are the boy that got hurt out at Heathrow Heights, aren’t you?”

  Alex hesitated. “I was.”

  “I’m one of the young men who was involved in the incident. The younger brother.”

  Monroe drew his wallet and held out his driver’s license so Alex could match the photo to the name. Alex glanced at it, keeping his foot against the door.

  “Look, I don’t want anything,” said Monroe.

  “You’ve, uh, caught me off guard here.”

  “Just a word.” Monroe placed his palm on the glass of the door. “Please.”

  “Certainly.” Alex stepped aside. “Come in.”

  Monroe entered the shop, and Alex locked the door. They walked toward the counter.

  “Can I get you a soda, something?”

  “I’m okay,” said Monroe.

  “Dad?” said Johnny, standing with Darlene by the rear door.

  “Go home, both of you,” said Alex. “I’m just gonna have a word with this gentleman. I’ll be right behind you.”

  After Alex waited for Johnny and Darlene to go, he gestured to the stool nearest the register. As Monroe got situated, Alex took a seat himself, leaving one empty stool between them. Alex rarely sat on this side of the counter. He didn’t know what to do with his arms.

  “That was your boy?”

  “My oldest, yes.”

  “Nice-looking kid.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I have a boy, too, a soldier. Kenji’s in the Tenth Mountain Division, First Battalion. Third Brigade Combat Team.”

  “God protect him,” said Alex.

  “Yes.”

  “Is that why you were at Walter Reed?”

  “No, I work there. I’m a physical therapist.”

  “That’s admirable.”

  “Well, I’m getting paid for it. So it’s not like I’m donating my time. But I’m tryin to help out, you know. I felt a little useless, what with Kenji over there, doing his part.”

  Alex nodded. On the Coca-Cola clock, the second hand swept past twelve, dropping the minute hand with a soft click. Alex placed his forearm on the counter and ran a finger along the artificial grain of the linoleum.

  “I’m sorry,” said Alex. “I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just that I’m not exactly clear on why you came to see me.”

  “I’m just reaching out,” said Monroe. “You move along in life, you feel the need to make the beds you left undone.”

  Alex nodded. He could think of nothing to say.

  “We don’t have to do this all at once,” said Monroe, sensing the man’s resistance and confusion, deciding that the rest of it would have to be left for another, more appropriate time. “When you feel more comfortable, when you’re ready to talk again, give me a call.”

  Monroe reached for the guest check pad and the pen that was lying beside it. He wrote his name and cell number on the top sheet, tore it off, and pushed it along the counter to Alex. Alex was polite and did the same.

  “I’m sorry for the loss of your son,” said Monroe.

  “Thank you.”

  Monroe and Alex got off their stools and headed for the door.

  “Mr. Monroe.”

  “Make it Ray.”

  “Your brother . . . What was his name again?”

  “James.”

  “Is he around?”

  “He’s alive, yes.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “He’s out. Stumbled some, but he’s out now. Back in D.C., working. Yeah, James is doing good.”

  Monroe offered his hand, and Alex shook it.

  After Raymond Monroe had left, Alex sat in the quiet of the shop, thinking about the door that had just been opened. Picturing himself walking through it, and wondering what he might find if he did.

  Thirteen

  RAYMOND MONROE drove his aging, well-maintained Pontiac out into the County and north on the Boulevard, coming into the retail district, passing the big hardware store and the Safeway, the Greek-owned pizza parlor, and the old gas station where his brother, James, had worked, now self-service, a minimart having replaced the mechanics’ bays. He hooked a left at the end of the strip, before the split in the road, and rolled down the incline, along the B&O railroad tracks and into Heathrow Heights.

  Adults were getting home from work, and kids were playing in their yards and riding their bikes down the sidewalks as the shadows stretched out in the dying light. Nunzio’s, the local market and country store, had closed long ago and been replaced by two split-level houses, one with turquoise siding. At the bottom of the street, bordering the woods, was the government barrier, painted yellow, telling anyone unfamiliar with the layout that the road had come to an end.

  Raymond waved to an old man he knew and, farther along, a girl he’d once kissed down by the basketball court, now a grandmother. He still knew most of the people who lived here. He’d known their parents and now recognized their children. A few Hispanic families had moved into the neighborhood in the past five years, workingmen and women with many kids, but Heath
row was still a black enclave, its people proud of their struggle and history.

  Many houses had been improved, and others were in the process of being renovated. There were a couple of homes being built from the foundation up, but the new structures looked to be as modest as the teardowns they were replacing. If folks wanted to flash, they went elsewhere. Many, even those who had markedly improved their standard of living, had chosen to stay in Heathrow Heights.

  Rodney Draper, the Monroe brothers’ old friend, was one of those who had never left. Rodney still lived in his late mother’s house, though no longer in its basement. He had a wife and three daughters, one of whom was attending college. Rodney had gone into stereo sales, then major appliances, and had worked his way up in a small operation that became a ten-store chain in the 1990s. He was now the merchandising manager for the company, worked the sixty-hour weeks common to retail, and made a solid if unspectacular living. Raymond passed his house, expanded, well tended, and bright with a fresh coat of white paint. Rodney’s car was not out front. He always seemed to be at work.

  Monroe parked in front of his mother’s house, not far from Rodney’s on the street parallel to Heathrow’s main road. This street, too, concluded in a dead end. Dogs, even those who knew his smell, barked at Monroe from the yards of the surrounding houses as he crossed his lawn.

  His mother, Almeda, sat in the den of their two-bedroom home. Monroe took her cool arthritic hands in his, bent forward, and kissed her cheek.

  “Mama.”

  “Ray.” Almeda’s eyes went to the overnight bag he clutched in his hand. “You staying the night?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She was seated in her husband’s old recliner, which Raymond had re-covered himself. Her hair was white, the moles on her scalp visible through the cottony wisps, her thin wrists and forearms prominently veined. She wore a clean floralpattern blouse from Macy’s and black pants with an elastic waistband. She was well into her eighties. The hump in her back was most pronounced when she stood.

  Almeda would need professional care soon if she were to live much longer. Raymond was determined to keep her out of a nursing facility. She wasn’t sick, just weak. Money was not an issue. The house was paid for, and Raymond took care of the property taxes and utilities, and performed most of the maintenance. Almeda received modest Social Security benefits, along with a check from the VA, reflecting Ernest’s service in the war. They got along fine. Most of the time, Raymond enjoyed his mother’s company. He liked living here.

  Monroe went to the television set and turned down the volume. Almeda was watching Jeopardy, and like most elderly folks, she kept the sound up loud. He sat on the sofa beside her and leaned forward so she could hear him clearly.

  “Something troubling you, son?”

  “Not at all.”

  “It’s nothing to do with Kenji, is it? Have you heard from him?”

  “I haven’t. He’s busy, is all it is. Out on those patrols he goes on. I’m sure he’s fine.”

  “Problems with your girlfriend, then?”

  “Nah, Kendall’s good. The both of us, we’re good.”

  “Running back and forth between two homes is going to take a toll on your relationship.”

  “Trying to kick me out?”

  “I’m saying, you might as well move in with her. Get a minister, have a ceremony. Do right by her and her son.”

  “I might. If they’ll have me.”

  “Who wouldn’t?” said Almeda. “Fine man like you.”

  “Listen, Mama . . .”

  “What is it?”

  “I visited a man today. One of the white boys in the incident, back in seventy-two.”

  The incident. All involved had always called it that. Almeda’s shoulders slumped as she sat back in her chair.

  “Which boy?” she said.

  “The one Charles Baker hurt.”

  Almeda folded her hands in her lap. “How did you find him?”

  “I ran into him at Walter Reed. Alex Pappas. I recognized his name and put it together with his face.”

  Almeda nodded. “And how has life turned out for him?”

  “He was at the hospital delivering food. He lost a son in Iraq.”

  “Awful,” she said.

  “He owns a diner downtown. He carries the scar Charles gave him, but other than that, I don’t know much about him. I didn’t stay with him long enough to find out. He was uncomfortable, like anyone would be. I came up on him quick.”

  “What did you see in his eyes?”

  “I saw good.”

  “Why, Raymond? Why would you seek him out?”

  “I had to,” said Monroe.

  Almeda offered her hand. He took it, a tiny tangle of bones.

  “I suppose I understand,” she said.

  “Couldn’t be an accident that I crossed paths with him. I pray at night for my son, knowing that I’m still unclean inside. I can’t be like that anymore.”

  “Will you talk to this man again?”

  “I left the door open. It’s on him now.”

  “You should include your brother if the man wants to take it further.”

  “I plan to.”

  “It was him who suffered most.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Is that all?” said Almeda.

  He hadn’t told her everything. He didn’t want to worry her over James.

  “There’s nothing else,” said Raymond Monroe, cutting his eyes away.

  DEON BROWN was in the living room of his mother’s house, alternately sitting in a chair and pacing the floor. Since the night before, he and Cody had managed to off most of the weed they had bought from Dominique. Their day was spent talking on their disposable cells, setting up meets, making deliveries in parking lots, garages, houses, and apartments, and collecting money. The balance of the ounces they had not physically unloaded had been committed. The transactions had been quick and successful, and they had each pocketed over a thousand in cash in less than twenty-four hours. Deon should have been happy, but he was not. He was tired of hanging with Cody, whose mouth did not stop, even when he was high. Cody had just about gotten on Deon’s last nerve.

  He had come to his mother’s to find some peace, maybe have dinner with her, watch television together, talk. But to Deon’s annoyance, Charles Baker had been in the house when he’d arrived. Deon had heard Baker upstairs, raising his voice at his mother, and her sharp objections and replies. And then Baker’s voice, louder still and frightening, ending the argument with intimidation and aural force. Silence after that for a couple of minutes, followed by a rhythmic squeaking sound, which was the mattress springs being worked on his mother’s bed. Deon wanted to leave out the house, but he could not. He wasn’t about to abandon his mother to low trash like Charles Baker. Baker was on top of his mother, thrusting, the mattress squeaking and the legs of the bed lifting and hitting the hardwood floor. Deon rubbed at his temples and paced, but he did not leave.

  The house grew quiet. Deon heard his mother’s door close up on the second floor, and soon Baker came downstairs. He stood at the foot of the stairs, tucking his shirt into his slacks, and nodded at Deon, now seated again in a cushioned armchair.

  “How long you been here?” said Baker.

  “A while.”

  “You heard us arguin, then.”

  “Sounded like you were doing most of it.”

  “Your mother’s emotional. Women be like that.”

  “Is she coming down for supper?”

  “She needs to rest now,” said Baker with a vile grin.

  “You’re not stayin the night, then,” said Deon. It wasn’t a question.

  Baker held his smile and kept his eyes fixed on the boy. He didn’t like to be talked to this way, but he would allow it to pass. I’m done with that dry hole, anyway, he thought. Why would I want to stay?

  “I’ll be sleepin at my group home tonight,” said Baker. “But I need to get over to Thirteenth and Fairmont, to see a frie
nd. Can you drop me?”

  “I was just leaving myself,” said Deon, happy to get this man out of his mother’s house.

  Deon drove the Marauder east, Charles Baker beside him. Night had fallen, and the glow of the instrument lights colored their faces. Baker looked at Deon, filling up his space under the wheel though the seat had been pushed far back.

  “You got some size on you,” said Baker. “What you go, two fifty?”

  “Round that.”

  “You ever play football?”

  “Never.”

  “You runnin to fat now. All them Macs and that slope food you be consumin. You need to watch yourself,’cause, lookit, you starting to get some titties on you like a woman.”

  Deon kept his eyes ahead, braking and coming to a full stop at one of the many four-ways now on 13th.

  “The way you built,” said Baker, “wouldn’t take long in a weight room to get you swole. When I was liftin, I was a beast.”

  When you were in prison, thought Deon.

  “Anyway,” said Baker. “You and your boy just don’t do enough physical shit. That’s all I’m sayin. Young boys be like that today, though. Your Tubes and Your Space, the chitchat rooms and all that bullshit—y’all just don’t use your muscles anymore. Me, I use my muscles. The ones in my head and in my back.”

  Deon accelerated as he hit a gradual incline, the Flowmasters growling beneath the Mercury.

  “Course, with all that money you got, I guess you don’t feel the need to be getting physical. I’m talkin about real work, going out there, scrumpin and humpin.’Cause you and Cody, y’all are flush. Am I right?”

  “We’re doing fine,” said Deon.

  “What, you two made a couple thousand, more than that, in the last day alone?”

  “Something like it.”

  “And me emptyin bedpans and scrubbing the shit stains off of porcelain, for what? Couple hundred dollars a week? How you think that makes me feel?”

  “What’s your point?”

  “What’s my point. You funny, you know it? My point is, I been in your mother’s world for a little while now, and I been good to her. You’d think that her son would want to return the favor and do something for the man who done right by his moms. Give Mr. Charles a little taste of that good thing you and your boy got.”