This Train Is Being Held

by Ismée Williams

  I follow Ninety-Sixth until I get to Park Ave. I start on the west side of the street and walk south. Even I know north of Ninety-Sixth isn’t the same. Isa never invited me over, so I never got her exact address. But I know she takes the M96 bus.

  I pass green awnings and shiny brass poles strung with white Christmas lights. Underneath them, lamps radiate orange-gold heat. Trimmed evergreen shrubs flank entrances. Some have planters of stone or iron decorated with holly branches. I’m looking for statues, a pair of lions. Isa mentioned them once. I finally find the big cats on the corner of Ninety-Third.

  I had pictured full-maned Mufasas, like the ones outside the Forty-Second Street public library. These don’t look like anything Disney would draw. They’re sitting up, not lying down, one paw on each raised in salute. A man in a pilot’s hat and a matching blue-gray uniform watches me from behind the glass. He’s morenito, like me. He doesn’t come out and hold open the entrance. When I take a step forward, he points to the revolving door.

  Inside it’s almost tropical. Against the wall, a tall vase sits on a marble shelf. Orchids and lilies explode out of it. The smell reminds me of DR.

  “Can I help you?” The doorman’s name tag says GERALDO.

  “Me gustaría hablar con Isabelle Warren, por favor.”

  Geraldo’s uninterested gaze is meant to show me he has no clue what I just said. That man has an accent thicker than Mami’s and Papi’s. If he doesn’t speak Spanish, then I don’t play ball.

  “Excuse me?”

  Geraldo wants to play games. I don’t have time for games.

  Maybe it’s not the Spanish he doesn’t understand. Maybe he doesn’t recognize Isabelle’s name.

  “I’m looking for Isabelle Warren. Do you know her?” I wish I’d brought my Haeres ID. The folks in the fancy coffee shop near my school are nicer to me when I’m wearing it.

  Geraldo looks me up and down, then breaks into a smile. “Estoy bromeando. You play beisbol?” He points to my AHH hoodie. “What position?”

  I tell him and he asks me my stats. I tell him that too. He claps my back with an “Ey!” like we go way back.

  Geraldo pretends to hold a bat and swings it. “My son, he’s not into ball. He likes music and computers. How the team is doing this year?” He nods again to my shirt.

  I tell him they’re doing well. But that I don’t play for AHH anymore. I play for Haeres.

  He frowns and makes a gesture at the ceiling. Like maybe he’s angry with God for taking the good players out of the Heights.

  I ask him again about Isa.

  “Claro, conozco a Miss Isabelle, pero she no live here no more. She no tell you she moved?”

  She moved? “When?” The word rasps from my throat.

  Geraldo presses a gloved fist to his forehead. “Seven month? En mayo fue.”

  In May? My hands go cold. Isa and I were together then. She never said anything about moving.

  “Ay, y que triste fue todo. Miss Isabelle, I know her since chiquitica. Since she born. The brother too. Then, shwoo.” He waves his hand like a bird’s flying away. “Se fueron.”

  They left?

  “But why?”

  Geraldo opens his hands and looks at the ceiling again.

  The elevator dings. Geraldo peeks over his shoulder like a dog who’s been caught eating a steak. He tugs his white gloves as an old woman in a fur comes from behind the wall with the fountain vase.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Rosenbaum.” He holds open the plain glass door for her. “Will you be needing a taxi tonight?”

  “Hello there, Gerry,” she says back to him. “Yes, I will be.” She glances at me, and then stops. “Gerry? Is this that nephew you were telling me about?”

  “No, Mrs. Rosenbaum. This gentleman is here asking about the Warrens.”

  “Hmmm, I didn’t think so. He’s too handsome to be from your family.” She lifts her elbow and winks at Gerry. Gerry leans back and pretends to shoot her with two fingers. Mrs. Rosenbaum’s chuckles die down. “It’s so sad what happened to that family. Clifton was such a gentleman and seemed so smart. Well, that’s how those financier jobs are. Easy come, easy go.”

  Isa’s father . . . He lost his job?

  Mrs. Rosenbaum’s gaze travels down to the old dirt stains on my knees. “You must be a friend of the boy’s, what was his name?”

  “Merrit.” Gerry and I answer at the same time.

  “Actually, ma’am,” I continue, “I’m a friend of Isabelle’s.”

  “Really?” The old woman’s eyes narrow. Her papery lips smile. “Well, that’s nice. But you know they don’t live here anymore.”

  “Do you know where they live?” I ask the old woman. If Gerry wouldn’t tell me about Mr. Warren, I doubt he’ll tell me where the family moved.

  “I’m afraid I don’t, young man. Even if I did, I don’t think I would share that with you. If you’re Isa’s friend, why didn’t she tell you herself?”

  I don’t know. I let myself out the revolving door. Isa didn’t tell me a lot of things. I keep asking myself why the whole way home.

  SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23

  ALEX

  I stare off at metal spearing the sky. It’s the tallest spire in the western hemisphere, built above ashes of terror and destruction. It’s beautiful, yet seems lonely. None of the other buildings come close to it.

  I want to be that spire, rising up, despite the past. Or maybe because of it.

  Only two sentences are on the yellow page in my lap. One and a half, really. I hunch forward on the bench. I try not to look at the skyline. It’s hard because going back to my notebook means going back in my head where my thoughts vibrate with Isa.

  I’ve tried calling Isa a few times since seeing her on the train. It’s useless, but I can’t stand not knowing if she’s OK. Her Instagram account is gone, either erased or blocked. I still post to mine, every other day. I’ve written and hidden five poems for her on the train. They’re all still there. Unclaimed. Like the child in the subway poem “Hide-and-Seek,” left outside in the dark when the others gave up.

  I reread the words I’ve written. I speak them in my head. I speak them to the squirrel looking at me from the small rock four feet away. I fold thoughts of Isa down into a tight pill-shaped packet. I tell the mouth inside my brain to open wide and swallow. My pencil bounces on my finger. I put the tip to the paper and write.

  “¿Qué haces aquí?”

  I look up from three pages of raw words and feelings into Papi’s outraged face.

  “Why your bag is thrown así en la acera? The people they can walk on it, damage your glove.”

  Only, it’s winter. There’s hardly anyone in the park. It’s why I came here to write.

  Behind Papi, Robi and Yaritza stroll up the sidewalk. They wave. They’re too far away to hear him or see what’s in my lap.

  Papi snatches my notebook. “¿Qué es eso? ¿Algo para la escuela?”

  I’m not going to lie and tell him it’s homework. It’s not. It’s for me.

  Robi’s smile falls when he notices what Papi’s holding. He breaks from Yaritza and comes running. For Christmas, Papi finally agreed to sign Robi up for a winter ball session. His practice started two hours after mine, five blocks from their house. It was the first time Papi’s gone to watch Robi instead of me. Mine was just a practice, so Papi didn’t miss much and Coach O’Neil promised he’d give Papi a full report. But what about Robi? How did he hit in the cage?

  I study Robi’s face. He’s looking at Papi who’s turning sheet after sheet in my notebook. Yaritza comes up behind him. Her hand touches the paper. She doesn’t let him turn another page. I sit tall on the bench. My insides are as frozen as my face. I’m tired, too tired to stop them from reading. Why won’t Isa respond to me?

  I didn’t want Papi to find out about my writing. Now that he has, I almost feel relief. His dirt-crusted nails smudge the pages. His pinched eyes rise to mine.

  “You wrote all this?” His voice is neither loud
nor soft.

  My breath is crystals in my mouth, too sharp to take into my lungs.

  Yaritza’s lips still form the words I wrote. She takes the notebook from Papi’s powerful hands. “Son espectaculares,” she breathes.

  I watch the thin line of Papi’s mouth. I listen for what I know is coming.

  How could you write this? This is not what a man does.

  “Es una distracción,” is all Papi says. “You should be focusing on beisbol. Nada más. ¿Me entiendes?”

  I bow my head. It is not a nod.

  Papi tries to take the notebook from Yaritza, but she holds on too tight.

  Robi is behind the bench. My bag is on his shoulder. His mouth is fighting not to smile too big. “Ále,” he whispers. “I hit well! I was really driving the ball.”

  Papi is stalking away. Still he hears him. “It’s not the same as on the field,” Papi shouts back.

  I stand like a tower, stiff and alone. “That’s great, Robi. I’m proud of you.” My hand finds his shoulder. I take back my bag. I’d expected yelling and shaming. I’d prepared for the possibility of hitting.

  I wasn’t prepared for disinterest.

  I should have been. It hurts more.

  SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23

  ISA

  Merrit meets my train on the platform at Ninety-Sixth Street. Mom and Dad let him take the crosstown bus by himself last week, the same time I came off crutches, as if they needed both their kids to be more independent by the holiday. Merrit lifts a hand when I stick my head out of the car. His Santa hat slides down his forehead as he jogs to my door.

  He hasn’t taken that hat off since Dad found it in the decorations box last weekend. Merrit didn’t put a single ornament on the tree. He just sat on the couch with my foot in his lap, holding an ice pack against it, repeating the words Ho ho ho when Dad asked about his Christmas spirit. I handed the glass balls that were my favorites to Dad—they couldn’t all fit because the tree is so small. Mom never came out of her room, so the afternoon was pretty calm. When Dad left to buy eggnog, I considered talking to Merrit about the note he left me. But part of me likes keeping our secret unspoken.

  Merrit lopes onto the train. He sinks into a seat beside me and pushes the hat onto the top of his head.

  “You OK?” I ask.

  He nods. “Just tired.” He closes his eyes. As we’re pulling away from 110th, he rests his head on the side of mine, almost like he’s trying for a nap. I pat his arm and shift to make myself more comfortable for him. Across from us a little boy runs a toy fireman’s truck over the seats and up the wall. The red light of his truck whirls round and round and the siren’s pretty loud. His mother tells him, “Tranquilo” and points to Merrit. “Santa, pow-pow,” she says. The boy stares hard at Merrit, his little mouth drawn with angry suspicion. The mom smoothes his hair, a smile on her face. He pushes her away and points the fire truck at her, the lights and sirens coming back on.

  “I saw some guys using reMAKE,” Merrit says.

  It takes me a moment to realize he’s talking about his app. It went public just before Thanksgiving. He’s been staying up late, tracking the sales.

  “Really? That’s great. Where?”

  “At Ninety-Sixth. They were waiting for the train.”

  “Well?” I ask. “Did they like it?”

  Merrit’s still leaning on me. I can’t see his face, but I feel the shrug of his shoulder. “Seemed to,” he says. “They were passing the phone back and forth, changing up the words in the video.”

  “That’s great, right?” I come out from under him. I want to see his expression.

  “Yeah. It is great.” Only, Merrit looks sort of deflated.

  “You sure you’re OK?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s just . . . I don’t feel anything. Something like this should make me feel something. Don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know, sometimes the anticipation is greater than what you feel for the actual event. Like going on vacation, especially when it comes to our family.” I’m trying to get him to smile but I’m not just joking. Chrissy talks about this sometimes with dance. That the lead-up to a performance is so intense that afterward you feel sort of down.

  Merrit only looks away. His words make me worry. They remind me of what he said when he talked about his accident with the pills. “Maybe you should tell Dr. Peterson?” I suggest. We’re on our way to meet with Merrit’s psychiatrist now.

  Merrit doesn’t respond. He stares through the window into the darkness beyond.

  The subway soars from the tunnel, rising on the elevated tracks toward the 125th Street Station. Tiny white wisps drift down around us, bright against the smudgy gray sky.

  Merrit startles me by standing. He rips off his hat. The little boy’s fire truck crashes to the floor. The siren whines. Merrit dashes for the doors as they open.

  “Merrit!” I move as fast as I can with my limp. My heart clatters like we’ve jumped the tracks. This isn’t our stop.

  Wind dives into my eye sockets, chilling the bones of my cheeks. Merrit’s running down the platform toward the back of the train. Flurries swirl wildly around him. As soon as he’s out from under the rooftop shelter that spans most of the platform, he slows and opens his arms. I hobble after him, thankful he didn’t take any of the exits down to the street. I couldn’t have kept up on those stairs.

  Merrit lifts his face to the snow as the train pulls away. He turns for the railing, the barrier that prevents passengers from falling off, down to Broadway below. I hobble faster. A small dusting of white covers the concrete, enough to leave prints. Enough for my foot, with the awkward brace, to slip. Pain, like a knife, stabs through my leg. I’m panting by the time I reach him. He’s standing, hands clamped to the top of the waist-high barrier. His eyes are squeezed closed. He’s leaning forward, mouth open, as if to gulp the flakes streaming by.

  I grab on to the bar. Teeth of cold metal sink through my gloves. Below us, the street comes into focus. A fire truck, as small as the boy’s toy, whizzes by, lights off, silent.

  “Merrit—” I start.

  “Just . . . just let me stand here.” His hand lands on my shoulder, anchoring me to him. “You can stand with me too. It’s just . . . I need to feel this. I need to feel something.” He didn’t see me trip. He doesn’t see the tears of shock and fear running down my ice-cold face.

  I press against my brother, swallowing down a sob. I don’t know what to do. About Merrit or my ankle. I don’t want to think about what any of it means.

  The snow changes, flakes growing fatter and heavier, like enormous balls of cotton. Cold, wet clumps of it stick to my skin and melt. The droplets of soft ice come faster, rushing against my eyelids, reminding me of Alex’s poem.

  “His name is Alex. The boy who wrote me those notes.” The words escape from my lips as though they’re not mine. I don’t know if Merrit turns to look at me. I don’t know if what I said breaks through to him.

  Merrit squeezes my shoulder. “Tell me more,” he says.

  •••

  We’re back inside the train, inside the tunnel heading to 137th. I shiver against my brother, my face wet more from snow than tears. My fingers and feet, thank God, feel numb and the pain in my ankle is a distant pulse.

  Merrit listens to what I tell him about Alex. He asks me questions about Alex’s family, his two moms, his little brother, and his dad. He can’t believe I’ve never been to one of Alex’s games. Especially since Alex had come to see me dance. He pulls out his phone to look up the Haeres spring baseball schedule.

  “I get why you were nervous to introduce him to our family,” Merrit says. “Mom can be such a bitch. Samantha hated her too. Here—” He leans over to show me his phone. “Alex’s first game is March twenty-third. I’m sending it to your calendar.” He taps at his screen. He sets the phone on his leg, his fingers drumming his jeans. “Hey, um—I’m sorry. If I was part of the reason you kept Alex away.”

  I press my hand on h
is arm. “No, it wasn’t you.”

  He only nods and looks away. Maybe I’m not such a good liar after all.

  “Listen, I meant what I wrote.” He lifts his palm, curling his thumb and pinkie together like he did when he was a Cub Scout. “I promise I’ll act normal around him. I’ll keep taking my medicines. I’ll try really hard not to embarrass you.”

  Now it’s my turn to rest my head on his shoulder. I don’t tell him that Alex will probably never come over. I don’t tell him that Alex has already moved on. Baby steps.

  “You know,” Merrit says. “I can help you make a video with the app. You can explain why you asked for a break and why you’ve been keeping so much from him. You can just send it to him on Instagram.”

  I think about that time Alex found me on the subway, to apologize for leaving the dance performance and to tell me he missed me. What I did to him with the concert was so much worse than that.

  “Thanks,” I tell Merrit. “But this is something I need to do face-to-face.”

  I take out my phone. I log onto the free Wi-Fi when we stop at 157th Street. I unblock Alex, then send him a message:

  Can we talk? I don’t know if he’ll answer. He has every reason not to.

  Merrit pretends he wasn’t just reading my cell. He bumps my shoulder and smiles.

  SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23

  ALEX

  The snowflake decorations strung over Broadway are all lit up. Real snow floats around them. I pull on my hood, yank the strings tight, and tilt my face skyward. My tongue tastes the tiny slivers of ice. The bakery with those carrot muffins as big as my hand is on the next block. I’ll bring a whole box of them to Yaritza. Tomorrow, she’ll be cooking for Nochebuena. I don’t want her to have to worry about breakfast too.

  At the corner, a skinny dude in a Santa outfit swings his arm up and down, jangling his bell. Only a few people drop change into his bucket. I get stuck by the light. I pull out my wallet and drop a ten-dollar bill inside. Santa tells me gracias and that God blesses me.