by David Arnold
Metpants in one hand, I picked up my backpack with the other and was about to follow, when Coco said, “What d’you think, we’re gonna steal your stuff? Poor loathsome urchins that we are.”
I pulled my iPod and Visine out of the side pocket, put the bag back where it was, and tried not to imagine Coco stuffing her grimy little hands inside Dad’s urn. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
Coco smiled theatrically, put her hand on her heart. “Your vote of confidence means the world to us. Truly, Spoils. Actually, hey, you got a phone in there? With games and stuff?”
“Sorry,” I said. “Left it at home.”
Mad waited by the front door, rainbow coat on, hands stuffed into pockets. The knit cap was back too, and I had a sudden desire to paint her. I wasn’t an artist, so much as an admirer of art—just good enough to know I was no good at all.
She pulled a cigarette out of her pocket and stuck it behind her ear. Normally, I found smoking to be quite disgusting. However, it suddenly seemed sexy, though not in that sexy-smoker type sexiness. Mom and Dad used to watch Casablanca about once a week (which I used to hate, now I miss, etc., etc.), and the idea of Mad smoking felt more like that. Like a Casablanca type sexiness.
I don’t know.
At that exact moment I wasn’t really thinking with my heart or my brain. I was thinking with the deck gun of my USS Ling.
MAD
Drag.
Blow.
Calm.
“Hey, Harry Connick Jr., Jr. What’s the word on the stream?” Honestly, had the bloated thing not been upright, I would have assumed it was dead. I dangled my legs off the edge of Channel à la Goldfish and waited for Vic to finish washing up and changing. He’d been pretty surprised by the available amenities, and I can’t say I blame him. Unlike the greenhouse accommodations, though, these amenities were highly unauthorized. Gunther had no idea we’d figured out a way through the window and into the gift shop bathroom. Not that he had any reason to get upset; I couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a customer.
The sky was still that cold gray, the color of a slow death, but at least it had stopped snowing for a beat. I lit another cigarette just as Harry Connick Jr., Jr., reappeared, floating the other way now. “You taking shortcuts, Junior?”
“Who are you talking to?”
“Shit!” I dropped my lighter in a narrow gap between two beams of the bridge, heard it plop into the stream below. “Dude.”
“Sorry,” said Vic, sitting next to me, his bloody jeans wadded in his lap. “You shouldn’t smoke anyway. It gives you cancer.”
I smoke-glared at him as I took the next drag. Hold, exhale, keep up the glare. “Lots of things give you cancer.”
“True. But some things do so with a much higher rate of efficiency than others.”
“What would you know about it?”
He looked down at the stream when I noticed what he’d changed into: blue sweatpants. They had a Mets logo on the right thigh and elastic bands around his ankles that made the fabric bunch up like a bouquet around his lace-up boots.
“They’re my Metpants,” he said.
I laughed a little puff of smoke. “Your what?”
“Metpants.”
There was just something so patently awesome about Vic wearing these pants, as if he’d glimpsed the world’s stockpile of ammunition against him, shrugged, and tossed an extra crossbow onto the heap for good measure.
Metpants. Vic’s double-bird to the world. I loved it.
And just then I wished I’d given each of those kids on the bridge a swift kick in the junk.
He rolled his eyes around for a second, but only up and down, not side to side. I’d seen him do this a few times now, but it still took me off guard.
“Who’s Junior?” he asked.
As if summoned by the god of goldfish himself, Harry Connick Jr., Jr., appeared below our feet.
“That,” I said, “is Junior. He’s our goldfish. I named him Harry Connick Jr., Jr.”
“After the singer?”
“Yep. And actor. That guy does not quit. He’s everywhere, especially during the holidays. Anyway, this summer there were dozens of goldfish, now this is the only one. Here, look.” I pointed about twenty feet upstream to a red object that resembled an upside-down salad bowl floating in the water. “That’s a de-icer. It keeps the water at a high enough temperature to not freeze over. The thing is Gunther only put in one de-icer this year, which isn’t nearly enough. So one by one the fish started dying until it was less Channel à la Goldfish and more Plague à la Goldfish. They just couldn’t survive.”
“Except Harry Connick Jr., Jr.”
I nodded. “The fish who does not quit.”
Drag.
Blow.
Calm.
“I like your greenhouse,” said Vic.
“It’s weird, I know.”
“Not that weird.”
I gave him a classic Are you kidding me? look.
“Okay.” He nodded. “It’s pretty weird. But cool.”
“Anyway, it’s not permanent—just until we can afford better.”
Drag.
Blow.
Calm.
“I used to stare at this place,” whispered Vic. He pointed across the street. “I sat right there on that stone wall and stared at this orchard.”
“Really? You ever see us?”
He shook his head. “It was a while back. My grandparents used to live in this neighborhood, but they’re—” He stopped abruptly, looked down at the stream. “Anyway. I thought it was kind of a weird bump.”
“Bump?”
“Coincidence.”
Vic pulled out his handkerchief, wiped the bottom corner of his mouth, and that was when I saw the scabs on his right wrist. There were five or six, varying in length, but all very thin. They weren’t scars like the one on my head. And I had a friend in high school who cut herself regularly—this wasn’t that either. These seemed duller, more shallow or something.
He pulled his iPod from his jacket pocket, pushed his long hair behind both ears, and stuck in his earbuds.
Conversation over, I guess.
Drag.
Blow.
Calm.
“Here,” said Vic, holding out an earbud.
“You’re offering an earbud,” I said.
“I am.”
“I thought that was just something people did in movies.”
“Are you suggesting we’re in a movie?”
“I wish.”
“Which one?”
“What?”
“Which movie do you wish we were in?” asked Vic.
I’d seen other people—usually in coffee shops, or that recently defunct outdoor café on Henley—speak to one another with this kind of fluid banter, as if the conversation had been all mapped out and memorized before the involved parties opened their mouths. I’d even been part of a few, but only with Coco—until now.
“Apollo 13,” I said.
“Apollo 13.”
“Sure. Tom Hanks in space. What, you’re too good for Tom Hanks in space?”
“Things go horribly wrong for Tom Hanks in space if I remember correctly. Come to think of it, things go horribly wrong for Tom Hanks on deserted islands, too.”
“Au contraire,” I said, “Tom Hanks survives both space and islands.”
“Survival. That’s your aspiration?”
“You bet your ass. Anyway, I love space.”
“What do you mean?” asked Vic.
“I mean, I love space. Black holes and dwarf planets and stars that faded to nothing decades ago but we can still see them—all that shit. Can’t get enough.”
Drag.
Blow.
Calm.
“That’s actually a common
misconception,” said Vic.
“What is?”
“The idea that we’re looking at stars in the sky that have already died and faded.”
“No, I’m pretty sure it’s true. Because of the light-years, I mean—if a star died, we wouldn’t know for, like, decades I think.”
Vic was quiet, but sort of shook his head in that way people do when they’ve got more to say—or worse, when they know they’re right and you’re wrong.
“Okay, Spoils,” I said. “Out with it.”
“It’s just—most stars live for millions and millions of years. We live for eighty, give or take, and can only see around five thousand stars with the naked eye. The odds that one of them dies during my lifetime are pretty minuscule. Possible, I guess. But highly improbable.”
Drag.
Blow.
Calm.
“So I’m trying to decide if you’re a show-off or a nerd or both,” I said.
“Nah, I just like numbers. Anyway, what do you think?”
“Honestly, I forget what we were even talking about.”
He held up the earbud again. “Maybe it’s something people do in real life too.”
It was clear he wouldn’t take no for an answer. I sighed, snuffed out my cigarette, and took the earbud. “What are we listening to?”
“You’ll see.”
And he was right. I did see.
To say the song was beautiful was like saying the sun was hot, or the fish was wet, or a billion was a lot. It was opera, I think, or something like it, a duet, two ladies, both singing their hearts out, and even though it was in a foreign language, I almost cried because there was just something so familiar about their voices, like they understood my own personal sorrow on a molecular level.
When it was over, I handed the earbud back and was about to ask him what the song was called when he said, “I think we’re being watched.”
A dozen yards away a pair of piercing eyes ducked behind a high snow embankment. A second later they reappeared, trained on Vic.
“That’s just Zuz.” I smiled a little, wondering how long he’d been lying on his stomach in the snow. “He does that.”
“Does what?” asked Vic.
“He’s just—very protective of his family.”
“So Zuz is protecting you from . . . me?”
“He spies on all the Chapters for the first few days. And don’t call him Zuz.”
“Why not? You guys do.”
“First off, Baz doesn’t. I mean, he could if he wanted. He’s earned the right. You haven’t. Not yet, anyway.”
Vic stared at the embankment. “Okay. So how will I know I’ve earned it?”
“You’ll know.”
It was quiet again, the two of us sitting in the echo of a song.
“What about money?” asked Vic.
“What about it?”
“I mean, you have to have money to live, right?”
“Not as much as they’d have you believe.”
“Who’s they?”
“You know. They. Like, the government and media and shit. The consumerist mentality and our propensity to price tag happiness.” Honestly, I had no idea what bullshit I was spinning, but it sounded good saying it. “Anyway, we’ve got a few early Chapters around town who help out, and Baz’s job at Cinema Five covers the rest. He’s been saving for a while now. Plans on opening his own taxi service—Renaissance Cabs.”
“Cool,” said Vic. “Why a cab service?”
I pulled my hair around to one side as Harry Connick Jr., Jr., swam lazily under our feet.
“You sure have a lot of questions,” I said.
“You don’t have many answers.”
“I’ll let Baz tell you about it. It’s his thing.”
“Okay,” said Vic. “What about your thing, then? Coco said you just graduated?”
I smiled at him, grabbed his bloodied-up jeans, then stood and dusted the snow off my backside. “We should probably head back. I’ll take these for you.”
“Mad.”
“Yes?”
“What’s a Chapter?”
I turned and started back toward the row of greenhouses, Zuz close behind. “Patience, cockroach.”
* * *
It was a full ten minutes before Vic returned. During that time, I’d shoved his pants on the shelf next to the records, still unsure why I’d taken them in the first place. I then settled onto the couch, where I tried to immerse myself in The Outsiders, a feat that usually took very little prodding, but something about Vic’s song had crept inside my brain, my veins, now pulsing through my body.
Zuz had “’Round About Midnight” by Miles Davis cranked on the turntable while Coco knelt over Vic’s backpack, digging through his stuff.
“Coke, what are you doing?”
She pulled out some textbooks, set them on the coffee table. “Checking for contraband. I mean, we don’t really know the guy. He seems nice, but what if he’s one of those army-guys-turned-Taliban?”
“Coco, that’s ridiculous.” I set the book in my lap. “Vic is not Taliban, and whatever’s in his bag isn’t fucking contraband. Do you even know what that word means?”
She whipped her hair around. “Do you?”
Zuz snapped twice. He hated when we argued.
Coco went back to searching Vic’s bag.
“Coke, I’m really not comfortable with you nosing through Vic’s stuff. He could be back any min—”
“Aha!” she said, pulling out Vic’s jar.
In the light of day, it was obvious what it was. Coco set the urn on the coffee table.
“Contraband.”
“Sorry,” said a small voice. It happened just as I imagined: none of us heard Vic come in. He stood by the door, staring at us. “Guess I need to stop sneaking up on people.” In a daze he walked to the coffee table and stood over the urn like a predator about to pounce on its prey.
“Well, I suppose you were right,” said Coco. “I’m a no-good street urchin.”
We all moved toward Vic as if a massive invisible magnet pulled us in, then stood around him and peered down at the urn.
“What is it?” asked Coco. “What’s inside?”
Vic pulled out his handkerchief, wiped his mouth. “My dad.”
It wasn’t a whisper, but it might as well have been.
THREE
OUR PAST TENSES
(or, The Inevitability of Corresponding Units)
Interrogation Room #3
Bruno Victor Benucci III & Sergeant S. Mendes
December 19 // 4:21 p.m.
“Vic, you’re not listening.”
I stuff my handkerchief into my pocket, look around for a clock. As it turns out, time is hard to pass when you can’t see it.
“Sorry,” I say. “What was the question?”
“Did Baz ever mention why Nzuzi doesn’t talk?”
Mendes taps the edge of her file with her pen. She rarely writes anything, which makes sense, considering the whole conversation is being recorded. The pen she uses like a tiny drumstick, clicking it against the table, the pad of paper, the bracelet on her left hand . . .
Rhythmically. Rhythmically. Rhythm, rhythm, rhythmically.
Rhythmically. Rhythmically. Rhythm, rhythm, rhythmically.
. . .
“He did,” I say.
“And?”
Truth is, until the last twenty-four hours I didn’t know many details about the Kabongo brothers’ past life. But a lot has changed. And last night—or early this morning, I really couldn’t say which—I’d learned plenty.
“The Kabongos were born in Brazzaville, in the Republic of the Congo. Their whole family had to flee when Baz was ten, I think. Zuz would have been really young—and they had a little sister at the time
too. They walked for months, ate and drank very little. People were dying all around them. Made it pretty far together until their father died of malnutrition.”
“That’s terrible. You said Baz was ten?”
I nod.
“About how old do you think Nzuzi and Nsimba were?” she asks.
“By then, probably three or—”
. . .
Shit.
. . .
. . .
“Vic, you okay?”
. . .
I stare into Mendes’s eyes, second-guessing everything. “How did you know about Nsimba?”
“What?”
“Before. Just now. You said, ‘Nzuzi and Nsimba.’”
Mendes flushes, flips through some papers in the file in front of her. “You mentioned a sister—”
“Not by name.”
“It’s common Congolese practice, naming twins Nzuzi and Nsimba. I just assumed.”
“I never said they were twins.”
It wouldn’t be that difficult to learn information about the Kabongos’ lives before resettlement in the States. Baz mentioned organizations like the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees and the Red Cross—certainly, there were records, documentation outlining their experiences. But it does make me wonder what else Mendes knows, and to what lengths she’s gone to gather information.
She sips her coffee, checks her watch. “Anyway, you were about to say why Nzuzi doesn’t talk.”
I run my hands through my hair. “I don’t really feel like talking specifics. The kid saw some pretty horrible things at a pretty young age, Miss Mendes. If he doesn’t feel like talking, I don’t blame him. To be perfectly honest, considering all he’s been through, I’d say he’s coping fairly well.”
Rhythmically. Rhythmically. Rhythm, rhythm, rhythmically.
. . .
Mendes pulls a manila file out of nowhere, drops it onto the desk. Something about it is terrifyingly simple, like a lone stranger’s face in your own family’s portrait.
There’s a knock on the door, quickly followed by the entrance of a guy in a suit, and a shock of red hair.
“Detective Ron,” says Mendes. “This is Vic Benucci.”