“Thanks for saving my life,” she said.
And then she had to turn, to walk from him, to go straight to the ticket lady and the whirr click STAMP of the ticket machine and her stub appearing on the other side: “Have a nice flight.”
The smile and wave she gave him just before rounding the bend down that corridor to the plane was not a pity-me sadness. It was a blessing, as if all her feelings had been compressed into her eyes and her fingers. It was the best thank you she could have ever spoken. It was better than a painting or a photograph. It was a memory no blackout could ever erase. The three words she mouthed he heard across the distance as if she had been still beside him and had whispered them into his ear.
“Yeah,” he said, “me too.”
Once upon a time
I was the only child forbidden to climb
over the garden wall.
—Anne Sexton, “Eighteen Days Without You”
A little time to kill before going back. The two of them doing roof. Some drinks, some pipe hits, some sense that something marvelous had happened. Something came. Something went. Their country was not at war, or: It felt like the last night before the start of a big campaign. The air was spiced with something burnt. Something came.
“I didn’t even get to tell her,” Monk said. “About her black hair.”
Mink was wet-eyed and red-faced. “You think Alex is coming back?” He handed Monk a lemon slice and poured tequila into the glass.
Monk put some salt on his hand. Licked it up. Downed the glass, then bit into the lemon. He squinted at Mink. “Again,” he whispered.
Mink set up a round by pulling out another glass and filling both. “It’s the first time,” he said. “The first time we’ve been working at the same time that we … that we’ve been working at the same time. We got all kinds of habits together, but this … this is a new habit.”
“New habits break old ones,” Monk said, thinking he’d heard that somewhere before. They clinked glasses.
(Salt. Drink. Lemon.)
The sky was growing lighter. The seagulls had started to buzz the rooftop by then.
The seagulls were just like them—creatures of habit. They were probably the same seagulls that swooped by every morning on their way to hangouts along the East River. They knew that roof because many times Mink and Monk would be sitting up there when they came by. Monk had a drum of junk up there for them. Banana peels, bread, pizza, salami-and-cheese sandwiches. Mink would tip the drum over so they could come and browse. Monk would select choice bits and toss crap up to them. They hovered with their quivering tremendous wingspans, their wide unblinking eyes, their snapping beaks as they caught crap in mid-flight. Some would land and stand as if posing on the parapet, watching the festivities like spectators. All sudden, after twenty minutes or so of show, it was as if someone offstage had blown a whistle. All the seagulls would take off in a pack, like surfers eager to catch a wave. There was another metal drum. Mink and Monk would light a fire in it, and no cops would come.
“I didn’t even get to tell her,” Monk said. “I saw her going up the fire escape.”
The vibe turned boomy bass and drum dub. King Tubby’s or one of those old Clocktower Records. They played the CD-Rom, manipulated their way through seven different atmospheres, all floaty Mink blocks and cubes. “We can only offer you $500,000.” The South Bronx finally pays off. Monk laughed so hard baba came out of his mouth.
“There’s no way that’s real,” he said.
“That’s what I thought.”
“But you should do it anyway.”
The last two cigarettes of the pack. Shook one out for Monk. Lit them both.
“I don’t speak blocks and cubes anymore. Besides, I don’t think I want the South Bronx to became a mecca for the ultra-hip.”
Monk was staring at him. It was a faraway stare, glassy and from a great distance. Mink got the distinct feeling that Monk saw right through him, saw straight through artifice and wordplay and smoke screens and all those pretty things words do to throw people off. Something wistful on his face. Some people never fall for three-card monte. “If only things could stay the same.” All snug and small town, insular and well-preserved. The air was spiced with something burnt. Something came, something went.
Tequila sunrise. A long, uneventful silence.
Mink said, “I wonder if Alex is coming back.”
At that moment, a great flapping, an agitated shriek. A great big spotted seagull, that last late straggler, swooped over the junk drum, nervously chattering. Hovering and dipping, he scooped up that old pizza crust and flew off fast, making great strides to cut through sky and catch up to the fleet.
28.
the dream was about his father.
he was on the island, that small tin roof house on a hill. slope going straight up. (he used to think, straight up to heaven. walk up to the stars.) palm tree leaves thickly moving from strong wind. water poured down from green, turbulent skies. inside: “raindrops blasting hell on a tin roof.” his father, gruffly bearded, creaked the rocking chair. the pipe he sucked on made a hollow sound. he looked just like he did when alex visited him last year, but that house, and that sound of his mother machucando in the kitchen, was all from childhood. alex it seemed had his twenty-five-year-old head shoved back into his six-year-old body. sitting there in front of his father’s rocking chair. playing with a green dumptruck.
“live and learn,” his father said to him. “women are only good for one thing,” he said. “life.”
alex woke up before her. heard the steady rise and fall of her breath. he thought about his father’s words, and how he had never found out if his father had meant “life” like living, or “life” like a “lifetime sentence.” his father never stayed with any woman too long. alex had five brothers and they were all from different mothers. his father was still healthy, vigorous, and still out making more brothers. funny how alex was six in the dream. six was the year his mother died, six was the last of anything he remembered about her. he felt he should have tried to hold onto the dream, to stay. she had been in the kitchen, machucando. maybe if he had gone looking for her and found her, she might have told him something. puerto ricans believe the dead visit you in dreams. they tell you things, or sometimes give warnings. many times, though, they just want company and can stay as long as you don’t start blubbering or reminding them they’re dead. once you do that, they leave. you wake up.
her stirring. soft murmur. his arm was her pillow.
alex wasn’t thinking of his father. was thinking about himself as a little boy in puerto rico. walking the beaches near home, collecting shells. he used to take whatever he liked. bright colors, sharp shapes, shiny smooth ones. he would spend all day with them, stuffed in his pockets like marbles. pulling them out to admire them, showing them off to friends who collected crab shells, starfish, and glittery stones. then, as the sun went down, he would toss them back into the sea as far as he could throw. how nothing had changed with him! mink had told him just after belinda: “plenty of fish in the sea, especially if you keep throwing them back.” the old knee-jerk trick. “this is around the time I wake the girl and say, hey, it’s time you go. I got stuff to do …” no girl stayed longer than one night. not after belinda. maybe it was still his father’s genes. five brothers and they were all from different mothers.
whimpering sounds. like a puppy when it dreams. a shiver, a toss. she gripped his arm. the way a cat scratches.
“david,” she said, her eyes fluttering. “no, david, run.”
he touched her face. soft, slow waking. she looked scared. then she saw it was him.
“hey,” he said.
(his arm was her pillow.)
“you should have seen her face,” he would tell monk one day, “when I walked onto that plane.” she had her eyes closed when he sat down, her head resting on a pillow placed against the small round window. her grin, nonetheless. her hand brushing against his hand. and those words that came dreami
ng.
“what took you so long?”
a pocketful of seashells he would keep this time
South by South Bronx Page 26