Pittsburgh Noir

by Kathleen George

  2

  Papi teaches summer school Spanish at Peabody High. In the morning he is already gone. Good. I am glad.

  We live in Morningside, on the part of Duffield Street where instead of black asphalt they kept red bricks as the street, like olden days. Mami loves our house, she says it all the time how much, loves the brick look of the front, loves the round-top red front door, the big window over our porch, loves the garden she keeps, loves all those flowers and vines, loves the white-flower dogwood she and Papi planted last year. She loves our neighbors across the street, Dave and Richard, Papi calls them gay-bors and everybody laughs, who plant tulips in November, and she loves the hundreds and hundreds of them in spring when they grow up in all the many colors. She loves the red bricks as the street, the feel you get when you eat cereal on the porch looking at Dave and Richard’s yard, leaning back in your green chair or rocking on the porch swing, saying hello to Garrett and Molly on bicycles, and to little Luci and Luci’s mother Mary-Beth while they walk Elsie the dog. It’s a skinny red and dark-red brick house, it’s a good house, it’s a tall house, and Emilio and I share the tippy-top third story for a bedroom, a bedroom like our very own tiny house. Through the window up there I can see down over all of East Liberty and up to Highland Park, I can see down into Heth’s Park where we go with the Frisbee to help Luci run Elsie, I can see all up and down Duffield Street until it turns into trees, and I can see almost all the way to Peabody where Papi works.

  3

  Papi who is dark. Papi who is strong. Papi who speaks to me in Spanish. Papi with black hair and wrinkled forehead and thick chest and the big meat fútbol legs. Papi who holds me, wrestles me, teaches me fútbol Saturdays at Heth’s. At night when he puts me to bed he breathes on me and, kissing me, hugging me, he smells like the darkness of his skin, like the darkness of earth.

  4

  In the mornings after Papi leaves, only when Mami is cleaning other parts of the house far away from me, that’s when I go to the magazine. I look at the faces and bodies. It makes me hard down there and my thing gets bigger. It makes my back tickle inside my skin, up to my shoulders, and down to make my bottom feel good, like I am afraid, like I am happy. My legs twitch up high, close to my thing. My face feels like liquid is filling up my cheeks. My arms are like they are falling off. Only the times when Papi is already gone to teach and Mami cleans the kitchen or windows or downstairs bathroom, then I go to Papi’s office to underneath the bookcase with my fingers pulling out the magazine. And when I’m looking at the magazine the blood moves all throughout my body so so fast it makes my ears stop hearing stuff.

  One night in the middle of summer I am in my bed thinking about the men. Emilio is almost falling asleep up in the tippy-top, but not me. Mami and Papi are downstairs watching TV, they have left already from putting us to bed, and I sneak over to Emilio’s bed and my thing is hard and big and I say to him, whispering, No, put your hands down here, like this, like that, watch first how I do it, there, like that. I say, Kiss me here and I will kiss you there too, no, kiss by sticking out your tongue. He gives me his tongue and I give to him mine and pretty soon I feel his body twitching just like my legs that twitch, and he makes a noise like crying mixing with laughing. I tell him, Shut up. They’ll come back if you do that.

  5

  Emilio and I are upstairs in Papi’s office where I have been bringing him to see the magazine. But I don’t show him where it is. No way. First, I make him stay out in the hallway because, I tell him, it’s a secret, a magic spell I have to chant that makes the magazine come to us. Then I close the door and I pull out the magazine from underneath the bookcase and I look at it and I am already getting hard down there, and the feeling in my mouth is like I am ready to eat soup, my saliva is stingy under my tongue, like I am nervous and hungry-thirsty at the same time. Then I open the door and he is there, saying, Where is it, let me see it, can I hold it, but I tell him, Shut up or I will make it go away, and then we are kneeling on the floor never talking, and I am turning and turning the pages.

  Mami comes in to say Luci and Garrett and Molly are at the front door waiting with Elsie the dog. Have we finished our chores? Do we want to go to Heth’s, to run Elsie with the Frisbee? But before I can do anything about it, she sees the magazine. I look behind me and there she is talking about Garrett and Molly and Luci and Elsie, and my butt freezes in place. She is wearing her gloves and a hat for the garden. Her shirt is light blue and wet on her tummy and sides because her body is sweaty. Her face stops talking and stops moving and then her whole entire body stops too, and I want to cry, but I hold my breath.

  She does not say words. She does not even look mad. She comes over to the magazine. She picks it up, she looks at it, she closes the pages. Her face and her body do not tell me anything. She walks into her bedroom and, when she gets in there, she closes the door. I am still holding my breath, and Emilio is saying her name into his shirt sleeve, Mami, Mami, Mami, the same sound again and again, but here we are alone in Papi’s office and Luci and Garrett and Molly wait downstairs, yelling, Sergio! Emilio! Are you coming or what?

  6

  Some nights I do not go over to him in his bed—some nights I do not even think about it. But other nights, tonight, the men are in my brain, the way they like me, their tongues, their teeth, the way their faces say, I like you, you make my body change, I want to change your body, and my butt gets tickly down through my legs and I press my privates into the mattress. In a little while when Emilio is asleep I go into his bed and he wakes up and we take off our pajamas and rub our things in the quiet dark, alone not crying, liking it and not liking it, his fingers and my fingers moving everywhere until I-don’t-know-what makes my whole body, makes everything, everything like heartbeats coming out my eyeballs.

  What is this? I do not ask out loud. I ask only in my stomach.

  7

  Heth’s Park is cut out of the woods, a field that doubles for baseball and fútbol, with a playground and tennis courts on one side and the leftover woods on the other, woods that come right up to the grass field, those trees that lead to nowhere. In the morning, in the late morning that turns into lunchtime, Saturday morning, fútbol morning, Papi cleared his throat, probably he wanted to tell us something, but he did not look at us, and he did not say words. I slipped on my shin guards and my cleats (everybody so quiet, everybody moving slowly), and once more Papi cleared his throat, that rumble.

  Papi and Mami—all morning this morning, all night last night—have been fighting, the long loud yells in their bedroom, the bad words, Puto! Maricón! and wet loud fat tongue throat saliva sounds, plus the long (very long) nothing-silence Papi made (after yells and cries, after screams and cries), nothing-silence comes from his face, nothing-silence sucks you in, nothing-silence makes you feel slippery and heavy and hot and want to go away, makes you afraid, nothing-silence pulls your stomach. Then, Bitch! Motherfucker! Cabrón! Joto! all night. In the morning, when Papi went to shower, Mami muttered something, muttered, Do you want your own cock? The nothing-silence Papi gave was long and horrible, his eyes locked, his forehead never moved, and Mami went on screaming again after that.

  After he was dressed, Papi said to Emilio and me, To Heth’s! and we—los tres, the three, the men, the guys, los caballeros—walked to Heth’s. (The only Mexicans in Pittsburgh, Papi has said before. Can’t find a good burrito anywhere. What is ground beef doing in my enchilada? he has joked, shaking his head.) Here were we, the men, the cholos of Morningside, the Mexico of Morningside, of Pittsburgh, Papi carrying the yellow-and-blue ball and bright green cones, and I held all the cleats, and Emilio (little, brown, skinny, quiet) held the shin guards in a bundle to his chest. We moved down the red brick street to the place where Duffield meets Morningside Avenue and hooked left onto it. At the stop sign we turned right onto Hampton, and we walked down the little hill to Heth’s. Papi’s fútbol legs came down dark brown and strong, the muscles moving, lifting, sinking, lifting, as he walked. Emilio was in f
ront, his small and round head, his hair that flopped when he stepped. And all around me was Pittsburgh, the skinny crooked streets of Morningside, the green fat trees on hills, and I felt that hot heavy wet heat of summer on my neck. And we, the three, los caballeros, moved down the hill to play fútbol. Papi cleared his throat again, his throat like wet cement, and in a minute he did it again. He looked up and he looked down. He said no words. That nothing-silence made me afraid.

  I was tying my shoes and so was Emilio, and Papi cleared his throat again, looking at me, trying to say (no, I mean actually saying), Your mami, saying, She said you found—

  8

  I stopped tying my shoes. My body was a rock. A statue. A mountain. I held my breath. I pinched Emilio, who was sitting next to me. Pinched him to keep him quiet. Pinched him on the back where Papi could not see. With fingernails I pinched him, not with fingertips. Emilio jerked, barely, and he kept his mouth shut up. Papi tried again to say stuff, and I made my fingernails sink into Emilio, into his skin, and he stayed still, feeling it. Papi saying, Under the bookcase, where— And then Papi saying nothing. For a long time there was no sound and inside my body I felt everything move, like I wanted to poop, like I was up a tree in hide-and-seek, it was a something, a thing I cannot speak the name of, a what is it, a feeling like hunger, and like worry, and like joy, all these come together lifting me, plus the desire to weep and be covered, a cold heavy white smoke that moved through my stomach and arms and feet and face. Papi closed his eyes. Mierda! he said. Shit! Tie your shoes. Give me the ball.

  9

  Emilio and I in the tippy-top, night darkness up in here, our hiding place, the window open letting in soft wind, my fingers were touching and moving his thing. He licked me down there when I told him to, and I licked him down there and held him in my mouth. He lay sprawled on his bed while we were doing this—we were doing this, we were doing this—his eyes open, then closed, then open, now looking at the ceiling, now looking down at me, his mouth shut as he breathed through his nose. He stretched his legs, his feet, his toes, he stretched his arms and fingers, he stretched and stretched and every part of his body was tight, he moved his thing in my mouth while I licked, and licked, and licked, and I licked him until his body came loose again.

  10

  Fourth of July in the morning, Emilio and I were down the basement stairs, so quiet, saying lowly, No, don’t touch that step, it’s the loud one, while Mami and Papi stayed upstairs fighting, screams and nothing-silence, bad words and crying. Down in the garage, we were on our bikes, out the garage door, shutting it so no one heard. Get out before they hear us, I was thinking. We rode down Duffield to Garrett and Molly’s house, but no one was home. We rode to Luci’s. No one there either. Fourth of July means no one stays home. So in a little while we were at Heth’s, and we met the man Tony in the white T-shirt who had his dog and Frisbee, running the dog everywhere just like we did with Elsie sometimes.

  11

  Tony, in a white T-shirt, gray sweat shorts, white socks, yellow shoes, with hairy legs and arms and white skin and long brown hair, came over to us with his Frisbee. Tony said, Hi, I’m Tony. Happy Fourth! Tony said, Would you like to help me run Lewis? That’s Lewis, my dog. And Tony gave me the blue Frisbee and let me and Emilio throw it. Once, Lewis ran after it and then ran not back to us but under a tree at the edge of the field, and Tony laughed and said, Darn dog, he doesn’t always bring it back.

  Tony said, I like your bikes, and Tony said, Look how far I can throw it! and he threw the Frisbee all the way across the fútbol field. Tony said, Are you coming back tonight, for the fireworks? We told him Mami and Papi said we were, but we didn’t know now. Tony asked Emilio and me, Do you think you can run as fast as Lewis? We called Lewis over and Tony said, Go! and Emilio and Lewis and I ran all the way across the field, and Lewis won.

  Tony said, Let’s send Lewis on a hunt, and Tony threw the Frisbee into the little woods, those trees, those trees, and Tony said, Lewis! Lewis! Go get it, boy! But Lewis didn’t go. Go ahead, Lewis! Go on, boy! But Lewis didn’t move. Tony asked would we want to help him look for the Frisbee. I asked, What about poison ivy? Tony laughed and said, I’ll carry you if we see any. Let’s go!

  12

  The small woods behind Heth’s Park crowded around us, and, looking up through the trees, you saw the white and blue and yellow, the shapes and colors of daylight, and you saw the green tops of trees in the wind like fingers that close together. All kinds of sounds, small noises, our shoes on the ground, crunch, crunch, Lewis sniffing around, birds moving, squirrels crawling, and, far far off, people’s voices in their backyards and driveways, came to my ears. Lewis went off to sniff stuff while Tony showed us his privates, touching his thing, making it bigger, it moving up, up, up, big like the men in the magazine, except hairy, and smelly. He said to touch it, and I did, he said to tickle it, and I did, he told Emilio and me to kiss it, and we did. He leaned against a tree and Emilio and I kept kissing his thing, and he said, Now lick it, and we did.

  Even though I did not want to, I got hard down there. Tony said, Open your mouth, wider, use your tongue, and I liked it and I did not like it. Tony said, I’m going to—and he didn’t finish his words. And he said, You are—and he stopped saying stuff again. My eyes were open, my hands were touching his thing, my breath puffed out between licks, my thing was very hard, and my stomach, burning, afraid, happy, became a wide heavy stone no one can find, buried far beneath the earth.

  13

  But in the nighttime, Papi, Mami, Emilio, and I have gathered the quilt, three or four pillows, and a basket with snacks, Papi and Mami quiet, standing next to one another, and we’ve met everyone in front of our house, Garrett and Molly and their parents, Luci and Mary-Beth and Elsie, everybody holding their own blankets and pillows and snacks, everyone saying, Happy Fourth! and we walk to Heth’s to watch fireworks, loud and bright and big when they come, filling up the dark, boom! boom! boom! boom! Heth’s has filled with people, has filled with their blankets and chairs, their flashlights and laughter, their sounds and movements of all kinds, these people everywhere on the field, women, men, kids, everywhere everyone’s eyes looking up—you can see them when the lights of the fireworks flash. Far away on the other side of the field I see Tony and Lewis, Tony looking up too, Lewis sitting next to him, afraid of the boom! boom! Tony is wearing the same white T-shirt but now red shorts instead of gray—he does not see me watching him. I point to him, showing Emilio.

  In the tippy-top tonight, when we are in our own beds, we hear the sounds of more fireworks all across Pittsburgh, hear kids run and yell, hear them chase and tell jokes, hear boom! boom! boom! I hear the TV downstairs and I hear Mami and Papi talking loudly, not screaming. My eyes have stayed open a long time and I see Tony in my brain, see him take off his shorts, see the hair on his legs like a thousand black wires, see the way he smiles and says, Come on, I’ll show you, and I see those men from the magazine, and Emilio, and—what do I know? I know I do not want to say, I like it. I know it feels strange and scary to say, I want more. And I know I am afraid when I am feeling happy. What do I know? I know about the darkness, and I like the darkness, like how it surrounds me. I know I like to make bodies change, like how the men make my body change, like how I move next to Emilio to make his body like my body, softly in the dark, at first feeling shy, and after a long time still we do not say words, just breathe, and fear, and touch. My stomach rises, falls, will rise again, and my thighs will burn, and everywhere my body will fill, fill up, and—what, what next, what comes next? I will cover him and desire him and seek to touch him everywhere.

  PART IV

  NEIGHBORS WHO CARE

  AT THE BUENA VISTA

  BY HILARY MASTERS

  Mexican War Streets

  At the Buena Vista, we had almost what you might call a private club, what with Malcolm keeping an eye out through the front window blinds for people off the street, black people and such who didn’t quite fit. They wouldn’t be
happy in the place.

  “Here comes one,” Malcolm might say. “Quick, lock the door.”

  And Jerry Warner would put down his Rolling Rock and turn the latch on the front door and we’d just sit quiet, only the phony laughter on the TV show going on, as we listened to the footsteps outside pass by. They never once hesitated and we could hear them while they just kept walking, as I guess Malcolm’s attitude was well known in the neighborhood, and we didn’t about it much.

  Jerry always took the stool next to the door so that if his coughing got the best of him he could whip outside in a hurry to right himself and not disturb the rest of us. The VA told him his lungs were a fucking wonder considering the shit he got into in ’Nam, but he would have his moments hacking like he might be coming apart. And he was always so apologetic, how could you be annoyed with him, and besides, anybody complaining would have to answer to one or two of us who were also vets of that war.

  But that wouldn’t be the case anyways, for like I said, it was a cozy place and we had everything right there that we needed. Within reach. The cooler packed with beer; Malcolm would also put in some I.C. Light so as to offer a choice, and the different chips in their bright packages in front of the mirror gave off a warmth. Whoever ate any of the pickled eggs was a mystery to me, for there always seemed to be the same four of them resting in their juice at the bottom of the jar. Sometimes when Malcolm opened the cooler to serve one of us, all those cans of beer neatly racked reminded me of shells waiting to be loaded into a battery’s magazines. And he had a microwave to heat up the packages of dehydrated soup he’d mix up with water on order. Chicken noodle was the favorite and so we wanted for very little.

  It was also a kind of haven for some of us who hadn’t quite learned how to get used to the neighborhood as new people began to fix up some of the old houses, sometimes ripping out the whole inners and putting in real fancy fittings, and repainting the fronts, new stones in the stoops—and I had a hand in some of them. You could hardly recognize a street and almost get lost going home from the Buena Vista, like the houses might have grew different while you were sipping your beer inside the bar. You’d meet some of these new people, all young and bright eyed as they came into the bar, and Malcolm would tell them what was on hand, so they never stayed long, never came back.