by Naima Coster
“These cables are gargantuan,” Grace said, and she stopped to grab hold of one of the thick silver cables on either side of the bridge. They were the metallic ligaments keeping the whole thing up. The girl yanked one, as if she expected it to move, and her little body jerked. She yanked again, this time with both hands, leveraging all of her weight.
“Pretty steady,” she said and kept walking.
“Are you worried we’ll fall down?”
“I know it’s silly,” Grace said. “Millions of people cross this bridge every day. But, it still doesn’t make sense. These cables are the only thing keeping us up here.”
“It’s mathematics,” Penelope said, vaguely remembering something about catenary curves from a class she took at RISD.
Grace looked up at Penelope, the golden moon of her face calculating. “Cool,” she said.
They were on the other side, the bridge beginning to slope ever so slightly downward. It was only about a mile across, Penelope knew from her runs. They’d be finished even sooner than she expected.
“Here.” Penelope took Grace’s hands in hers. “I’m going to show you something. It’s spectacular but a little scary. You’ll have to be brave.”
Penelope told Grace that she’d have to look down and run. No matter how frightened she felt or how fast they went, she had to keep her eyes down. Grace agreed, and Penelope began to lengthen her strides, almost skipping, and Grace followed. The girl lagged behind at first, and Penelope tugged her hand, until they were side by side, Grace taking three strides for each of Penelope’s.
They ran as the bridge sloped downward, catching glimpses of what lay beneath the bridge through the gaps between the wooden planks. They saw water and darkness, the reflection of office building lights on the waves. The faster they ran, the less they saw of the wooden bridge; the gaps between the planks began to blur together, the way the images in a picture book blur into a cartoon if the pages flip fast enough. They picked up speed until there didn’t seem to be any bridge at all, the wooden planks fell away, and they were just running over blue-black air, the water moving below.
Grace laughed—not the hesitant giggles Penelope had grown accustomed to, but shrieks and roars. She was equal parts fear and delight.
“Keep looking down,” Penelope said, but she was laughing, too, the adrenaline rising in her like a sweet whir as they sped toward the city. She remained watchful, looking up every few seconds to make sure they didn’t smash into anything, anyone, and she felt the same magic she had the first time she discovered this trick about the bridge—that she could come here and run and feel she was bound to nothing, that she was racing over sky.
The bell of the AME church was clanging when Grace and Penelope turned onto Greene; it was eight o’clock, and they were back, heels sore, still giddy from the bridge, their night away. Grace had found Penelope’s hand again when they got off the A train, and she remembered the way back to the house easily. The old woman was still in front of the beauty supply store, winding her hips and winking at the passersby. Grace’s face was pink but unchapped, and one of her hands was bare. She had lost a mitten on the bridge.
Penelope didn’t notice the lights in the vestibule, and she searched for her keys to the house. Grace began to tell her about the running club at her school, a group of girls who arrived an hour early to run along the Hudson River, but you had to be in fifth grade to join.
Penelope hadn’t turned the lock when the door opened from the inside. Samantha stood before them, the stains of old mascara dried beneath her eyes, wisps of her hair unpinned and floating around her ears. She wore an angora sweater and hugged herself, as if she weren’t all one piece.
“Jesus Christ.” She pulled Grace into her arms. “Jesus Christ.”
“Hi, Mommy.”
“You’re freezing.”
“I’m okay.”
Samantha drew the girl into the house; she didn’t look at Penelope until they were in the parlor. Marcus sat in one of the linen armchairs, his elbows on his knees.
“Where were you?” Samantha kneeled to level with her daughter.
“We went out for a walk, Mommy. To the Emerald and then across the Brooklyn Bridge. Have you ever done that, Mommy? Not in a car—have you ever walked across the bridge?”
Samantha looked up at Marcus. Her eyes filled with tears.
“Go say hello to your father.”
Marcus hugged his daughter, burying his face in her hair. He was blonder, too, from their days on the beach.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
Penelope was watching Marcus comb his daughter’s hair back from her face with his fingers, and she didn’t realize right away that Samantha was talking to her.
“Answer me, Penelope. Answer me, goddammit.”
“We went for a walk, exactly like Grace said. We didn’t think you’d be home until nine.”
“I got here at seven. And I nearly broke my fist knocking on the door to the attic, trying to find out where the two of you were.”
“We’re fine. Grace is fine.”
“Mommy, it’s okay,” Grace said, untangling herself from Marcus, who stood now, in a cornflower blue shirt, a tan belt over his trousers. He was sunburned, his skin a pink-gold behind the ears and on his brow. He put his hands on his wife’s shoulders.
“Yes, Sam, everything is all right now. No need to get up in arms about it.”
“No need?” Samantha repeated. “I was here for over an hour, and I didn’t know where my daughter was. I didn’t even know if she was alive.”
“Mommy, I was safe the whole time. Penelope took care of me.”
Samantha bit her lip again, this time for so long, Penelope waited for her to draw blood.
“Go to your room, Grace. Your father and I will be up soon.”
“Mommy, you’re not understanding—”
“Grace Harper, I will not repeat myself.”
“But Mommy—”
“Do you still consider me your mother or not? Then listen to me. Upstairs.”
Grace folded her arms in front of her chest and crossed to the stairs. She kept her eyes on her feet as she went up the stairs, but Penelope could hear her begin to sob.
“What right do you have to remove my child from my home?”
“I found her sitting by herself in the dark. I thought it would be good for her to get out of the house.”
“It doesn’t matter what you think is good for her. She isn’t your child.”
“You left her here.”
“You didn’t have my permission. You aren’t her guardian. We hardly know you—”
“But you still left her here, expecting I’d watch after her, expecting I’d be here if she needed anything. So, you expect me to watch her but not talk to her? Make sure she’s safe but keep away from her? I’m not the help, Samantha, and you were the one who told me I was good for Grace—”
“I would never say that!”
“Let’s all calm down.” Marcus spoke from his stance between the women. “Sam, Penelope didn’t mean any harm. She adores Grace.”
“My nine-year-old was roaming the street! Who knows where she took her? Just because she thinks it’s safe—”
“It is safe. As safe as anywhere else. As unsafe.”
“Are you speaking to me in goddamned riddles now?” Samantha cocked her head to the side and stepped toward Penelope, and her movements were so close to the ones Penelope had seen in catfights, those high-pitched, hair-pulling brawls that went down outside nightclubs on Flatbush, that Penelope began to laugh.
“Penelope, I’m talking to you. This is no laughing matter.”
“So I see.”
“This is unbelievable. She’s a child herself.”
“Why did you move here? Why did you all move here if you’re so afraid of everyone who lives here?”
“Don’t you dare make assumptions about me and my family.”
“No one here wants to hurt your little girl. Or your family. No
one gives a shit about you.”
“Don’t talk down to me like this! Like I’m just some oblivious white lady.”
“Samantha.” Marcus put his hands on her shoulders. Penelope could see that she was shaking. “Sam,” he said again, and he spoke to her in such a low voice Penelope couldn’t make out the words, as if she were back up in the attic, a silent witness to their troubles. He massaged her shoulder, and there was nothing erotic in the way he touched her. Penelope was certain no one had ever touched her that way.
Samantha took a deep breath to calm herself, her thin belly inflating. She exhaled and wiped her eyes, the rings on her fingers glinting in the parlor light.
“Penelope, you cannot stay here. I’m going to write up the termination to your tenancy, and you’re going to sign it and leave. That’s how this is going to end.”
Penelope watched Marcus standing behind his wife, squeezing her shoulder. He didn’t say anything, and he wouldn’t meet her eyes, and Penelope could see that was as it should be.
“Put the letter under my door,” she said. “I’ll sign it right away.”
She left, unsure of how she was climbing to the attic, how she was making it through the house, step by step, the staircase gone from beneath her, no railing, no landings.
In the attic, she took stock of her room, the unwashed teacups, the jars she filled with cold soapstones and gin, the empty fruit bowl on the kitchen table, the toothbrush and hand soap balanced on the china sink, the Pittsburgh photographs on the sloped ceiling above her bed, the scarves draped over the walls, the unmade bed, the trunk peeking from beneath the eyelet sheets.
Penelope crossed to the porthole window. All her drawings were still clipped to the back of the easel, one for every day she had been in Brooklyn, so many at this point that the mass of drawings bulged, the clip straining to keep them all together. The clip bit into the top of the paper, leaving its imprint on each one. Penelope gathered up the clip in her hand, the pages rustling. She rolled up the drawings, her object studies, into a fat scroll, and threw them into the trash can beneath the sink. Then she returned to her easel, felt for the knobs on either side, and snapped it closed.
15
PUTNAM
Penelope came for her boxes one Sunday afternoon in the rain. Sheckley’s was nearly full, the neighborhood’s young professionals getting trashed because they didn’t have to go into work on Monday—Martin Luther King Jr. Day. Al Green was playing in the bar when Penelope arrived, “Love and Happiness” slinking out of the speakers, while the customers slapped their tables and laughed, draining mugs of beer. Jon complained about not having control over the stereo system because the owner liked him to play only Motown on Sunday afternoons, but Penelope caught him shrugging his skinny shoulders as he went to the back room. There were a dozen boxes, flattened and wrapped with twine.
“So, when is move-out day?” Jon asked. “You’re cutting it close, aren’t you?”
“It only takes a week or so to find a place.”
“You better get looking.”
Penelope waved her hand, and Jon looked worried. He had mentioned a few options to her. A friend was looking for a roommate in a place above the laundromat and beneath the M train tracks, another was renting out a floor of a house on Pulaski Street, and Penelope was uninterested in them all. He made her a drink—a tall shot of something top-shelf, mashed-up slices of green melon, vodka, and soda—then he left to tend to the other customers. Penelope watched him smile indulgently at the ones who were already slurring their words. One woman requested whatever Penelope was drinking, and he told her simply, “Sorry, that one’s not available,” which made Penelope relish each sip more. She admired him in profile: the slant of his nose, the stubble creeping from his chin up his cheeks, his too-large earlobes.
When he returned, he slapped a newspaper on the counter in front of her. The pages were inky enough to stain her hands, and the front page read New Horizons: A Bed-Stuy Gazette.
“They dropped off about fifty this morning,” Jon said, and Penelope stared at a photograph on the front page of a new community garden. It was strung with lights, and a multiracial group of people, young and old, stood in front of it, cutting a burlap ribbon with an oversized pair of scissors.
“Gross,” Penelope said and flipped through the paper, scanning the headlines.
Sashimi Rolls onto Putnam
Utica Gallery Showcases Emerging Bklyn Photographers
Lewis Ave Boutique Welcomes Eco-Handbags from Local Designer
Outdoor Patio to Open This Spring at Macon Street’s Best Spirits Bar
Jon turned to the cover story about the new community garden and pointed to the byline.
“Isn’t that your landlord?”
Penelope took back the paper. Marcus A. Harper, there he was, a four-page spread. She skimmed the article, a quick history of how the garden had been forgotten, then reclaimed, named after a local hero who had passed away the year before. It had all the buzzwords she would have predicted Marcus would use: green space, community, leadership, and crossings. She read aloud from the end of the article: “‘The garden is a decisive step toward a new Bed-Stuy that is fair and equitable, and knows how to keeps its roots.’ What a terrible pun.”
Penelope flipped to the staff pictures at the back of the paper. A bunch of tattooed kids in their late twenties with college backgrounds in journalism and graphic design, and Marcus in an overly glamorous head shot, and a two-line bio about environmentalism, classic rock, and being a Brooklyn dad.
“They named the garden after an old organizer who did housing rights back in the day. Isn’t that ironic as shit? The rent on that block is going to shoot right up.”
“At least she’ll get a plaque,” Penelope said and tossed the paper away. Jon opened it back up and pointed to an ad for the new sushi place around the corner.
“We should go there,” he said, and Penelope laughed.
Jon tried to explain that he was serious—he hated sake but he loved sake bombing, the mess and the shouting and the pounding on the table. They could eat tuna rolls and chug Japanese beer until they were both sick, and they wouldn’t have to worry about commuting back from the city. Penelope wondered if he was asking her on a date.
“We can’t go there. If we do, then how are we any different than they are?” Penelope flipped back to the staff photographs and pointed directly at Marcus.
“We just are,” Jon said.
He was swept back into his work, and she watched him as he shook up a martini and hauled out drafts. She stared at the sleeve of tattoos on his left arm, the startlingly feminine blue foxgloves, the tall violet weeds, the spotted green serpent slashed in half, bleeding into the grass of his forearm. Who did others see when they looked at him? A hipster? A black man? And when they saw Penelope with him?
She left him a big tip before she went, waving good-bye in her usual awkward way, as if her hand were cleaning an invisible pane of glass between them. It was raining outside, and the boxes were wet by the time she returned to the attic, the smell of cardboard filling the room. It wasn’t long before nearly everything was sealed in boxes that advertised midshelf vodka brands, nothing Penelope would ever drink. There hadn’t been much to put away: just books and clothes. She left her bed and trunk and breakfast table where they were, since she still had two weeks before she had to go. She would miss her porthole window, the view of the street from this high up.
She was taking her afternoon aspirin and tea when the phone rang. It was Jon. He and his friends were going tagging that night, and did she want to come along? She surveyed the room, all tucked into boxes. She’d spent enough nights as a castaway in the Harpers’ house, and she was certain that Grace was no longer permitted to speak to her. There was no Ralph to see—he didn’t even know she was moving away, whether out of Bed-Stuy or New York altogether she hadn’t decided. What else did she have to do?
“All right, why not?” she said and felt covered in guilt as soon as she got o
ff the phone. What would Ralph be doing this evening while she was walking about and free, no longer mourning whatever had broken between them? She lay on her bed and vacated her mind, the room, until it was dark and time to go.
They met under the elevated train on Myrtle. Jon’s friends were men at the end of their twenties, wearing backward caps and white T-shirts under their jackets, as if they were still all living in the nineties. They said their names in such a flurry—Javier, Darnell, Vincent, Tomás—Penelope couldn’t match them each to the right man. One was a department store security guard, another a bike mechanic, one a barista, the other in graphic design. They worked their day jobs and lived for the nights when they went out tagging. They all had their trademarks: one did superheroes, another did mash-ups of quotes from his favorite philosophers, one liked painting doorways on the sides of buildings, some open and some closed, and the bike mechanic liked to do flowers and grass, rising up from the street onto pipes and brick. Jon did circles, big multicolored, overlaid shapes, swelling like bubbles across the sides of buildings, bright and emphatic.
There was no agreement that they’d all meet up at the end, or even that they had to stick together. They kept an eye out for cops and the security cameras in front of the lit-up condos, but they came together and drifted apart for a while, until Jon and Penelope went off on their own.
He had three colors in his backpack, and they sprayed the wood boards closing off an abandoned lot beneath the JMZ line. The train rattled overhead while they worked in the dark. They shook up the cans and made little arcs, his green on her blue, her orange enclosing his green. It didn’t feel like painting; she was following his moves, but she felt exhilarated and calm, cold, and deep inside herself. She had been longing for color.
It was after two in the morning when they finished. They found a bodega on Havemeyer Street, bought two cups of coffee, Juicy Fruit, and a pack of menthols. The coffee was bitter but it warmed them through; Penelope’s neck and face stung from the cold, and Jon lent her his scarf, a scratchy wool thing he circled around her shoulders and ears.