His grandmother smacks him again, on the other cheek this time, and I watch him wipe his eyes with the back of his hand, pretending not to cry. Before he can see me his grandmother slams the door, erasing both of them from my view. Like if I can’t see it, I won’t know what goes on inside. I keep walking, telling myself that next time somebody calls him Elmo I’m gonna punch them in the face. My chest starts to feel tight, like when you hold your breath too long, and when I get under the highway overpass I let out a huge scream. It echoes in a dozen voices I don’t even recognize. My heart stops for a second, and then starts to beat fast again, but I don’t feel better.
It’s dry under the overpass, but it smells like pigeon shit and homeless people—no place I want to hang out for long. A lady with a face so dirty I can’t even tell what color she is climbs up the cement hill in worn-out tennis shoes three sizes too big. She slips under the railing at the top and disappears into the darkness. The sound of coughing echoes through the overpass, so loud I duck on instinct. Crouch low like an animal. I run my fingers across the stubble on my head, a habit I picked up after I started buzzing it. I like the way it feels against my fingertips, like petting a shaved dog. The first time Mami cut it all off was to get rid of lice, but I kept the clippers she borrowed from school so I could trim it once a week—just like the black guys at the barbershop on Broad Street told me to, so I could hold onto that feeling. Sometimes I want to let it grow out, to see how big of an Afro I could have. I don’t really remember having long hair, but I’ve seen baby pictures where it’s so curly I look like I’m Dominican. Mami begs me to grow it out all the time, to look like her little boy again, but no matter what I promise her, I’m in front of the bathroom mirror buzzing it off again when Saturday morning comes.
The cars on Manton are backed up like it’s a parade, half waiting in line for the Dunkin’ Donuts drive-thru, half going to the flea market. If I had a few dollars I’d buy Mami an iced coffee, extra cream no sugar, but instead I walk through the flea market. No matter who’s working the booths they’re always selling the same stuff: Nike rip-offs in extra-large sizes, twelve-packs of tube socks with the stitching all crooked, fake leather suitcases with broken wheels. One suitcase is so big I could crawl inside and it could take me anywhere. We don’t go on trips no more, not since moving up here from the Bronx almost five years ago. Mami always says she’s never going home again, but I’m not sure what she means. If home ain’t where you live, where is it?
A small table in the corner is selling a bunch of stuff with the Puerto Rican flag on it. I grab a key chain and stuff it in my pocket before the guy can see me. I don’t even have a set of keys, since the lock on the front door is busted and we only use the chain lock at night, but it’s nice to feel it in my pocket, to hold something no one else has held before.
I cut across the parking lot and down a side street, passing the outdoor pool I spent every day floating in last summer. It should be opening for the season next week, but some kid drowned last Labor Day and they shut it down for good. There’s a chain-link fence surrounding it, the bottom curled up from years of people sneaking in after dark. Like all the fences in this neighborhood, it can’t keep nothing in or out. A piece of plywood covers the old sign, with the word CLOSED spray-painted in large black letters across it. I read the sign out loud, just for practice.
“Closed.” Cerrado.
I rest my head against the sign and stare into the empty pool, its bottom covered with rotting leaves. Where does all the water go when they drain a pool this big? There used to be tiles on the sloped part of the floor, blue and white stripes like the flag of a country I’ll never visit, but now they’re gone. I wonder if they got washed away with all the water. I remember doing handstands on that floor last summer, how smooth the tiles were against my fingertips, and how quiet it was under the water, so quiet I always worried I’d busted my eardrums and would come back up deaf. Teacher says they’ll probably turn the pool into a playground one day but for now we have to walk by and stare at this empty shell. It must be like staring at a boarded-up house you used to live in, or a picture of a dead person you used to love.
A bird circles overhead but never lands. It watches me like it knows something I don’t. I whistle at the bird and it screeches in response, landing on the roof of a nearby building.
Last week Teacher took me to the indoor pool at the Y for my birthday. She said I could do anything I wanted and I said I wanted to dive into a pool so big I couldn’t touch the bottom. They put a blow-up dinosaur in the deep end and all the kids climbed it like a mountain and jumped off into their parents’ arms. Teacher sat at the edge with a T-shirt over her bathing suit and only put her feet in the water. Her legs were soft and white like marshmallows. I tried to get her to come in but she kept saying “no thanks,” so I finally splashed her till she was all wet. She pretended to be upset but really she wasn’t. On the way home we stopped at a Del’s Lemonade truck and got frozen lemonade with chunks of real lemon peel in it. Teacher smiled when I told her it was the best birthday I could remember. She looked like a little girl with her hair all wet and slicked back and I thought of punching all the kids at school who call her Señorita Gordita, because even if she is fat, she’s still the prettiest teacher at our school.
I asked her if we could do it again sometime and she said sure, but when I said I wanted to bring César she said she wasn’t really supposed to be taking me there so it should just be our secret. Otherwise she might get in trouble for showing me special treatment. During school most teachers say they want to help you out, but when the bell rings they act like they can’t see you on the way to their fancy cars. Teacher ain’t like that. She acts the same, inside and outside, and I know she’s gonna be there if I really need her. Maybe it’s because we’re both Puerto Rican or maybe she misses a nephew she used to have back in New York, but all I know is she treats me like I’m special, even when I’m pissed off and saying things I don’t mean and everybody else is scared to go near me. I guess it’s kinda like family except she doesn’t hit me or yell for no reason and she hugs me when I say I’m sorry, even when I’ve broken something that can’t be fixed.
Thunder booms in the distance, and the rain starts to fall harder. The storm clouds are so dark they’re almost black and they hang over the city like smoke. Mami hates being out in the rain so I start to wonder where she could be. Not worry, just wonder. What could make her leave the house in weather like this?
I decide to keep reading signs for the rest of the walk home, just to practice. Anthony’s Drugs; Apartment for Rent; Tenares: Spanish and American Foods; Calvino’s Auto Repair; Bill’s Liquor Mart. I never noticed there were so many words on the street. A bright yellow sheet of paper stapled to a telephone pole says, “Need Clean Needles?” with an address and phone number for a place called ENCORE. When I was in third grade I found that same piece of paper in Mami’s room and when I asked her about it she said she grabbed it for one of the guys in the neighborhood who hurt his back on a construction job and got hooked on painkillers. When I asked her what the needles were for she said the medicine gets into his body faster if he puts it straight into his veins but that I should never do that, even if I was in a lot of pain and thought I was gonna die. She said using needles like that was a lot like dying. I know she was talking about that construction guy, but later I figured out she was talking about herself, too. Her veins are always bruised and she’s got marks on her arms like the other junkies she tells me to stay away from. Luz don’t want to know, but I asked Mami straight out one day and all she said was there are things a son shouldn’t know about his mother. That’s what she’s like—she won’t lie to your face, but she won’t always tell you the truth either.
But for real, Mami don’t have to worry about me and needles. I still turn away when I have to get a shot or when they prick my finger for blood at the clinic. Sometimes I think I want a tattoo, when I see the men in my neighborhood with fancy dragons painted across their backs
, but then they tell you how they spent half a day with some guy jabbing at their skin over and over again and it kind of makes me sick. Mami says I can get one when I’m fifteen but I don’t think it would look too cool to faint in the middle of it and have to get carried out on a stretcher.
I pass the liquor store, where the guys in hoodies who are usually standing on the corner are now huddled together inside, scared of nothing in this world but the rain. The windows are filled with fluorescent signs: Liquor Sold Here; Open Late Nites; Cigarettes: $2.99; Lottery: 25 Mil. The Gonzalez taxi drives by and parks in front of the store. Mr. Gonzalez gets out and calls to me.
“Hey kid, give me a number.”
“Veintiseis,” I tell him, the same number I say every time he asks. “Twenty-six.”
“Okay,” he says, walking into the store. “I’ll buy you a cheeseburger if I win.”
He’s been saying that twice a week for over a year now and I’ve never even gotten a potato chip out of him. He either lies a lot or he loses a lot. I’m not that good at math, but if he’d saved all that money he spent on tickets I bet he coulda bought me a hundred cheeseburgers by now. But most adults ain’t smart when it comes to money. If they got it they spend it, and if they don’t got it they sit around thinking about how they’d spend it if they did get it. Seems kind of stupid to me.
A few blocks later I pass a church whose name I can’t pronounce. Saint Ignacio de Baptiste, Church of the Immaculate Heart. There’s a statue of a man in front, his right hand holding a book while the left one is empty, palm opened to the sky. I’ve walked by it for years without a second look, but today something makes me stop. He doesn’t have any eyes, but he still seems to be looking at me. When I walk over to him I feel tiny, like how César must feel next to his grandmother. The sign at his feet says he’s been here since 1862 and all I think is, how can anything be that old?
His hair is long and it floats down his back in a wave, just like Teacher’s. It looks like it’s tied with a ribbon and I wonder why they made him look like a girl. It musta taken a long time to carve a statue that big. They used some type of brown metal, copper or brass maybe, which sounds hollow when the rainwater hits it. It’s raining hard now, and it sounds like pebbles are falling out of the sky. My arms are covered with droplets of water that make them shine, like my skin is made from coins. I touch the edge of the statue’s hand, which is the same color brown as my own. He feels hard like cement, and it’s easy to picture him standing here in another hundred years. Sometime I wish I could live as long as a statue, but other days I wonder if I’m even gonna make it to eighteen.
There’s a half-empty bottle of Pepsi on the ledge next to the statue, the sides wet like it’s been sitting in the rain all day. I pick it up and shake it to see how much fizz is left. The bottle is still cold, so I open it and take a small sip, trying to figure out why someone left it behind. It tastes fine, so I take another sip. My stomach feels hollow like that statue, since I missed lunch sitting outside the principal’s office all day. I keep drinking until my belly fills up and my throat starts to burn from the bubbles.
I catch my reflection in the puddle of water collecting at the foot of the statue. Even with my hair cut short I look like a little boy. It makes me smile since on the inside I feel old like those men who sit on park benches and talk on and on about their childhoods. Mami is right. I do look like her when I smile. Even though she’s too skinny and her hair is dyed a color no Puerto Rican would ever have, she’s still a pretty lady. I wonder what that makes me.
I tuck the Pepsi bottle into my backpack, which is empty except for a pencil box and a spiral notebook I never use, and put it back on my shoulders. It’s heavy now, and I’m glad I’m almost home. I sneak another look at my reflection, trying to recognize this kid who looks so young but is old enough to walk home alone and have nobody waiting when he gets there.
I keep on walking, reading the street signs when I’m close. Olympia. Penelope. Rose. The streets over here sound a lot prettier than they look. The gutters are always filled with crap—broken glass, gravel, pieces of rotten wood—and the sidewalks are so dirty you can’t even walk in some places. Today there’s a diaper, four empty beer bottles, a stepped-on hamburger, cigarette butts, a wall clock with no hands, pizza boxes, and a jacket with the sleeves torn off—and that’s just one corner. Even in the rain, nothing gets clean. I don’t mean to complain, but a lot of the houses look cheap, like they’re made out of plastic, and they’re all bunched together right on the street since nobody has a frontyard. Every house was cut into three or four apartments, with at least five people in each one, so there’s always a kid around to play with. There’s no grass in anybody’s backyard, just dirt lots that somebody’s uncle turns into an auto shop every summer, and on rainy days like this you can use the junked cars as forts and hide out there for hours.
Sophia. I finally get to my street. Our house is a triple-decker with yellow vinyl siding that’s starting to rot and a blanket taped over the front window that I broke with a miss-kicked dodge ball I stole from the Rec Center last fall. All the rooms in our apartment are small and I have to share a bedroom with my two little sisters, but it’s better than the projects. At least that’s what Mami said when we moved here with her ex-boyfriend Scottie last summer.
“At least he got us out of the projects,” she said, tying her hair into a loose knot like she does when she hasn’t cut it in a long time. “Don’t say he never did nothing for you.”
He did a lot for me, I wanted to say, and I’ve got the scars to prove it. Instead I told her that I liked it here because if I ever had to jump out the window there’s a row of bushes around the house to break my fall. I remember her laughing when I said it, but then later I found her leaning out the window, checking to see how far the drop was.
When I come around the corner I see the cop car. It’s white, like a powdered doughnut, with City of Providence Police written on the side in fancy black letters. Pretty, like a teacher’s handwriting. The cruiser sits in the middle of the street, as if the engine just died while they were driving by my house. What hits me first is how new the car looks, like it just came off the lot. Nothing stays white for long in this neighborhood. The car is empty when I pass it, but I can hear static coming from the radio and some guy’s voice cutting in and out like when you’re talking on a cheap cordless phone. You’d think the cops could afford a radio that works.
When I get to the driveway I finally see them, standing together as stiff as soldiers.
“You live here?” The big one speaks first.
“Yeah.”
“On the first floor?”
“Yeah.”
“You know where your mom is?”
I shrug and keep walking toward the back door.
“Didn’t she ever tell you not to walk away from a police officer?”
I try to climb up the back steps but the smaller cop gets in my way.
“Hang on a sec, kid. We’re just trying to find out where your mom is.”
“I told you I don’t know.” I put my hands in my pockets, touching the stolen key chain.
“What you got in those pockets?” He stares at me with blue eyes so pale they seem to have no color.
“Nothing.”
“Are you lying to me?” He grabs my arm but I dig my hands in deeper.
He’s chewing mint-flavored gum, and his breath on my face makes me blink. My heart is beating so fast I feel like he can see it knocking against the wall of my chest. I take a deep breath, make a fist around the key chain, and remind myself that they don’t have anything on me yet. In this country, you’re still innocent until they prove you guilty.
“Mike, leave the kid alone. He doesn’t know anything.” The big cop fixes his hat, which pours rainwater onto his shoulder when he tilts it back. The water runs onto his name tag, blurring the letters of his name.
The smaller cop squeezes my arm before letting go. His grip leaves a mark on my wrist, which starts to dark
en right away. I refuse to rub the spot in front of them, even though it hurts enough to leave a bruise.
He pulls a Polaroid from his shirt pocket.
“You ever seen this guy before?”
I take a deep breath as my heartbeat returns to normal. I look at the photo. It’s blurry, and the guy’s hiding his face, but I recognize him from the car wash on Valley and maybe once or twice in my living room late at night.
“Nope.” I shake my head.
“He’s got a tattoo across his neck that says CUT HERE with a dotted line under it.”
“Never seen him.”
The cop puts the picture away. Then he smiles, one of those evil smiles that mean they want to kick your ass. “Tell your mom we’ll be back. If you ever see her again.”
Then he laughs and the bigger cop shakes his head. While they’re walking away I hear one of them say, “If that dyke was smart she’d never come back.”
I walk into the apartment and close the door behind me, my fist still tight around the key chain. I open my hand and see the center of my palm marked with the imprint of the flag. My hand aches as the blood returns to my fingertips.
The lights in the kitchen are on, and the radio hums in the corner. I feel the emptiness in the rooms, but I still look for her, checking the bathroom first. The water in the sink is running and the towels are still wet. My baby sister’s dolls are in the middle of the floor.
This Side of Providence Page 2