This Side of Providence

by Rachel M. Harper

  By the 15th of August all my tenants are paid up except for the ladies on Sophia Street. I guess the term ladies is a stretch. Lucho ain’t like no lady I’ve ever known.

  I stop by the apartment first thing in the morning, pissed already. Don’t make me come looking for you. I ain’t no doctor. I shouldn’t have to make house calls.

  The boy answers the door in his pajamas. He stares at me without speaking and doesn’t invite me in.

  “Is Lucho around?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “She’s out.”

  “You know when she’ll be back?”

  “Uhhh, no.” He eats a handful of sugared cereal straight from the box. “She doesn’t like me asking a lot of questions, you know? It’s not like I’m her mother.”

  “But she’s coming back, right?”

  “Of course she’s coming back. She lives here.” He gestures around the room like I should recognize all her things.

  “’Cause nobody’s seen her around in the last week. That’s a pretty long time to be ‘out.’”

  He shrugs. “She moves kinda slow.”

  “Uh huh.” I nod my head like I believe him.

  He shoves another handful of cereal into his mouth and coughs hard like a smoker. I smell the corn and sugar on his breath. The smell is familiar but I can’t place it.

  “Who else lives here?” I ask him.

  “My sisters.”

  “How many you got?”

  “Two.”

  “So there’s three of you.”

  He appears to be counting in his head. “Yeah. And Lucho.”

  “Right, of course. When she’s here.”

  “Right.”

  He puts the box of cereal down on the floor and wipes his sugary hands on his pajamas. The gesture makes him look like a toddler, and I suddenly think of Justin at that age, how I used to feed him in the mornings when my momma was too sick to get out of bed, the cancer already eating her body from the inside out. It’s been twenty years, but I can still see the plastic spoon in his chubby fist, can hear his squeaky voice talking about butterflies and balloons and helicopters that fly so high in the sky, can feel the scratch of the dried milk on his top lip as he leans up to kiss me, saying “Love you, love you,” and laughing until he chokes, as if the happiness had come bubbling out of his chest and got caught in his throat.

  The boy looks at me. “You all right?”

  I shake my head to clear the memory. “She leave you any money for rent?”

  “Rent?” He blinks like he can’t see me clearly.

  “Yeah, it was due two weeks ago.”

  “How much is it?” He asks like he’s about to pull the cash from his pocket.

  “Three-fifty.”

  “Three hundred fifty?”

  “Don’t say it like that, that’s a good price. I was doing your mother a favor.”

  He closes the cereal box. “Lucho didn’t leave no money.”

  “Well, I hope she comes back then. For your sake, kid.”

  I walk down the driveway, not knowing what to do next. I could evict them, of course, on several grounds, but the process takes months and is a total pain in the ass.

  “Hey Snowman, wait up.” The kid runs onto the porch to stop me. “Listen, what if I started working for you, so I could pay off the rent?”

  “Who said I was hiring?”

  “Come on, I’ll do anything.” He flashes a crooked smile. “And I’m real cheap.”

  I scratch my chin, like I’m seriously debating. “You got any skills?”

  “Like what you mean?”

  “Can you fix cars or toilets or refrigerators, anything like that?”

  He looks at me like I’m crazy. “I’m eleven,” he says.

  I shrug. “Hey, you seem like a smart kid.”

  He thinks for a few seconds. “I can wash and wax a car in fifteen minutes. And I can paint, even with one of those roller things. They taught me how at the Rec Center before it burned down.” He stands on the edge of the railing, as if to make himself look taller. “And I’m good with kids and animals. Cats not so much, but dogs like me. And I’m a good runner; I can run all the way to the pineapple on Atwells and back without taking a break.”

  “See what I mean? Sounds like you’ve got a lot of skills.”

  He gives me that crooked grin again. “Any you want to pay me for?”

  “I’ll have to think about it,” I say, already knowing that if I was going to have an assistant this kid would be it.

  “Cool,” he says, crossing his arms. “Get back to me whenever.”

  He sounds so serious I have to laugh. “Sure, I’ll call you.”

  His smile turns into a look of panic. “Uhh…we don’t have a phone anymore. It’s better to just come by.”

  “Okay,” I say, forcing myself to walk away before I agree to something I can’t even begin to justify.

  Something makes me stop at the end of the driveway and I turn around to see the boy still standing on the porch, his eyes locked on me like he can’t bear to see me leave. I think of Justin again, of saying good-bye that final time after our momma died when we were in our second foster home. It was so easy for him to let me go that day; to hug me, to wave, to call out “Love you, love you,” and blow me a kiss so hard it could have knocked me over if it was solid. He had the freedom of ignorance, while I was burdened with knowing the truth. Justin was going to a new family, one that wanted to eventually adopt him, but I (fifteen, black, colorless) would be staying in the system indefinitely. No matter what the social workers told me, I knew I would never see him again.

  I call to the boy. “Hey kid, tell me something. When was the last time you saw Lucho, for real?”

  He’s quiet for a minute, deciding if he should tell me the truth.

  “About two weeks,” he finally says.

  There’s a flash of something close to heartbreak in his eyes, for just a second, and then it’s gone. That look of loss, of a fear and loneliness so great it vanishes the instant it’s formed, is so familiar it’s like I’m looking at myself as a child. My eyes begin to burn and for a second I think I might cry, which surprises me as much as if I suddenly bent over and vomited onto the sidewalk. I am not a person who cries. Not as a child, and definitely not now. I didn’t cry when my daddy left or when my momma died, or when my baby brother, the only person in my life who never looked at me with pity or shame, was taken from me. I never cried for the boy he was, or for the boy I used to be, and I will not cry for the one who stands before me now, as lost and motherless as I am today.

  I blink several times and look to the ground. Garbage litters the sidewalk but the spot around my feet is clean. The white of my sneakers stands out against the dull cement, like how my face must stand out in a crowd. I inhale deeply before I look up. The boy stands with his arms at his sides, his hands opened like he’s ready to catch whatever the world throws his way. His eyes look straight at me, but I refuse to meet his gaze.

  “You’ve got the job, kid,” I say, walking away before I change my mind.

  “Thanks, Snowman,” he calls out after me, his voice conjuring the boy I’d tried so hard to forget.

  I start him off with small jobs: hand-delivering letters; picking up weekly checks from tenants on payment plans; running general errands. When I have to fix something in one of the houses I bring him along and try to teach him how to do it. He never runs out of questions, which sometimes makes me regret my decision to hire him, but most days I like having the kid around. He’s funny as hell, and since he’s small he blends in everywhere and nobody asks any questions about him. And he can translate for me when I want to curse somebody out in Spanish. Ten years ago this whole neighborhood was black and Italian, but now I’d say almost half of it is Spanish of some kind: Puerto Rican, Dominican, Guatemalan, Mexican. They come from all over. This must be what New York felt like in the 1950s. Integration—ain’t it a trip.

  Cristo promises every day that Lucho will be back. He says she
leaves like this all the time, and always comes back. I don’t believe him but I let him stay in the apartment with his sisters anyway. Who’s it gonna hurt? Better than sending them to DCYF. I’ve seen what happens to kids in the system and it ain’t pretty.

  One day I take him with me to install a ceiling fan for an old lady in a third-floor apartment. It’s not covered in the lease, which means I don’t have to do it, but it’s hot as hell this week and I don’t want the lady paging me at night to complain. Plus, I’ve seen on the news how so many old people die during heat waves and I don’t want that on my conscience. She lives alone and almost never goes out, probably because she’s real heavy and walking up the stairs is too much for her. She says she has kids but I’ve never seen them around and whenever I do something for her she always feeds me and says I wish I had a son just like you.

  As soon as we get there the old lady starts cooking. She says she doesn’t mind the oven being on since the kitchen’s so hot she can’t tell the difference. She brings us lemonade with ice cubes that have melted before I take my first sip. Cristo drinks his down quickly, sucking on the one remaining ice cube like it’s a Jolly Rancher. It takes a while to get the old light fixture off, but once that’s done I get the new one up pretty quick. Cristo stands on a chair next to my ladder and hands me all the tools before I have to ask for them. He’s quiet for most of the job, and then right as I’m hanging the new fan he asks me about my skin color.

  “Did something happen to you, for your skin to look like that?”

  He hands me the screwdriver, which I use to tighten the blades.

  “Nothing happened. I was born like this.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  I laugh. “No, it doesn’t hurt. Unless I’m in the sun too long. Then I burn as quick as a match.” I screw in the light bulb, then pull on the string to test the lights.

  “It must be weird, though, to not look like other black people.”

  I shrug. “To me it’s just normal.”

  “Do you ever miss being able to blend in?”

  “Sure, I guess.” I get down from the ladder. “I imagine it’s nice to fit in, to disappear into a crowd. But I wouldn’t want to always look like everyone else. Then I wouldn’t be me.” With my back to him, I say something I could never say to his face. “I might look like a freak, but I look like myself, and nobody can take that away from me. Nobody else can be me.”

  I can feel him looking at the back of my head. I gather up the tools and lock them in my toolbox.

  “You don’t look like a freak,” he says, pausing to choose his words carefully. “You just look different, like you’re from the future or something.”

  I want to laugh but I don’t. I can tell he’s serious. Like he’s been to the future and saw me there.

  “I hope you’re right,” I say, handing him the toolbox. He has to hold it with two hands, but he acts like it’s easy. “It’s better to look like the future than the past.”

  He shrugs. “I look like my mother.”

  “I know,” I tell him. “That’s a good thing. She’s a pretty lady.”

  “I don’t want to look pretty. I want to look tough.” He lifts the toolbox, flexing the small muscles in his arms.

  A few seconds later I ask him what’s more important—to look tough or to be tough—but he never answers me.

  I call out to the old lady that we’re done and when she comes out she’s got a plate of rolls and a pot of spaghetti and meatballs on a serving tray. She sets it on the card table and tells us to hurry up and eat before it gets cold, while she lies on the couch under the ceiling fan and watches Jeopardy! I’ve never seen anyone eat as much as this kid. He even stuffs a few rolls into his pocket when the old lady leaves the room to get more meatballs.

  “Here, finish mine.” I offer him my plate.

  “Nah, I’m good,” he says. “I’m bringing these home for my sisters.”

  I take a sip of my water. “You got enough food at home?”

  He shrugs. “We’re all right.”

  “What does that mean?” I push back from the table, having hardly touched my food. I prefer to eat with no witnesses.

  “We eat where we can. At the neighbors, at my cousin’s house, with Teacher. We make the rounds.”

  “Well, let me know…if you need anything extra.”

  “Thanks,” he says with his mouth full. “But I’m taking care of it.” He gets up from the table and carries our plates into the kitchen like a waiter with years of practice. Then he thanks the old lady and I grab the toolbox and we leave.

  We walk a few blocks together and then he splits off down an alley, saying he knows a shortcut home. How can this kid know a route that I don’t know? I watch him as he runs away from me, his steps so light it’s like he doesn’t have a burden in the world. I stand there for a while, hoping he’ll turn around to see me there, still watching over him, but he never looks back.

  Cristo

  It’s been three weeks since I seen Lucho and I’m starting to think she’s not coming back. All Mami’s friends know how to disappear, but they usually come back in a few days, or even a week. Lucho left before, but not for this long. I don’t tell anybody, but I’m thinking she’s gone for good.

  It don’t bother me that much, but I think Luz misses her, or maybe she just misses having an adult around. Not that Lucho spent much time with us, but she did buy food and bring home new music once in a while. And having her here meant we weren’t alone. I know she’s not our family, but it did seem like we were something more than just strangers living in the same house. Maybe something like friends.

  With Lucho gone, we run out of money real quick. Luz gives me her Discman to sell at the flea market, but once that money runs out I start stealing food from the Price Rite. It’s easy to do if I go when it’s real busy because then I get lost between people’s legs. I wear an old jacket of Scottie’s that’s real big so I can hide all the food inside. Even though it’s August it’s the style to wear winter coats all year round, so nobody questions me. Mostly I take fruit and cans of soup that are small and easy to hide, but I once walked out with a package of tortillas and a dozen eggs tucked into the waist of my pants. I was nervous at first and my hands used to sweat, but it’s getting easier with practice. Now I’m pretty good at getting in and out in less than five minutes with my pockets full.

  I don’t have much time to clean so the house gets dirty pretty quick. Luz does the dishes when we have soap, but mostly I try to steal paper plates so we can just throw them away. Cleaning our clothes is harder because the boxes of laundry soap are way too big for me to sneak out of the store. Lately I’ve been going through the trash at the Laundromat looking for any leftovers, and when I find some I add it to a collection I got in an old peanut butter jar. The soap ends up looking kind of nasty, because all the colors get mixed up and turn into this brown paste, but it still works good enough. To get quarters I check pay phones or parking meters, and when that doesn’t work I steal the tip jar from one of the coffee shops on Federal Hill. Sometimes I get lucky and find a few dollar bills in there, too, and then I can buy a slice of pizza for dinner.

  But I’m not always that lucky. Once the guy caught me taking the tip jar and he yelled for me to stop and then grabbed me by the hood of my sweatshirt. I tried to jerk away but I couldn’t move so I ended up zipping myself out of the sweatshirt and taking off without it. It sucks because it was my lucky sweatshirt, too. But at least I got the money.

  So far my job with Snowman is working out pretty good. He writes down all my hours and puts that against the rent money Mami owes. I don’t really know how he’s gonna figure it, but I know I worked off at least a week or two of rent already. Mostly I run errands for him in the neighborhood, but a couple of times he took me along to fix things in some of his houses. It was kinda fun to see all the apartments from the inside, because a lot were real different from how they look on the outside. One place had a TV in every room, even the bathroom, and this o
ther guy had a fish tank in the living room that was as tall as the ceiling, with all these huge fish in crazy colors swimming around. Snowman was pissed because he has a policy about no animals, but I thought it was cool as hell, especially when the guy fed them a bunch of minnows right in front of me.

  Sometimes Snowman needs me at night and I have to leave my sisters alone in the apartment. When I sneak out I lock the bedroom door behind me, since the lock on the front door is busted. I don’t like locking them in like that but I don’t want anything to happen to them. Not when I’m gone and they can’t protect themselves. Scottie used to lock us in the same way, with a bike lock wrapped around the doorknob, but I don’t think he was trying to protect us. He was only looking out for himself. Sometimes I get freaked out because strangers still walk right in the front door, looking for Mami. They come in packs: skinny white guys with long hair and scruffy beards, and ladies who talk real loud, their eyes flying around the room like mosquitoes. They haven’t seen her in a few months and don’t know she’s in jail. They seem real sad when I tell them she’s gone, and after a while they leave without ever telling us their names or why they stopped by.