by Hilary Sloin
She pulled her bag toward her and removed the cake, opened the box, let the sweet muddy smell of chocolate drift toward her face. She scooped out a clawful, stuffed it into her mouth, the crumbs falling down the front of her sweatshirt. In minutes, it was gone. Francesca sat dumbfounded and stuffed, her eyelids sinking closer and closer together. She pulled the wool blanket down from the shelf overhead and curled up beneath it, fell into a deep, sugarcoated sleep.
Hours later she awoke to a stiff neck and aching bladder. She pulled back the door and blinked against the earliest morning light, unfolded into the misty air. Her stomach growled, more from sickness than hunger, and her head ached as though she’d been spinning around and around. The sticky smell of chocolate lingered on her fingers and around her mouth. She stepped away from the hut and squatted to pee. The structure no longer looked impressive. It seemed childish and pathetic, like a good wind could send it into the river. Her eyes filled with tears. She hated it. She would never come back here. Ever. Thus it was decided: She would fetch Lisa and leave New Haven, never see any of them again. Except maybe her grandmother. But it would all have to be hush-hush, their whereabouts kept secret from Mr. Sinsong, from Vivian and Isabella and Alfonse.
“Meet me across the street,” she would tell Lisa from a pay phone. “Pack a bag.” She’d borrow her grandmother’s Chevy, speed down Fountain Street, past the decrepit synagogue, past the library, past Kentucky Fried Chicken with its rotating portrait of the colonel. Past the duck pond where Evelyn had brought her as a child, covered now with green scum. Lisa would be waiting, denim jacket over her pajamas, eyes still sticky with sleep, hair in a zigzag part. Francesca would toss the suitcase into the trunk, open the passenger door, close it after Lisa got in, then tap on the window and mouth “Lock up” with authority. She’d saunter around the front of the car, climb behind the large brown wheel, and grab a confident hold. Then she’d lean over and kiss Lisa kind of rough, kind of tender. The way a man does when he’s got a woman to himself. They’d follow the low orange moon, speed through red lights, floating like a whisper over highway pavement. Stop at Denny’s for breakfast, just as the light was thin and smoky like milk around an empty glass. Have coffees, why not, big omelets with bacon. Then crash their tall, plastic juice glasses together in a toast.
She fastened the door to the hut and headed back along the path, through the swamp, the prickered eaves, until she reached the bottom of the embankment. There, her legs aching, she exhausted her reserves scaling the steep incline. In front of her sleeping house the only evidence of life was a tall rake with green shoulders. The post was plunged into a newly dug flowerbed alongside the house. The sky was light but still sunless; the only sounds were faraway trucks, a barking dog. No cars moved along the street. She knew it was very early. Her sister was asleep. Her parents were facing opposing sides in their double bed, the beige comforter pulled up to their chins, the black and white TV hot from running all night.
Alfonse would soon awaken, load his tools into the station wagon, yank the rake out from the dew-soaked ground. Sundays he worked at the high school, his biggest account. Often Francesca would tag along, pull weeds drowsily, play in the dirt. There was an intimacy to those outings, nearly silent but for Alfonse’s whistled renditions of Italian opera. Even without words, Francesca could tell it was Italian music. His jaunty fingers bounced on the steering wheel, his knee danced. He’d look over at Francesca and wink. He seemed to be somewhere else, somewhere happy. Then, on the way home, they’d eat butterscotch sundaes at Farm Shop. Alfonse would finagle the waitress’s pen, and they’d play tic-tac-toe on sandpaper napkins. Stuffed and silly, as they waited at the cash register to pay, he’d tickle Francesca until she promised to eat all her dinner, even the vegetables, so Vivian wouldn’t know they’d been bad.
Francesca moved farther and farther away from the house, toward the main road. This is the last time I’ll ever see this place, she thought, turning back once more for a good, long look. Nothing, I feel nothing. She shrugged. Her body seemed light, as if she’d shed weight or thrown off a heavy garment she’d never needed.
By the time she arrived at her grandmother’s house, the sun was up. Evelyn, hair still in curlers, adjusted the waistband of her powder blue nylon pajamas and pulled Francesca inside. She sat her down at the kitchen table, poured a steaming cup of coffee, and pushed the jar of Cremora across the table. Francesca dumped three heaping teaspoons onto her coffee, then exploded the hills of sticky, sweet dust with her finger and watched the beverage turn a caramel color. Magically, a tupperware of rugelach appeared on the table. Evelyn sat kitty-corner and pulled the airtight lid off of the container. The sweet, buttery smell made Francesca salivate.
“Here,” said Evelyn.
Francesca took a pastry. She bit far into it, found it was not apricot, but prune. “Are they all prune?” She tried not to sound disappointed.
“Oh, they’re delicious. Prunes are good for you.” Evelyn reached for one, as if to set an example, took a bite, and wiped some fallen crumbs from the yellow, vinyl placemat in front of her onto the floor. She untangled the clips from her hair, letting the brassy toboggans unfurl and bounce toward her shoulders. Carefully she deposited the clips into a plastic box that said Evelyn’s Things in white writing on the lid.
“Gramm?” Francesca said sweetly.
“What is it, Bunny?” Evelyn put her hand over Francesca’s. “So cold. Where have you been?” She took Francesca’s hand in between her two veiny ones, rubbed it firmly, her wedding band bumping Francesca’s knuckles.
“Can you take me somewhere?” Francesca asked.
“Of course I can. Where do you want to go? Florida? Hawaii? Where should we go? Like a couple of gangsters,” Evelyn winked.
“I need to visit my friend.”
“Well, that’s easy. Where is she?” Evelyn closed up the plastic box of curlers and pushed it to the side.
“She lives downtown in the Chinese neighborhood.”
“Wha—?” Evelyn squinted up her face, pushed her fingers through her hair to loosen the curls.
“The Chinese neighborhood,” Francesca said loudly. Sometimes Evelyn was hard of hearing.
“There’s no Chinese neighborhood,” Evelyn waved her hand and made a face. She took another pastry and bit into it, chewed with her mouth open, the crumbs clinging to the corners.
“There is so,” Francesca insisted. “She lives there.”
“Who is she?”
“Lisa.”
“Lisa? What’s Lisa doing in a Chinese neighborhood?”
“She’s Chinese!” Francesca stood up.
“Alright. Calm down. I just never heard of that neighborhood. Where is it?”
“Temple Street.”
“Temple Street? No—” Evelyn made a big, dismissive gesture.
Francesca walked to the sink. She stood facing the backyard, her arms folded across her chest. “Forget it. I knew you wouldn’t help me.”
“Alright. Alright. So, you have a Chinese friend. Does your mother know?”
Francesca nodded.
“Alright, so?” Evelyn stood up. “Let me call your mother so she knows where you are and we’ll go. Okay? Everything better now?” She reached out, grabbed hold of Francesca’s chin, gave it a squeeze. Years before, she’d vowed not to disappoint her granddaughter. But this promise she’d made in her fifties, when energy still rippled through her body, before it became evident how miserably her own daughter would fail at motherhood, how much would be left to do.
“Thank you,” Francesca said quietly, after Evelyn had left the room.
Chapter Five
Evelyn’s tobacco-colored Chevy Impala was littered with gum wrappers, broken cigarettes, discarded tissues, grocery lists scrawled on the backs of envelopes, receipts in faded blue ink. The air conditioner button was jammed, so it ran all the time, filling the car with a sick, fruity smell. They rode in silence through the center of New Haven, past the large, brown shopping mall
propped several feet off the ground on cement stumps.
“It’s so ugly,” said Francesca.
“Everything’s ugly,” Evelyn answered, dismissing the world with a flash of her hand.
They crossed a river on which wrappers and cans floated like tiny ships. The street grew narrow, filled up with dark-skinned people. Cars were double-parked, sometimes with the doors hanging open, making it nearly impossible to pass. Baby strollers and bicycles popped out from between buildings, everything crisscrossing and sudden. No longer did anyone seem to follow a pattern, to move at a rhythmic, ordered pace. Evelyn blinked her eyes to burn a line of vision through the commotion. She felt an ineffable shame, unwelcome, as if she were trespassing in another world.
“Whew!” she said, when they’d finally paused at a red light. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. The light switched to green, and a man wearing sweatpants with one pant leg long, one cut short darted directly out in front of the car.
Evelyn held down her horn, then looked away when the man gave her the finger. “What kind of outfit is that?” she wrinkled her face at Francesca. “Lock your door.”
Music played through open windows, people greeted one another ebulliently in Spanish. Stores had signs painted on plywood: Rosalee’s Bodega, Allen’s Discount Warehouse. In the window of Miguel’s TV and Appliances, carpeted steps displayed a dusty turntable, two televisions, an iron. Evelyn pulled off of Chapel and onto Temple. Immediately, the world quieted.
“I’ve never seen no Chinese people here,” Evelyn said.
Temple Street ran eerily through a section of low-to-the-ground warehouses—no apartments, no people—until it metamorphosed into a residential neighborhood. A series of short apartment buildings sprang up.
“Here it is!” Francesca sat up straight, pointed to a putty-colored building. “496.”
A Chinese family emerged as if on cue. Evelyn stared, shaking her head, incredulous. “This is no neighborhood,” she scowled, irritated at the city for changing surreptitiously, making her feel extinct. She pulled the car alongside a dumpster.
“I’ll keep the car running.”
Graffiti covered the outside walls as high and wide as a person could reach hanging from the railing. Most of it was in Chinese, but there were the usual American imperatives: Suck my cock, Eat Shit, etc. Inside was dark even though it was still morning. Francesca ran her hand along the bumpy walls, guided herself past the mailboxes, all in various stages of disrepair—doors pried open, hinges hanging, locks broken and popping out like eyes. She climbed a staircase, two steps at a time, her heart pounding. The air smelled of burnt toast and old smoke. She heard water running through the pipes, silverware being shuffled, people speaking in Chinese. A piece of Scotch tape pressed to the center of a door said “Sinsong” in thick, black marker. Cigarette butts had been swept from all sides of the hallway and left in a pile in the corner.
She knocked quietly.
“Yes?” a man bellowed.
“Is Lisa home?”
“Lisa? Who there?”
A latch opened, then two bolts, then the door peeled back. Mr. Sinsong stood in a stained undershirt and belted pants. His black socks had holes at the big toes. His hair was greasy and very black, slicked to the back of his age-spotted forehead.
“Yes,” he said loudly. “How are you? What you want?”
“Is Lisa home?”
He looked beyond Francesca, wondering how she’d come to be here, standing alone in the hallway. “Lisa—” he bent backward. “Someone here for you. Yes, come in.” He stepped out of the way.
The room smelled thickly of bacon, as though it had been cooked there every single day, without the windows having once been opened. There was a damp, wet-carpet smell as well. Lisa stepped out of the bathroom wearing a worn blue bathrobe over Scooby Doo pajamas with feet. Her hair was bent in different directions, frizzy strands everywhere. “I knew it was you,” she said.
“Meet me at the Wash-O-Mat.” Francesca pointed toward the window. “I have a plan.” She was a character in a book now. Everything would come together.
Lisa shook her head.
“But my grandmother’s waiting. She’ll take us to the bus station.”
“I can’t.” Lisa took a step back, glanced toward the kitchen.
“The Wash-O-Mat. Across the street.”
“I know where it is!” Lisa said, pushing Francesca toward the door.
“I’ll be at the Wash-O-Mat. Waiting.”
“I’m not coming,” whispered Lisa, pressing closed the door.
Francesca galloped down the stairs, out into the blinding day. She perched on the edge of Evelyn’s passenger’s seat, one foot firmly rooted on the pavement. “Gram,” she said, as Evelyn shifted into drive. “We have to wait here. Lisa’s coming.”
“What do you mean, she’s coming?”
“She’s coming with us.”
“Close the door,” said Evelyn.
“You don’t understand—” Francesca’s voice was desperate and high. “Lisa needs our help.” She held onto the door latch.
Evelyn turned and glanced at the building as if it were Chinese. “I told your mother I’d have you back by noon. You said you needed to see your friend. Now you’ve seen her. Now we’re going.”
“No.” Francesca got out of the car and slammed the door behind her. Without turning back, she crossed the narrow street, onto the sidewalk, glancing up once at the beaten-up WASH-O-MAT sign, its edges rusted and bent, before boldly pulling back the glass door. Inside felt like another country: humid, tumbling, filled with the muted sounds of machines and jingling coins. She did not look back at her grandmother. Instead she walked to the back of the room and glanced up at a bulletin board perforated by a smattering of pushpins. There were two index cards posted, written in Chinese by the same hand, with the same phone number at the bottom. In the middle of the wide, empty board was a poster for an MS walkathon with a pocket stuffed with postage-paid reply cards. And in the far corner a red sign announced a spaghetti supper and bake sale at a nearby church. Someone had written FUCK FAGS in ballpoint pen and DUKE AND LISA FOREVER inside a heart, with an arrow through both sides, disappearing in the middle. Francesca knew it was her Lisa in question. “Stupid boy,” she shook her head.
She turned toward the street. Evelyn’s car was gone. “Okay,” she told herself, holding her hands in front of her and pressing her palms toward the ground. Her pulse was everywhere, making it hard to stand still. She felt her pockets, took out the twelve dollars she’d put there earlier, and counted them. “Okay,” she said again. A woman passed her, carrying pillowcases overstuffed with laundry. Francesca stepped outside. Still, the car was nowhere in sight. The sunlight hit her face, making it difficult to determine which window was Lisa’s. She made a visor with her hand and saw someone watching her. Frantically, she gestured.
The Impala reappeared in front of the laundromat. Evelyn leaned toward the passenger’s side and rolled down the window. “Get in,” she said.
Francesca shook her head, newly emboldened by Evelyn’s return.
“I mean it. That’s enough. We can call your friend later.”
Francesca folded her arms and pretended not to hear a word Evelyn was saying. She whistled and looked left to right, willing Lisa to emerge from the flesh-colored building.
“I will not leave you in this neighborhood. It’s a bad neighborhood,” Evelyn said in a desperate whisper, so as not to anger lurking hoodlums.
Francesca re-entered the laundromat and feigned interest in a Chinese newspaper sprawled on the folding table. She heard Evelyn pull away again and would not allow herself to look. The door to the laundromat opened, thrusting cold air inside, marked against the heat of dryers and the humidity of washing machines. Lisa had changed into pants, a turtleneck, and her white tennis shoes, still soiled from the day before.
“Where’s your grandmother?” she asked, worried lines darkening her forehead.
“Gone
.” Francesca shrugged.
“Gone?” Lisa looked out the window. “What do you mean? Where did she go?”
Francesca shrugged.
“What will you do?”
“I told you, I’m running away.” She patted her pocket.
An old woman entered the laundromat. She wore a pink cotton housedress under a yellow apron with bulky pouches weighted down from coins. Her hair was mostly gray, with a few sharp black strands like cracks in a moonlit sky. She smiled at Lisa, looked suspiciously at Francesca.
Francesca sat in a plastic chair that was attached to a line of others pressed against the wall. She gathered up the Chinese newspaper and opened it in front of her face. “I’m not leaving without you,” she said into its folds.
“Okay,” said Lisa. “But I’m going home.” She waited.
The Impala reappeared. This time Evelyn parked and got out. She entered the laundromat, pulling her coat closed around her substantial girth, doing her best not to look at anything around her. “Is this the friend?” She nodded toward Lisa. “She looks alright to me.”
Lisa backed away, toward the door.
“No!” said Francesca, standing up. “Don’t go—”
“She has to go,” said Evelyn. “Go on now,” she smiled at Lisa. “Go on home. Franny will call you tonight and you girls can make a date to see each other. I’ll even pick you up.”
Lisa waited one more moment, then turned and passed through the door, out onto the narrow street.
“See?” said Evelyn. “She went home like a good girl.” She pulled on Francesca’s sleeve and led her out to the car, this time meeting little resistance. Francesca was relieved by the familiar smell of the broken air conditioning. She hadn’t chosen this. She’d tried to save Lisa, but Lisa wouldn’t come. She peered through the back windshield, thought she saw Lisa’s shiny black head, but as the car moved several feet forward, she saw that it was only the darkened window, venetian blinds pulled closed against the day.