The rain slowed to a drizzle. Bucky pranced toward them holding a purple umbrella. Dudu tugged at the leash, an imperial-purple ribbon bouncing against his white forehead.
Citrino humphed as he thrust his body forward. The chair jerked but held as he caught it and lifted himself over to the sill. “Thanks.” He looked down at the fluffy dog pissing at the base of the rail. “Hey!” He flailed his blackened arms.
“Calm down, John,” Lorraine said. “Dudu’s been urinating there for years. His partner is the brave and fearless Bucky who stopped the homicidal maniac the night of the fire, or did you miss that news item?”
“Dance, Dudu,” Bucky commanded. The dog stood on its hind legs and turned in a full circle. Then he lay on the wet blacktop and spun his body. “He is break dancing.” Bucky beamed from beneath his umbrella.
“That’s pretty neat.” Citrino rolled his eyes.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Lorraine whispered. “You look enough like a minstrel as it is.”
“I have a ghetto blaster,” Bucky said. “When it is sunny, I’m gonna take Dudu to the Mall, see if we can make some money.”
“Great,” Citrino said.
Bucky glowed. Sarcasm fell wide of his small world. “You’re really dirty,” Bucky said to Citrino as the dog flipped, landed on all fours and shook muddy grit from his white fur. Dudu stretched the leash. “Bye,” Bucky said.
Lorraine smiled after them. It was funny how, over time, Bucky’s speech defect had vanished into the background.
As Citrino carefully pulled the charred door into place, a mewling noise issued from the sub-floor.
Lorraine cocked her head and twisted toward Citrino. “Did you hear something?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Maybe there are rats down there.” She rolled her chair off the landing. The thud shuddered her bones. To manage the complex effectively, she might need ramps to all the units, but she kept that idea to herself. “You can wash at my place but I can’t do much about your track-suit.”
They crossed the driveway behind Dudu, who had paused to trickle on Lorraine’s water-meter pipe.
After the humbled Citrino had scrubbed, Lorraine proposed they get back to business.
Citrino had never dreamed he’d be doing so much work here even when Bobbi called about the fire. He’d imagined surveying the damage, okaying Bobbi’s choice of contractor, and then returning to LA until the insurance claim was settled. He’d brought a gram of coke up with him and rented a room at the quaint Capitola Hotel, planning to spend a couple nights licking premium flake from Bobbi’s vaginal lips. Instead he’d gotten this mess.
“I want you to see Mrs. Bean’s new place,” Lorraine said.
“Huh?”
On their way out, Lorraine explained how she and Cecile had installed Mrs. Bean in Florence’s apartment. “Now I’m sure you have insurance for the structure, but Mrs. Bean didn’t have renter’s insurance. She’s been left with nothing.”
“I’m not running an assistance program,” he grumbled.
“She has social security.” The wheelchair whizzed over the wet asphalt, splashing his ruined shoes. Citrino’s pants swished-swished as he tried to keep up.
“Cecile and I donated blankets for last night,” the woman said, “and some of Florence’s dishes haven’t been packed. I suggest we put Florence’s personal effects in storage, although I doubt anyone will claim them, and leave the functional stuff to charity, if you get my drift.” She nodded at the apartment, but Citrino’s gaze turned away, down the drive where a man was pressing his face up to a bedroom window.
“Don’t worry,” Lorraine said. “That’s not our resident killer. Vince is Punky’s lover.”
“But I thought I heard someone scream,” he stammered.
“He just startled her,” Lorraine said. “We’ll soon have another vacancy to worry about beside Lefty Hunt’s.” They were stopped below the step of what was apparently now Mrs. Bean’s new home, Florence’s former place.
“I don’t follow.”
Lorraine pointed at Punky’s apartment, to which the guy named Vince had gained admittance. “Those two aren’t going to keep paying two rents now they’re sleeping together.”
“This is a weird place.”
“It’s all yours,” Lorraine snickered. She stretched her arms wide to embrace the whole weird community. “I’ll wait here. It’s a bit much popping up and down these steps.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to meet Mrs. Bean and check out the condition of the apartment. And, just in case you still have reservations about switching managers, I want you to bring out the Macy’s bag by the door.”
John knocked, waited and turned to leave.
“Knock some more.”
This woman was really bossy. Citrino scratched his head. That could be a good quality in a manager. He knocked again and after a pause Mrs. Bean drew the deadbolt and cracked the door the width of the chain.
The old woman peered at him through the slit. “Who are you?” Her eyes squinted at his besmudged clothes.
“He’s the owner,” Lorraine said.
In slow motion Mrs. Bean admitted him and in fast motion he exited. Only a sad, desperate person would want to stay in that smelly, water-stained hole. These units had never been billed as luxury apartments, but the state of disrepair shocked him.
He clutched the Macy’s bag. “What’s the deal with this?”
“Look in it.”
“There’s not much to see, just a crystal bowl with a chain and wedding band in it.”
“And how do those items strike you?”
He thought for a moment. “Florence’s objects of value?” he guessed. “From the looks of that dump, probably her only objects of value.” He closed the bag. “Now why don’t you explain and quit leading me around by the nose.”
“Funny you should mention being led around by the nose. Who packed Florence’s stuff?”
“Bobbi.”
“I’d suggest she didn’t mean to store these items.”
He pondered the implication. It made sense.
“You’re not the only person she’s been ripping off. Bobbi is our resident thief.”
What Happened to Lefty
I picked up the local newspaper from a table in the teachers’ lounge. The headline popped from the second page, but I choose to save and savor the piece over coffee. As I drove home, I averted my eyes from the passenger seat where the paper lay open to the story: Man Accidentally Slays Neighbor.
The distraction was dangerous. The first rain loosened oil residue onto the freeway surface and my bug’s old tires slipped along the surface.
When I reached my apartment, the Seville was parked in front of Lorraine’s. It barely caused palpitations. As my kettle heated, I watched the neighborhood through rain dripping from the eaves.
After I prepared my coffee, I sat at my desk and read.
During the confusion of a fire Thursday night at 666 Lostart Street, William “Lefty” Hunt, 25, allegedly stabbed and killed his fifty-eight-year-old neighbor Florence Marie Nissenbaum. According to eyewitnesses, “Lefty” Hunt was attempting to stab his neighbor Vincent Shields with a butcher knife when he accidentally stabbed Nissenbaum in the stomach. Neighbors and local firemen at the scene said Hunt claimed he’d been commanded by God to kill the devil. According to one neighbor, Hunt had been enraged by jealousy over Shields’ affair with another tenant in the apartments.
A fireman reported that Shields had restrained Florence Nissenbaum from dashing to the burning apartment to rescue a cat when Hunt stabbed her instead of Shields. Residents disarmed Hunt and firemen called the Sheriff’s Office. Nissenbaum suffered internal hemorrhaging from the single stab wound and was pronounced dead on arrival at Dominican Hospital at 10:37 p.m.
According to Sergeant Munoz of the County Sheriff’s Department, Hunt seemed stunned and disoriented when arrested. “He didn’t make any phone c
alls when we booked him,” Munoz stated. Hunt spent a quiet weekend in the Santa Cruz County Jail awaiting arraignment.
“Enraged by jealousy.” I wondered which neighbor had given the reporter that precious tidbit. I hadn’t even seen a reporter, but then the weekend had been full of distractions.
Most likely Lefty would be assigned a public defender who would ask for a reduced sentence, or enter a diminished capacity plea.
Well that was the end of my coffee and my break. Picking up a stack of essays, I thought of Lefty at the Santa Cruz County Jail, relinquishing his shoes, belt, and identity. His identity. That was a laugh. He didn’t have one, at least not a solid, secure one, but then I wasn’t sure I had one of those either.
A Change of Heart
“I thought you were glad you told your supervisor off,” Punky said, nestling against Vince’s shoulder. Behind the futon on the windowsill she’d accumulated and lit every candle she owned. A dozen fragrant lights flickered around them.
“I was. I mean, I am,” Vince said. “I wouldn’t trade the look on his face for anything. But I lost. When I left the warehouse, he probably laughed.”
“Why would he laugh? He’ll have to interview people to replace you, and I doubt he’ll find anyone as good.”
“He’ll love replacing me, Punky. That’s exactly what the guy wanted.”
“Well, you didn’t say you quit, did you?” She snuggled again into the crook of his arm. Vince put his arm around her but his body remained taut.
“That’s what I was thinking. I could report to work tomorrow and see what happens. Check with Payroll first and see if I’m still listed, and if I am, simply go to work. See if the guy has balls enough to tell me I’m fired. If I’ve already been fired or he tells me I’m fired, I’ll check into the procedure for a grievance. I need to have a job.”
“I guess this is one of the big bugs in my plan,” Punky said.
“Yeah.” He relaxed now that he’d got that out. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“I’m disappointed, but not in you, Vince. I think you’re doing the right thing.”
He leaned over and kissed her. When he started to disengage, she initiated her own kiss. His hand slipped into her kimono and his body unwound a bit more, the weight sinking into the futon and floor. “I’ll help with Todd when I can. If I’m suspended, I can babysit until I’m reinstated. If you can’t find a sitter tomorrow, you could ask for a schedule that includes weekends and evenings.”
She sighed. “We’d never see each other if I did that.”
“If we’re living together, we’d still see more of each other than we do now.”
She turned on her side to be more accessible and her hair spilled over her shoulder and brushed his bare chest. “Oh. Are you still interested in that part of the proposal?”
“I thought it was a plan, not a proposal,” he said. “Don’t use that word, it scares me.”
She laughed. He loved the sound of her unabashed happiness. Her fingers toyed absently with his belly button. It was almost an outy, with skin rounded in the shallow indentation of the firm surface.
“But,” he said.
She lifted her eyes.
“I want you to move to my place.”
She frowned.
“My place won’t look like it does now when you get done moving in.” He snatched her fingers as though catching a lizard. “You should be glad it’s bare and there’s room for your stuff.”
“Yes, but that’s why you should move. You have less stuff.”
“I have a yard.”
“It’s on the street.”
“We can fence it,” he said.
“You’re making this hard.”
“I’m making it easy, Punky.” He waggled her small, soft fingers. “Did you know my apartment has a very small second bedroom?”
“When do I move in?” She pulled loose from his grip and tickled his sides.
He couldn’t help himself. He’d always been ticklish. He laughed, full out, unrestrained. He hadn’t laughed like this since he was a kid.
Punky laughed with him, her cheeks flushed pink, like roses in the candlelight. She stopped attacking his ribs. “How much notice do we have to give?”
Cecile
The students had fallen into the groove and were not yet antsy about Thanksgiving. On an international scale, El Salvador ordered a U.S. envoy to stop criticizing its violations of human rights. That squabbling between the United States and El Salvador had been continuous since the start of its civil war. Ongoing international power struggles hardly grabbed people’s attention like the cyanide-laced Tylenol in October, even though our government was taking the side of a regime that caused people to disappear.
For me, a person reappeared. After the second bell shrilled, Rosaura sprang into the room, her arms out-flung. “I’m back!”
Her hair had grown an amazing amount during the short time she’d been gone. Wild dark curls touched her shoulders. She had a new pair of black pants and had taken up the punk style of gathering the legs tight using a series of safety pins.
“I thought your family moved to Arizona.” I said, which did not begin to reveal how happy I was to see her.
“They let me come back to stay with my aunt.” She glanced around the room. “Where do I sit?”
My class had more students than Annette’s, and after Rosaura left, Annette had moved out Rosaura’s desk to clear a little space.
Annette gathered her materials and rose from the teacher’s desk. “You can sit here for now.”
Rosaura pranced over and seated herself like she was queen for the day. I marveled again that with her transient life, Rosaura read at grade level. Amazing. The test score at the beginning of the year hardly revealed how smart she must be.
Even though it was weeks until Christmas, a smile slipped across my lips.
The class had read Cat-About-Town by James Herriot, a nice, but completely inappropriate, story. Animal stories filled their literature text. The stories may have been okay if my freshmen class was comprised of freshmen, but more than half the students were sophomore and junior “repeaters.” They didn’t cotton to animal stories, although a rousing discussion ensued of various tortures for cats. One particular braggart named Baltazar admitted that a cat prowling in his yard meant target practice.
I persuaded other students to talk about the losses of their pets and how that felt. Next I proposed the not-so-hypothetical possibility Baltazar could have caused the animals’ deaths.
Baltazar stiffened. “I didn’t do that.”
Rosaura lunged up from the teacher’s desk. “How do you know?”
Baltazar wouldn’t soon forget the way Rosaura’s eyes blazed at him. At least, I hoped not.
By the time I’d pulled into the carport beside Mrs. Bean’s Dodge Dart, my high had disintegrated into shame. I had completely manipulated the situation to corner Baltazar.
If Rosaura hadn’t beaten me to the punch, I would have nailed him with exactly the same question. But the victory I’d felt in trapping him had been short-lived. My assurance I was on the “right” side only made me feel more fascist. Teaching was a tricky business, requiring constant vigilance over one’s motives and methods.
Still, a warm glow filled my heart at the return of my ally Rosaura. One student could transform a room. Could transform what it felt like for me to go to work. One little connection.
With my desire to carry everything from my car in one trip, I loaded my arms. As I clutched my purse with my knees to free a hand for the mail, Lorraine, with her impeccable timing, called to me.
“Come here. I have to tell someone the good news.”
“Just a minute.” I opened my door, spilled the stuff from my arms, glanced at the junk mail, picked up my purse and crossed to Lorraine’s window.
“Why don’t you come in?”
“This is an occasion,” I said.
The only large piece of furniture in her apartment was the table in fro
nt of the window, equipped with typewriter, a cup full of pens and pencils, a pencil sharpener, a legal pad, and basic reference books. Lorraine reversed from the table.
I eyed Lorraine’s full pant legs, which ended in a pair of regular shoes. “Where’d you get those?” I was as bad as the worst blurter in my class.
“Oh, I’ve had these legs for a long time,” she said. “You can either sit on the floor or lift down the folding chair from the top of my closet.”
“The floor’s fine.” I sank onto the wood. I gawked at the jeans bent before me.
“If my pants were looser, I’d show you my prosthesis,” she said.
“Why don’t you usually wear your …” I fumbled for the right word, “legs?”
“If you knew how long it took me to get dressed today, you wouldn’t ask.”
“Can you walk in those?”
“Not really. I’m much faster in my chair. My boyfriend has one artificial leg and he can do everything a person with two legs can, but for me it’s a major chore just to hoist myself onto these things. It’s hard for people to understand why I go around without them, but everyone who cares about me will find out sooner or later that they’re phony anyway. Mostly I use them as chair filler when I’m going out with someone who might be self-conscious about my handicap.”
“Like John Citrino?” I propped my back against her wall and bumped my head on a picture. Everything on her walls hung low.
“Right,” she beamed. “He agreed to make me manager. Tonight we celebrate and work out some details.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t worry. I’m not his type.”
“You’re female.”
She laughed. “Listen, Cecile, to my plan.” She brushed her hair away from her face. Mascara highlighted her luminous eyes and pale lipstick glistened on her lips. A black silk blouse emphasized the creamy paleness of her complexion. Crows feet tiptoed from her eyes, but she was a well-preserved beauty.
“John agreed to keep the rents the same. We’re all used to them anyway. But now that he’ll actually receive what we’re paying, he’ll use the difference to fix these places, starting with Florence’s—or rather Mrs. Bean’s. Tonight I’ll suggest an advance so I can start right away.”
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