American Street

by Ibi Zoboi

  Matant Jo misses you so much that she is incapable of doing anything for herself. The other day, she held my face in her hands and prayed to God that it was your face and not mine. And just like I saw you do in the tea-candle flame, she grabbed the corner of her white sheet and wiped her tears.

  Kenbe fem. Hold tight.

  Fabiola

  EIGHT

  “DOES DRAY HIT her?” I ask Chantal and Pri after Donna is all bathed, in her pajamas, and passed out. It seems like no one else wants to sleep tonight. Pri and I are playing a card game while Chantal reads.

  “Why? Did you see him hit her?” Pri holds her cards up as if she makes money from these games. She shuffles and deals like a gambler.

  “The singing man on the corner said so. It’s like his poetry and songs are what he sees. He said something about an attack and putting up dukes. That’s like hitting and fighting, right?”

  “What are you talking about? Bad Leg? He actually told you that shit?”

  “It was in his poem if you listened.”

  “Nobody listens to Bad Leg—that crazy-ass man. Some people around here even call him the devil. Got needle marks all up his arm and still ain’t dead. Ma said he was a crackhead when she first moved here. He’s gotten beaten up, burned up, tossed over the overpass on the highway, thrown in the river, and he still show up right there on that corner.”

  “Why do they call him Bad Leg?”

  “I’ll give you twenty dollars to ask him.” Pri puts down a two of diamonds. “For every person who has ever asked Bad Leg what happened to his leg, he tells a different story each time.”

  “Yep.” Chantal looks up from her book. “I must’ve asked him fifty times and he gave me fifty different stories—his leg got crushed in Iraq, it got caught in a machine at a factory, Detroit rats nibbled on it when he was homeless.”

  “Ain’t he still homeless? And he told me he was tortured by an east side gang,” Pri says as she collects my small pile of cards into her growing pile.

  “I will get the real story,” I say.

  My cousins are all asleep, but I’m still awake, staring at the low white ceiling and counting my problems with every breath. I have not slept since being in this new home; I only rest my eyes. The events of the week play out over and over in my mind like a looping movie—my cousins’ voices are the background music to the broken Detroit streets, the easy and boring teachers and schoolwork, the trips to McDonald’s and pizza spots, and the endless seconds, minutes, hours without my mother. The singing man on the corner named Bag Leg provides the lyrics.

  Chantal’s clock says it’s three thirty in the morning, and Bad Leg’s voice eases through the locked windows and thick curtains to hover above my air mattress. His river-smooth song pulls me up out of bed. Chantal’s window faces the front of the house, so I see Bad Leg to the far left, still sitting on the overturned plastic bucket with a streetlight shining over him like a limelight. I listen carefully to his words.

  Cross my path on your way downtown.

  Beware the lady all dressed in brown

  ’Round the corner and down the road.

  Tell me your burdens and I’ll carry your load.

  I think of the most dangerous places in Port-au-Prince—Cité Soleil, La Saline, and even some dark corners in Delmas and La Ville. They don’t compare to this empty, sparsely lit road called American Street where only a dog barks and an old man sings before the break of dawn. I tiptoe down to the front closet and pull out the first coat and boots I find. The coat must be one of Pri’s, since it hangs wide and loose over my body. Slowly, I open the door and walk down the front steps and to the corner.

  Bad Leg only hums now and I’m a few steps away. I don’t get too close. “Mister?” I ask.

  He keeps humming.

  “Excuse me, mister?”

  He stops humming and stares down Joy Road.

  “Sir, I’m here. I just came to ask you about your leg.”

  “Welcome to American Joy, little lady.” He sings these words, too, in his deep American southern accent.

  “What happened to your leg?” I ask again.

  “I left it on the other side.” He laughs a dry, grainy laugh—not like his singing voice. “Forgot to take it with me. Went to visit my daddy, who first moved here back in sixty-one. He was looking for that American joy that everybody said was up here in Motor City—Motown. Thought it meant mo’ money! You, too? Daddy had the sugar. His left leg was eaten up so bad, it looked like pork sausage.”

  “Bad. Leg,” I whisper to myself, trying to make sense of what he is saying.

  “So when I went over to the other side to see him, he asked to borrow my good left leg. That was when I was a fine young thing—had all my teeth. You don’t go over to the other side with your whole body. You gots to keep it right here—like a wet coat or muddy shoes before you walk up into somebody’s nice house. So you’re nothing but hot air and memory over there on the other side. I was walking around just fine with my missing leg. Thought I’d given my daddy the memory of a leg—you know, give him back that feeling of walking on two feet instead of one good foot and a pork sausage. Till I got back home and was flesh and blood again. Tried to walk over to the kitchen to fry an egg and fell right on my face and lost my front teeth at the same time. My left leg was still intact, all right, but its soul was all gone. Couldn’t move it, bend it, kick. Shit! Could chop my leg off and wouldn’t feel a thing ’cause it has no soul. I left it on the other side. It was as dead as Marvin Gaye.”

  “Leg. Bad,” I say loud and clear, because I now see him for who he is—the old man at the crossroads with his hat and cane and riddles come to open doors for me. He is the lwa who guards the gates to everything good—to everything bad, too. “Bad. Leg. Legba. Papa Legba.”

  “Yep?”

  “Please, Papa Legba. Why won’t you let my mother through to this side?”

  He doesn’t answer. Instead, he closes his eyes and leans his body all the way to one side without falling off the bucket. His bad leg stretches out in front of him as dead as a fallen tree.

  I rush back into the house because the cold threatens to swallow me whole. Back in Chantal’s room, I light a tea candle and begin my prayers for my mother. I don’t ring a bell or rattle the asson. Instead, Papa Legba, the keeper of the crossroads, the one who will open the gates for my mother, sings his song. It creeps through the windows.

  Pull up a chair, let’s have a meal,

  Shuffle them cards, let’s make a deal.

  I’ll give you the key and set you free,

  Be right here waiting for just a small fee.

  Beware the lady all dressed in brown.

  Don’t even know her way downtown.

  “I know you’re not really listening to that crazy man.” Chantal rolls over, awake.

  I miss the last words of Papa Legba’s song. I rush to the window to see if he’s still there, but Papa Legba is gone. All that’s left is the plastic bucket.

  “He’s Papa Legba,” I say. “He sits at the crossroads and he holds a cane.”

  “That’s what Ma used to say when we were little. That man has been there at that corner just about all my life. But he comes and goes.”

  “So why don’t you ask him for help?”

  “’Cause he’s a crazy old man, that’s why. He’s not a lwa and he’s not magical. Now can you please go to sleep?”

  I don’t. I stay up until the morning sun reaches me. I will set my mother free. Papa Legba, the one who stands at the center of all crossroads and in front of all doors, will make it so.

  NINE

  THE FOLLOWING FRIDAY, I pack a small bag for Manman—some underwear, toiletries, and her magic.

  “You’re planning to leave us already?” Chantal asks as she gets dressed.

  “We have to get my mother,” I say. “It’s been too long. I have to find out what’s going on. Your mother is not doing anything.”

  “She is. Trust me. She didn’t go through all that
trouble bringing her over here just to leave her hanging. We want Aunt Val here, too, you know.”

  “How can I go to New Jersey?” I ask.

  Chantal sighs. “You’d have to take the Greyhound for, like, fifteen hours. But you’re not going anywhere. And I’m not taking you to New Jersey. Ma is finding everything out. If she say to wait, then you wait. If she say to move, then you move. But I see that you’re hardheaded like your cousins.”

  “And you are not?”

  She turns to me and looks me straight in the eyes. “When I was sixteen, I left home and told my mother I was going to find my father’s killer. I was gone for six days.”

  I don’t say anything for a long minute, waiting for her to finish the story. “Well, did you find him?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “So we’re family, all right. But I’m not gonna let you do anything stupid. Okay?”

  After school, Pri doesn’t leave me alone. She follows me from my last class to my locker and out the door. Maybe she thinks that I will do like Chantal and disappear for six days. I’ve been thinking about it since this morning. I can do it. I have enough money. It will only take two busses and lots of hours to pick up my mother and come back.

  “Do you even know where Jersey is?” she asks, as if she’s reading my mind. “How are you gonna tell the difference between New Jersey and motherfuckin’ Wisconsin?”

  “I know English, I can read, and I have money,” I say as I walk down the front steps of the school.

  “Do you even know the shit that happens to dumb-ass girls like you who wanna go on road trips? They get snatched and thrown in the backs of vans and forced to turn tricks,” Pri says, huffing and puffing as she tries to keep up with me.

  I stop when I reach the sidewalk. “Turn tricks? You mean prostitution? They do that to girls in Haiti, too. And it hasn’t happened to me.”

  “Your voodoo is not gonna save you out here on these streets.”

  “Pri,” I say, looking straight into her eyes. “No one is helping me with my mother. She’s in a prison. Prison! Her only crime was coming here to this country to make a better life for us. So I know she’s counting on me. I have to help her.”

  Pri shoves her hands into her coat pockets, cocks her head back, and looks down her nose at me. “You gonna be all right, cuzz?”

  I nod. “Yes, Pri.”

  She inhales, pulls the hood of her coat over her head, and looks around as if searching for someone. “Look. Chant ain’t here yet and Donna left early with her man. He offered to take us home, but I wasn’t trying to get into that nigga’s car. Chill at the school for a minute, and meet me out here in, like, fifteen. And you’re not going to no damn New Jersey!”

  She goes over to a group of girls standing near the school. I don’t recognize any of them and they don’t have our uniforms on. Again, I’m left out of my cousins’ circle and I know for sure that I’m not the Fourth Bee.

  I return to the CVS for only a few minutes until it’s time to meet up with Pri again. I make a mental checklist of all the things I want to buy this time: more toiletries for myself, hair stuff, and maybe a magazine.

  I’m in one of the wide aisles when a woman’s voice makes me jump and drop a jar of hair moisturizer on the floor.

  “Hey!” she calls out. “I keep running into you.”

  It’s the woman from last week with the same fuzzy hat, but this time she’s wearing a brown coat. She comes over to me and I wonder if she lives in the neighborhood.

  I don’t say anything and glance at the few other people in the aisle.

  “You know, I’m looking for a good high school for my niece,” the woman says. “How do you like that school?”

  “It’s okay,” I say, and move on to the next row of products on the shelf.

  “Those are some real good kids over there. Not too much trouble.”

  I look down at her boots—the same clean leather boots as before. Manman told me not to judge people by their clothes but by their shoes. A wise person will only be left with threads, but their shoes should be made for endless walking in search of a better life. “If you already know that the school is good, then why are you asking me?”

  She laughs. “Smart cookie. It’s always good to get an inside perspective, you know?”

  I pick up the colorful jar, place it back on the shelf, and walk away.

  “Wait. You are Donna’s cousin, right?”

  I stop. I don’t turn. I wait for her to explain herself.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “How do you know Donna?” I ask, only turning a little just to see her face.

  She shrugs. “I also know Pri and Chantal, and their mother, Marjorie. I’m familiar with their case from several years back. Their father, your uncle, was killed near the Chrysler plant.”

  I stand frozen for a moment because this is the first time I’ve heard someone actually say these words—your uncle was killed.

  I turn to face her full-on. I look into her eyes and decide to trust her because she knows this important part of our story.

  The restaurant the lady takes me to is within walking distance from the school, so I can always run back if anything happens. Besides, I didn’t even know there was somewhere nice to eat so close to the school. It’s a Mexican restaurant that serves rice and beans and I’m happy to finally get to eat something familiar.

  She sits across from me at a booth. I keep on my coat, but she removes hers. She wears a white shirt, a blue sweater, light makeup on her brown skin, a simple wedding ring, and an endless smile. “Please, order as much as you want. I invited you here for a chat, so it’s good manners that I treat you to a meal.” Her voice is even and firm.

  “Have you come here with my cousins?” I ask.

  She exhales. “Actually, I have not.” She wipes her hands on a napkin and extends one out to me. “I’m Detective Shawna Stevens with the Grosse Pointe Park Police Department.”

  I freeze and press my back against the seat. I start to slide out and contemplate leaving the restaurant.

  “Wait a minute. You haven’t done anything wrong. This isn’t about you or your cousins. I just need your help,” she says. “And I can help you with your mother.”

  I settle back into my seat. My skin, muscles, and bones feel as if they have melted away and I can simply step out of my body. “My mother? You can help?”

  “Yes,” she says, nodding.

  I smile at her. But my smile quickly fades as I realize that Papa Legba may open doors, but sometimes he leads you through a labyrinth. “How do you know about my mother and what do you want from me?”

  She goes into her bag and pulls out a newspaper. Right there on the front page is a picture of a blond girl. I’ve seen her before, on the TV and on other newspapers lying around at school. The headline reads: PROTESTS SCHEDULED OUTSIDE DETROIT POLICE DEPARTMENT FOR THE DEATH OF GROSSE POINTE PARK TEEN.

  I shrug. “She was on drugs.”

  “Her name was Madison Helwig and she was seventeen years old. She died from a bad combination of designer drugs. We’re trying to find out how Madison and her friends got access to those drugs. And there’s a whole community that wants someone to go down for her death. Do you know anything about drugs and drug dealers, Fabiola?”

  I shrink back in my seat again. I start to answer her but she cuts me off.

  “Of course you don’t. Sure, you might’ve known some people in Haiti, but I think you know more of them now that you’re in Detroit,” she says. The waitress comes over to take our order, but Detective Stevens shoos her away.

  My stomach twists into a knot. “I don’t know anybody,” I say.

  She folds her hands in front of her and leans back in her seat. “Drayton Willis Carter. He goes by Dray.”

  My stomach sinks.

  “He’s Donna’s boyfriend, right?”

  I shrug.

  “Look, we need to get this guy off the streets. He’s selling drugs to these nice kids like you in and around Detroit. He�
��s not a good guy, Fabiola. But we need proof. We need evidence that he’s the one getting drugs into these parties. We need to catch him in the act.”

  I look all around the restaurant. “But that is your job,” I say.

  She inhales and looks around, too. “Yes, it is. But our work is not without the help of good American citizens like yourself. You are an American citizen, right?”

  I nod slowly.

  “And your mother is not,” she goes on. “That’s why they’re keeping her at that detention center.”

  “But the American embassy gave her a visa. She didn’t do anything wrong,” I insist.

  “You were born here after your mother’s visa expired seventeen years ago. She wanted to make sure you were born American, that you could come back. Unfortunately, overstaying your visa is breaking the law. They think she might do it again.”

  I swallow hard and glance toward the exit. I recognize some kids from my school coming in, but they don’t see me just yet.

  “Fabiola, we can get her out. And we can expedite the process for her to obtain a green card. She won’t have to hide once she’s here. She can live and work legally. Isn’t that what she wants? What you both want?”

  I sit up in my seat, and it’s as if my insides are like flowers that have blossomed after a tiny bit of rain. Something comes alive within me. But I wasn’t born last night, as my mother would say. I remember how Manman would outwit those vagabon in suits who would offer expedited visas in exchange for things that are not meant to be given away for visas. “What will this cost?” I ask.

  “No. No money. Just information . . . on Drayton. Dray. Your cousin’s boyfriend.”

  I take a sip of water. “I think he hits my cousin. They call them D&D—Dungeons and Dragons. That’s all I know.”