American Street

by Ibi Zoboi

  I keep walking, and when I look to the left, Papa Legba is standing there on the corner of Dover and American, leaning on his cane with rain dripping from the brim of his hat. Behind him is a white house with Christmas decorations, even though it’s only November. He looks strange, as if he’s just a visitor in this world. I wait for a car to pass before crossing the street, and by the time I reach the other corner, Papa Legba is gone.

  The rain is lighter now, so I quickly walk past the houses to reach the other corner. But this part of American Street stretches long. I pass house after house, empty lot after empty lot. Most homes look as if they have families who love them; others look like abandoned orphans with their burned-out roofs and missing windows. A few dogs bark and I jump. An old man calls out, so I walk faster. A car slows down next to me, so I pretend to wave to someone in the distance. The car drives away. And that’s when he appears again. I can see him all the way at the end of the sidewalk.

  He stands in front of a house. My heart jumps because maybe this is it. This is the house with the door with the soul with the tomb that doesn’t spell doom. But as I examine the front gate leading to the house, Papa Legba disappears again. This lwa is full of tricks. There is nothing about the house that gives me a sign or clue, so I keep walking. Maybe Papa Legba will appear at the same corner again, telling me to come back and make another turn, or enter that house. I keep looking back, but he’s not there. It’s his way of saying that I am close, that I don’t need his help anymore. So I keep going. Now I have to find this place that will lead me to Dray without Papa Legba’s help.

  I step over old railroad tracks and continue to walk down one more stretch of American Street. There aren’t as many houses as before, and finally, I see West Chicago. I turn left toward the church called House of Canaan, and the club on the other corner is now as clear as the sun behind the parting clouds.

  I remember that bright-purple door on the short and wide gray building that takes up the whole section of this street. This is the block, I realize. And there is the letter Q, drawn in shiny, silver paint. Street, block, house, door echo in my mind again.

  I pull on the door handle and a dog starts to bark. I jump and step away from the door. Another dog joins in. Two dogs barking. I want to run back, but I stand still. I’ve come this far.

  “Ay yo, Fabulous!” someone calls out.

  My whole body tingles and I freeze. I close my eyes to utter Papa Legba’s name for help because I recognize that voice. I see Dray holding two dogs on short leashes. Angry dogs. Dogs that look as if they want to tear me apart.

  “What you doing here, Fabulous?” he says, still with that eye patch, like Baron Samedi. He’s standing by the door near the side of the building, a secret passageway, maybe. The tomb.

  At the same moment, the purple door opens, and a fat guy I recognize stands at the entrance. He was there at that party patting down the people coming in and keeping others out.

  There is no Papa Legba here to guide my steps. I’m here on the street, on the block, at the house, by the door. . . .

  “I asked you a question, Fabulous. What? You looking for Kasim or something?” His words don’t glide out of his mouth—they pulse.

  “Q” is all I say. Then I want to take it back.

  The fat man by the door shifts his weight. He steps out of the entrance and lets the door shut behind him. My stomach drops. The dogs are still barking.

  “What about Q?” Dray asks, cocking his head to one side.

  “This is the name of the club, right? I remember coming here for a party.” My hands are sweating; my body itches.

  “Get the fuck in here,” Dray says, motioning with his head for me to follow him in as the fat man comes to take the dogs away. He pulls their leashes and they whimper.

  The house. The door. The soul. Then it settles on me like falling concrete. This is also Papa Legba’s doing. The door is open. So I must take it from here. I walk past the barking dogs and the fat man, past Dray, and into this building.

  It’s dark in the back of the club. A single long table is in the middle of the room with about six metal folding chairs around it. One lightbulb hangs from a long cord and swings a little after Dray pulls the door closed. It slams and I breathe in and out slowly, licking my lips and looking every which way, searching for words, ideas, anything. How can I get the information I need? I say, “My mother is coming soon. She was in jail.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He crosses his arms over his chest and spreads his legs. “Your moms? In jail? Where, Haiti?”

  I relax a bit because I’m telling the truth. “No, here. In New Jersey. A detention center. But she’s coming soon. I want to throw her a party. Here. This is a nice place.”

  He laughs. “Oh, that’s real cute. Your cousins threw Jo a party here when she turned forty, I think. Matter of fact, it was my uncle Q who organized the whole thing.”

  “Uncle Q?”

  “Yeah. Maybe I should introduce you. . . . Better yet, you’ll meet him soon enough if you and Kasim are serious like that.”

  I nod.

  “Y’all serious like that? ’Cause you and him could have what me and Donna have.”

  “But you hurt her,” I say without thinking.

  He laughs again. “She hurts me, too. She breaks my fucking heart every day. Now, I don’t want you doing that shit to my boy Kasim. Feel me?”

  I don’t say anything. I don’t move.

  “Feel me, Fabulous?”

  I nod slowly.

  “Now, let your cousins handle that party shit. Don’t let me catch you snooping around here. Kasim wouldn’t want anything to happen to you,” he says with a half smile.

  “Ay yo, Dray!” someone calls out from the front.

  The dogs start barking again. Dray goes over to the far end of the room and pulls something out of the drawer of a filing cabinet. My eyes are glued to it, to how he’s holding it. And it’s not until he’s just a few inches from me that I see it’s a gun. I can’t take my eyes off it.

  “Come here,” he says.

  He has a gun. I don’t move one inch.

  “I said come here!” His words are like ice—cold and stinging.

  I do move. But not my feet. I sway forward a little bit. My mind wants to obey his command, but my body is afraid of what will happen if I go over to him.

  “Dray, man!” someone calls out again.

  He holds the gun up toward the ceiling, his elbow bent. The dogs bark louder. Voices filter in from outside the club. “Don’t leave,” he says, and walks out of the back room.

  The door doesn’t click all the way shut and a sliver of sunlight seeps in. Again, a door has opened for me. But this time, I’m sure it’s to get out.

  As I run back home, my heart leaps out of my chest, my head pounds, and I almost collapse on the front steps. I take a minute to catch my breath, then pull out my phone and look at Detective Stevens’s number. I don’t wait for her to call. This time I call.

  “Hello. This is Fabiola.”

  “Yes, I know,” she says. “How are you?”

  “Dray’s uncle is a guy named Q.” My breathing is still heavy. I can’t get the words out fast enough. “My uncle Phillip went down for him, or something like that.”

  “You sound out of breath. Are you okay? Did something just happen?”

  “Q runs a business out of that club. Dray is there. And . . . there is a gun.”

  “We know about the club, Fabiola. We need something that places Dray and his drugs at that party in Grosse Point. I need you to calm down a bit so you can understand what I’m saying.”

  “But . . . ,” I start to say. I take in a deep breath. “He is doing bad things in that place.”

  She’s quiet for a moment. Then she says, “Thank you, Fabiola. You’re doing good, but I want you to be very careful. Don’t put yourself in any dangerous situations. Just listen and pay close attention. Get me something I can use.”

  I nod, but she can’t see me, of course.
<
br />   “Fabiola?”

  “Yes?”

  “If you can be free tomorrow around noon, I can arrange a phone call with your mother.”

  I close my eyes and exhale. I don’t say a word to her. She lets me have this moment of quiet gratitude and hangs up the phone.

  It starts to rain hard again. I let it pour over my head for a few minutes before I go back inside.

  SIXTEEN

  WE’RE NOT ALLOWED to have our cell phones in class. But at school the next day, I manage to keep mine in my book bag all morning. After every class, I run into the bathroom to see if the detective has left a number or has called.

  Then, around eleven thirty in the morning, after my math class, the detective sends a text with a time. My mother has my number. She will be calling exactly at noon. Good. It’ll be lunchtime, so I won’t have to miss a class. I’m in a bathroom stall and I press myself against the door, holding the phone to my heart. I count the minutes, the seconds, the milliseconds until my phone rings.

  “Alo, alo? Manman?”

  “Alo?”

  “Manman?”

  “Fabiola? Oh, Faboubou!”

  “Manman! Kommen ou ye? How are you?”

  “Oh, mezanmi! Fabiola? When can I see your face, dear daughter?”

  “Manman, I’m working so hard to get you out. I promise. We will see each other soon. How are they treating you? What are you eating? It’s so cold. Are you warm, Manman? Do you have enough clothes? Do you have socks? Do they give you soap?”

  “No, Fab. How are you? I don’t want you to worry about me. How are your cousins, and my dear sister? How is school? Fab, tell me that you are studying lots.”

  “Wi, Manman. Yes, yes, yes! I’m working to get you out. Get your things ready. I have your suitcases here. I will pick out a dress for you to wear when you arrive.”

  “I tell you don’t worry about me. That is Marjorie’s job. Now, where is she? Is she sending money? She needs to send me a good lawyer and money. Is she coming to see me?”

  “No, Manman. I’m taking care of it.”

  “Stay out of it, Fabiola. Focus on your books. Let me speak to Marjorie.”

  “Matant Jo is not here. I will tell her— Alo? Alo?”

  “Alo? Fabiola?”

  “Manman, I can’t hear you. Alo?”

  “Alo? Alo?”

  “Manman? I’m here. I’m here. Alo, alo? What happened? I can’t hear you. Hello? Manman, I love you. I love you! Hello?”

  Someone knocks on the stall’s door.

  “Fabiola? Who are you talking to?” It’s Imani.

  I need to think quick, because this little slice of happiness is part of a secret deal. “Just my aunt,” I lie.

  “Well, you need to put that phone away so you don’t get detention,” she says.

  I hold the phone in my hand even as I walk out of the bathroom. Detention or not, I just spoke to my mother and there is sunshine again.

  I’ve been knocking for almost two minutes with no answer, so I open the door. “Matant,” I start to say when I see her lying on her bed. But before I even ask my question, she reaches over the edge of her bed, picks something up, and throws it straight at me. I don’t even have time to duck. It hits the wall next to the door and lands right at to my feet. A slipper. My aunt threw a slipper at me. I quickly close the door.

  “Hey, hey!” she calls out. “Come back in here! You wake me up and then you’re gonna leave just like that?”

  I open the door again. Slowly this time, ready to duck. I don’t step all the way in.

  “What do you want?” she yells. “Come in here and close the door behind you.”

  I do as she says. “Wi, Matant.”

  “I keep telling you, English. Now, what do you want?” Her voice is softer. She rolls to her back. It’s dark in her room, and the one window behind her headboard is covered with a thick curtain. The air is thick, too, a mix of alcohol and food. Her bedroom is next to the kitchen.

  “I spoke to my mother today,” I say soft, soft, as if my words are tiptoeing.

  “What? How did you find her?”

  I pause for a long while. “There was a number on the website. I just gave them her name,” I lie. “She wanted to speak to you. She really wanted to hear your voice.”

  “That easy, eh?” she says, slowly sitting up. She yawns and rubs her face. It’s as if sleeping makes her tired. “So what is her situation? Why are they keeping her there? How is she doing?”

  “I think she is okay.”

  Her hair is smashed in the back and it fans out around her head like a peacock’s, but not as beautiful. “She did it to herself, you know. She’s always been so hardheaded, that Valerie. Just like me,” she says, and scratches her head with both hands. “Well, I am so happy you spoke with her. She will take good care of herself. My hands are tied, Fabiola.”

  Her words are small and sad, even though she now knows that her sister is okay.

  “Aunt Jo, why do you sleep so much?” I ask.

  She inhales long and deep. Then she coughs. “Get me some water.”

  In a less than a minute, I’m by her bed, placing the glass of cool water on her nightstand. She quickly drinks it and her gulps are loud and deep. “Do you want more?”

  “No, I’m good,” she says. She inhales again. “No, really. Thank you.” She’s looking straight at me now.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You’ve done more for me in these past few weeks than my own daughters have.”

  I shake my head, wanting to reject the compliment.

  “No, really. I mean, you cook, you clean. I’ve never seen the stove so spotless, the refrigerator so . . . organized,” she says.

  I look around the room, and I want to clean up in here, too. There are a few clothes on the floor next to her bed. But I want to throw out the things on her nightstand most of all. The drinking glasses I’ve been looking for all week are there. And bottles and bottles of pills. But I’ve never seen her go to the doctor or the hospital.

  “Where do you feel pain?” I finally ask. “Is it your heart, your back, your bones, your head?”

  She closes her eyes. “Everywhere, Fabiola. Everywhere.”

  “But you’re too young, Matant. I mean, Aunt.”

  “Tell me about my sister. Was she in pain, too? Because whenever I called her, she would say everything is fine. Just fine. I never believed her.”

  “She wasn’t in pain, but she was tired of fighting. Everything about Port-au-Prince was a fight.”

  “Didn’t I send you enough money?”

  “Yes, of course. But . . .”

  “But, I know,” she said. “Money can’t buy happiness, as they say. I should know.”

  Silence falls between us, but before it spreads and pushes us further apart, I take her hand in mine.

  She looks up at me. “So, what is your plan?”

  “To get my mother home.” I don’t think that’s what she was asking. Maybe she wants to hear that I am going to be a doctor like Chantal. But I tell her the truth. First, my mother. Then, everything else.

  I glide my finger along the top of the dresser next to me and collect a thick layer of dust. “I am not tired of fighting. I am just starting,” I say.

  “Oh, yeah?” She laughs. “Tell me, what is it that you’re fighting, Faboubou?”

  My heart wants to collapse because she says my nickname exactly the way my mother says it, with the same voice. Faboubou.

  “Matant. If you call me that, then I will call you Matant. That’s how I’ve always known you. When you used to phone Haiti, I would say Matant Jo. You never corrected me then.”

  “You’re in America now, Fabiola. You have to practice your English.”

  “I know my English.”

  “Thanks to me.”

  “If my mother was here, you would do the same thing to her? Make her call you Jo?”

  “Of course.” She comes over to the dresser, opens a drawer, and pulls out a pair of underwear
. Then she undresses right in front me. I don’t turn away. I examine her body. It looks swollen, as if every sad thing in the world has stuck to her bones. She has a hard time pulling off the nightgown from the left side of her body. So I help her.

  I place the nightgown over my arm and start picking up the other clothes from the floor. A bunch of empty pill bottles and a few alcohol bottles lie open on their sides. I pick those up, too. I look around for a trash can, but there isn’t one. So I hold in my arms and hands as many of her dirty clothes and pill bottles and alcohol bottles as I can.

  She’s sitting at the edge of her bed buttoning her shirt. She tries to smooth down her hair, but it still sticks up. So I set down the things on the dresser, grab a comb from her nightstand, and help her with her hair, just like the many times I’ve done it for my mother and Pri. My aunt melts beneath my hands. Her good shoulder hunches over, she lets out a deep quiet breath, and before long, she starts humming. It’s a song I know, a song my mother sings, too. So I hum with her.

  Then she asks, “Did everyone respect my sister? She was a big-time mambo, right?”

  “Yes and no. And no and yes,” I say as I kneel behind her on the bed, parting the thin, graying strands of her hair. I can’t help but think that my own mother’s hair is still full and black.

  “What is that, a trick answer? I did not ask you a trick question. Your mother was right. You are Legba’s child.”

  “He’s at the corner, Matant. He watches over this house, you know.”

  “Who? Bad Leg? That crazy crackhead?” She laughs and sounds just like Pri.

  “Chantal said you used to call him Legba, too. You knew.”

  “I didn’t know shit, just like you don’t know shit, Faboubou. Don’t worry. You’ll learn.”

  I stop braiding her hair. “That’s not true, Matant Jo,” I say, trying to make my English sound like my cousins’. “I know things. Me and my mother, we did well in Haiti, with or without your money.”

  She laughs her Pri laugh again, but only the right side of her body shakes. “You did well in Haiti with my money. You think I was going to let my sister rot in the countryside with a new baby in her hands?”

  “We prayed for you. When I was a young girl and I couldn’t even understand anything, I knew that it was my job to pray for my aunt and cousins because it was the only reason my papers said that I am American. We were grateful for that, not just for the money.”