“What do you think you drew?”
“I don’t know.” N’ariti suddenly found whatever blind courage exists in a six-year-old. “A window.”
Zelda smiled faintly. “Good. Show me.”
N’ariti shook her head.
“Show me the window.” Zelda waved off N’ariti’s offer of the pad. She tapped her own head. “Up here. Show me. Be a window.”
Zelda stood very carefully, eyes closed, hands by her sides. “I’m a window,” she said out of the corners of her mouth. “I am dirty. Broken. Abandoned. Lonely. Everything is organically emotional. That’s what I mean,” she suddenly shouted. The children huddled closer together. Zelda went through each of the children, reducing them to tears. It seemed only right that their parents should have the same opportunity with her the next day.
Marshall’s mother glowered across the principal’s office. Zelda so wanted to slap her silly, thick-headed Reg head.
“My son won’t go near windows anymore.”
Bennett Chambers, the PS 75 principal, nodded his wooly head in grave understanding.
“That’s good,” Zelda protested.
Chambers cleared his throat warningly.
“Well it is,” she couldn’t resist.
“He was a Muslim Europe orphan,” Marshall’s Mom said, fluffing her dress. “He still has nightmares.”
“Didn’t he come here when he was an infant?”
“I can see you’re not a mother,” Marshall’s Mom sneered.
“No, I’m not,” Zelda almost added thankfully.
“Then you’d understand the trauma of abuse and terror in an ME orphanage can affect even a baby. All those studies show it takes years to shed them of the horrors. Now he has to worry about windows.”
“Just keep them open so he won’t notice…”
“Zelda,” Chambers broke in. “Mrs. Diem, we will make sure that there are no more field trips like this.”
The mother rose. “I hope this doesn’t sound rude, but I don’t want him in this class anymore. Sorry, Ms. Jones.”
Zelda shrugged. “He doesn’t have much talent anyway.”
Chambers took the gasping mother to the door, whispering apologies. He returned behind his desk, coldly staring at Zelda.
“What did that accomplish, Ms. Jones? In your own words.”
“Which part?”
“Select one.” His teeth gritted.
“I think she’s a moron who doesn’t understand how to reach her child emotionally other than hiding behind stereotypical fears and blaming everything she does wrong on the kid not getting his butt wiped when he was two months old.”
Chambers struggled to conceal his shock. “Is that what you came away with?”
“I didn’t know there was a right or wrong answer, Principal Chambers. Which is what I was trying to get out of the class…”
“What you got out of them is hysteria.” He held up his pad. “The other parents all have meetings here. Do you think you should attend?”
“I probably don’t bring a lot to the table.”
Chambers leaned forward on his forearms. “Why couldn’t you just let them draw trees?”
“The blackened ones?”
“The holographic ones from Grandma.”
“Which aren’t real.”
“They are if we believe so.”
“Which is not a healthy emotion for an artist.”
“It is for the teacher.”
“I was an artist first.”
“And not a successful one, either.” He picked up Zelda’s file and tossed it back down as if she weren’t aware of her life story.
“I had some acclaim. Sold-out shows…”
“And that’s why you ended up here.” He rolled his eyes. “Ms. Jones. No more field trips. You will stay in the classroom and teach according to the curriculum.”
“Which gives a teacher latitude about helping students…”
“Your latitude over the past six months since you’ve been here demonstrates you take latitude with the latitude.”
Even Zelda knew better than to correct him. “Am I on probation, sir?”
• • • •
MRS. GONZALEZ’S EYES burnt skeptically above the brown leather strap stretching across her mouth. Pablo waited another few seconds. The annoyed old woman kicked, making the bicuspid-shaped examining chair swivel slightly. Finding this ploy, Gonzalez kicked a little harder; the chair turned forty-five degrees. Pablo glanced at the ticking machine and then away from the patient, enabling her to kick vigorously with both legs to turn the chair completely around. Her chuckle was muffled.
Pablo untied the strap and rested his right elbow casually on the chair’s arm as Gonzalez regained her breathing.
“Steady.”
“I know, dear.” Gonzalez’s eyes locked onto his eyelashes. “And?”
He held out the square half-moon machine in front of him. “Six and a half inches.”
“I don’t believe it.” She suppressed a delighted smile.
“True. I don’t lie.”
“Machines can. As we know,” she said archly.
“I only know the smile-o-meter measured five inches and three quarters two months ago and now it’s up to six.”
Her eyes narrowed above a smile. “You tricked me, Dr. Diaz.”
“You honestly believe that I can trick you, a woman of such experience.”
“And age,” she snorted. “With a child’s toy.”
“The entire Family uses this,” he said with mock severity.
“Means nothing,” she refused to concede.
“Means you’re happier lately. The muscles elevate your mood, making you…”
“Are you going to sound like one of those adverts?”
Pablo shrugged another impish grin. Someday there’d be adverts for one of his products. “You’re happier.”
“I haven’t done anything differently.”
“That’s the beauty of it. You don’t have to work at happiness. Most of our siblings still don’t get it.”
He undid her white apron.
“We’re done?” She was disappointed. Eighty-nine-years old and nothing else to do the rest of the day.
“I’ve got a waiting room full of patients, none of them as beautiful as you.”
“Grandma’s earrings, I will lose my lunch.” She chuckled. “Did you use such charms when you saw my nephew?”
Pablo busied himself finishing up her chart.
“Dr. Diaz, he’s a lovely boy.”
“I’m really busy, Mrs. Gonzalez. I don’t have time.”
“For love?”
Pablo eased her gently out of the chair. “To brush my teeth as often as I should.” He handed her a green lolly. “Remember to floss.”
“If you’ll call my nephew.” She grunted.
Pablo spritzed disinfectant spray on the chair and replaced the paper cups. He really had to find a dental assistant. The A27 receptionist knocked twice and opened the door. Past its wiggy blond head, Pablo could see the fluorescent yellow waiting room was full. Gentle humming buzzed beneath the seats. Every nine seconds the walls turned into a glistening smile that morphed into rows of perfect white teeth putting the patients inside the mouth, looking out at an HG of Pablo by his office door, warmly welcoming them with a tilt of his tooth-like head. Only the really cynical didn’t smile.
“You have two gentlemen to see you, Dr. Diaz.”
Pablo glanced at the chart.
“Not patients, sir.”
The robot stepped aside to allow two lanky men in casual light suits carrying wide brimmed hats to enter. They had that official look which made his stomach churn.
“May I help you?”
The dark-haired one nodded. “We’re from Grandma’s House, Dr. Diaz.”
Pablo squeezed his lucky aqua marble in his right pocket. “What’ve I done?”
The men exchanged curious smiles. “What do you think you’ve done?”
“Nothing at all.”
Pablo tensed. The dark-haired man shot his colleague a disapproving look. “Excuse him. Sometimes he plays cop. It’s inappropriate.”
“Yes, it was.” The other man wiped dust off the picture frame and carefully placed it back on the shelf. “Then again, you’re supposed to handle all situations.”
“I’m a good dentist.”
“Very good. That’s why Grandma is considering asking you to become a Fifth Cousin.”
Pablo took a quick sip from a paper cup, swallowed a little and then rinsed and spit the rest. The men grinned.
“Sorry…” He blushed.
“Oh please,” the sandy-haired man said. “You should see the range of reactions we get, if we were allowed to say.”
“I’m honored…”
“But not too honored.” The man eyed him shrewdly.
“No,” Pablo said carefully. “Honored enough to both lead and serve.”
“Good.” The man beamed. “May we take that as an agreement to the next step?”
“Certainly,” Pablo said hoarsely.
The men nodded, pleased. The dark-haired man picked up the conversation, “As you know, you can’t say anything about this.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Because no one can ever say anything.”
“Yes. Of course,” he mumbled.
“If your receptionist asks, who are we?” the sandy-haired shot the question.
“Salesmen.”
“You put salesmen ahead of patients?”
“A recommendation of a patient. A courtesy. ”
The men exchanged pleased smiles. The sandy-haired guy continued, “You do understand this is merely asking if you’re interested. That’s all. You might never hear back. You might hear back tomorrow. We only do the asking. Others follow up.”
Pablo just nodded.
“Nice to meet you, Dr. Diaz.” The dark-haired man studied the smile-o-meter. “This really work?”
“Absolutely. Think smiles and you do.” Dr. Gerry Rosen had invented the smile-o-meter back in 2081. He’d gotten tired of his grandchildren hiding in closets or under the bed, whimpering, inspired to such behavior by Rosen jumping out from behind doors growling and threatening to eat them. His daughter wouldn’t let her children stay with him anymore until he could prove they were happy. So came the smile-o-meter, measuring the width of a smile. Both his granddaughters had permanent marks on their cheeks, but their faces—the Extra Dimple Rosen Girls—became famous when Grandma learned of the invention; she still measured her smile once a week on National Smile Day.
“I’d be happy to strap you in, sir.”
The man chuckled. “How much would that cost me?”
“It’s part of the regular initial check-up. Nothing free for anyone, of course.”
“Of course.” The men put on their hats and left.
Pablo slumped into his desk chair, head between his knees to keep it from hurtling off his neck. Cousin.
3
What about that one?” Zelda pointed at the job posting on the computer, sliding the black reading glasses further down her nose. “Two years copy writing experience.”
“About hams.”
“It starts in the fall. Perfect timing.”
Puppy rapped the screen with the back of his hand. “I don’t even eat ham.”
“Fake it,” she said evenly.
Puppy scrolled down the list. There were entry level positions, continuing the career, changing the career and his favorite category, stepping up. As in you screwed up everything else, what do you plan on doing before it’s too late?
“Maybe I can teach.” He lingered over a posting for a phys ed teacher at HS 35 in the Morrisania district, convincing himself.
“That’s in the DV.”
“No, it’s not. Jumping jacks, wind sprints. I’ve seen enough out-of-shape men and women to know…”
“It’s 158th Street.” Zelda was fixed on the geography. Sometimes he needed a very sturdy crane to move her along.
“Which is going east, putting it beyond that Village.”
“I think you’re wrong.” Zelda searched among the baseball books stacked neatly on his desk. “Don’t you have a guide?”
“Somewhere,” he said gloomily.
“You have to keep street guides, Puppy. It’s the law. ‘Know where you are in your heart and your body.’ Twelfth Insight.”
He stared. “Are you going to quote Madame’s thoughts for a long time?”
“No and don’t call her Madame. That’s disrespectful.”
He rolled his eyes. “I think I know the Bronx pretty good. Especially where the DVs begin and end. And the River Avenue DV ends just west of Third Avenue at 160rd.”
“I think you’re wrong.”
“You usually do.”
“But it doesn’t matter anyway since it would drive you insane to actually teach sports.”
“As opposed to writing jingles for Hank’s Hams? Bake ‘em, broil ‘em, flip ‘em on the grill. Anyway you do it, you’ll get a thrill.”
Zelda’s dark eyes widened. “That’s really good.”
“Thank you. It’s one of their adverts.” Puppy sighed. “I couldn’t sleep last night.”
She plopped back onto the long pillows on the floor. “Me neither.”
He paused on another posting. “Here we go. ‘Everyone Needs Shoes.’ Smart. Who goes barefoot anymore? Or ever? ‘Walton Avenue’s largest shoe store, These Boots Are Made for Walking, needs an eager, aggressive individual to make sure every sidewalk in the Bronx looks at our soles.’”
Zelda sneered. “It’d remind you of Annette and her store and your marriage.”
Puppy wandered into the kitchen, returning with a couple of beers. Zelda stared dimly at the screen, mechanically opening the bottle.
“I have to do this, too,” she said softly.
He took her hand. “Oh shit, what happened?”
“Nothing.” Zelda shrugged. “Only teaching brats isn’t for me.”
“That’s very surprising given your love of children.”
She snarled mockingly. “I can’t just sit in a classroom and make them draw pretty little flowers with cute little birds.”
“Didn’t you have birds in that showcase you did on Jerome Avenue?” Puppy grinned.
“Real birds. Flying around.”
“Wih you squawking and chasing them.”
“Flight. Adventure.”
“Especially when the birds got into the audience.”
“That’s art, Puppy.” She shook her head in dismay. “I should’ve stuck with it.”
“They wouldn’t have let you. The practicality would’ve worn you down. Chasing birds isn’t exactly the route to success in Grandma’s House.”
“What is?”
“We ain’t found it,” he stated the obvious.
“Maybe you can get something in the Sport Commission.”
“Can you see me setting up the football Augmented Realties? Hut, hut, here I am in the huddle with all these really big guys. Or the NBA. How is the weather up there, Mr. Giant?”
“Fifteen years counts for something, honey.” She touched his forehead.
“Commissioner Kenuda hates baseball. Trust me.” Puppy aimlessly scrolled along. “Something weird happened this morning.”
“I knew it.”
“What?”
“Your mood. It’s more than just facing a dismal job prospect you will hate and seeing your lifelong dreams die.”
Puppy had to chuckle, even if he didn’t feel it. He told Zelda about the old guy. She listened intently, interrupting for detail after detail, exhausting him.
“I checked the door three times to make sure it was loc
ked after we left.” She assured him. “I even had Pablo rattle the knob. Twice. So how’d he get in?”
“Maybe I sleepwalk and open my own doors.”
She didn’t like that answer. “Be serious.”
“I am. I said it was weird.”
Zelda hesitated. “How’d you act with him?”
“The way anyone would act when someone breaks into their house.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Uh-huh, uh-huh. I told you, I brought him to the community center.” Zelda kept staring. “You obviously have some deep and startling insight to bring to this discussion.”
“Could’ve let him stay an extra day or two. You know what The Facility is like.”
“I do.” His throat closed, making him angry. At her, no, himself. “And that’s why, Miss Psychiatrist, I sent him off. Because they’re set up to take care of crazy old drunks.”
“If that’s what you want to think.”
“That like any other normal human being I wouldn’t want some smelly stranger in my house who could steal my things doesn’t cross your mind.”
“Steal what?” Zelda gestured around the living room, the sagging brown couch, battered chairs and wobbly coffee table courtesy of a discount store on Fordham Road after he and Annette split. He asked for the worst looking furniture they had. The salesman took pity and only charged for the delivery. If he knew Annette, the salesman probably would’ve thrown in a dining room set.
Puppy pursed his lips and returned to the postings. Zelda poked him.
“Ow.”
“Answer me.”
“You didn’t ask a question.”
“Why didn’t you let him stay?”
“Because I have to look for a job, otherwise the Employment Center will just assign me one which I won’t like, because I can find something so perfect on my own. Here.” He nodded at the screen. “Copywriter. All backgrounds welcome. Basil Hayden Funeral Homes. ‘Let Us Do the Dying.’ Now let’s find yours. Tweet, tweet.”
• • • •
A SHAGGY-HEADED MAN with a scrungy beard leaned into a small puddle of beer on the counter.
“It’s wet.” Zelda pointed at his dripping sleeve.
“You’re worth it.”
Zelda rolled her eyes. The burly, tight-lipped bartender Jimmy paused in case she needed help. Zelda double-blinked a ‘no’ and Jimmy went back to drying glasses, keeping an eye on her anyway.
A Mound Over Hell Page 3