It helps them a little. It helps us a lot, she always says.
“Yeah, it ain’t much, but it’s home,” he says. I’m embarrassed that he’s caught me staring.
“This is where you live?”
“Yeah,” he says with a chuckle. He looks old enough to be someone’s grandfather, but maybe that’s just because I see gray hairs in his brown beard. “My piece of real estate.”
I nod and look down the street, wanting to leave but not wanting this man to think it’s because of him. He sees my fidgeting.
“Got somebody waiting for you?” he asks, his lips parted in a toothy grin.
“No. I mean, yes. My aunt, but she’s not really waiting. She doesn’t know I’m coming.” I’m talking too much.
“That’s the way to do it. Surprise them so they can’t make up some story about having a doctor’s appointment.”
I smile politely.
“I don’t think she would do that,” I say.
“You don’t, eh? Well, you’re either right or you’re wrong. How’s that for wisdom? No charge for that one. And there’s more where it came from too.”
I’ve been told since I was old enough to walk that I’m not supposed to talk to strangers, and yet here I am. He lifts his head.
“Winter’s gonna be brutal this year. We got off lucky last year.”
I’m not scared away by this man. He hasn’t asked me my name. He doesn’t seem to care that I’m not with an adult.
“How can you tell?” I ask.
“Something . . .” He scrunches his nose up as if he’s trying to catch a whiff of something. “Just something about the air. And I’ve seen lots of rings around the moon too. Something my grandfather taught me to do back home.”
“I didn’t think the moon had rings,” I say.
He laughs.
“You never seen a ring of light around the moon? My granddad taught me to look for them when I was a kid. Sure way to tell what weather’s coming around the corner.”
“Where are you from?” I ask, trying to picture rings around the moon.
“Kansas,” he announces, and clears his throat. He’s got fingerless gloves on. “Ever been?”
“No. But I’ve heard of it.”
“That’s a start. Big, open skies that crack in half in thunderstorms. People with hearts as open as those skies.”
“Why did you leave?”
I have my back against the building now.
“Joined the service.”
I look back at the star on his cup and realize what it means.
“You were in the army?”
He nods. I remember that my father worked alongside American soldiers—like friends. It makes me want to talk to this man. I wonder if my father would be happy to see me with him.
“Stationed in a couple of places before I got sent to Panama.”
“I don’t know where Panama is,” I admit. If he’s disappointed that I don’t know anything about where he’s fought, he doesn’t show it.
“It’s a little paradise in Central America. Spent twenty-three ugly days there. I came home with a torn shoulder and one ear that can’t hear anything quieter than a bullhorn,” he explains, pointing to his left ear. “I was twenty-two years young then. Came back a month later feeling like an old man.”
I don’t know what I feel like, but I sure don’t feel like a twelve-year-old kid today. I rub at my shins. They feel sore from all the walking I’ve done.
“There’s a lot of war in Afghanistan too.” I twirl the strap of Max’s backpack around my wrist and pull so the strap presses into my skin.
“There’s war everywhere. People can’t live without it,” he says, and chuckles again. There’s a rasp to his voice that makes him sound tired but smart. “We always find a reason for war. Keeps us looking forward to peace, I suppose.”
I can see he’s been reading the same paper I spotted at the newsstand just around the corner. There’s the headline about Afghanistan just a couple of feet from me.
“My mom’s from there,” I say, pointing to the newspaper. “Afghanistan.”
“Hmph.” He shifts his weight and arranges his legs so he’s sitting cross-legged. “Bet she’s glad she got outta there.”
“She just got sent back,” I say. As soon as the words come out, I wish I could unsay them. What if he figures out I’m alone? What if he reports me to the police? The man doesn’t seem fazed, though.
“That’s tough,” he says slowly. “I have friends who served there. Nice people. Rough place. And now we’ve got a boy without his mother. That’s bad news too.”
There’s no pity in his voice. He’s just stating the facts. I’m glad for that. I’m ready to fall apart as it is. If he felt sorry for me, that might just tip me over.
“My father worked with American soldiers in Afghanistan. He was a translator.”
“No kidding.” There’s a flash of wonder in his voice. “Can’t do the job without some local friends.”
I hear a crackling sound and a mechanical voice.
“Two-vehicle collision just outside Holland Tunnel outbound. No injuries.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“That’s my radio,” the man says. He reaches into the box and pulls out a small black walkie-talkie. “I rigged this little thing here so I can catch police talk. Lot more interesting than anything else on the airwaves. And better than waiting for the news to hit the papers.”
“You can hear everything the police are saying on that?”
He eyes me curiously, and I regret asking my question. I don’t want him to think I’ve got reason to want to hear police talk.
“Not everything. Cuts in and out so I only catch some of the cross talk. That interesting to you?”
“Nah,” I say, and shake my head. “Just never seen a walkie-talkie that could do that.”
My stomach growls loudly, even more loudly than the walkie-talkie.
“Hungry, eh? I got some cheese crackers,” he says casually. He pulls out five small packages of cheese and crackers, the kind that get packed into school lunches. “There’s a guy that walks by here twice a week and drops off a bunch of these packages. Never anything else. Just these.”
Those little packages look more precious than bricks of gold right now.
“I’m . . . pretty hungry,” I say. I’m also pretty embarrassed to be taking food from a man who lives in a cardboard box, but I haven’t eaten anything since the sandwich Max and I shared.
“Wouldn’t you know,” the bearded man says with a lightness in his voice. “That those greedy-eyed city rats take one look at this stuff and walk right past.”
I smile, surprised to hear his humor. It hits me that this man should be with his family. Why isn’t he?
“Why didn’t you go back to Kansas?” I ask.
He looks across the street and starts picking at his fingernails.
“I couldn’t do it. I left Kansas a nice kid who’d never seen anything ugly. Most serious thing I’d ever done was put my little brother in a headlock. But then I got sent to Panama. Kid, once you’ve seen ugly, once you’ve been so close to ugly that it leaves its stink on you, you’re not you anymore. I went back home and pretended to be that nice kid again. But I wasn’t that kid, and I couldn’t keep pretending. I didn’t belong there anymore.”
“But what about your family? Didn’t they want you to stay?”
“I don’t think so,” he says. He lets his head hang low as if he’s embarrassed. “I think it was hard for them to have me around. Same for my old friends. I think they were all glad when I left.”
I haven’t known this man very long, but he seems like the kind of guy that people would like having around. I think he’s pretty cool to talk with.
But what he said has gotten me thinking. Will I ever be the Jason D I was when I woke up Friday morning? Will I ever go back to Elkton? What would I say to Ms. Raz or Mr. Fazio in the laundromat? What would my teachers say if they heard about my mother? Would
they not want me in the classroom?
“You ask some big questions for a little kid. What’s your name?” he asks. His question feels like he’s pressing on a bruise.
“Jason D,” I reply.
“I’m Bartley.”
“Sorry if I’m asking too many questions, Mr. Bartley.”
Bartley shrugs, and turns up the collar of his jacket. “Better than not asking any.”
I’m quiet for a moment but then turn back to him.
“If Kansas doesn’t feel like home anymore, does New York City feel like home?”
“It should. It’s home to everybody. New York’s got rich people and poor people. Young people and old people. Koreans got their spot; Chinese got their part of town; the Italians got a few blocks downtown; the Dominicans are a hundred blocks up from here; the Russians got their neighborhood in Brooklyn.”
I hope there’s a place for me here too.
“All of America in one little island,” he says. “That’s what New York City is.”
It’s hard to believe this place is an island. I haven’t seen palm trees or sandy beaches. It’s also hard to believe this place is little. The buildings are taller than any I’ve ever seen. Central Park seemed to go on forever. For a little place, everything is pretty big. And I’m trying to find one person on this island of millions.
I look back at Bartley. His mouth is pinched tight. He hangs on to his thoughts, swallows hard, and fidgets with the dial of the walkie-talkie. I notice his hands shake a little, and wonder if his family back in Kansas knows how he lives.
“I think your family must be really proud of you. And I bet they’d be really happy to see you again. Maybe they just didn’t know what to say.”
I think of Ms. Raz and the way she grumbled those first words of thanks when we started taking food to her. Bartley looks up at me. He scoffs at first and then runs his fingers through his hair.
“I bet they miss you.”
His wet eyes glisten in the soft afternoon light.
“I was more scared of going back home than I was of being over in Panama,” he says quietly. He pauses before he speaks again. “Maybe one day. Never say never, right?”
“I better get going,” I say to Bartley. It’s getting later. The sun’s mostly hidden behind the buildings.
“Hang on, kid.” He reaches into the cardboard box and pulls out the walkie-talkie. “Why don’t you take this? I don’t need it much anymore.”
“Really?”
“Why not?” he asks. “When I was a kid, I used to think walkie-talkies were the coolest. Used my first set until it fell apart and I couldn’t tape it back together anymore. Looks like you could use a little something to make your day better.”
I take the walkie-talkie from him.
“Thanks, Bartley.”
“It’s good talking to you, little man,” he calls out as I get back on my feet. He’s staring at the ground. He exhales slowly, his cheeks puffed and round. “Really good talking to you.”
I walk away from Bartley, Max’s bag a little heavier with the weight of the walkie-talkie. I don’t know why he gave it to me, but it makes me feel safer to have it.
I make it one block when something the bearded man said echoes in my head.
This can’t be. How many hours have I spent getting here?
Auntie Seema told me she was just a block away from some great Dominican restaurants.
Everybody’s got a home in New York City, Bartley said.
I sit on a fire hydrant. Bushy clouds have drifted across the sky and covered the sun’s face. It is suddenly so cold that my fingertips go numb.
I lean over and hug my knees. I can’t look up. Not right now. Not when I’ve just realized I’ve been going the wrong way.
Twenty-Five
I should have figured this out sooner. If I’d stopped to think, maybe I would have. Auntie Seema told me she lives around a bunch of Dominican restaurants. Bartley said that I was a hundred blocks away from the Dominican part of town. Auntie Seema doesn’t live on Seventy-Fourth Street. She lives on 174th Street. The 1 must have gotten torn off with the tape on the return address label.
Could I be wrong? Not a chance. The buildings here look nothing like the ones I saw in the photograph, and there isn’t a single Dominican restaurant for as far as I can see. I’m frustrated that I didn’t put the clues together until now.
How am I going to travel one hundred blocks? I’m exhausted and hungry, and there’s no denying now that my head’s been throbbing. I touch the lump again. It’s a reminder that things have been going wrong every step of the way.
I hear a click behind me and realize a door may be opening. I’m back on my feet and heading down the sidewalk as if I’m a block from home. I decide to return to the park. If I can follow the edge of the park north, I’ll eventually get to 174th Street. It doesn’t take that long to cross one block, I remind myself, so crossing one hundred streets is not impossible.
I pass Bartley’s boxes though there’s no sign of him, and I pass the corner kiosk with the newspapers. The museum is only a couple of blocks away, and the park is across the street. I walk along the shop windows and plan to cross the street at the next crosswalk.
On my left, there are fancy-looking apartment buildings with far more floors and windows than Ms. Raz’s three-story structure. I keep my eyes on the pavement, glancing up often enough to be sure no one’s looking at me strangely, and that I don’t walk into a street sign. A few steps ahead there’s a building with tall ground-floor windows giving a view of the lobby. I peek through the glass and see three people sitting in armchairs. There’s a coffee table with magazines on it. A television is mounted on the wall, and I see a woman wearing a suit reporting the news from behind a desk. Something I see stops me dead in my tracks.
The news anchor is gone. On the screen is a school portrait, a blue backdrop with an American flag on one side.
The face in the middle of the portrait is mine.
It’s my school picture that was taken at the start of school. I’m wearing a tan sweater. My face is curled into a broad smile. That picture was taken about a month before my mom told me she wasn’t supposed to be in America. Then my portrait disappears, and a picture of the hospital is on the television screen.
I need a second to catch my breath. The hospital has somehow figured out who I am. They’ve also managed to get my school picture and broadcast it over the news. I am frozen. I’ve never seen my face on anything but my bathroom mirror. I never would have expected to see my face on a television screen in New York City! When I come to my senses, I look around to see if anyone noticed that I’m the boy on the television screen. Thankfully, no one’s actually watching the news. They’re all busy toying with their phones.
I stuff my hands in my pockets and keep walking, my head low. I wish I could disguise myself somehow, but I don’t even have a hat I can put on. I’m in front of the museum, where it seems easier to blend in because there are so many families here with plenty of kids around my age. I look across the street and see the food trucks lined up along the edge of the park. I should cross over now and disappear into the park. I’m in front of the wide steps that lead up to the museum when my backpack starts to ring.
It’s Max’s phone. I don’t dare answer it.
“Hey, is that my phone?” Two women stand a couple of feet away from me. One of them, a young woman with short black hair and bright-red lipstick, opens her purse and starts digging through it. Max’s phone continues to ring. I scramble to get the backpack off my shoulders. I need to turn this phone off now.
“You know, other people have phones too. It’s not always yours,” her friend teases.
“Ha!” the red-lipped woman shouts as she pulls a phone out of her handbag. “Found it.”
The ringing doesn’t stop because I haven’t gotten Max’s phone out of the bag yet. The moment I do, the ringing gets louder, and the two women turn around and look at me.
“Sorry,” I say with
a shrug, fumbling to reject the call. “I guess it was me.”
It’s the same number that called before. I surely won’t answer it in the middle of the street with two women gawking at me. I stuff the phone into my pocket as casually as I can. I look up and see that the women are elbowing each other. The woman with the phone is nodding her head.
“Yup, that’s totally him,” she confirms.
“Are you sure?” her friend says, her voice rising with excitement. I feel my stomach do a flip. Do I run?
“C’mon now. You know I never mistake a face. That’s definitely him.”
“What do we do?”
They seem to be staring at me, their eyes out of focus, probably because they’re wondering if I’m going to try to disappear again.
A woman with a yoga mat tucked under one arm stops and joins the other two ladies.
“Hey,” she calls. “No way!”
My body comes back to life. I turn to my right to get across the street and run straight into the round belly of a man with a big camera pressed to one eye. I take two steps backward and the round eye of the camera is pointed at me.
“Get his picture, Daddy!” the two children at his side call out. “Get his picture!”
It looks like everyone’s seen my face on TV. People are staring, whispering to their friends, and some are even pointing. Since the moment I started running, I’ve been wondering when my luck was going to run out.
Now I know.
Twenty-Six
I put my hands up to cover my face, and hear a flurry of clicks.
“Don’t be so obvious about it, Dad.”
“Yeah, can you not look so paparazzi?”
“You guys are the ones who told me to get a picture! I don’t even like his movies that much!”
His movies?
I look between my fingers and see that the camera is no longer pointed at me. It’s pointed over my head. I turn and see a man in a light-gray blazer and white T-shirt. His jeans are dark and frayed at the hems. He’s wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap as he walks his dog. If he’s trying to be undercover, it’s not working well. Even I recognize him.
The Sky at Our Feet Page 14