She’s still giving me that searching stare, like my face has something she’s looking for. I’m becoming aware that the corners of my mouth have turned down without consulting me. I wonder if that’s it. After thirty or forty more seconds, she finally gets up and walks over to my side of the table.
“What am I going to do with you, Steven?” she says, standing behind me and putting her hands on my shoulders.
“What do you mean?”
“You take everything so hard.”
She rubs my shoulders for a couple of seconds and hums to herself. The summer heat is making my eyelids heavy and my back sweaty. There’s an endless black sky outside the window. A dog barks in the distance.
“What do you say I take you to bed?” she asks.
She whips off her clothes and then mine, climbs on top of me, and rides me through the wee morning hours. I fall asleep with my arms and legs wrapped tightly around her, like I’m holding on for dear life. I wake up once with a dry throat and an urge for a drink. But I remember my list of goals, so I lie still until the feeling passes. I’d hate to have her wake up and see me guzzling whiskey now anyway.
Just before I go back to sleep, I hear a car alarm going off below my window. It blares loudly for a minute or two and then I hear it being driven away, its squall gradually receding into the night.
In the morning, I awake and find her fully dressed and ready to go. She’s drinking a cup of coffee and looking through some papers on my desk.
“What’re these?” she asks.
I wipe my eyes and struggle out of bed, pulling on a T-shirt and sweatpants. The dirty dishes are still in the sink and Mario Cuomo, a Persian cat who lives in the building, is licking the wineglass on the table.
Bleary-eyed and lank-haired, I make my way across the room and kiss her good morning. She hands me a cup of coffee and I see she’s looking at my law school applications and essays. I’m tempted to snatch them out of her hands in embarrassment, but instead I start doing the dishes in the sink and try to casually discourage her from reading any more.
“I’m sure you won’t find anything interesting there,” I tell her, squirting around white dishwashing liquid.
“You didn’t tell me you were applying to law school,” she says, not taking her eyes off the page.
“Well, I haven’t applied yet. I’m not sure if I’m going to.”
“You know, this isn’t bad what you wrote so far,” she says. “Except maybe you should leave out that gory stuff about the emergency room of criminal justice.”
“Tell you the truth, I don’t think I’m gonna send that in.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “Why not?”
I look down at the floor. “I don’t know,” I mumble. “It doesn’t seem right for me. You know. Being a lawyer. It’s like selling out or something.”
She gives me a playful sock in the shoulder. “Can’t win if you don’t play, Steven.”
“Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind.”
She adjusts a pink barrette in her hair. “I’ve gotta go study now … I had a blue comb with me. Did you see where it went?”
“Urn, no … Listen, am I gonna see you again?”
She’s still scanning the room for the comb. “Sure, Steven. Classes don’t start till after Labor Day. I’ll be around the office until then.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. What I mean is, I’d hate to think I was just this thing you did over the summer. It’s like, you know that old song, ‘Will I See You in September?’”
“No,” she says. “That’s from before my time.”
There’s only about six years between us, but sometimes it feels like two decades. I can still remember the end of the 1960s; she’s probably studied them in school. She smiles wistfully and takes my hand. “We’ll see, Steven,” she says, and kisses me tenderly on the cheek. Then she’s out the door and down the stairs. From my window, I watch her cross the street. The coffee cup is cold in my hands. I wonder how I’ll get through the rest of the day without seeing her.
50
AROUND MIDNIGHT, A RADIO car with two cops came by the public pool in upper Manhattan. Nine kids were swimming. They’d all climbed over a locked gate to get in there. Two boys were trying to pull off a girl’s bathing suit top in the deep end. Another boy was pushing his friend off the diving board. Eddie Johnson’s body floated in the right lane, near the shallow end. The other kids just kept swimming around him.
After a minute spent arguing about whose job it was, the younger of the two cops waded in and tried to drag Eddie’s body out of the water.
The cop who had not gone in the pool was outraged. “Hey!” he yelled at the other kids. “Didn’t you notice this guy’s dead?”
“Yeah.” One of them shrugged. “But we’re swimming.”
A couple of the main arteries in Eddie’s neck were cut and his face was slashed. The chlorine had faded the color from his parka. His blood drifted like red smoke in the blue water.
Part of a ham and cheese sandwich bobbed along the surface nearby.
51
MONDAY AND TUESDAY ARE my long-awaited report days, when I get to catch up on my paperwork and see some of my old clients before I go back out in the field.
Since my old cubicle is being used by somebody else, they’ve given me a ratty, unpainted corner office for the two days. Somebody’s left an old Sports Illustrated on the desk, with a cover shot of a famous wide receiver dropping a football under the word “BUTTERFINGERS!”
I wonder if somebody’s making a coy joke about the way I handled the Darryl King case. I would have expected other probation officers to be a little more understanding, but it’s a cruel world, as Jack likes to say, especially when labor contracts are almost up. My guess is Deputy Dawson left the magazine here because he’s still sore over the meeting with Jack.
I decide to ignore all the potential hassles and concentrate on work. Ms. Lang has arranged for me to see a couple of my old clients and the first in is Freddie Brooks, the homeless wino-junkie who’s only reliable in keeping his appointments with me. He looks more worn-out than usual and he has these strange spots on his hands and arms. I hope it’s not AIDS. Still, he’s happy to see me and he gives me a screw-on bottle cap to remember him by just in case he can’t show up again.
The rest of the appointments don’t go as well. A number of my clients have strayed into trouble, mostly with crack, and I find myself being less understanding than before. The guys in the Field Service Unit have taught me to think like a cop, and it’s harder than I thought it would be just to switch back to being a social worker.
When Scottie Austin, the thief from the Port Authority, shows up, I just turn him away. “Too late, my man,” I say, closing his folder once and for all. “You already got violated.”
After a while, the steady stream of repeat offenders starts to get me down. What was the point of me working with any of these people in the first place? The more I think about it, the worse I feel. The Darryl King thing threw me off-balance to begin with, then Andrea’s got me reeling, and now I need a little reassurance. I’d like to know if I actually did somebody some good. I start going through my master list of clients and then I hit on Maria Sanchez’s name.
I haven’t seen her since the Fourth of July when I chastely brought her home, which was indisputably the right thing to do. So she seems like a safe bet to cheer me up. I go through my black book and find the phone number for her girlfriend’s house on Edgecombe Avenue where Terry and I helped her move.
As I listen to the phone ring, I remember that she’ll probably be out at school at this hour. So I figure I’ll leave a message anyway.
But then the little girl who answers the phone tells me something in perfect English that makes my heart stop. She says Maria is not living there anymore. She moved out a week ago. It looks like she’s pregnant again and she’s certainly not going to school. The little girl gives me the new number. When I go to write it down next to Maria’s name in
the black book, I notice it’s the same as the old number I crossed out for Maria’s family’s house, where her uncle molested her all these years. I read the number back to her twice to be sure. I can’t believe this. My head’s swimming. She’s moved back in with her uncle and the others, in the house where she threw the baby out the window. I dial the number quickly.
The phone rings nine times before somebody picks it up. I hear the crash of the phone dropping and then being lifted again. “Hola,” says a heavy, slurred male voice.
“Is Maria there?”
Dishes clatter and dialogue from a TV soap opera drones on in the background. “Who’s looking for her?” the male voice says.
I identify myself and then there’s a long silence. “Chinga su madre” the man says before he hangs up the phone.
I dial the number again immediately. This time the man picks up the phone after six rings. “She don’t wanna talk to you,” he says belligerently. I guess this is Maria’s uncle. Scumbag. Lowlife. Degenerate. I fight the urge to curse him out right now.
“Can she tell me that herself?” I ask as a woman’s voice begins talking in loud, rapid Spanish on the other end.
Maria’s uncle grunts and hangs up again. I slam down my phone and punch the wall hard. “FUCK!!”
The place rattles and the Screamer across the hall yells at me to keep the noise down. I light a cigarette and try to think about what I should do. I could call Bill and Angel over at the Field Service Unit office and we could all drive up to the house and drag Maria out of there. I may have to get a warrant first, though.
I try her one more time. She finally picks up.
“Hola, Mr. Baum.”
“Yeah, Maria.” I try to sound calm and reasonable. “What’s up? You living back there again?”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Baum. Could you do something for me please?”
“I’ll try.”
“Would you please not call again?”
“I don’t understand.”
“I can’t talk to you no more.” Her voice wavers as though she’s about to start crying. “Please leave me alone.”
She hangs up. I try dialing the number once more, but get a busy signal. I try a second time, and the same thing happens. I call the operator and ask her to break in on the line, but the phone is off the hook.
I put my head in my hands. I haven’t cried since the day my mother died but I feel like doing it now. I don’t understand how she could do this to me. She’s breaking my heart, going back to her sick old life with her fucked-up family. I tried to save her. I gave her my home number. I helped her move. I didn’t even take advantage of her that night with the fireworks. I put myself on the line for her.
Fuck her. I can’t do anything for her now.
I throw my chair across the office and walk out with other P.O.s bitching at me.
That night I don’t sleep much. Things I should’ve said to her keep running through my mind. I construct an imaginary conversation in which I try once more to convince her not to throw her life away. I tell her that she has to talk to me because I’m her probation officer. But every time I try to imagine her side of the dialogue, it all gets too emotional and I have to start all over again. I watch sleeplessly as the green glowing numbers flick by on the clock radio.
I’m still feeling hurt and angry when I get to the office the next day. Just after eleven, I open my office door to get some fresh air. A couple of young black guys in sneakers and jeans are standing in the hall waiting for their appointment with another P.O. They’re talking to each other about movies on television.
“I was watching The Private Navy of Sergeant O’Farrell,” says one of them, who’s wearing a Pittsburgh Pirates cap. “With Bob Hope …”
“And Phyllis Diller?” says his friend who wears a black Nike T-shirt and a Fade haircut.
“You see it?”
“Yeah.”
“Man, that shit was bug,” says the one in the Pirates cap.
“Yeah, I was buggin’ out. You ever see, uh, It’s a Mad Mad Mad Mad World?”
“That was some star-studded shit in that movie.”
I try to ignore them as I look through my files.
“And did you see that program about Darryl K. on Channel Four?” the one in the Nike shirt asks.
I keep looking at the file I have opened on my lap, but the words are starting to appear backward. That’s what happens when I can’t concentrate. I find myself just waiting to hear what these guys are going to say next about Darryl King.
“Man, he popped those motherfuckers,” says the one in the Pirates cap. “The rest of them come after him, they’ll get popped too.”
“Darryl K. all the way,” says his friend in the Nike shirt. “Darryl K. will take no shit before its time …”
I get up and slam the door on both of their laughing faces. From outside I can hear the Screamer warning me once more to stop making so much noise. “I’LL FUCKIN’ HAVE YOU ON REPORT, I SWEAR IT, BAUM.”
I ignore her and call the guard at the reception desk on the phone. “Hey, Roger, is that metal detector ever going to get fixed out there?”
On the other end of the line, I hear the buzz of the television and the sound of elevator doors opening and shutting. “Works as well as it ever did,” paunchy old Roger says in a bored voice.
“I don’t mean to sound paranoid, you know, but I’m a little worried about people coming in here with weapons after all this publicity about Darryl King.”
“Like I said. Works as well as it ever did.”
Enough is enough, I finally decide. I’m sick of sitting here and sick of these deadbeats coming in and out. I call Ms. Lang’s office and leave a message that I’m going to make a field visit and I’ll be back later. “She’s not going to like that,” the secretary says.
“She’ll deal with it,” I tell her.
I take another look through my files and make a quick decision about who I want to see. Charlie Simms. Charlie is the black kid from Washington Heights who I told Andrea about. He’s the one solid success that I have left, I figure. When he came into my office two years ago after his first arrest for stealing a car radio, he was unsure of himself, and vulnerable to fast-talking hoods like his friend Rashid. Since then, Charlie’s gotten married, gone back to school, and worked part-time with the Parks Department summer jobs program, which I got him into. At the moment, I probably need to see him worse than he needs to see me, if only just to remind myself there’s some purpose to what I’ve been doing.
I put his file under my arm and catch the uptown express. Charlie’s building is fairly easy to find in Washington Heights, even though I’ve never been there. It’s just off Broadway, with a green cornice and a gray brick facade. I’m a little surprised how rundown it is. Charlie always led me to believe he lived in a nice place. But half the windows are boarded up and bricks are missing from the sides.
I hurry into the building before anything falls on me and run smack into a teenage black girl in a yellow smock dress coming out of a first-floor apartment.
“Sorry,” I say. “You know if Charlie Simms is around?”
Without even pausing to answer, she turns and looks toward the blinding rectangle of sunlight at the other end of the dim hallway.
“Charlie!” the girl calls out. “Man’s here to see you.”
I see a head peek out of a doorway halfway down the hall and look toward me, barely long enough to register that I’m a white male, let alone someone he might know. Without warning, he goes shooting out toward the rectangle of sunlight.
“There he go,” the girl in the yellow smock dress says.
I take off after him, down the hallway, through the rectangular doorway, and out into an alley between the buildings. Charlie is running ahead of me over landfill and garbage and anything else that happens to be lying there. Once he hits the street, I know I’ll never catch him. I’m not even sure why I’m chasing him. This is supposed to be a friendly visit.
“CHARLIE!”
I shout. “It’s Steve Baum! Slow down!”
He pulls up short in front of a pair of aluminum garbage cans and waits for me to catch up with him. When I finally do see him up close, I feel my heart breaking for the second time in two days. Through his plastic-rimmed glasses, the sunlight reflects dully off his eyes. He’s lost a tremendous amount of weight. His jeans sag from his waist and hang over his flat butt like a drape. His Patrick Ewing shirt envelops his torso. When I shake his right hand, I give it a good look. There’s a dry burned crust of skin near his thumbnail. It’s the kind of patch you get from flicking a lighter over and over to keep a crack pipe going.
“What’s up with you?”
“Nothin’,” Charlie mumbles.
“What do you mean ‘nothin’? How long have you been smoking that shit?”
“I’m not smoking anything, man. I just say no. Leave me alone.”
“You’re not smoking crack?”
Charlie casts his eyes downward and shakes his head from side to side.
“Don’t you fucking lie to me, Charlie,” I say, shaking his folder at him, like it’s a contract that’s been broken between us.
“I’m not lying.”
“No?” I take his sleeve and start to walk toward the street. “Okay, let’s go then.”
“Where we going?”
“Downtown. You’re gonna piss in a cup and we’re gonna do a test to see if you’re lying and smoking crack. If you’re telling me the truth, there shouldn’t be any problem.”
“Later for that bullshit,” Charlie says softly. “You ain’t got no machines to do tests …”
Actually, that used to be true, but just recently the department started getting the facilities to do testing. “Come on, let’s go. I love to catch people lying …”
Charlie puts his hands up. “Forget it.”
“Does that mean you admit you’re smoking crack?”
“Yeah,” Charlie says. “You happy now?”
“The opposite. Believe me.”
Charlie sits down on one of the garbage cans and fingers the leather Back to Africa medallion he has around his neck. “Shit.”
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