I had to throw the “alone” in there, just for Chris. I mean, it was true, but I said it because I knew it would definitely add some gas to the story, which is what we both wanted. The way I see it, it’s not really gossip if I’m talking about myself.
Chris’s eyebrows went way up and he extended his hand to me. I grabbed it, and we did a grown man shake before going off to class. I definitely deserved one, I thought, and bopped to Grovenor’s room like a prom king in the making.
There was one other person I wanted to tell about Lovey. Mr. Ray. I know I said I don’t kiss and tell but I had to tell Chris because he was Chris—my dude. And I had to tell Mr. Ray because he was my . . . old dude. So old that I knew he wouldn’t gossip. Who was he gonna tell? One of his superchatty casket dwellers? Right. Anyway, after school, I caught the bus to the funeral home. I knew there wasn’t any funerals going on that day, but I still showed up ready to work, just in case something popped up. Plus, whenever we didn’t have a funeral, Mr. Ray would always find some work for me to do, which was really just a reason to pay me.
When I got close to the funeral home, I noticed Robbie was sitting on the stoop, trying to light a cigarette. Every time he flicked the lighter his gold rings blinged in the sun.
“I’ll be damned, young blood, you right on time,” he muttered, the unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. “Willie said you’d be here at twelve thirty, and”—he checked his watch—“it’s twelve twenty-nine.” Robbie cupped his hands around the cig to try and light it again without the wind blowing out the flame.
“Wassup, Robbie,” I said, sort of wondering what he was getting at.
Robbie flicked the lighter a few more times, turning his body away from the breeze, until finally the tip of the cigarette turned red. He inhaled slowly, then blew the smoke up into the air as cool as anybody could. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded-up piece of paper and handed it to me.
“Willie ain’t here,” he said simply, tapping the ash off the tip of the cigarette.
Robbie had been acting funny toward me ever since that first funeral I did. I guess he felt like I was a suck-up or something, because I was always on time and did everything Mr. Ray asked me to do. Plus Mr. Ray was looking out for me and I think Robbie was a little jealous, since that was his big brother. But I didn’t pay Robbie no mind.
I unfolded the paper Robbie gave me. It was a note from Mr. Ray saying that he had a cancer support meeting he had to go to and he forgot to tell me, and that he would’ve called but young people don’t answer cell phones, they only answer text messages, and could I teach him how to text and he’d see me tomorrow bright and early to go see my dad.
I folded the paper back into a small rectangle and slipped it in my pocket.
“Got it,” I said to Robbie, who also could not ruin my mood no matter how he was acting. “Have a good Thanksgiving.”
Without work my schedule was wide open, but I didn’t really have anything to do. Chris was still at school. I thought about hitting Fulton Street and walking up to Cluck Bucket to see if Lovey was there, but then I remembered that she had to meet with some people about her grandma’s paperwork, like insurance and all that kind of stuff I didn’t really understand, stuff that no teenager should have to worry about. But I could tell from our text messages that she wasn’t a normal teenager. She had that same thing I had when I first went back to school, that grown-ness about her—maturity—except she had it times two. No, times ten.
So for the first time in three months I was on my own in the middle of the day, which is totally different from being alone at night. At night it seems like all the bad things creep in, like the fact that I can’t see my mother again, and that I didn’t want my father to get out of the hospital because then he couldn’t get into the bottle. But in the daytime when you’re alone, all you think about is what to do before nighttime comes. Either that, or you try to think of things to do to take the place of the something you’ve been trying to avoid doing. Everybody got that thing they keep putting off, for whatever reason. And that’s how it was for me. I knew what I had to do, but I kept using the funerals and work and hanging out with Chris all as excuses to not do it. But on that day I felt like a giant, like nothing could stop me or break me down. So I decided to do what I knew I needed to do—go see my mother.
The A train. Mom used to call it the world’s best traveling circus. There’s always a couple kids busting out their latest dance routine, flipping and pop-locking up and down the aisle while the train rocks back and forth. Or how about the two brothers who get on with bongo drums to provide some theme music for the ride. And of course, the salesmen, whether it be kids selling candy or dudes moving DVDs, one for five, three for ten. Everybody puts on a show in the A train circus, not to mention all the clowns who get on. From the girl who pretends like her cell phone is a boombox and we’re still in the eighties, blasting her music loud enough for the whole train to hear, to the middle-school kids who try to crack as many jokes on as many people as possible, you just have to know what you’re getting yourself into when you take the A. But it’s the only train in my hood, so I don’t really have a choice.
Luckily for me, it was the middle of the day, so the train was pretty empty. Just me, a woman dressed in workout clothes reading a book, and a homeless man all the way down at the end. He was alive, even though his dry skin made him look like he was dead. A zombie.
I rode for about ten minutes, shooting through the tunnels underground, the tracks screeching and knocking like a rocket about to take off. The conductor slammed on the brakes every time he came to the next station. The doors would open. No one would get on. Then, the doors would close again.
When we got to Hoyt Street, the woman with the book got off. Just me and the homeless man were left. And if it were any other day, I would’ve thought to myself that me and him were the same. Living and dead. But I didn’t because it was my good day. On my way off the train I dropped a dollar in his cup, something I never do, hoping to make it his good day too. That’s what girls do to you, I guess.
I transferred to the R train and zipped four or five more stops before getting off at Twenty-fifth Street, which was pretty much like getting off in another state. Quiet. Trees. It even seemed like the sidewalks were bigger, even though I knew they probably weren’t. I used to come to this part of Brooklyn all the time before my mother died. Every summer when I was a kid she would bring me to Prospect Park, which wasn’t too far from where the cemetery was. We’d just walk around and talk. Well, she did most of the talking, which was really just joke after joke about silly stuff. Like how black people named the butterfly, butterfly. Before that, she said, they were called “flutter-bys,” which, when I think about it, made a lot of sense. But black folks put a twist on it, switched it around—or as my mother said, put some funk on it—and made it butterfly. She told me later that was a joke she heard from her father, who was told that story by someone else. Either way, it was funny, and I’ll probably tell it to my kids. Maybe even in that same park.
Even though I had been in this area a bunch of times, I don’t think I ever noticed how peaceful it really was. Maybe I was too young. Maybe I was too busy laughing, making all the noise. But now that I was alone, walking toward the cemetery in the middle of the day (couldn’t have done it at night—would’ve gone from peaceful to scary), I realized it was probably the perfect place to be buried. I know that’s a weird thing to say, but it’s true. Not a whole bunch of noise or nothing. Just peace and space.
When we came here after the funeral to do the whole burial thing, one of the ladies who works at the cemetery gave my father and me a piece of paper with a map on it, leading to my mother’s grave. That’s how big this place is. You gotta have a map! I mean, all my life living in New York City, I never even thought about the fact that most of the people who live here die here, and I couldn’t help but wonder if most of them get buried in th
is place.
I stood at the gate and looked out at all the tombstones, white and gray, sprouting from the ground like weird teeth. Most tombstones look exactly alike, and even though I think my memory is pretty good, trying to find my mom’s grave without directions would’ve been like running around in one of those mirror mazes they have at Coney Island.
The map said to follow the road straight, make the first left, then follow the path over the hill. As I walked, the wind picked up, blowing my suit jacket open and making my eyes water. Like I said, if this was nighttime, this would’ve been a scary moment for me. I walked and looked at every headstone I was passing. Holmes, Forsythe, Briscoe, Wilson, Waymon, Flushing, Carson, Morton, and on and on. As I read the names of the tombstones in my head, it was almost like a weird roll call, like I was saying hello to all these people. Thinking of their families, their funerals. Dwyer, Piedmont, Lee, Miller (no relation), Radison, Former. The names kept coming as I walked into the wind, pushing myself up the hill, my suit jacket now a black cape flapping behind me.
And just like the map said, over the hill, there it was, with a bunch of sad-looking flowers dozing in front of it. IN LOVING MEMORY OF DAISY MILLER carved into a big—well, more like a medium gray stone.
“‘In Loving Memory’?” I said out loud. “Is that what you would’ve wanted on there? ‘In Loving Memory’?”
I chuckled because it was weird to talk to myself, even though I wasn’t really; I was talking to her—my mother—which was weird too. I was also laughing, because if me and dad weren’t so screwed up about the fact that my mom was going to die, we could’ve talked to her about what she really would’ve wanted on her stone. It probably would’ve been something like IN LAUGHING MEMORY, or even something like LOL, which she was totally obsessed with when she first learned how to text message.
I stood there staring at the marble block, trying to imagine what LOL would’ve looked like, when the feeling of being a giant that I had carried with me all day started to wear off. I wasn’t expecting that to happen, even though when I think about it now, I should’ve known it would.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” I said to the tombstone. To no one. To her.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here.” I felt nervous, antsy. Stupid tears marched up my throat. A few more words and they’d be at my eyes. “I don’t know what you’re doing here,” I managed to get out, but decided that those would be the last words I’d say. Not that I would be able to say anything else, anyway. If I opened my mouth, even a little bit, whatever was left in me would come pouring out.
I bit down on my bottom lip and looked out at all the other tombstones. After a few seconds everything blurred into hills of gray. So many burials, and here I was wishing that I could bury a few things of my own. Bury the fact that I’m standing at my mother’s grave after she left me in the world to fend for myself. Bury the fact that my father is a drunk and now can’t even walk, so he can’t help me. Bury the fact that almost every kid in my school thinks I’m a damn crackpot. Bury the fact that I’m empty. Empty. Empty! I wish I could bury every damn thing!
I dropped my head, now dizzy with anger. My eyes, going in and out of focus, locked in on the bunch of flowers on the ground—most of which I recognized from the funeral.
I squatted down and stared at them.
“Look at this,” I managed to squeeze out under my breath. “Look at your flowers, all dry and wrinkled up like trash. Like crap.” I poked a petal. It crumbled. “They’re all cracked up and brown and nasty. Overrated and overpriced, all for what? They’re dead. DEAD. I just don’t get why you were so head over heels for stupid flowers. Why everybody is. Look at them. They’re wilted already. So damn stupid.” I stared for about five more seconds before the anger came crashing over me like a wave. And before you knew it, I had grabbed a fistful of the flowers by their brittle stems and began beating them against the ground. I banged them on the dry grass over and over again, as if I were hitting a drum, the leaves crunching and exploding into chips and tiny shards. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!”
I went on and on until I had totally destroyed the flowers. It was like they had become ashes in my hand and I didn’t even realize that there was nothing left of them until I was pounding just my fist on the ground. “Stupid,” I whimpered one last time, now trying to catch my breath.
I stayed a while longer, not saying anything. Just trying to calm down. Just trying to be there. With her. I really felt like she was with me. I couldn’t hear her, but I felt like she could hear me, and that helped me, sort of, get myself together. I thought I should maybe apologize for what I did to her lovelies. But I decided to skip that and just say what I really came to say.
“Mom,” I started. I took a deep breath like I was actually standing in front of her about to break some big news. I continued, “I met a girl.” It seemed like such a small statement after all the crying. But I continued anyway.
“Her name is Love. Her real name. And it’s nothing yet, but I like her a lot.”
Then I stood there staring at her name. DAISY MILLER. I was going to ask my mother to make me and Love work out, like maybe she had some kind of magic power, or could ask God and the angels to fool around with Love’s mind to make sure this whole thing goes smooth. But then I imagined that LOL on her tombstone again and suddenly felt too silly to say anything else.
Chapter 10
HOMEMADE AND HOMELESS
“ARE THEY AT LEAST GONNA give y'all turkey?”
“Hope so,” my father said, reaching for the dinner menu. “Says right here, turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberries, and a roll, with a choice of sweet potato pie or pumpkin pie for dessert.”
“Sounds good.”
“Yeah, it does, but let’s see if it actually tastes good. If it tastes anything like this shit they been serving, I’m a beg Dr. Fisher to get Dr. Winston to come put that tube back down my throat.” He laughed and reached for the remote control.
Thanksgiving morning at the rehab center, unfortunately, was the same as every other day, except for the construction paper turkeys pasted all along the walls of the waiting room. My father was propped up in his bed, his legs elevated and wrapped.
“It’ll probably be pretty good,” I said, smiling.
He paused for a second. “Not as good as your mother’s.”
I nodded in agreement and looked away.
He was right. There wasn’t going to be any Thanksgiving dinner as good as hers, for us, ever again. It was like magic the way she made so much food, all by herself, and we never really saw her do it. I mean, one minute you’d see her snapping string beans and cutting corn off the cob. Then you’d see her stirring a pot of brown liquid with turkey neck bones floating at the top. Then you’d see her performing surgery on the turkey, which was always the grossest thing in the world, shoving her hand up its butt and pulling out all the slime. Then you’d hear the eggs cracking and the mixer running. And then, all of a sudden, dinner would be ready. Turkey, mashed potatoes, greens, stuffing, cranberries, corn, biscuits, pies and cakes, and a special tea she made to go with it all. No measuring cups. No boxes or cans. When she cooked Thanksgiving, Brooklyn Daisy went on break and Carolina Daisy ran the show. It’s the only time she wouldn’t let me help. This meal was hers, and hers alone.
“Yeah, you right about that,” I said. I was trying not to make this a sad thing, but the whole vibe in the room changed. So I went with it and hoped for the best. “I went to see her yesterday. Her grave.”
My father shimmied up the pillow behind him.
“How was she?” He caught himself. Pressed his lips tight. Tried again. “I mean, how was it?”
“It was good,” I said. Then I thought about it. “She was good.” I had told myself no crying on Thanksgiving, and I was determined to stick to it. But I could feel the rumble.
My father looked out the window, which he did every
time he wanted to keep from crying. He took a deep breath and blew out like he was smoking an imaginary cigarette.
“I’m glad you went,” he said. When he looked back at me, his eyes were glassy. “When I get outta here, and can walk again, maybe we can go together.” His voice sounded strained.
I gave a shrug. Part of me wanted to ask him what he had been going through, trapped in the rehab wing of the hospital, not being able to really move on his own, forced to just lie there with his own thoughts all the time. I wondered if he ever cried when he was alone, or if he ever called out for her, or if he was having dreams about her like I was every night. Mainly, I wondered how he was dealing with it. I had the funerals. And now I had Lovey—someone new to talk to, and someone new to be excited about. But what did he have besides new metal bones in his legs?
We sat in silence that felt peaceful and heavy and weird and sad—pretty much everything but happy. So I changed the subject.
“So, I’m having Thanksgiving dinner today with a girl.” Just came right out with it.
Dad squinted his eyes like he didn’t believe me. “Who? I thought you were eating over at Willie Ray’s.”
“Nope. I’m eating with this girl I met named Love.”
Of course my father looked at me sideways like I was losing my mind.
“Love, huh?” The mood of the room went instantly light again.
“Yes, that’s her real name, Dad. Love.”
He snickered. “Okay, okay. Well, does her crazy parents—’cause they gotta be crazy to name her Love—know you coming to crash their table?”
“No parents, man. She lives alone. Folks passed away.”
“Ah. Wow. Sorry to hear that, man,” he said, now regretting the joke he had made. “Where’d you meet her?”
I was a little embarrassed to tell him.
The Boy in the Black Suit Page 13