by Ivy Pochoda
She bobs and submerges and rises again. She turns back toward Red Hook and shakes the water from her eyes. The world takes shape, revealing the hard contours of the rocks and pylons.
They are no longer alone. There is a man on the pier—the music teacher. He’s waving his arms and shouting Val’s name. For an instant, Val thinks of swimming farther out, until she is out of sight of the pier. She doesn’t want to hear her name.
If she swims to shore, June will come home.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Since the morning Jonathan carried Val into his store, Fadi hasn’t let him pay for a cup of coffee. He usually throws something else in for free—a pastry, a couple of newspapers, a sandwich, even Jonathan’s brand of cigarettes. He’s clipped several stories about Valerie’s rescue and June’s disappearance and taped them around the counter. He’s highlighted Jonathan’s name in yellow marker.
These gestures make Jonathan uncomfortable. He doesn’t want to be associated with the missing girl.
“You going to the vigil for June Giatto?” Fadi says, sliding Jonathan’s dollar back to him with his coffee. “You’re the hero. The neighborhood wants you there.”
“I don’t think anyone will notice if I’m absent,” Jonathan says.
“I will.” Fadi glances over Jonathan’s shoulder to the street. He hands Jonathan a copy of his local newsletter in which he’s listed the time and place of the vigil. “If I had help, I’d go. Take these donuts to Mrs. Giatto for me.” He pulls a box of Entenmann’s from under the counter.
“Sure,” Jonathan says. He doesn’t have the heart to disappoint Fadi.
Music from Coffey Park is rolling down Visitation Street, signaling the kickoff of Old Timers Day on the backside of the neighborhood. Overnight, families from the projects have staked out plots of the park, jockeying to get prime real estate for their barbecues. All weekend people who grew up in the Red Hook Houses have been flooding into the neighborhood, taking buses across the country and up from Florida for the yearly reunion—a bittersweet summer rite.
Instead of heading toward the church, Jonathan enters the park. The air smells of sweet char. The police on the perimeter turn a blind eye to the coolers of beer and cups of high-proof punch. It’s not even noon, but many of voices already seem liquor loose.
A stage has been set up. A DJ who came up with Grandmaster Flash in the ’70s is spinning. Early hip-hop and disco rebounds off the luggage factory lofts and the Visitation of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Jonathan’s is the only white face, but no one makes him feel unwelcome.
The party is just getting going, but the park is already packed. Men carrying foil trays of macaroni salad and slaw search out their families’ tables. Kids chase one another between the grills. Grandmothers parade their visiting grandchildren, introducing them from group to group. Elder statesmen, newly returned, walk through the park’s pathways like homecoming kings, eyeing the women they remember and the ones who are new. Jonathan listens to the baritone greeting of two middle-aged men, the shrill soprano shouts of a couple of grade-school girlfriends now in their thirties, the chatter of a grandmother seeing her nephew for the first time in years. He feels the thunderous claps on the back, the breath-denying hugs, the reverb of kisses as visitors are brought back into the fold.
He drums his fingers on the donut box with the four-on-the-floor disco beat and taps his foot with the syncopated electric bass line. Toward its center, the park is even more crowded. The ice in coolers is refreshed. The DJ turns up the volume and announces a dance contest. A middle-aged woman in a long, floral sundress and bright bangle bracelets passes Jonathan a large plastic cup. She pats his cheek. “Welcome to our party, baby. Have a little sweet tea from me.” Jonathan lifts the cup. “Don’t worry,” she says, “it’s plenty boozy.”
Jonathan sips the tea. It’s as sweet as it is strong and makes his eyes water. He wanders toward the side of the park closer to the waterside of Red Hook where two girls are doing double Dutch, their braids and beads beating time on their shoulders. Behind them is the Visitation of the Blessed Virgin Mary—its stony, grim façade a rebuke to the colorful party. Fadi is mistaken, Jonathan thinks; the soul of the neighborhood is out here, not in there.
As he’s looking at the church, the doors burst open and a girl in a school uniform appears on the threshold. She shades her eyes from the sun. The doors close behind her. She begins to run straight for Jonathan.
As she draws near, Jonathan recognizes her.
“Valerie,” Jonathan calls.
Val slows to a stop a few feet in front of him. Their eyes meet, then she turns and rushes off. It is as if she is asking him to follow her, to save her from whatever she intends to do next. He drops the donuts and his drink and follows.
Val runs through the party, dodging dancers, sidewalk games, and makeshift dance floors. The crowd parts for her but is less tolerant of Jonathan, muttering and cursing as he bumps into their trays of coleslaw and coolers of beer. He tries calling out but he cannot be heard above the music and the chatter.
He loses Val in a large group gathered around a grill made from an oil drum. Jonathan pushes through this crowd and arrives at the far side of the park. In front of him Val is disappearing into the first of the courtyards.
His lungs feel tight. His breath pinches in his chest and throat. Val picks up her pace. She skirts curbs and tree guards.
Although the girl running from him is strong and agile, Jonathan still feels her limp, clammy body. He remembers the gravel in her hair, the foam that streamed from her mouth. He imagines that it was the proximity of his own body that revived her, made it possible for her to run away from him now.
His legs are heavy. His thighs burn. Valerie darts deeper into the projects and is thrown into shadow. In the first courtyard, Jonathan doubles over and places his hands on his knees. His heart thuds like a bass drum.
“Valerie!”
Two men are sitting on a bench. One of them has a withered face the color of coal dust. He coughs with a tin can rattle. “Whitey lost his baby girl.”
His friend, whose face is covered in scrub-brush stubble, takes a pull from a brown-bagged bottle. “Yes sir, indeed.”
“No use chasing that little girl now,” the first man says. “When a girl wants to be gone, she is gone.”
Jonathan stands up and breathes deeply. The whine in his ears is now in sync with the wheeze in his chest. His whole body sounds like a kids’ recorder concert.
“Now, what’d you do to make a girl run from you like that?” the man with the bottle says.
When Jonathan catches his breath, he heads out of the projects, taking his time getting back to the waterside.
The sun has passed over Van Brunt and is heading for the river. “Missing” posters for June still flutter from lampposts and mailboxes. The bench outside the Dockyard is packed with Lil’s most devoted drinkers.
“Hey, Maestro, where you been hiding?” Biker Mike calls. “You got a song for us?”
Lil steps outside. She leans up against the door. She’s already wearing her shot glass and has been putting it to good use. “How about a drink on the house for my best customer?”
“Since when am I your best customer?”
“Since when weren’t you? So how about it, Maestro?” Lil lifts her shot glass to her lips, draining a droplet of whiskey. She brushes against Jonathan’s hips. “Keep me company. All I’ve got is a bunch of dorks inside doing a book club.”
“If you’re buying.”
“For you?” Lil slaps Jonathan on the ass. After her initial shit, she’s been extra sweet on him lately. It’s as if his association with danger made him worthier.
Before he and Lil head inside, he looks south and catches Val crossing Van Brunt and heading toward the water. The allure of free whiskey fades.
Jonathan’s only gone a few steps when Lil calls, “You’re not turning down a free drink are you, Maestro? You owe me some company after I saved your ass. If you leave me, I’ll drink my
self under the table by closing.”
A few more drinks and Jonathan’s not sure Lil will even make it to the end of her shift. “I’m not leaving you,” Jonathan says, turning away.
“Hey,” Lil says. “When I’m sober, I’m going to fuck you.”
Jonathan can hear Biker Mike and New Steve laugh. Lil turns and gives them the finger.
Jonathan hurries off before he has to hear any more.
He arrives at square of grass that leads to the rocky beach and pier where he found Val. The Staten Island ferry slides across the water. A tug rounds into view, its engine humming like a muffled snare drum. As he looks down toward the pier, he sees Val strip off her clothes and climb over the railing. Jonathan’s breath catches as he watches her jump. Her legs and arms are bent like cricket wings. She sails, her legs pedaling the air, pushing her far from the pier. Then she dips from sight. An image of her holding her breath, weighing herself down, forbidding herself to rise fills Jonathan’s mind.
Jonathan begins to rush to the pier. As he approaches, he sees a young black man strip to his boxers and jump in after Val. Jonathan hurries, unsure whether the second jumper intends to harm or help.
When he reaches the tip, he sees Val and the black kid treading water about fifty feet out. He watches them sink below the water—an agonizing disappearance that makes him feel as if he’s drowning. They surface, their lips locked. Then they plunge again.
Jonathan calls Val’s name, turning his voice into a buoy or a beacon, summoning her home. He wants to dive into the water, haul her to safety, be the person who brings her ashore. She swims farther out.
On the pier, he finds Val’s skirt and blouse. He waves them to get her attention. He shouts her name, making a melody of the syllables. He worries that each of his cries is sending her farther out into the currents of the Upper Bay.
Close to Jonathan, two fishermen have cast their lines into the water. Their bucket holds the slick bodies of several glassy-eyed fish.
“Let the kids go,” one of the men says. “Your yelling’ll only make them drown faster. You can’t help them from here. Either get in the water or wait for them to come back.”
He watches Val’s small, dark head bob as the wake from the tug crests over her. Light waves hit the rocks with a castanet clatter. A seagull chatters to itself. Then Val sees Jonathan. She stares at him, her gaze rising and falling with the waves. She begins to swim for land, cutting through the gray water with uneven strokes.
Valerie hauls herself out of the bay and onto the rocky beach. She appears at the far end of the pier. Her cotton underwear droops. She wraps her arms around herself as she makes her way to Jonathan. Her stomach is flat and white. Below her small breasts, hidden by a flimsy child’s bra, Jonathan can see the outlines of her ribs. He wants to look away.
They meet in the middle of the pier.
“Mr. Sprouse?”
Val drops her hands to her sides. Her hair hangs limp. Her pale skin is almost blue. Goose bumps have blossomed on her arms. Jonathan holds out her blouse. Val reaches for the shirt, then takes one step farther and steps into Jonathan’s chest. She is as cool and clammy as when he found her under the pier. Her limbs seem as fragile as dried leaves. He worries that if he wraps his arms around her, he will bruise her skin.
Val bows her head, pressing it into his shoulder. She begins to shake and soon Jonathan feels tears wetting his collarbone. He hesitates, then embraces her, wrapping his arms around the points of her shoulder blades.
The fishermen reel in their lines to watch. Jonathan loosens his grip, but Val only sinks in deeper. Her sobs are audible now. “You found the wrong person,” she says. “You should have left me there.”
One of the fishermen scrapes back his camp stool. “What do you think you’re doing letting that girl stand around in her underpants? You some kind of pervert?”
“You didn’t even look for June. Why didn’t you find her instead?” Val says. Jonathan feels her mouth move against his shirt.
“You were the only girl under the pier.”
Jonathan looks over Val’s head and down the pier. Her swimming companion is standing halfway down dressed only in his boxers. “Who the hell are you?” the kid calls.
Val jerks away from Jonathan.
“Get her dressed,” the fisherman says, “else I’m going to call someone.”
Val grabs her blouse and clutches it to her chest.
“What’s going on?” the black kid demands, looking at Jonathan. “What d’ya do to her?”
“I’m fine,” Val says. She stoops to collect her shoes, skirt, and blazer, then hurries away from the pier, not stopping for her friend who stands shirtless in the swollen afternoon sun.
Lil is nodding off on the bench outside the bar. Jonathan walks by without disturbing her. He goes to the liquor store and buys a fifth of whiskey which he brown-bags on the way home. He’s fumbling with his keys when Lil comes to life.
“Maestro—wanna share that with me?”
“Looks like you’ve had plenty.”
Jonathan gets his door open.
“What?” Lil says, standing up and steadying herself on the bar’s window. “You too good for me now you’re a hero? I make your life possible,” she says. “Don’t forget.”
He has a half a mind to give Lil his bottle. Instead he slams the door, climbs his stairs, keeps working on the booze, skipping the formality of a glass.
He has no idea how long his phone has been ringing. He’s lying on the couch, one foot on the floor. The apartment is dark. His head feels bruised. He’s killed the whiskey. The empty lies on its side on his coffee table.
“You bitch,” Dawn says when he answers. “I’m up here singing a cappella to a room full of bridge and tunnel ketamine-clobbered beefcake. You abandoned me.”
Jonathan looks at the time. He’s missed his first set at Cock ’n Bulls.
“You’re ruining my life,” Dawn howls. “You’re ruining me. I’m having twenty heart attacks up here alone. I can’t find my range.
I’m sharp. I’m flat. I’m dying.”
“I’m sure you’re doing fine,” Jonathan says.
“You don’t do this to a girl. You don’t stand a girl up. I’m working like Martha Stewart on Christmas. And no one’s tipping. I need backup.”
“Why don’t you lip-sync?” Jonathan asks.
“You think I’m just another low-rent tranny with a boom box?”
Jonathan rubs his temples. “If you’re not here in half an hour, I’m gonna cut your balls off,” Dawn says before hanging up.
The Cock ’n Bulls bar is in full feather when Jonathan arrives. A few drag queens are standing along the far wall. They catch sight of him and snap their fingers, purse their lips, and bob their heads from side to side.
“Girl,” one of them says as Jonathan passes on his way to the stage, “Ms. Dawn is ready to kill.”
He catches sight of Dawn Perignon in a floor-length pink sequined gown that slithers over her boyish hips, and elbow-length evening gloves. Her curly brown wig ends just below the ear. Her eyebrows are drawn on with thin pencil semicircles. Her eyelashes are so long they cast shadows on her cheeks.
Jonathan waits for her to finish “Age of Aquarius” to take his place at the piano.
“You look like Edith Piaf,” he says. “On a bad day.”
Dawn covers the microphone. “Fuck you.”
“That isn’t very ladylike.”
“You smell like a sports bar.”
He bangs out the opening bars of “Sunset Boulevard” before she can get in another word.
Dawn turns back to her audience and holds out one hand toward Jonathan, flashing cocktail rings with gems the size of jawbreakers. “A good man is hard to find. Am I right, boys?”
As she sings, Dawn lounges on top of the piano, crossing her legs and showing off her six-inch white patent leather platforms.
They run through their repertoire—songs from Evita and South Pacific, a bunch of Judy Gar
land numbers, and much of Cabaret. Dawn won’t look Jonathan’s way, but she knows that she’s at her best when they sing duets. His voice is the anchor and hers the comedy. They ham up “Me and My Girl” and “The Lady Is a Tramp,” which are both good for laughs at Jonathan’s expense.
Before their last set they step into the alley behind the bar for a smoke. She makes him hold her cigarette for her. She snaps her gloved fingers when she wants it put to her lips.
Jonathan tries to get ash on her dress.
“Why are you so quiet?” she asks. “I hope you’re not about to give me that I used to be a real musician crap.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You don’t have to say anything. I can see it.” She signals for the cigarette. “A girl has to work her ass off to keep a steady booking at a place like this. I don’t need you standing me up. You know how many queens are out there selling a show-tune revue? Millions.”
“None of them have an accompanist who was once on Broadway.”
“Don’t you have anything nice to say about me?”
“None of those queens can hold a candle to you. You’re a real star, sweetheart. I just bang the keys.”
“That’s better. Now how do I really look?”
“Like you belong on Park Avenue.” Jonathan places the cigarette into Dawn’s mouth.
“I read about you in the paper.” She inhales without pressing her lips to the filter. “Don’t act all surprised that a girl like me reads the paper.”
“I bet you even check the box scores.”
“It must have been horrible. Do you feel like a hero?”
“I feel like shit.”
She pinches Jonathan’s cheeks, pulling his lips into a pucker, then she kisses the air in front of his mouth. Her face is so close Jonathan can see the cracks in her foundation. “Well, baby, you should have called. That’s what girlfriends are for.”
Dawn and two other queens close the bar. They chase tequila shots with Coke. Jonathan sticks to whiskey.
“I’m not letting you head home all on your lonely,” Dawn says as they step onto the street at four A.M. The city is still flying. Cabs are streaming up Sixth Avenue and the all-night restaurants are packed.