by Ivy Pochoda
Van Brunt smells of turpentine. For the last couple of hours the wino has been on his hands and knees rubbing the painted square of sidewalk with rags soaked in paint thinner. Oily orange liquid is running into the sewer. When Fadi looks over at the Greek’s, the wino springs from the sidewalk and rushes across the street. He wraps a hand around Fadi’s wrist. His palm is tough, not calloused, but hardened like bark.
“You give him the recompensa? The pandillero, the homeboy, he come for the recompensa?” The corners of the wino’s mouth are purple, and his breath smells of Night Train.
“No.”
“He tell you about the muchacha?”
“No.” The wino’s digging his thick nails into Fadi’s skin.
The Greek pokes his head out from the door of his restaurant to yell at the wino. The wino lets go of Fadi. “The recompensa es mio!” he shouts, running back across the street to his scrubbing.
Throughout the afternoon, Fadi listens to the wino shouting about the reward from outside the Greek’s. Finally, he closes the door. The usual rush of kids buying afternoon snacks ebbs and flows. The first wave of twentysomethings stocking up on beer and supplies for the night starts trickling in. Across the street, the wino and the Greek are sitting down to dinner. The orange paint has been stripped from the sidewalk. The sawhorses have been put away. The bus pulls up and drives off. The neon signs in the Dockyard’s window flicker. The wino’s jagged laugh tangles with the Greek’s. Fadi returns to his post behind the counter and waits until closing.
In the last few days, Fadi’s store has become the target of small acts of vandalism and petty crime. Twice he’s arrived at work to find that all his newspapers have been stolen.
If the newspapers continue to be stolen from the Hafiz Superette, the police will be involved. This is an important intersection of our neighborhood and news must be available to all.
The other night a messy tag—more handwriting than graffiti—appeared on one of Fadi’s roll gates.
Vandalism to the Hafiz Superette will not be tolerated. The Hafiz Superette will not serve the needs of the community if it continues to be a target of such attacks.
He wonders if the criminals read his edition.
In his latest newsletter, Fadi included an editorial urging the neighborhood to band together to welcome the cruise ships. “For the first time since the golden age of shipping, Red Hook is going to be a gateway to our city,” he wrote. “We have no more time for petty crime and vandalism. We have no room for neighborly discord. We need to show the world the beauty of our colorful community.”
But because he wanted to be fair to his contributors, Fadi was forced to print contrary complaints in the same newsletter.
Screw the cruise ships, the mayor, and the antienvironmentalist councilmen who are going to allow these polluting hunks of junk to befoul our waters with their idling engines and pompous smoke.
Keep Red Hook beautiful for the shuffleboarders and smorgasborders who will soon walk among us.
How come the cruise terminal isn’t interested in hiring anyone who comes from the Houses? Only the white boys good enough for the waterfront?
Vandalism and thievery are not the only changes that Fadi has noticed. Since June disappeared Paulie Marino and his buddies have made it a point to buy their beer and cigarettes from his Puerto Rican rivals.
It’s not even five A.M. when Fadi steps off the subway on the elevated platform of Smith and Ninth Street. The stop is a twenty-minute walk from his store. But since Red Hook doesn’t merit its own subway, Smith and Ninth is as close as Fadi can get.
The sun hasn’t begun its daily battle with the Houses—its struggle to overcome the bleak fortress of rooftops. The day will be warm, but the dark morning is chilly. Fadi shivers in his T-shirt as he walks down the abandoned platform to the long escalator that leads to the street.
He lets the train roar down into the tunnel before making his own descent. Soon the station is silent. He looks across the platform toward Red Hook barricaded behind the expressway. Like Smith and Ninth, the expressway is crumbling. It’s cobbled and patched from parts that rumble and shake when cars hit the fault lines. Between the subway and the expressway is a large sign advertising Kentile tiling, through which the sun, when it rises, will cast a spiderweb of light onto the cars below.
Fadi knows better than to expect the 75—the bus that services the projects—to come. It’s simpler to walk through the barren lots, underneath the exhaust-blackened highway, and approach Red Hook through the Houses.
Two weary hookers are strolling on Hamilton Avenue, pausing in the glow of the Pathmark sign to repaint their faces. They call out to Fadi halfheartedly, then heckle him as he crosses beneath the expressway.
He follows the bus route along a desolate stretch of Smith Street on which the only occupied building is a confectionery manufacturer that Fadi’s never seen open. Eight columns jut from the building’s façade. At the far end of the block a single streetlamp is struggling to stay alight. The street is silent. Then Fadi hears a rattle and hiss. A young man is standing in front of one of the columns, hitting it with a blast of spray paint. His arm arcs, making the spray rise and fall. There’s another rattle, and he switches to another can of paint.
Fadi crosses the street, giving the artist wide berth. The streetlight buzzes out. When the streetlight comes back on, he is standing under its yellow spill. The painter is directly across from him, shaking his can, ready to hit the column again.
Even in the dismal glow of the streetlamp, Fadi recognizes the kid who stole the Wise from his store the other day. The kid sees him too. He lowers his can. “Hey, my man.”
They stare at each other across the street. Fadi looks at the wall behind the kid. All eight columns are covered in abstract white and black designs.
“Guess I’m caught. First shoplifting and now tagging.” The kid smiles—what can you do?—and rattles his can. “You going to rat me out?”
“It’s none of my business what you do on an abandoned street.”
“Abandoned street? This is an important thoroughfare.” The kid shakes his head. “The bus route man. The only way people from Smith and Ninth get into the hood. It’s not abandoned. It’s essential.”
“If you’re trying to get somewhere else.”
“So what happens between point A and point B doesn’t matter? I thought you were into this hood.”
“I am,” Fadi says. “Just not this part.”
“Hold up,” the kid says. “Haven’t you ever heard of neighborhood beautification?” He rattles his can, adds a splash of paint, then drops the paint. “I bet you didn’t even notice me working here until this morning.” The kid raises the hood of his sweatshirt, hiding the tufts of his hair. “My man, you are just in time. Step back with me.”
There’s excitement in the kid’s gaunt face. His thin, dry lips are quivering. Even the yellowed whites of his eyes gleam. Fadi doesn’t want to disappoint, so he follows the kid back down the block. The kid pushes open the door to an abandoned building. Fadi hesitates.
The kid pulls out a flashlight. “It’s copacetic. I’ve checked it out. You coming?” They climb to the second floor and enter a small railroad apartment. Fadi follows the kid to the window, which is nothing more than an empty frame. “Check it,” the kid says pointing across the street.
Fadi looks out. The façade of the confectionery factory is dark, the kid’s artwork barely visible. “What?”
“You don’t see anything, right?”
“No.” Fadi turns to leave but the kid grabs his arm. “I’ve got to get to work.”
“What’s the rush? Your corner doesn’t get going before six. You’re getting a jump start on nothing.” He looks down the block in the direction of the expressway. “Hold up, here we go.” He pushes Fadi back toward the window. The bus has rounded the corner and is coming down the street. “Watch.”
Fadi leans out the window, careful not to touch the nails protruding from its frame. As the
bus draws closer, its headlights hit the first of the columns and the wall comes to life. A silhouette of a boy leaping into the air—one leg kicking out front, the other bent back behind—each column showing his progression as he flies farther. It’s a flipbook, a perfect moving image, taking the jumper higher off the ground. At the end of the building the bus halts before rounding the corner. Its headlights linger on a large tag: RunDown.
Fadi peers toward the expressway, hoping for another bus so he can see the jumper again. “RunDown,” he says. “What’s RunDown?”
“RunDown is me, Renton Davis. RunDown is also this place, this hood. It’s run-down. It’s run me down.”
Fadi’s staring out the window, trying to bring the wall back to life.
“Pretty good, right?” The kid narrows his eyes, trying to read Fadi’s expression. “That’s what I thought.”
Fadi reaches for the flashlight and runs it over the wall. The painting on the columns looks fragmented. He looks down the block again.
“Man, you know the bus isn’t coming for another half hour at least.”
Fadi looks at his watch. In half an hour it will still be dark enough that he’ll be able to see the jumper on the wall. “I’ll buy you breakfast.”
“You got yourself a deal,” Renton says.
They walk to the twenty-four-hour fast-food joints below the expressway and pick up breakfast sandwiches. Ren devours his on the way out the door, so Fadi grabs him two more, which he finishes on the way back to Smith Street.
They wait in the railroad apartment, drinking burnt coffee. Soon they can hear the bus’s arthritic groan as it approaches. The headlights swing into view, bumping over the buildings at the far end of the block. Fadi leans out the window. The jumper begins his leap, kicking out and up, away from the ground, transforming the street with a flash of momentary energy, exhilarating the desolation.
As the bus vanishes, leaving the street dark, Fadi half expects to hear the jumper crash to the ground. The sky is softening. He checks his watch. He’s late. He’ll walk home along this route tonight, watch Renton’s drawing leap clear of the neighborhood.
Fadi rushes through the projects. The first lights are coming on in the towers. A few elderly women are pushing shopping carts out of the courtyards and over to Lorraine Street where they will sit in front of the Laundromat until it opens.
On Van Brunt the Puerto Ricans are already open. Fadi lifts his gate, replaying the image of the jumper over in his head, remembering the boy’s fluid ascent, the magic of his movement as the bus brought him to life. It’s only when he’s stationed behind his counter that he realizes his newspapers have been stolen.
CHAPTER TEN
Where is Cree? Since he had jumped the pier after her Val has been looking for him. She needs him to fill the hole left by June, to be the person who completes her sentences, answers her pointless messages, agrees with her silly observations—makes her feel as if she is not cut loose, unmoored, dangling. Because when she opens her mouth, picks up her phone, signs into her e-mail to report a million little things to June, it takes her a moment to remember no one will respond.
When she jumped into the water, Val imagined that if she held her breath and stayed down long enough, she might black out and wake up back on the raft with June at her side. But Cree had pulled her to the surface, kissing her, distracting her from her missing friend, hinting that maybe he’d take her place. Then the music teacher arrived, summoning Val to shore, reminding her, just by appearing on the pier, that she had survived and June was gone. And June was right, Val realized; Val is a baby, crying there in the arms of Mr. Sprouse for everyone to see.
But now she must find Cree. So she invents reasons to spend time in Coffey Park, in the gloomy shadow of the Red Hook Houses. She sits on a bench, reading or trying to read—but not reading at all. She ignores the hollers of the boys smoking blunts. She ignores the sideways glance Monique throws her way when she passes with her colorful crew of girls. Instead, she concentrates on summoning Cree. If Cree shows up, seeks her out—if she is no longer alone—people will forgive her for what happened to June. If Cree likes her—deems her worthy of affection—she will be more than the girl whose friend is missing, more than the girl who lost that friend during a childish adventure.
She thinks she sees Cree everywhere—at the bodega, at the bus stop, on the pier. She lingers on her stoop before going inside, tricking herself into believing that he is going to be the next person to walk down her street. At night, she stays up late, sitting on her windowsill, her legs dangling, her heels tapping a rhythm she hopes will call Cree to Visitation Street.
On the Sunday following the vigil, Val waits outside the tabernacle. As she listens to Monique sing, she watches the rows of worshippers in shiny suits sway and clap—an undulation of colors like the evening sun spilling across the river. But when the crowd flows back onto the street, Cree is not with them.
Val watches Monique come down the aisle. How far-fetched is it to imagine that they might be friends again, gossiping late at night in Coffey Park, teasing the boys and letting themselves be teased in return?
“You still waiting around for me to sing something for June?” Monique says as she passes Val. “I told you Cree’s mom’s the one to bother with that nonsense.”
“I’m looking for Cree, not his mom,” Val says.
“Your daddy knows that?”
“No.”
“Thought you always followed daddy’s orders.”
“Maybe I don’t.”
“What’s your business with Cree?”
“Nothing. I just want to talk to him,” Val says.
“You guys a couple or something?”
“No.”
“Building closest to Lorraine. Sixth floor. Door’s busted.” Monique fans herself with her hand. “You’re not scared of the Houses? Bet you’ve never been inside before.”
Val won’t admit it, but Monique’s right. Paulie forbade both her and Rita from playing in the courtyards, let alone entering one of the project buildings. He’d grown up on the waterside and watched the drug slingers from the Houses invade his community, force his friends and family to move away. People over there got nothing to do with us, Paulie warned Val whenever she mentioned the Houses.
The projects are a maze. Val tries to appear nonchalant as she looks for the building with the busted door. A couple of young punks whose waistbands ride below their hips circle her. “I got what you’re looking for?” one of them asks, reaching down between his knees to grab the sagging crotch of his pants. “You come this way for a little action?”
From a bench in the middle of the courtyard, two old men tsk and tut, their displeasure souring the boys’ thrill. The boys run off. Val glances around, willing Cree to appear from every doorway, saving her the trouble of seeking him out.
She finds the building. Like Monique promised, the door is ajar. From outside, Val can smell the pungent stench of summer garbage stewing in the hall. Her palms are clammy. Sweat trickles down her neck. She looks across the courtyard. The boys who taunted her are watching with their arms crossed, checking if she dares to enter.
The stairwell is dark. The floors are unnumbered. Val flattens against a wall, making room for a woman with a baby carriage who scowls as she passes. The baby cries each time the carriage bangs against the stairs, staccato hiccups that bounce off the concrete.
Val pushes through a fire door onto the sixth-floor hallway. The fluorescent lights buzz and flicker as if they’re catching flies. A man stumbles out of an apartment, cursing as the door slams behind him.
Halfway down the hall is a door with the name JAMES below the bell and a sign advertising PSYCHIC CONNECTIONS $10. Val’s hand cannot find its way to the doorbell. She leans against the opposite wall. She wipes her palms.
The door opens and a large woman in a long purple skirt pokes her head into the hallway.
“What’re you doing standing there?” she says, reaching out a hand to Val. “Come in
side. I’ve got the fan running.”
Val follows her. She has the same round face as Cree, the same wide, soft features. The apartment is bright and clean. It smells like lavender. Framed prints of flowers hang on the walls in the tidy kitchen. A yellow plastic tablecloth is spread over the small table.
“I’m Gloria,” she says. She still holds Val’s hand. There is a soft electricity in her fingertips as they press into Val’s palm, scanning her life lines and love lines, as if reading Braille.
“I’m—”
“I know who you are. The last time I saw you, you were nine years old.” Gloria turns over Val’s palm inside her hand. Her hand is soft with deep creases.
If she lets go, Cree will be home. Gloria does not let go. Her grip is strong.
“Is that sister of yours still running wild?”
“I guess,” Val says. “I’m looking for—”
“You don’t need to tell me who you’re looking for,” Gloria says, patting Val’s cheek with her free hand. She leads Val to the kitchen table. “Sit down, baby. There’s no need to be nervous. I don’t bite.”
Despite the fan, the kitchen is hot. The backs of Val’s thighs adhere to the chair’s vinyl cushion.
“I could air-condition the place, but it disturbs my flow,” Gloria says.
Val cranes her neck, checking to see if Cree is in the living room.
“Water. Lemonade?”
“Water’s fine.” Val removes the paper napkins from their spindled holder and squares their edges before replacing them.
Gloria fills two glasses with water and places them on the table. She returns to the sink and washes her hands. Then she takes the chair opposite Val. “Are you ready?” she asks. “Give me your hands.” Gloria holds out her hands and closes her eyes.
Val hesitates. “Is Cree here?”
Gloria’s eyes open. “Cree? No, baby, he’s not going to interrupt. Now give me your hands and we’ll see if I can talk to your friend.”