by Ivy Pochoda
“You should talk to him about that.”
“I’m talking about it with you.”
“Let’s have this discussion when Ray’s here,” Maureen says.
Monique looks around the kitchen. She doesn’t want to hang around until Ray comes back. The Ray who stays in this house is not her father—at least not in any way recognizable to Monique. Without making excuses, she heads for the hall.
On her way out she passes Val, who’s got a funky new haircut.
“Hey, Monique.”
Monique tries to speak, but June’s voice is pounding in her ears, saying Val’s name.
“You hanging out with Maureen?”
Monique opens and shuts her mouth like a nutcracker.
“Monique? Is everything cool?”
Monique wants to follow Val inside her house, go down to the basement, and pull out the old costumes and scarves. She wants Val to invent one of her complicated adventures set in a kingdom far away. She wonders if Val still remembers these places, if perhaps that’s what she was looking for that night on the raft, a world that hovers just out of reach.
“Um, okay. Whatever,” Val says.
Monique struggles to sort out her own thoughts from June’s chattering. “Val!” she says. Her voice is not her own.
“What?” Val says.
Monique clamps her hand over her mouth, then lets it go. “Shut up.” She twitches, trying to break free of June.
“Are you talking to me?” Val looks more confused than angry.
Monique shakes her head. She looks past Val into the homey interior of the Marinos’ house. No amount of make-believe will get June to let her be.
She rushes away.
“Monique, wait!”
She heads for the desolate streets on the tip of Red Hook. June’s voice is still a rhythmic chant but she’s no longer just saying Val’s name. She’s incanting a whole host of names, some Monique recognizes, some she doesn’t, and others she’s sure are nonsense.
Halfway up the block the corrugated siding that hides Bones Manor from the street begins. As she passes, a slight wind lifts from the water, rattling the fence. She slips through a gap and enters the Manor’s barren empire.
She’s standing at the edge of a large pond filled with rushes that bow and sway. The top of the water ripples, distorting her reflection. All around her are makeshift shelters, concrete foundations with tarps as roofs, shipping containers with laundry lines strung across their short ends, and shopping carts for storage. Battered chairs sit in a semicircle under a sheet hung between four stripped saplings. Trash rolls like tumbleweed.
The highest point of the Manor is a blue building that looks like two stacked trailers. They are balanced on a staggered cinder-block platform. The top trailer has smudged windows, one of them partially blocked by a ragged curtain. As Monique looks up the curtain is pulled back.
A chorus of new voices joins June’s. They are rough and eroded. They sound like the ache of the wind in a charred forest, the rattle of a can rolling down an empty street, the whisper of dust in a gutted building—hollow noises unaccustomed to an audience. They suggest a loneliness worse than pain.
This is what people become, Monique thinks, voices crying out in an abandoned lot, groping the forgotten air of an old boneyard, hoping for someone to hear them and reaching a person who won’t listen. So what does it matter if Ray runs off with Maureen, and Shawna becomes queen of the benches? Everyone’s heading in the same direction.
Still, there is charm in the desolation of the Manor, invention in the ruin. It’s as close to make-believe as Red Hook gets, a world created out of scrap—containers transformed into mansions, a muddy puddle into a lake. Monique imagines she’d like a shipping container of her own, a shelter from the madness of the Houses where people will let her be.
“Boo!”
A hand claps over her eyes. She jumps.
“I said, boo. Did I scare you? Or were you waiting for me?” The hand lifts. Monique turns to face Raneem. His boys are behind him. “Did you come looking for me?”
“No,” Monique says.
Raneem stands back. His jeans are slung low, revealing three inches of his boxers. He’s capped two of his front teeth in gold.
“You know, not many girls like you come to this place. Not unless they want something.”
“What I want,” Monique says, “is to be left alone. You can do that for me, can’t you?”
“Why don’t you sing something for us,” Raneem says. “Word is you’ve got a fine voice in there.” He taps Monique’s chest. She flinches and he presses harder. “Sing,” Raneem says.
Monique opens her mouth but nothing comes out.
“You won’t sing for me?” Raneem puts his hand over her throat. “How about now?” He takes his hand away. “I’m just fucking with you. Tough girl like you can’t take a joke? I hear you’re a girl who likes to run with the big boys. So what? You got bored of those kids, wanted to find some real adventure?”
Perhaps she has come here looking for Raneem.
“Tell you what. How about we all relax and enjoy ourselves?” He pulls something from his pocket and holds it in front of Monique’s face. “I seem to remember this is what you came looking for last time. A little smoke. Get a high with the crew.”
It’s a pristine blunt, plump and golden brown.
“No thanks,” Monique says.
“You’re scared of the good shit? You prefer smoking that project schwag?”
“I’m not in the mood.”
“Silly rabbit,” one of Raneem’s crew says, “this is what gets you in the mood. Spark it, boy.” He jerks his chin to Raneem.
Monique shakes her head. “I’m cool,” she says.
But Raneem is already forcing the blunt into her mouth. She takes a deep breath, inhaling and holding it so Raneem doesn’t have to hold her lips shut. She exhales and the world flip-flops. She wobbles and knocks against Raneem. “You see, I knew you’d come round.” His capped teeth glint. He brushes his tongue over them. “This shit is catnip for the ladies,” Raneem says, putting an arm around Monique. She doesn’t remove it. If she does, she worries she’ll rock back and hit the ground.
Monique closes her eyes. Raneem’s breath is hot on her face. He’s exhaling warm, soured smoke into her lips. She knows she’d only make it a few steps before they get her down. So what’s the point of trying to run?
“You see,” Raneem says, unbuttoning the top button of her jeans, “like taking candy from a baby.”
Monique closes her eyes. She hears Raneem fumbling with his belt buckle. She braces herself. Then he lets her go. She staggers back, hits the ground, and opens her eyes.
At first Monique thinks that the voices in her head have come to life, materializing from the bunkers and containers—sallow faced and ashen eyed. But these are no ghosts. Silent and grim, the Manor folk circle Raneem and his boys. Their clothes are dirty and torn—scrap layered over scrap. Belts of twine and wire. Ponchos made from curtains and sheets. Plastic bags for shoes.
“What?” Raneem says. “What you all looking at?”
They keep coming. Monique gets to her feet and brushes herself off. June is talking louder now. Her voice is fevered and panicked. Water, watered, wave, unwavering. Rock, rocker, rocking, rocked.
Raneem grabs for a piece of scrap metal near his feet. But before he can lift it, one of the Manor dwellers breaks rank, stepping forward and landing a punch to Raneem’s jaw. In an instant, this scrawny kid in a black sweatshirt is all over Raneem, pouncing and pinning him, driving him hard into the gravel and concrete.
“You leave her,” the kid says. “You leave her alone.”
Raneem’s bigger, but the kid has the jump on him. He fights quick and hard, landing fast punches that give Raneem and his boys no time to react. After barely a minute, the kid lifts Raneem to his feet and shoves him back into the arms of his friends.
“Don’t come back to the Manor anymore,” he says.
His hood falls b
ack, revealing a head covered in matted tufts of hair and a long, drawn face with sleepy eyes.
“Yo!” one of Raneem’s crew says. “Don’t I know you?”
“You don’t know shit,” the kid says pulling up his hood. “Go.”
The Manor folk watch Raneem and his boys hurrying toward the lake and out of the Manor, before retreating into their own shadows.
Monique remains where she was standing. She wraps her arms around herself. She hadn’t noticed growing cold, but her entire body is shivering and shaking.
“Come on,” the boy in the sweatshirt says, extending a hand to her. “Let’s get you warm.”
He leads her to a pair of large shipping containers set side by side spray-painted blue and green. The door to one of them is open.
Monique hesitates.
“It’s cool,” he says.
The interior of the container is tricked out. The light from the door shines on walls covered in elaborate graffiti. The pieces are tropical—surf and sand with stands of loopy palm trees. One wall shows the sun rising in a burst of orange and yellow. On the opposite wall the sun sets in a melting firestorm of reds and pinks.
“RunDown,” Monique says, reading the tag at the base of one of the pieces. “Is that you? You’re called RunDown?”
“Used to be. Call me Ren. It’s easier.”
“Okay, Ren.” She wraps her arms around herself, trying to fight off the chill.
“You’re Cree James’s cousin.”
“How come you know Cree?”
“He’s my boy. He and I are about to travel together.”
“Cree? He only travels in his mind.”
Everything in Ren’s crib is neatly stacked and folded. There’s a bed made out of forklift palettes with a twin mattress. The blanket is tucked with hospital corners. Shelves made out of boards and cinder blocks run along one wall. These are stocked with cans of soup, soda, and vegetables, as well as cleaning supplies and toiletries. A few books are stacked next to the bed. At the far end of the container is a beat-up recliner and a clip-on lamp that runs off a battery. Ren switches on the lamp, and the colors on the walls come to life.
“This all your work,” Monique says.
“My oeuvre.”
“It’s tight.”
Ren hands her a different black sweatshirt, which she pulls over her head.
“How come you saved me?” Monique says.
“’Cause it looked like you needed saving.”
It’s quiet in the storage container. The air is still but fresh. The weed is making Monique’s head spin. “Do you mind if I lie down for a moment?”
“It’s all yours,” Ren says. “I’ll wait outside.”
“No,” she says. “You can stay.”
The boy sits in the recliner. He switches off the light.
“Leave it on,” Monique says. “I want to see the colors.”
She lies down on the bed. The pillow and sheets smell of soap. She falls asleep to the gentle creaking of springs and pleather as Ren rocks back and forth, watching over her.
When Monique wakes up, the sky has faded from blue to slate. Ren is still in his chair, rattling a spray can in time to his rocking.
“You up for walking home? This is no place to be after dark. I’ll walk you partway.”
Monique’s back and neck are sore from where she hit the ground. Ren takes her toward the hole in the fence. Shadowy figures pull back as they pass. Her heart beats hard at every dark alley, every abandoned lot.
“I got you,” Ren says. “It’s cool. With me you’re unassailable.”
They pass the automotive chop shops closing for the day. The local kids volunteering at the community vegetable garden are padlocking their gate. Monique and Ren pause on Otsego Street and look back toward the water. At the far end of the street, a pewter sliver of the bay is visible through the arched windows of an empty warehouse. As they watch, the sun drops, electrifying the water with the same neon palette Ren had painted on the wall of his container. Monique slips her hand into his. They stand, silently watching the sun burn up the water until it falls behind the Jersey waterfront, leaving the neighborhood in darkness.
They emerge onto Lorraine Street. Ren walks slower now, slinking almost. He pulls the drawstrings of his hood, tightening it over his face. Soon they are at the entrance to one of the courtyards.
“This is as far as I go,” Ren says. Monique starts to take off his sweatshirt, but he stops her. “Keep it. I’ll get it from you sometime.”
“Sure thing,” she says.
“And tell your cousin to come find me. We’ve got places to go.”
“Not without me, I hope.”
He takes Monique’s hands and looks her up and down. “Yeah, I think you can ride with us.”
Monique doesn’t notice Celia until she’s on top of them. She and Ren spring apart.
“Later,” Monique says.
Ren’s about to turn away when Celia catches his arm. She pulls his hood back. Her mouth opens and a slow scream begins to emerge, gaining power, like a train whipping through a station.
Ren shakes free of Celia’s grasp. He breaks into an all-out run. Monique takes her mother by the shoulders. “Stop screaming at him, Ma. Stop,” Monique says. “Stop! He’s good!”
But Celia’s scream continues to pierce the newly fallen night.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Val hadn’t planned to kiss Jonathan. In the moment that he allowed his mouth to linger on hers she felt his lips relax. If Jonathan had simply pulled away and apologized for giving her the wrong impression, that would be one thing, but the near violence of his reaction, the way he pushed her back, told Val that he was stopping himself from kissing her as much as preventing her from kissing him. His reaction was passionate. She was sure of this.
It was like something out of a movie the way he chased her down the street, shouted her name into the rain. She’d run quickly, sure he’d follow. And he had for half a block. But when Val ducked into her parents’ house, Jonathan was nowhere in sight. She kept a lookout from her window, checking to see if he was at his post behind the iron fence across the street. When Jonathan turned up on her step, she’d remained hidden behind her curtain, unsure of what would follow if she opened the door.
Now she regrets her hesitation. With Jonathan she was able to forget June’s hand sliding from hers, the black curtain of water pulling them away from each other. Jonathan would forgive Val for June.
She stares into the window of his apartment on her way to St. Bernardette’s. She lingers on Van Brunt, at the bus stop, on the school steps, hoping they’ll bump into each other. She takes her time in the lobby, on the stairs, in the cafeteria, in front of the teacher’s lounge. She counts the minutes until Music Appreciation.
In class, Jonathan tells them they’re going to be watching a movie, a modern production of Le Nozze di Figaro set in an Upper East Side apartment. This is the only introduction he gives before inserting the DVD, dimming the lights, and pressing play. He takes his seat behind the piano and doesn’t say a word until the bell rings. He fidgets with his sheet music and the stack of CDs beneath the piano bench, but Val can feel it when his eyes dart to her face. When she dawdles in front of the piano for a moment after class, Jonathan doesn’t look up from the sheet music he’s arranging.
Val turns sixteen on an unremarkable and overcast Wednesday. There won’t be much fanfare—probably just a white cake with a seam of raspberry filling from one of the Italian bakeries on Court Street and a couple of small gifts from her parents and Rita.
The bus lets Val off on Van Brunt. The Dockyard’s windows are fogged over. The door to the bar opens, revealing a dark interior lit up by green Christmas lights. She glances inside, hoping to see Jonathan, hoping he’ll come out. But the room is too dark for her to distinguish the faces of the drinkers.
She heads to the bodega to buy a pack of gum. Ever since June disappeared the bodega owner has been a little sweet on her, slipping her candy bar
s and single cigarettes. He even offers her a breakfast sandwich some mornings.
She slides a pack of spearmint across the counter. She hates herself for forgetting his name.
“Gum? That’s it? How about a soda?”
“No, thank you.” Val glances at the flyer with June’s photo on it still taped next to the counter. “Did you ever get your T-shirt back? The one you lent me that morning?”
“Don’t worry about that.”
Val pops a piece of gum in her mouth. “It’s my birthday.”
“Happy birthday. Are you doing anything special?”
“No,” Val says.
He slides off his stool. “I have something for you.” He squats down, showing Val his broad back, then pulls out a white pastry box with a torn top. He puts it on the counter between them. He opens the top. Inside are assorted golden pastries, some shaped like egg rolls, others like bird’s nests. “They’re Lebanese,” he said. “Let me get some tape.”
He disappears into a back room.
“Fadi!” a voice behind Val says. Fadi, that’s his name.
Val turns and sees Jonathan entering the store. When their eyes meet, Val cannot remember any of the dozens of things she planned to say to him, things that would prove she wasn’t a little kid, things that would make him like her back, invite her over.
“Fancy meeting you here,” Jonathan says. He digs in his pocket and teases out some crumpled bills.
“I liked that opera you played today,” Val says. “It was cool.”
“The usual?” Fadi says, emerging from the back and toward the cigarette display.
“Pack of Spirits,” Jonathan says.
Fadi finishes taping the box. He pulls a plastic bag from a hook and edges the pastries inside. He adds a stack of napkins. Val glances from Fadi to Jonathan, trying to recall the only other time the three of them were alone together here. But she remembers nothing until she woke up in the hospital, nothing of the man who pulled her from underneath the pier, carried her seven blocks to the store, and nothing of the man who called 911.
“Did you wish Valerie a happy birthday?” Fadi says.
“I didn’t know,” Jonathan says.