by Lynne Hugo
I was walking to the trailer after school and Ramon, he’s in my study hall but he sits on the other side and we never said a word to each other, pulled over to the side of the road and drove real slow. He called out something like—Hey, chiclet, want a ride? and he scared me because he smiled and his teeth were real big and white, and it made me think of the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood. I called back—Get lost, juicy fruit, and just walked faster. He stopped the car and I thought maybe he was mad so I quick cut into the alley between Third and Fourth Streets. Then he gunned the car and followed me, driving real slow and I knew I’d made a mistake because there were buildings on both sides of me and he was behind me. I started to run and I felt like a complete fool. I couldn’t go faster than a car, especially because I was wearing my sandals since I didn’t have gym today, but what else should I have done? Then he just stopped the car behind me in the alley and I heard the door slam and he was running after me. He yelled something, but I didn’t even try to hear it. I thought okay, this is it, I’m going to get raped and then he’s going to kill me because I know who he is, but I kept running because if I can get to the end of the alley then he can’t get me because there’s another street and there’s probably cars on it. My heart was pounding so hard it made my ears sound like a tin roof and I thought maybe I’d have an aneurysm and die like Mom.
When I got through the alley, right at the end, he caught up to me. I figured he probably couldn’t rape me right there on the street and maybe someone would see if he was trying to drag me off, so I just barely got on the sidewalk and stopped. I had to anyway, I was so out of breath. Maybe Mom was like that, she couldn’t breathe and her heart hurt and she was more scared than a bird trapped in a basement, like what happened in our old house.
—Why’d you call me a fruit? That’s what Ramon said and he shouted it, really mad. He had an accent, from somewhere, maybe Mexico. I’d never heard him talk before.
—Because you called me a chiclet.
—I ain’t no fruit, don’t you call me fruit.
—I called you a juicy fruit, you jerk, I said. I wasn’t so scared now, I was mad because he chased me.
—I ain’t no fruit.
—Juicy fruit. And I’m no chiclet.
Then he said—Chica, I called you girl. I was just trying to ask if you wanted a ride. You’re from over in the trailer park, right? I live there, I seen you in your daddy’s truck.
—He’s not my daddy.
—Okay, your brother, your boyfriend, who cares?
—Why’d you call me that?
—Cause I don’t know your name, I called you girl.
Then I really felt like an idiot. How was I supposed to know? I stood there looking stupid for another minute or so, and then I just said,—Oh. So I started to walk away, and he said,—So, you want a ride?
Well, it was probably stupid in a way, but my heart was too fast and hard and I thought, I don’t want to make him mad again, and I don’t know why but I felt bad, too. So I was scared but I felt like maybe I’d been mean, and I didn’t know what to do so I said okay.
Then we started back to his car, which is big and used to be blue or something, but it’s got a bunch of holes in the fenders, not too big, but there’s rust around the holes and all on the silver parts. The paint is peeling in some places. It’s a sorry mess is what it is, like Mom used to call my room, only my room was perfect compared to this.
Right then at the other end of the alley, a police car turns in. It drove up to where Ramon’s car was blocking the alley, and Ramon said,—Oh man. The police car’s light was flashing all of a sudden, like Ramon’s car wasn’t already stopped, and the cop says over a megaphone, like he couldn’t have just gotten out of the car and talked like a normal person,—Step away from the car and put your hands up.
I just froze because I didn’t know who he was talking to. I thought it couldn’t really be Ramon, or me, but I couldn’t see anybody else. I was scared to move, and I didn’t put my hands up, but it didn’t matter because the policeman went over to Ramon. He had his hand on his gun, but he didn’t pull it out. He made Ramon stand with his hands on the brick building and he searched him. For no reason except his car was in the alley. Then he came over to me and he said—Are you having a problem with him, Miss?
I said no. Then the policeman said—Who’s your friend?
I have no idea why I answered, it just popped out of my mouth without planning it, even though I was scared of Ramon, now I was scared of the cop and I just said—Ramon.
Find yourself better friends, the policeman said. He had acne scars on his face, like it had been real bad, sort of like Aunt Rebecca’s. That’s one gene I’m happy I didn’t get. Then he said—What’s your name?
—Alexis O’Gara. I was going to make one up, but my ID is in my backpack and I thought I could get in trouble for lying to him if he was arresting us. Not that he had any right to, but since when do rights matter? I was looking at his shoes then, and they were scuffed, not shiny black like I thought uniform shoes are supposed to be. There was mica in the gravel in the alley and it glinted like it was worth something, and there were pieces of a green bottle, too.
—Where do you live?
—Over…in Early Sun. (Partly true.)
—With your parents?
—My parents are dead. I live with my grandmother. (Not too true.)
—Phone number?
—We don’t have a phone, I said. I never looked at him.
The policeman looked disgusted and I was really scared. Then I said—Ramon is supposed to take me to my grandmother’s. I was thinking, I’ve done it now, because I’m carrying two books, and any moron would figure out I’d been at school, but I guess this policeman isn’t just any moron, he’s bigger than most, and he said—You’d better watch who your friends are, miss.
The scared part of me won over the mad part and I wanted him to go away.
—Okay, I said, and I didn’t even know what I was saying okay to, but I just thought maybe he’d go away.
—Don’t let me see you again, he said to Ramon, and when he got into the police car, he spat on the ground before he shut the door and backed it up out of the alley. Ramon was still standing with his hands on the brick building.
—Thanks, Ramon said to me, I didn’t know why.—Go on, get in.
I got in the car and he did, too, and he started driving down the alley, to the street I’d run to, away from the way the policeman went.—Bastard, Ramon said, and it sounded like he was spitting then, and I looked at him, working up to scared all over again, but then he said,—Cops, like he was tasting rotten bananas, and I knew he didn’t mean me. Then I thought about why didn’t I just tell the policeman Ramon had chased me? I still don’t know why I didn’t, except I thought Ramon was trying to be nice, just offering me a ride home, and it was my fault for flipping out. I’ve never been around men much since Grandpa died, and what I know of them has been all bad news except for Tim and sometimes I wonder about him, so I automatically don’t trust them.
So anyway, Ramon and I got to the trailer court without saying anything more. I looked at him a couple of times, when I thought he wouldn’t notice. His skin is sort of light, sort of dark, and he’s got big eyes. His nose isn’t like a black person’s, more thin, like a white person’s. and his hair is black and wavy like cooked noodles, not frizzy. He’s real good-looking, even though I’ve never seen someone that looks like him, and I knew he had big white straight teeth like tiny piano keys. I tried to figure out why I thought he was Mexican, and it’s because in school one of the stupid stories that goes with our grammar lessons in Spanish had a boy named Ramon. People who speak Spanish come from Mexico, so that’s where I got the idea.
But then, when we were driving in the trailer court when we got to the second speed bump, Ramon said—My house is real close. You want to go there?
—No thanks, I said.—But thanks for the ride.
He must have figured out what I was thinking.—So
mebody’s home, he said—My mother, she’s there. And then I thought, I’m insulting him, he’s just trying to be nice, and I wasn’t sure what to do so I just said—Okay. I’d already spent the whole afternoon not knowing what to do, like being in the Twilight Zone with no one to ask for directions. That’s what Mom used to call being confused, the Twilight Zone.
He passed Alex’s trailer and went around a curve, but then parked next to a trailer just three or four down. I guess I’ve never seen his car; I wouldn’t have forgotten it because it’s not a sight you’d forget unless you got really lucky, which obviously has never happened to me. Besides, Grandpa had a big one like it before he died. Ramon’s trailer has these hanging baskets of pink flowers by each door, and what I really noticed was two bird feeders hanging from a pole stuck in the grass past the bedroom end. And there’s a glass one with what looks like cherry Kool-Aid in it.
—What’s in the bird feeders?
Ramon shrugged.—I dunno, he said. You can ask if you want, she’ll tell you.
—What kind of car is this? I asked then, figuring he’d know the answer to that and trying to be polite.
He grinned.—It’s a Pontiac. I’m fixin’ it.
He isn’t making much progress.—It’s nice, I said.—Is it yours?
—It’s mine, he said, and I could see he loved it.—This here’s my freedom. He patted the dashboard, which is this faded grayish-blue with a couple of cracks in it like a sun-dried raisin or something, and I knew I didn’t have one tiny bit of freedom, not really, unless you count not speaking to Alex. No one can make me do that. I shouted back at him tonight when he freaked out, but I wish I hadn’t. I wish I’d just never said a word to him.
Why would Alex flip out and throw a fit when he didn’t have the smallest reason? He doesn’t even know those people, Ramon’s mother told me she didn’t know him. I bet she never killed a single baby. She told me that hummingbirds eat nectar in flowers or sugar water, but if you give them the sugar water, you have to color it red. Who is Alex to go nuts about my coming out of their trailer? A psychopath, that’s who he is. I do not understand how people act. I don’t understand anything at all.
thirty
“NOW SHE’S HANGIN’ with trash,” Alex said to Dink and Big Al, dark-faced with outrage and incredulity. They’d each arrived at the plant, not a minute’s lapse total between them, just before the whistle. The men had, over time, become masters of split-second timing, careful not to donate minutes to the company. Alex slammed his locker door. “Jesus H. Christ.”
Big Al and Dink suppressed grins. Big Al pulled off his cap and briefly fanned his face with it. It was so obvious Alex would be the target of all jokes that he could afford to give a glimpse of the giant curve of his baldness. “Whew. Daddy’s hot.”
“You would be, too. I caught her in a trash-trailer, boy there and all. Lives down a couple spaces. Weird, some sort of voodoo, I heard. Brown and black folks in there, you know? And this boy, he thinks he’s a stud, walks like he’s cool. Like them…y’know.” Alex almost imperceptibly jerked his head toward the maintenance department, where most of the blacks worked. Not that the white guys made much more, but they didn’t have to mix.
“You caught her doin’ it?” Big Al was impressed, the juicy milk-mustache of a grin finally wiped off his mouth.
“I don’t know if she did or not. Saw her comin’ out, thought she was in her room the whole time she’d snuck out and been over there. Said she was talkin’ to his mother.”
“Oh, man,” Dink said, his brows drawn together. Then, behind Alex’s back, he mugged to Big Al, waggling his hips—which made the keys hanging from a loop on his jeans clang softly. When Alex turned to look, Dink rearranged his face into appropriate sympathy for a father’s worst nightmare.
The day was already muggy, which deepened Alex’s sense of oppression. He wiped the sleeve of his T-shirt across his forehead, though no moisture had beaded there yet. The whistle cut the air, colliding with his bones. Nearby, the drone and clang of machinery started up after first inspection.
“What’d you do?” Big Al had to shout to be heard. He’d pushed his cap back enough so his view of Alex’s face wasn’t shadowed.
“Man, I lost it,” Alex said, but Big Al couldn’t hear him.
“What?”
This time Alex shouted. “Nothin’ yet.”
That wasn’t true. He’d told the truth the first time. Before Detta had even crossed the handkerchief yard of the trailer next to his he’d gone apoplectic.
“What the hell?” he’d sputtered, his voice banging on outrage like a broken tailpipe. “You got no business anywhere but here.” He’d pointed to the trailer with one hand and lunged to grab her shoulder with the other as she approached, but Detta had jerked back to make him miss. Alex felt himself being watched from the trailer Detta had come from, which embarrassed and incensed him. He’d looked like a fool when his daughter—all in black again like some kind of ghoul—sidestepped him so easily. He moved to get between Detta and the spectator, a Negro woman looking at them from behind a screen door, her face a faint reshaping of the darkness behind her. “Goddammit,” he spat, not so much at Detta as in her direction.
It was too late, of course. Not only had the woman seen him, he’d blown it with Detta. When he’d first shouted, he’d seen the look on her face—genuine surprise—before she closed it behind a blank mask. She kept walking toward the trailer, so his effort to position himself to keep the black woman from catching his face and words ended up with Detta effectively keeping her back to him by simply continuing toward the trailer. He’d expected her to stop, to hear out his explosion, the way he’d always had to with his father, but she just brushed by with an expression that was partly bored and partly designed to suggest she’d just stepped in dog do. He was left gesticulating on the asphalt, sputtering fury. “Hey. Get back here,” he yelled into her wake. The screen door slapped shut.
Alex couldn’t rein back the impulse to glance over his shoulder at the other trailer. The woman’s face retreated as she withdrew. She’d seen him puny and impotent. He headed into his trailer, slamming the inner door and hoping the woman heard it. “Detta! Detta!” he ordered, but he was shouting at the closed door of her room. Locked, of course, when he tried the handle; he’d slammed back to the kitchen for his screwdriver to take the door off the hinges again, but as quickly as he got back with the tool in his fist, his will was leaking out, dissipating into air reverberating with failure. He went back into the living room and just stood, looking out of the window. From this angle, he couldn’t see the door of the trailer where Detta had been, only the bedroom end of it. One light was on, the blinds drawn.
OLIVIA HAD HAD those kind of blinds when he lived with her. Everybody in Toronto did it seemed, the same grayish color, though it wasn’t the trailer woman’s blinds that brought Olivia back. It was the mounds of her body, audacious and dignified at once—that, and the rich matte brown of her skin and deep, musical intonations of her voice like a memory of an exotic country following Detta off the stoop.
Olivia lived on Ottawa Street when he met her, though later she moved over to the west side of the city and he’d gone with her. Then, although they never discussed the fact, he’d simply spent the night more and more often until he didn’t remember the last time he hadn’t. His trappings were showing up in her medicine cabinet and closet until one day there was nothing left at Jimbo and McConn’s apartment where he’d been camping on the couch, though he still saw them at the trucking company where they all worked. Jimbo and McConn were draft dodgers, too; an anti-war honcho owned the company.
Olivia was Haitian, it turned out, mistaken by Alex and everyone else for an American Negro until she opened her mouth. Every now and then a n’est-ce pas? or s’il vous plait surfaced, woven into her conversation like a yarn of a different color that shaded the whole fabric. He’d told himself a thousand times she wasn’t Negro, that it was all right, but then he’d hear her sing in the kitche
n or the bathroom, and she sounded so black he’d think what his father would say and feel sick. Olivia had a thing for candles, too, and some religious mumbo-jumbo that he tried, but couldn’t connect to his chopped-off Catholic roots, even when he remembered the mass in Latin.
Olivia. Olivia. Oh-livia. “What’re you doing in Canada, anyway?” Alex asked the first time he spent the night, but she shook her head.
“Too much tristesse,” she said, “ce n’est pas a story bon to the ears.”
Alex hadn’t pressed. It wasn’t in his nature. He was glad to find a woman who didn’t want to talk. He couldn’t describe the color of her skin—not black coffee, but not coffee with cream either. Best not to dwell on it, anyway, he thought as he stroked her, honey-soft and startling to his eyes against the white sheets. Her body was nothing like Chris’s which was thin, a little jutty with elbows and knees. Olivia was flower gone to fruit, round-breasted, with a rump good to squeeze. At first he avoided her coarse black hair, but after a while, even that, even her hair, he touched.
Olivia was better to be with than Christine, not just because of the sex, lustier for Olivia’s lack of guilt, but because of the other opposites: she didn’t always want him to talk to her, didn’t expect him to be there all the time or stay out of the bars. It was like his just showing up was all right and enough. He knew Olivia was afraid at night, and wondered if that was why she put up with him. He didn’t like the thought, but didn’t know what to do with it, and so put it away on a back shelf of his mind.
Days slid into weeks. The summer passed, cooler than at home, and autumn came a month sooner. Alex stopped worrying that uniformed men would appear and drag him away. He didn’t know whether Olivia was less afraid, but she didn’t have bad dreams as often. That much he could tell. The trees emptied before November, and Toronto hunkered down for winter. The twins came to mind in February when their birthdate twanged like a sudden sprain in his mind, and he thought about calling Chris, but remembered her warning about the phone maybe being tapped. After that, his helplessness convinced him to leave it alone, let well enough alone, and he didn’t notice Chris’s birthday until it was nearly two weeks past. Let well enough alone.