“I prefer pistachio,” she grunted, and before I could think of a snarky response, she turned and walked back into the house taking Ben and Jerry with her. Unhh!
I hopped back into the car and drove down to the 7-Eleven. They were out of everything except Drumsticks and, while I’m not all that picky, I do have some standards. I ended up driving practically into town before I could find another two for one special.
On the way back to my car I spied a large group of teenagers hanging out in the parking lot. They ranged in age from about fourteen to twenty, mostly boys with a smattering of girls, all with enough metal facial piercings to shut down an airport. They all had backpacks, jammed full of unimagined crap. One girl carried a Pit Bull puppy in her arms. They were loud and obnoxious, hassling people for spare change as they went into the store.
A few people stopped and dug into their pockets for change. Most got that fixed stare in their eyes, acting as if the teens were invisible, and kept on walking.
Pretty soon the store manager came out and yelled at the kids to “get the hell out of there,” but I guess they didn’t want to get the hell out of there, because no one made a move to leave. Well, no one except the manager, who apparently had anger control issues. He disappeared back into the store, returning thirty seconds later with a .38 caliber pistol and a mouthful of curse words that would make a drunken sailor blush.
My first instincts were to get the hell out of there myself, reasoning that this was a good time to learn to stop sticking my nose into other people’s business. But I seldom listen to reason—one of my many imperfections. I punched in 911 on my cell phone and then headed back toward the manager.
“Hi there,” I said, ignoring the gun he held tightly in his hand. “Do you have any TastyKakes? I didn’t see any on the shelves.”
“I just got a new shipment. Haven’t had time to restock yet. Look, I’m a little busy here.” He waved the gun in the air in case I missed it the first time around.
I looked over at the teenagers and sighed. “Y’know, guys, this man is just trying to run a business, and I’m sure getting shot wasn’t on your agenda today. How about you just—go?”
“This is public property,” challenged a tall kid in leather. “We’re the public. We have every right to be here. You got any spare change?” he added.
I probably shouldn’t have laughed, but it was funny. I slipped my hand in my pocket, extracted a buck and handed it to him.
“Listen, the cops will be here any minute. Why not save yourselves some trouble and just leave before someone gets hurt.”
A blond haired girl came up behind Leather Boy and began tugging on his sleeve. She looked younger than the others, pale and vulnerable. I knew her. It was the girl from the gym.
“Let’s go,” she whispered.
A cop car pulled into the parking lot and two officers got out, one in uniform, the other dressed in faded jeans and a tee shirt. The one in full cop attire was Mike Mahoe, a six foot four transplanted Hawaiian with an easy smile and congenial disposition. He headed toward the manager while the other one hung back, eyeing me and doing a slow shake of his beautiful, Black Irish-Italian head.
“Why am I not surprised to see you here?” he muttered, and since it was rhetorical I didn’t bother to explain.
“Yo, nice to see you too, DiCarlo. By the way, I was the one who called 911. I should at least get some credit for that.”
Bobby’s face broke out in a slow grin. “Well, that is an improvement. It’s good to hear you’re using some common sense for a change.”
I smiled back. “I think I’ve exercised a great deal of common sense lately. I dumped your sorry butt, didn’t I?” Well, technically, he dumped mine, but that was ages ago. Recently, we’d had a reunion, of sorts, but we both realized that the timing or whatever wasn’t right and we agreed to keep it strictly platonic, at least until the dust settled in our mutually crazy lives. That didn’t mean we stopped caring about each other though. I loved Bobby. I always would. And I knew in my heart he felt the same way about me.
“So what started all of this?” DiCarlo asked, jerking his head sideways as the manager handed his gun to Mike. Slowly, the teens began to disperse.
I filled him in, looking over at the small blond girl. She caught me staring at her and quickly moved away.
“Bobby, those kids seem so… I don’t know… lost. Are they homeless?” Philly has more than its fair share of runaway youth. Some are locals, but a lot of them end up here from various places like small farm communities in the Midwest. Coming from a loving if somewhat neurotic family, I couldn’t conceive of anyone choosing the streets over a home with three square meals a day and a roof over their heads.
Bobby frowned and I could feel his concern. Maybe he was thinking of his own little girl, a sweet little two-year old named Sophia. “I’d say most of them. A few might be weekend warriors—y’know, posers who like to hang with the really hardcore street kids.” He rubbed his hands roughly over his face. DiCarlo had seen too many of these kids face down in the gutter, victims of abuse and neglect.
“Well, why don’t the cops pick them up and find foster homes for them? Or at least take them to the shelters. Isn’t there one on Callowhill Street?”
Bobby grinned again, only this time there was no mirth behind his eyes. “You’re asking for simple answers to complicated questions, Sweetheart. I wish it were that easy.”
On the ride back to my house I thought about what Bobby had said. Why wasn’t it that easy? Some of those kids were mere babies. Surely, they’d be better off back with their families or in foster care than out on the streets. How bad must their home lives be to choose a dumpster over their own beds? The thought stuck in my brain and wouldn’t let go.
When I got home, I headed into the kitchen to grab something to eat and found my kitten, Rocky, sitting on top of the counter, swiping tomatoes off the window ledge. She looked up when she saw me, gave me the once-over as only a feline can and knocked another tomato onto the floor. It landed with a splat. My dog, Adrian, a twenty-pound furball with a water fountain tail, appeared out of nowhere and began lapping up the tomato goop. I thought about stopping him, but then I’d have to clean it up myself.
Well, now that all the tomatoes were gone, I guessed I didn’t have to make a salad with my dinner. I’m trying to eat healthier these days, only all the stuff I really like comes wrapped in foil with the word Hershey imprinted on it. Self improvement is hard work. It involves a lot of exercise and denial and… leafy greens.
My mother called while I was eating. She and my dad live in Florida, and ever since she discovered the joys of “rollover minutes,” she’s been burning up the airwaves with free long distance calling.
“I’m worried about you,” she announced, my mother’s signature way of saying hello.
“Why are you worried? I’m fine.” My signature way of saying, “Hi back at’cha.”
My mother exhaled a long suffering sigh. “Brandy, it’s a Saturday night and most single women your age are out on dates. Doesn’t Janine know any nice, unattached men she can hook you up with?”
I assumed she meant the 1960’s version of the term “hooking up” and not the X-rated one of the new millennium. Either way, Janine didn’t know any nice men, period.
“Mom, I’d love to talk now, but I’m right in the middle of cooking dinner.”
“You’re cooking?” she asked, not bothering to hide the skepticism in her voice.
“Yes, I’m cooking. As a matter of fact, I made a lovely meal. Roasted chicken, baby new potatoes, steamed asparagus and peach cobbler for dessert.” Okay, that was a lie. I nuked a Lean Cuisine.
“Listen, Mom, Paul is thinking about signing up for J Date. He’s dying to talk to you about it. You should give him a call.” (I know. I’m a terrible sister. Even buying him a car won’t square me away on this one.)
My mother pondered this a moment. “Isn’t that a Jewish dating service?” Devout Catholic, Lorraine Alex
ander was none the less thrilled to hear that at least one of her children wouldn’t die alone. She hung up on me and called Paul.
*****
Fran sat on the floor and leaned forward. Her feet were planted on the ground, legs spread, knees up. I sat behind her, supporting her considerable weight. Swelled beyond all reasonable proportion, Fran’s normally slender, five foot nine-inch body looked like she’d swallowed a zeppelin. I held her steady while she exhaled.
The Lamaze instructor, a serene, soft spoken woman in her early thirties walked around the room bestowing smiles of encouragement upon poor, unsuspecting mothers-to-be. I counted the breaths between imagined contractions and sighed. “Are you sure you want to go ‘natural,’ Fran? My mom tells me it really hurts.”
The instructor cut me a dirty look and patted Fran on the shoulder.
Fran grunted as she struggled to turn and look at me. “Brandy, I want my baby to come into this world knowing her mother suffered horribly for her, so that I can throw it back in her face when she’s an adolescent and she’s going through those obnoxious teen years.” The ever efficient Franny always planning ahead.
“Do you know what really pisses me off?” she added, and being on a roll she didn’t bother to wait for a response. “While I’m here, spending my Sunday afternoon preparing to bring precious life into the world, where’s my husband? Off having a great time camping with his buddies!”
“Uh, Fran, Eddie’s in the Reserves. I don’t think—”
She cut me off. “How much did your mom say it hurts?”
“Well, it’s been twenty-eight years and she’s still talking about it.”
Fran pondered this. “I’m hungry,” she said at last. “Let’s go get pancakes.”
“Fine by me,” I shrugged. I stood and helped her to her feet. “Um, we’ll be right back,” I told the instructor.
“No, we won’t.” Franny interjected. “I’m getting an epidural and don’t anyone try and stop me.”
We left amid a chorus of “Take me with you’s,” punctuated by an “Amen to that, sistah!”
I drove us over to the IHOP, but Franny couldn’t fit in the booth, so we ordered the breakfast special “to go” and scarfed our food down in the car. In an effort to eat healthy, I’d traded in my hash browns for fruit and then picked the crispy ones out of Franny’s container.
“I love breakfast food,” Franny announced, stuffing a strip of bacon into her mouth.
“Me too,” I agreed. “That’s what’s so great about being an adult. We can eat pancakes for dinner and our mothers can’t tell us not to.”
“Bran,” Fran said, suddenly, a note of panic in her voice. “What if after the baby comes, I turn into my mother?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t get me wrong, Bran. I love my mom. But I can’t help but think that she was once young and fun, and then she had me and Janine and suddenly she became this thoroughly responsible person who would never dream of allowing her kids to eat pancakes at eight o’clock at night. Is that going to happen to me too?”
“Franny, stop worrying. You’re going to make a wonderful mom.”
Fran eyed me seriously. Well, as seriously as she could with maple syrup dribbling down her chin. “How do you know, Bran? Eddie and I didn’t plan this pregnancy. What if I totally screw it up and my kid ends up hating me?”
“That’s never going to happen, Franny.” But as the words came out of my mouth I flashed on the teens at the 7-Eleven. Had their parents worried about this too?
I dropped Fran off at Eddie’s mom’s house and headed over to Carla’s beauty salon. I’d gotten gum stuck in my hair earlier in the day, and I was hoping Carla had some magic formula to remove it without taking half my scalp with it.
The salon is located on Ritner, next door to a funeral parlor. Upon occasion, Mr. Kang, the funeral director will ask Carla to pinch hit for their hairdresser. Carla says it always makes her queasy, but just because you’re dead doesn’t mean you shouldn’t still look your best.
Cars were already parked two-deep in front of the salon, so I’d pulled the La Sabre around back and left it alongside a chain link fence. Trash, blown by the wind, clung to the fence like prisoners attempting a jail break, reminding me that I wasn’t exactly in the classiest part of town.
It was almost closing time. I could see Carla’s retro-do beehive silhouetted in the window as she pulled down the shades. I knocked softly and called her name.
“Hey, Hon,” she called out, opening the door for me. “What brings you here?”
I pointed to the wad of gum. “Can you get it out?”
Carla’s magic formula turned out to be an ice cube. She rubbed it on my head and five minutes later I was Juicy Fruit free.
“Oh, thank you, Carla.”
“No problem. Listen, Hon, I’m glad you stopped by. I heard something the other day I thought you should know.” She tapped an inch long hot pink nail against her front tooth and expelled a reluctant breath. “Bobby had a date last night.”
“My Bobby?” I squeaked. “I mean, our Bobby?” Alright, I knew he couldn’t stay celibate forever. Just because things didn’t work out between us, didn’t mean he was through with romance. “So, who is she?” I asked, and hoped those were the words that came out of my mouth instead of, “I hate the bitch, whoever she is.”
“Are you sure you want to know?”
I nodded, not sure at all.
“Tina Delvechione.”
“I hate that bitch!” Unhh. “What I meant was I’m very happy for them.”
“Honey, it was only one date, and anyway, John says you’ve been pining after Nick Santiago for the past three months.” So? I’m an equal opportunity piner.
“I know it doesn’t make any sense, Carla.”
Carla hugged me to her. “It makes all the sense in the world, sweetie. Bobby was your first love. The first is pretty special.”
Carla was right, I reasoned. It was natural to feel a little bit jealous. Only—Tina Delvechione? Puhleeze! She’s been trying to get her meat hooks into DiCarlo since high school. It may have been just one date like Carla said, but who knew where it could lead? By the time I left Carla’s, I had Bobby and Tina married with children. Well, I hope they’re not holding their breath for a wedding present.
I walked back to the car armed with a mini flashlight and a can of pepper spray—my constant companions when traveling alone after dark. Following the thin blue light, I groped the chain-link fence as I maneuvered around piles of urban rubble.
I reached my car, put the key in the lock and listened while a cat mewed softly in the distance. A trash can toppled over with a reverberating clang and I jumped a mile. And then the crying grew louder, more guttural, more human, and I froze, fear beating a pathway to my heart. I ripped open the car door and locked myself safely inside.
“It’s only a cat,” I breathed, cursing myself for letting my imagination run wild. I turned on the engine and hit the high beams, squinting as my eyes adjusted to the light. Then I glanced over my shoulder to bust a u-ie, looked back and slammed on the brakes as a young, teenage girl staggered toward the car and collapsed in a crumpled heap on the asphalt.
Chapter Two
It looked like she’d been shot. Blood seeped from her lower extremities, forming a deep red stain on the ground where she fell. A split second passed while I contemplated backing up the car and beating it the hell out of there. What if she had been shot? What if the shooter was still lurking about? What are the odds of anyone believing me when I tell them I didn’t go looking for troubl, but, per usual, it found me? Whatever, I couldn’t turn my back on her. My conscience simply wouldn’t allow it. Damn conscience.
I scrambled into the back seat to retrieve the first aid kit my mom bought for the car some eighteen years ago, when the Le Sabre was brand new. Then I grabbed my phone out of my pocketbook and punched in 911 and awaited instructions.
Leaning down next to the girl, I brushed her hair to t
he side and pressed two fingers against her neck. Her pulse was rapid, but at least she was still alive. Gently, I turned her over. I couldn’t see any visible wounds on her abdomen, yet blood continued to leak from her in an ever widening circle. Where was the damn ambulance?
The girl moaned softly and clutched her belly. “I hurt,” she whimpered.
I took her hand in mine and, with my other hand, smoothed back the hair from her forehead. She was drenched in sweat and shivering profusely. I was pretty sure she was in shock.
As I looked around for something to cover her with, the ambulance pulled up and Tony Blue jumped out. Tony and I went to high school together. He’s an EMT now, taking pre-med classes, part time. Tony and his partner pulled the gurney off the truck.
“That you, Alexander?”
“Yeah, Tony,” I said, relieved. Now that the professionals were here, I was free to go home and have my own private freakout. I looked down at the frightened girl, her face pale as the moon. “Tony’s a good guy,” I said. “You’re gonna be just fine.”
I began to disengage my hand, but she tightened her grip. “Don’t leave me,” she cried. “Don’t leave me!” She struggled to rise and a spasm of pain ripped through her.
Tony leaned close to me and spoke softly. “It would help keep her calm if you’d ride in the ambulance with her,” he told me.
I nodded and looked down at the girl. “Of course I won’t leave you,” I told her. I didn’t even know her name.
*****
Tony asked me to wait while they ushered the girl into an empty cubicle. I sat sandwiched between a twenty-year-old male who had accidentally shot himself in the foot while chasing down a rival gang member, and an elderly woman whose niece had brought her in after she had mistaken some mini decorative soaps for Petit Fours and ate them. The old lady didn’t seem to mind that she was burping up bubbles. She just sat there smiling serenely through swollen, allergic lips.
While I was waiting I called John and asked him to take Adrian out for a walk. I caught him just as he was leaving “Lucinda’s on South,” an art gallery that features his portrait photography.
No Such Thing as a Free Ride Page 2