I didn’t say anything to Mom. I didn’t even talk to Rosa about it, because she was just like Mom. But I knew that Marc wasn’t going to be that man. I knew.
* * *
The big night was finally close, and Mom was more nervous than I’d ever seen her. She was determined to make a good impression on this guy, so she wanted us to clean the apartment, and clean it nice.
Our apartment was so small the three of us could clean it in two hours. Mom had us working for two days before Marc came over.
“I want it spotless,” she said. “Men don’t like a dirty house.”
I wondered why she cared more about what Marc liked than what Rosa and I liked, but I didn’t say anything.
Marc brought her flowers that night, and he brought Rosa and me stuffed bears. Mom cooked a meatloaf, and he told her how good it was. I didn’t know what the big deal was—it was a plain old meatloaf, and Mom wasn’t the best cook.
He came by once a week, normally on Friday nights, but after the first few visits, he stopped bringing things for us. And after a few more, he stopped bringing them for Mom, too. The only thing he brought now was beer.
Mom used to laugh at the silly things we did. Now he’d raise his eyebrows and look at her, and she’d holler at us, or send us to our room. That was a joke, too. Our room was a tiny little space he walled off from Mom’s bedroom. All we had was a single bed and some hooks on the wall to hang our clothes, and two blankets draped over an opening to make a doorway. I didn’t mind not having any room, but we could hear everything that went on in Mom’s room. That’s what I didn’t like. Sometimes I heard her cry.
He was always gone when I woke up for school, and we wouldn’t hear from him again until Friday night when he’d stop by with his beer. He never seemed to get drunk, but he did enjoy drinking.
* * *
The next few weeks at school turned out to be good. Señora Cortes was our new teacher, and she proved to be very nice, even nicer than Buford. Some of the kids didn’t speak English, so she asked us to teach them. It felt good. While we taught them English, they taught us Spanish, and that helped us get along better.
The first few months went fine. At school, we were learning, and making new friends, and things at home were good. Then one night Mom brought Marc home again. She came in the door with a box of pizza. She knew we loved pizza, so I guess she thought she’d bribe us with it.
“You remember Marc,” she said, and they sat at the table. Marc had a friendly smile, and Mom seemed to like him enough; in fact, she said he was great. And she sure saw him enough.
We ate dinner and talked, and then we played a game of Uno. Rachel/Rhonda/Rosa—whoever she wanted to be called—won. Afterward, Marc and Mom drank a few beers, then he left. Later that night, Mom gave us a bath and tucked us in.
“Remember I told you about Mr. Right, and how he would come along someday and take care of us? Well, I think Marc could be him. He’s sweet, handsome, has a good job, and, most importantly, likes you girls. I want you both to try hard to make him feel at home. Okay?”
“Sure, Mom,” Rosa said, and I nodded.
Mom kissed us goodnight and smiled as she turned up the blankets. After Mom left the room, Rosa leaned over and asked, “What do you think?”
“You mean about Mr. Right?”
“Yeah.”
“All of our lives, Mom has been telling us about Mr. Right, and how he would come along some day and take us out of poverty and into a nice house with a swimming pool. We’d all have nice clothes and money to spend.”
“So, what’s wrong with that?” Rosa asked.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I said. “If he’s Mr. Right. But as far as I’m concerned, something about Mr. Right is wrong.”
A Shiny New Badge
San Francisco, present day.
* * *
We started out the day the same as always, patrolling the streets in the Tenderloin, but something was different today. Jeff wasn’t taking his time. He did everything in a hurry. Before I knew it, we were heading up Geary Street.
I was focused on an apparent junkie near the corner coffee shop, when I noticed Jeff looking at me. “You look familiar,” he said. “Something about the way your profile is…” The statement caught me by surprise, but I recovered quickly. “I hope so. I asked you enough questions when you came to the academy training class.”
Jeff shot me a puzzled look.
“Remember? You were guest-teaching and had an open-questions session? I was the one in the back with all the questions.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, but I could tell he didn’t remember. Probably because it didn’t happen, but he would never know that.
Five minutes later, he pulled to the curb across from the coffee shop where the junkie had been and got out. “You want anything?”
I shook my head. “Already had two coffees,” I said. “I’m good.” This had become a routine: stopping at the shop for coffee and Jeff asking if I wanted any. I never did, but he asked anyway.
* * *
The first few weeks on patrol went as expected—driving the Tenderloin District, with its seemingly endless array of bars and sleazy motels, handing out too many tickets, making small talk with the bums—oh, and dodging passes by Senior Officer Asshole.
Did this son of a bitch really think I was going to fall for his lines? Did he go home dreaming of plopping me down naked in bed somewhere? If he did, then this guy didn’t know who he’d partnered with. What he needed was a reality check.
On day eight, as we were driving down Geary Street, Jeff got a text on his cell. He glanced at it, then dialed a number.
“Where are you?” Jeff said.
I heard the guy on the other end say something but couldn’t make it out, then Jeff responded. “I’m not far from there. Give me ten minutes.”
“What was that about?”
“Might have a lead on something.”
“What?”
“Don’t know yet. We’re heading there now.”
“Heading where?”
“Down Geary, by Larkin. Some ramshackle motel.”
“In that section of the city there are entire blocks consisting of nothing but ramshackle motels.”
“Not if you count the dive bars and drug dealers,” Jeff said. “If there are ramshackle motels, then there are dive bars and if there are dive bars, then there are drug dealers.”
About ten minutes later, we pulled to the curb at the corner of Larkin and Geary. It was a seedy neighborhood, full of run-down apartments with balconies ready to fall off, and motels begging for customers that stayed longer than an hour, and didn’t leave used condoms on the floor. The apartment windows that weren’t broken were open, with T-shirts, socks, and underwear drooping from clotheslines attached to rusted eye hooks hammered into crumbling mortar joints of old brick walls.
“Stay in the car,” he said as he opened the door.
“What’s going on?”
“I need to see a guy. He gets nervous if anyone else is there.” He smiled, the kind of smile he gave when he lied. I’d made that tell already. I didn’t know what he was up to, but I went along with it.
“How long are you going to be?” I asked.
“Not long. Hang tight.”
He walked into a building that looked as if it should have been condemned. An alley separated it from another building that looked even worse, and from the smell of it, there could have been anything underneath the garbage, piled knee deep in some areas. I left the car running and stood outside, leaning against the car. The exhaust fumes were bad, but at least they covered up the stench from the alley.
Three young Asians—who looked to be gangbangers— approached from the south side of the street. Their eyes were on me and I didn't like the looks on their faces. I kept my eyes open, shifting them from one spot to another, checking for suspicious activity. This was the kind of situation they told us about in training. The kind that could get you killed if you weren't careful.
I straightened, got balanced, planted my feet, and unbuckled my gun, keeping my hand close. They were close enough now that I could see their tats—gang members for sure. From where I stood, they looked to be Vietnamese, and, considering the neighborhood, that fit. After all, what did you expect to find in Little Saigon?
The guy in the middle slowed, held his hand out to the others, and fixed me with a glare. “Relax, Rook. Just passing through.”
I nodded and tried to remain calm. “No worries.”
They walked by, but kept an eye on my gun hand. It wasn't until they passed that I realized they had been as nervous and scared as I was. Welcome to the streets, Rookie.
I could sense if someone was behind me, on the side of me, if they were watching my ass, or waiting for me to make a bad move so they could mug me. It was the kind of sense that had saved me a hundred times when I was growing up, and I was counting on it a few more times.
Jeff’s “not long” time frame turned out to be 30 minutes. He came out shaking his head like nothing panned out, but he shot looks up and down the street as if someone might be watching. That attitude made me suspect otherwise.
“What was that about?” I asked as he walked toward the car.
“Nothing,” he said. “Just a guy I had to talk to.”
“Talk about what?” I said, not giving up as easily as I’m sure he hoped I would.
“Nothing important,” he said. “Now, if you’re done with the third-degree questioning, let me drive.”
On the way home, Jeff was chatty, even more than normal. I wasn’t paying attention. I was busy thinking about what happened earlier, when those gang bangers were on the street. I was scared, no doubt. But I had been ready to draw my weapon and fire. One wrong move and I’d have popped one or more of them.
Maybe the guys at the academy were right. Maybe I was destined to kill someone my first year.
Something Was Wrong
San Francisco, 15 years ago.
* * *
We were walking to school, passing the corner drug store, where a homeless guy was sleeping in the doorway. “He was gone again this morning,” I said.
“Who?”
“Marc. Who do you think?” I said.
“What time did you get up?”
“You know I can’t tell time, but it was still dark.”
We were about halfway down the block when I reached over and tugged on Rosa’s sleeve. “Where do you think he goes when he's not at our apartment?”
Rosa said, “I think he’s married.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Just do. That’s all.”
“Do all men do that?”
Rosa shrugged. “Tina’s mom says so.”
“I wish Mom would find somebody else,” I said.
“Me too,” said Rosa.
“I thought you liked him?” I said.
“I did at first, but now I don’t. I don’t even know if Mom likes him now.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I heard them fighting the other night, and Mom said she wished she never met him, then he got mad and threw an empty beer can at her.”
“I’m glad it wasn’t a bottle,” I said.
“Yeah,” Rosa said. “If he had a bottle, he’d have probably thrown it.”
* * *
Three months passed, and Mom was still seeing Marc. Despite that, things were good. Mom and Marc were getting along—except when Mom cried. I heard her crying one night and got out of bed to see what was going on, but Rosa stopped me.
“Don’t. There’s nothing we can do. Not now. Not yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean we’re not old enough to interfere—yet. Someday we will be, though.”
Rosa was usually right, so I listened to her and went back to bed. For several nights, there was a lot of fighting, but after a few weeks, things got better again.
* * *
On a nice day, in late May, we met Mom at the park as usual, then we walked home. Marc was waiting at the door for us. He had some Chinese take-out in his hands.
“What took you so long?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Mom said. “We were playing at the park.”
“And leaving my ass out in the cold.”
“I wouldn’t do that. I didn’t know you were here.”
“And would you have been here if you had known?”
“The thing is, I didn’t know. That’s the end of it.”
“It’s not even close to the end of it. You left me here to freeze my ass off while you played with the girls. Make sure that doesn’t happen again.”
Mom gave him one of her ‘don’t start this’ looks, and opened the door to go inside.
Despite the welcome addition of the take-out food, the dinner table was tense—few conversations—and afterward, Rosa and I took a quick bath before climbing into bed for the night.
A loud noise woke me around ten-thirty. It was arguing and it was coming from Mom’s room. I whispered to Rosa, but she was sound asleep. I got out of bed and crept down the hall to see what was going on.
Mom and Marc were yelling, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. As I got closer, the voices became clearer. Mom was telling Marc that she wouldn’t put up with it. He said he could look at anyone he wanted to.
It wasn’t long before I realized he was talking about Rosa, that she was the one he was staring at. How disgusting! Rosa was pretty, but it was disgusting that he was thinking of her like that.
I listened a while longer, then sneaked back to my room. I lay in bed trying to decide whether to tell Rosa or not, but by the time I finally fell asleep—hours later—I still hadn’t made up my mind. I was scared, and I wondered why Mom was even with Marc, let alone living with him. Why couldn’t she see that he was an asshole? Why did she always pick guys like that—like Ted and Phil?
Six months later, Marc hit Mom for the first time, or at least the first time that I knew about it. Mom had a black eye and bruised face when I saw her at breakfast. She said it was an accident, but Rosa and I didn’t believe it, and Mom knew we didn’t. About a month later, Marc beat her again, but this time it was far worse. She needed to get stitches above her left eye.
We moved out after that. Packed everything we could in the car and headed out to find a new apartment—and a new school to go to. Mom drove to the other side of town and we checked into a motel, the kind where you can pay cash and no questions are asked. We unloaded the stuff from the car, and then we drove to a used car dealer and Mom sold her car. We walked back to the motel.
“How’re you gonna get to work?” I asked.
“I’m getting a new job,” she said, and the way she said it told me it was the end of the conversation. I took the hint and didn’t ask any more questions.
Everything changed from that day on. We stayed for a month in the motel, moved to another one for a month or so, and after that we found a run-down apartment to rent. It was bigger than our old one, but it was really dirty and in a bad area. Rosa and I hadn’t been to school since this happened. I know most kids would like that. I did too, for a week or so, but after that, I missed it. I wanted kids to play with. And as weird as it sounds, I wanted to learn.
Rosa kept asking Mom what happened, and what we were going to do. At first, Mom ignored her, but one night she sat with us after dinner and told us.
“Marc was a bad man,” she said. “You know he beat me. But he would have done worse. If I hadn’t left, he would have hurt you girls.” She hugged us tight. “I could never let him do that.”
“We’ll be okay,” Rosa said.
“Yeah, Mom. We’ll be fine,” I said.
Mom shook her head. “Don’t ever think that. He can find us anywhere. That’s why I�
��m using a different name, and why you can’t go to school.”
* * *
“For how long?” I asked.
“We’ll have to see,” she said. “It’ll be a while. Maybe next year.”
* * *
For the next six months, I got my wish about learning. I learned how to run, how to steal, how to lie, and when none of that worked, I learned how to fight. People think only boys have to fight to survive, but where we lived, everybody had to fight. Didn’t matter if you were a boy, girl, or a dog. If you wanted to live, you fought.
Mom was miserable, then the inevitable happened—she told us to pack for another move. She said she thought Marc might have found us.
This move wasn’t as bad as the others, because, for once, we all wanted to go. I didn’t like Marc, and neither did Rosa. “Didn’t trust him” was probably a better way to say it. There were times when he seemed creepy.
Mom had never noticed, but maybe now she did. I hoped so, anyway. We needed to get away from him.
This time we ended up by North Beach, the old Italian section of the city. Some of the old people still spoke Italian, but the younger ones were Americanized, and spoke English. Despite that, we changed names. Mine became Marcella and my sister became Rosanna. We would fit right in.
The first night, Mom ordered from a local restaurant called “The Stinking Rose,” located on Columbus, just north of Broadway. It was a famous tourist trap that used garlic on everything, even ice cream. Some people loved it, others hated it. I know the aroma was addictive. Just get within a block and you wanted to go eat, at least I did.
Promises Kept, The Story of Number Two Page 3