“That’s okay too.”
“Did anyone ever tell you you’re very agreeable?”
“All the time.”
I laughed again. “Fish lets me use the bar’s cellar to play drums. That’s the main reason, I guess.”
“And because she’s a great person.”
“And that.”
She considered me, maybe waiting for me to add something. It seemed like a cheap ploy, something they teach in social-worker school. I stayed mum. After some silence, she nodded. “Here’s what happens now: we go in front of a judge. You’ll have a lawyer. Did Detective Blank tell you about your right to an attorney?”
“Yes.”
“Good. So, with your lawyer present, and your parents if you wish and they agree, we’ll go in front of a judge—”
“When?”
She shifted a little, not uncomfortably, and said, “Hopefully tonight. They have court all night. Anyway, I’ll recommend to the court that you be released into the custody of your parents. If you decide that’s okay with you, you and your attorney will agree to those conditions, and I’m certain the city will agree to those conditions. Then the judge will agree, almost definitely, as well. Since you didn’t start the fire, that will probably be the gist of it. I’ll visit your home a few times, sometimes announced, sometimes not. I don’t believe you are any kind of threat to society, nor to yourself. We’ll work on how things are at home over the next few weeks, and months, and years, and next thing you know, you’ll be eighteen.”
“And that’s it?”
“That’s a lot.”
“But I’m not going to jail?” I didn’t feel relief, that’s the weird thing. I felt guilty. Horribly guilty, like I’d gotten away with something I shouldn’t have. But it wasn’t the fire, I knew.
Ms. Weinberg shook her head, and her hair bounced just a little. “No way. Jail? Won’t happen. We’ll see what your parents have to say about your release to them. The worst case scenario right now? You’re found guilty and your parents refuse custody. That would mean a group home, maybe foster care. But that’s very unlikely and we can worry about that later if we have to.”
I nodded, numb, barely listening. “Okay.”
She got up and opened the door. “Detective Blank?” she called out.
He appeared a few seconds later holding a red can. “All through in here? The parents are waiting.”
“I think we’re through, yes,” she answered.
Detective Blank handed me the Coke. It was super cold, and I snapped it open in a flash and took a swig.
He stepped back and leaned on the door, hands on hips. “I’ve been reading up on you, and on that bar on Franklin,” he said. “I found something interesting about a connection you seem to have to a case from last summer. Did we talk about Felix?” He shot a glance at Ms. Weinberg, then back at me.
I dropped my head and deeply examined my sneakers.
“Tell her about Felix,” the detective urged.
Ms. Weinberg stepped between me and Blank. She glared at me. “Felix?”
“Tell her,” the detective repeated.
I shook my head.
“Will someone tell me who Felix is?”
“Nobody,” I said, hoping the matter would drop.
The detective didn’t let it. “No,” he said, laughing lightly, “not anymore he isn’t. He was a local junkie, a street kid. Your boyfriend too, right, Kid? That’s what I hear.”
“From who?” I said, squinting at him.
“From who,” he parroted through a chuckle. “From everyone who knows you. They all tell me how much that upset you, how rough this year has been on you. Not that I blame you.”
Konny hadn’t mentioned that on the phone, but I knew her: I knew how much she loved ranting about my love for Felix, my abandonment of her. She probably went on about him, on how much he mattered to me.
“Is that true?” Ms. Weinberg said, concern in her voice, mixed with a little strong anger. She was so feminine.
I shrugged. “It’s been a shitty year, obviously. Look at me.”
“Do your parents know about Felix?”
I shook my head.
She leaned back in her chair and sighed. “All right, let’s get Mom and Dad in here.”
Blank got up and swung the door open. They must have been right outside, because he mumbled briefly and they appeared. Mom looked about ready to lose it. She had both hands on my face in a flash, and blinked against tears.
“I’m okay, Mom,” I said, and I pulled her hands from my cheeks. She sat at the table, and Dad sat next to me, but his expression was flat.
Ms. Weinberg gave a tight smile and said bluntly, “I’d like to release Kid to your care.”
“Who the hell is Kid?”
I raised my hand at the elbow, shyly, and Dad chortled and shook his head.
Ms. Weinberg went on. “I’m going to recommend to the court that Kid get into grief counseling for at least a year. The county will supply a counselor, and the sessions can be held at home or at school. That would be up to you, to your family’s schedule—”
“Wait,” my mom stuck in. She sat up straight. “Grief counseling? I don’t understand. There was a fire. No one died.”
Ms. Weinberg eyed me gently, then said, “The three of you have a lot to talk about. I think Detective Blank will allow you to use this room for as long as you need it.”
“Oh, sure,” the detective stammered. “Of course.”
Ms. Weinberg smiled at Blank and then at my parents. Then she patted my hand and smiled at me, sorrowfully.
I pulled away and dropped my hands into my lap. “Would the sessions be with you?” I asked.
She was leaning close to me now, and I could see something in her eyes, something I trusted. “No, I’m afraid. But I promise whoever it is will be completely qualified and very nice. Okay?”
I nodded once and let my eyes fall to my hands in my lap. Detective Blank opened the door and held it for Ms. Weinberg.
“And what if we don’t want Kid?”
Everyone froze and looked at my dad. “After all, I never heard of anyone named Kid. Shouldn’t be my problem, right?”
Mom crossed her arms. “Stop it,” she said sharply.
Dad hardly looked at her.
Ms. Weinberg opened her mouth to speak, but the detective spoke quicker. “If you’re refusing custody, I suggest you get yourself a lawyer. Our case for neglect is pretty strong right now, and if you refuse custody—with no significant behavioral issues to speak of—it’ll be water tight.”
Dad laughed. Mom got to her feet like she was ready to fight—or run out.
“No behavioral issues?” my dad said, still smiling, but somehow ranting too. “Do you call staying out to all hours, coming home drunk when at all, and burning down a goddamn warehouse ‘no behavioral issues’?”
Mom moved toward me and I let her take my hand. Dad watched us a moment, then looked at me, not in the face. “And then there’s this.”
He paused, and I felt for an instant like a vase had dropped: a crystal vase was about to strike the linoleum floor of the interrogation room, and it would shatter and send shards into my eyes and Ms. Weinberg’s face and my mother’s gut. “I’ve got the only kid I know who doesn’t know whether to be straight or gay or a girl or a boy or what.” He turned to Detective Blank, but the detective couldn’t make eye contact, or wouldn’t. “You know the last time I let any of the guys down at the plant see my family? Five years, if a day.”
The detective didn’t reply. Ms. Weinberg stepped up to my dad and said, “You have the right to refuse custody. My advice is to retain an attorney. The county will not supply one for you, nor will the city, unless charges are filed against you and your wife for neglect. Until then, you’ll want someone to represent you in court tonight. I still plan to recommend to the judge that Kid be released into your custody. Please discuss this with your wife.” With that, she finally went through the door, which Blank had been hold
ing open for this whole drama. He followed her and closed the door behind him, leaving my family alone to stew in our own juices.
Dad leaned back and crossed his arms. “Well, you know how I feel.”
“No one was wondering,” Mom said quietly. “You’ve made it very clear.” I squeezed her hand a little tighter and she turned to me. “Talk to me.”
I stared at her face for a moment, trying to remember my mother, trying to remember my home before life started to fall apart. It had been too long, but I had to start talking. So I did. And as I rambled on about Felix, and that whole summer and a year since, and the night of the fire, I began to recognize my mother again.
…
Court wasn’t what I imagined. The room didn’t look especially like a courtroom. There was hardly any wood, never mind ornate, dark wood. There was certainly no huge judge’s bench, and no row upon row of benches, separated from the front by a gleaming banister. The judge was at a plain desk—it might have been pressed wood and aluminum. There were several chairs, enough for everyone to sit: me, Ms. Weinberg, my parents, Detective Blank, a couple of lawyers. The whole thing took only minutes. Ms. Weinberg gave her recommendation, my lawyer accepted on my behalf, and so did the county’s. That was that. My dad might have turned a little red, but when it was over, we all went home together. Things were different now, though. I wouldn’t have to leave again. I had Mom back.
ROT FOR SOMETHING
The next morning, once I woke up—late—I didn’t dawdle. The night before had lit a fire under me, and though I wasn’t sure yet where that energy was pushing me, I knew I had to move.
Dad had left for work by the time I hit the living room, and Mom was dressed and ready. “I’m a little late for work,” she said when I came out of the bathroom, showered and dressed. “But I had to see you before I left.”
“I guess Dad didn’t have any similar sentiment,” I said, but she waved me off.
“I’ll deal with him,” she said, like it was a minor hindrance. Mom gave me a stern stare. “Did you do this thing? Did you burn the warehouse?”
I looked at my feet, then quickly back in her eyes. “No.”
She took a step toward me and nearly reached for my hand. “Why did you tell Dad that you did?”
I’d nearly forgotten. I had told him I’d done it, just to shut him up. I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I said. “To make him angry? Maybe I thought it’s what he wanted to hear, or what he expected to hear, at least.”
Then Mom did take my hand. She put her free hand on my cheek.
My eyes got wet, and I started to say something more. But I couldn’t get it out.
“What?” Mom said.
“I think I wanted to be guilty,” I said, and the tears started to really fall. “I wanted to rot for something.”
She took me into a hug, our first in years. I let myself sink into it, and I wrapped myself under her arms and held her tightly.
“I never knew,” she said quietly in my ear. “I never knew the pain you were in, the trouble in your heart. You’re my baby, and you always will be.”
“Why did you let me leave?” I said, not pulling away, as gently as I could. “Why did you let him make me?”
Mom pulled away suddenly, shock in her face. “Make you?” she said.
“Last summer,” I said. “When all this started.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I took a step back, widening the space between us even more. The backs of my legs hit the coffee table. “Dad packed my bag. I came home—late—and my bag was on my bed. Dad stood there and told me to leave. He said you didn’t want me in your home.”
Mom put her hand to her mouth and gaped at me. She hadn’t known; for a year she’d thought I’d run away—run away to drink and get stoned and have sex. She’d been listening to Dad, and I hadn’t been here to tell her some truth.
“Sweetie,” she said, “I didn’t know. I never knew.”
Then she was crying, and I was, but inside I was light, totally weightless. While I thought she’d only taken me back in, she’d done so much more: she’d forgiven me, though I hadn’t abandoned her; she’d defended me to my father, her husband; and now I knew she’d always be with me, no matter what.
…
The day was sunny and felt like the hottest of the summer so far. I wanted to run, or at least walk fast, but the heat had me loping along as though with Felix, like I was melting along the sidewalk, flowing down gutters to the river like wax. By the time I hit Fish’s, it was after noon. The gate was up, and the front door stood wipe open.
Fish was behind the bar, leaning, and Jonny sat across from her, on the stool closest to the door. The jukebox played CD 22, track 5, and the room filled with Paul Westerberg’s voice and piano. With that mellow little song and a near-empty bar, the place felt quiet and sacred.
“Hey,” I said, embarrassed by the sound of my own voice.
There was the tiniest pause, after they looked up but before they registered it was me, and my chest was filled like a helium balloon. My mouth curved into a smile on its own, just as theirs seemed to, and then they were on their feet, at my side, arms around me.
I let them hug me, and I let Jonny plant kisses on my cheek. I let Fish take my wrist as she said, “Come with me,” and led me through the bar and out the back door. She spun me around to face the closed cellar door. A sign hung there, made hastily from cut copper, and read Fish’s Studio.
“What is this?” I said, staring at the sign, still smiling. My cheeks were beginning to go sore.
“A surprise,” Fish replied. “I’ve been busy since those cops took you out of here. It took my lawyer and accountant and meetings at ungodly hours that end in ‘a’ and ‘m,’ but I got it done.”
“I think you better explain,” I said. “I’ve been through the ringer, and I’m feeling a little dense this morning.”
“Afternoon,” she corrected. “Here’s the thing: the cellar is now a separate business from the bar. It’s a rehearsal space. I can rent it out to whomever I please, for however much I please. And I’m renting it to you.”
“For nothing?” I said.
Fish tossed her head a little and grabbed my hands. “You know, same old deal. You give me a little slave labor, and I throw you a little pizza, a little cash, and a place to play. But now it’s all on the up and up. No more trouble with the whole bar thing upstairs. And it’s licensed for all hours, as long as we soundproof.”
“All hours?” I said, somehow smiling even bigger.
“To practice,” Fish said, leaning down and closer to me. I wanted to kiss her. “Not to sleep.”
“No worries there,” I said, itching to get into the space and play. “I’m back at home for real. My mom and I are all square now.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Fish said. She put her hand on my cheek and looked soft, just like my mom had at the station. I thought I’d cry for a second. “Then it’s over? Is Kid’s year-plus of hell over?”
“Not quite,” I said, shaking my head lightly but holding her hand against my cheek with mine. “I still have to make sure everyone knows I didn’t do it, that I didn’t start that fire.”
“Well, finally,” a voice said from behind Fish. She turned around, and I looked past her shoulder, and there you were. A soft smile worked into your lips, and Fish stepped aside so you could run to me.
Your arms around my shoulders and your smell when I pressed my face into your nape were like a hundred-year sleep. I was completely at ease, completely refreshed. As we pulled apart just slightly, my face still against yours, Fish—she seemed miles away—said, “I’m going out to get soundproofing stuff. When I get back, you both help with installation. Okay?”
We nodded, smiling like idiots, and Fish went inside.
I found your cheek with mine and whispered in your ear. “I’m back at home. I think for good.”
I felt you nod against me. “I’ll go home too,” you said, and I tensed. �
�I never planned to stay away, not for good.”
I stepped back a little and held your gaze. “Where is home?”
“I’ll show you someday,” you replied. “Soon, I hope.”
I nodded. “The end of summer’s closing fast,” I said. “It better be soon.”
You laughed a little, but I just thought about last summer, and about Felix.
(SAYING GOODBYE TO FELIX)
There’s a collection of five flat rocks just past the end of Quay. They sit like a couch before the reinforced and crumbling cement retaining wall begins. I’d sat there with Konny for years, since we were just little punks, kicking around and throwing stones and stealing tiny nips of booze from her dad’s plastic jug in the freezer.
I’d sat with Felix there too, last summer. The warehouse was our home, and the five flat stones were our patio with a river view. The last time I sat at the river with Felix, with his head in my lap, it was nearly the end of that summer, the sky so gray and overcast that it felt lower, closer to our heads, and I fought the urge to duck. Still, I slouched under its weight.
Felix’s eyes were closed, and his head rocked slowly back and forth on my crossed legs: no, no, no. He smiled slightly and hummed. I didn’t know the melody, but could feel it was his own.
“Is that new?” I whispered. The river lapped up against the shore beside us. His head shake became a nod for an instant, then went back to no. His smile and hum never ceased. “I like it.”
I pulled my eyes off him and over the river. I was facing north, toward the 59th Street Bridge—groovy—and the towers of midtown and the Bronx, our rival, like two beaten children fighting each other. Felix’s melody was a slow waltz, and even though it came through his smile, there was nothing joyful about it, except in the way that remembering is joyful, that missing someone is joyful. Can you miss someone before they’re gone, when they’re still smiling up at you with closed eyes, and their beautiful face, with its deep-set eyes and two days of beard, is rolling slowly between your knees?
“I’m going to miss you.” My voice was soft and cracked. I thought about the night we’d had, playing in Fish’s cellar, my smiles as big as Jonny’s, my shouts and shrieks nothing but joy, so frequent and careless that my throat was sore.
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