Paul paused at the end of the crosswalk, breathing heavy because the walk had already exhausted him and he still had a full block to go. He could have taken a cab, or even gotten off the bus at a later stop, but he preferred walking the distance from Shurtliff Avenue to Essex. It reminded him that he was still able to draw breath.
The cold air was welcoming after the stifling heat of the hospital. Low ground fog swirled above the sidewalk. The air was moist, like a cool damp cloth pressed against his face. Other than the light on in the apartment across from his own, the street was dark. Paul began to walk again, mindful of the pain.
The treatment was hell. He was feeling sick already, fatigue like a material mass, something heavy and black, weighing him down. He stumbled as he lifted his foot up onto the curb, out of the gutter—
Careful of the gutter, honey!
His mother’s voice, the one he heard in his head all the time now, was slightly breathless, as if worrying about him had stolen all of her air. Be careful, honey! There are germs in the gutter sweetheart, germs that can cling to your skin and make you sick.
“Something made me sick, Mother,” he muttered out loud. “But it wasn’t gutter germs.”
Brave talk from someone who was careful to step up on the curb from the pavement, never letting the edge of shoes into the shadow of cement overhang. He never, ever walked in the gutter.
The sun was rising, lighting the buildings from the back, so that the brick and wood seemed warm, glowing. In a couple of hours, the sun would be an invisible thing, hidden behind clouds and smog. But for now, he could see it. A pale disc, rising slowly from the dark horizon. It almost made going in for the treatments at 4:30 in the morning worthwhile.
Watching the sunrise wasn’t the reason Paul chose early morning treatments, of course; it had to do with the stumbling. At this time of day, the only people on the street were the ones who had more trouble walking than he did.
Left foot up, down. Right foot up, down.
Onward, march.
It would be so easy to give up and shuffle. That’s what his body wanted. His feet wanted to slide rather than lift, his neck wanted to bend forward, his chin wanted to rest on his chest, his arms ached to hang limp. But whenever Paul thought about sliding, he heard his mother’s voice.
Come on, sweetheart, do it for Mother. You can do it. A block left to go. And stand up straight, honey, it’s bad for your back to slouch.
Left foot up. Down. Right foot up…
He could see his stoop now, the wide concrete steps, the brick railing. He’d been lucky to find a first floor apartment so close to the hospital. Steps would have taken too much effort. His own apartment was dark. Paul was mindful of the electric bull – and the mother’s voice that gently scolded about the waste of good power.
It’d be nice to come home to a light. But leaving a light on and giving in to shuffling would be like admitting he accepted what was happening to him.
Both the kitchen and the living room lights were on at 115 Essex. When Paul got halfway up the block, the kitchen light winked out. She had probably been getting a snack. The woman who lived in the apartment had been having trouble sleeping lately, ever since the old man died. Paul thought the old man’s name began with a W – he couldn’t remember exactly what it was, it would come to him later – and the woman, his daughter, was Gina. The old guy had been a pleasant gent. He’d spent his days on Essex Street, sitting in an old aluminum kitchen chair on the front stoop, eating pumpkin seeds and putting the shells in his pocket. He’d spoken to Paul a few times and Paul had liked him.
“Sick, eh?” the old guy asked the last time Paul stopped to shoot the breeze. The old guy’s eyes were sharp and inquisitive beneath the brim of his baseball hat.
“Yeah.”
The old guy didn’t offer sympathy, or worse, platitudes. He simply held out his hand and shook Paul’s saying, “I wish the best of luck to you.”
Afterward, Paul wondered what had given it away. He still looked healthy. His skin hadn’t taken on the green pallor he saw so often at the treatment center. His arms were still muscular, his eyes clear. So how did the old guy know?
Maybe it was the smell. The stench of sick.
A few weeks ago, Paul had gone to a seminar on the Power of Positive Thinking and Holistic Healing. The facilitator, a pretty young woman in obvious fine health, instructed the attendees to close their eyes and visualize their illness. It was supposed to help the terminally ill cope. By seeing their disease as an object, they would eventually be able to see a way to overcome it.
That was the theory, anyway.
Paul thought it was horseshit.
“Go on,” the facilitator urged, sounding more like a kindergarten teacher than an AIDS volunteer. “Visualize the disease. See it in your mind.”
So Paul closed his eyes and tried to picture what AIDS would look like and what came into his head wasn’t a monster, like one man said, or a skull and crossbones like a woman offered, but as a cartoon drawing of a dump. In his mind, AIDS was a black and white sketch of oozing garbage, black flies and crawling rats. The image he conjured up conveyed a sense of foul odor.
He didn’t see his disease as an object to be overcome. He saw it as a scent he had to get used to.
Paul thought a lot about death. Hard not to, considering what he had. And he had come to the conclusion that his mother’s vision of death as an angel coming on a beam of light was ridiculous. Death wasn’t a figure in the clouds above him. It was a shadow, stapled to the heels of his feet. Every now and then, he’d get a glimpse of what the future held and it wasn’t the end that scared him.
It was what came before.
The fear of dying paled compared to the horror of staying alive. Just a few months ago he’d watched the old guy – Walter, that was his name – totter along the sidewalk, his left leg dragging as he used his cane, nodding to the neighbors, tipping his hat to the ladies. Paul watched him and thought, “What a great old guy. A gentleman.” And it hit Paul all at once.
He didn’t have a shot in hell of growing old gracefully.
He’d seen his future and it was hospital beds, oozing sores, catheters, feeding tubes, diapers and gaunt limbs. There was no grace to AIDs.
I remember when AYDS was something women ate to lose weight, his mother’s voice piped up. Remember, sweetheart? It was like candy, chocolate or caramel, and came in a regular candy box. You were supposed to eat one before every meal with a hot drink. Remember? I can’t recall if it worked, though it seems to me that Ethel Moore, the one down the street with the sponge rollers and white socks, lost a teensy—“
“Please, Mama,” Paul said aloud. “I remember, but no more, okay?”
His mother’s voice fell silent. And even though he couldn’t hear her voice, he could feel her whisper, but they might find a cure. There is always hope.
Two houses to go and then he was home. He could see the woman who lived across the street through the front picture window. She was curled up on a couch, her feet tucked under her, drinking something from a tall glass. When she finished, she put the glass on the end table and rested her head against the cushions.
Paul paused, knowing that he shouldn’t look. Christ, he was no better than a peeping Tom, but he stopped walking and stared into the window.
She was so beautiful. Healthy. Like she would smell of soap and scented body lotion. Her hair was long and loose over her shoulder, (and it would smell like fruit, Paul thought, apples or peaches) it gleamed in the golden glow cast by the lamp. A lump formed in Paul’s throat and he swallowed, feeling the ache of loss deep in his soul.
He turned away and took the first of three steps to his apartment one at a time, like an old man, like Walter, both feet planted on one step before lifting to the next. Sweat broke out on his forehead and he was concentrating so much on taking the stairs that he almost didn’t hear it.
The sound was a sneak. A sliding footstep. Paul didn’t pause, because to hesitate would tip
the person behind him that he was aware of their presence. Best to keep climbing, or he’d lose the slim edge of surprise. He could hear the pounding of his blood, thumping in his ears, adrenalin making him instantly awake, aware. He strained for any change in the tenor of the early morning air and that was when he caught the smell.
For once, the scent of death wasn’t coming from him.
Whoever was behind him was sicker than he was. The smell was thick, clogging Paul’s throat. One hand on the railing, Paul exaggerated the sound of his own ragged breathing, taking the next step slowly, while the other hand crept toward the inside pocket of his coat. No sudden movement, he thought, just a simple slide of the left hand, up the zipper, coat, into the pocket…
The gun was loaded.
Run! His mother screamed in his mind, Run Paulie! Robbers!
But Paul didn’t run and for a moment he thought about giving up and letting the thieves behind him rob and maybe kill him. But what if they don’t kill you? his mother shrieked, what if they just hurt you real real bad?
Real bad didn’t sound real good. He’d enough pain for one day. His right hand closed over the handle and just as he pulled the gun from his pocket, laughter exploded.
“Let me tell you something, Paulie, real real bad never sounds real good and walking in gutters will kill you.”
Paul whirled around as fast as he could, thrusting the gun in front of him, trembling so hard the gun shook in his hands. He never got a shot off. His last thought, as the thing reached for him, was that there was no grace to a quick, violent death, either.
Chapter 13
Marcus
The phone was ringing when Marcus climbed into the shower. He ignored it and turned the taps on. Hot water spurted over his head. He turned his face into the spray. Six rings. Seven. Eight. Damn. He grabbed a towel and pulled open the door, water running into his eyes, down his chest. The ringing stopped. He slammed the door shut, but not before a blast of cold air hit him. He rubbed the face cloth against his skin and the phone rang again. Cursing, he turned the taps off, opened the sliding glass door a second time and climbed out of the tub, slipping on the wet floor as he grabbed for his phone.
“Marcus, have you got the TV on?”
“Vinny? What--”
“Just answer me, Marc. Have you been watching the news?”
Panic, fear, Marcus wasn’t sure what he was hearing in Vinny’s voice, but he didn’t like it. The first stirrings of unease skidded up his spine. “No. I was in the shower. What’s going on?”
“Turn the TV on. Right now.”
“Okay, I’ll call you right back”
“No. I’ll stay on the line.”
Marcus put the receiver down slowly, not wanting to do what Vinny asked. It would be so much easier to hang up, to go about his morning routine like this was just a regular day, like Bo had never died, like nothing had ever happened. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he walked into the living room, carrying the phone. He reached for the remote, clicked the TV on.
A woman in a red dress was standing in front of a white colonial house. She was holding a microphone and talking directly into the camera. Marcus didn’t hear a word she said. The house. Kate’s house.
He sank onto the sofa, his mind blank. Kate’s house.
“-are investigating a bizarre murder in Chelsea. The body of an unidentified man was found this morning by sanitation workers-”
“Marcus? You there?”Vinny’s voice was faint.
Marcus put the phone to his ear. His face felt numb. “What happened? Is Katie--”
“No, not Katie. Some guy was killed in the alley beside her house. Garbage guys saw what they thought was a bag of trash and they went to pick it up. It wasn’t trash, my friend. What was left of the guy was pretty…” his voice drifted away. Marcus heard him inhale. “The body, Marcus, was like Bo’s.”
Marcus didn’t ask how Vinny knew. Vinny had a way of knowing things. “I think we should get together, buddy. All of us. Something crazy is going on.”
Marcus covered his eyes with his free hand. “When?” he asked.
“Now.”
Marcus started to ask where, but Vinny had already hung up.
The question was a stalling tactic, anyway. Marcus knew where they would meet. Where they always met.
**
He climbed out of his car and looked around. The Forest Field was empty. He was the first one here. He stood with his hands in his pockets, feeling the chill of the early morning air. There was a low fog, just enough to obscure the avenue running behind him.
Congress Ave ran downhill, ending at the Chelsea Shipyard. The smell of the sea was strong here, even over the scent of exhaust. When they were kids, they used to ride their bikes down the Congress Ave hill (called Blood Hill, and for good reason) and Marcus could remember what that felt like. Hell, he could remember what that sounded like. Playing cards (the blue Pinochle kind, because nobody really played that stupid game) clothes pinned to the bike’s spokes would snap against the metal, slow at first, clack clack clack like ho hum applause. But when they reached the first curve, the hill got serious and the sound of the cards would become a steady roar that mixed like music to the sound of the waves. The buildings on either side of Congress Ave would flash by, a blur of brick and paint, and when they took the left turn at the end of Congress, the Atlantic was on the right, a dazzling gleam of blue and black.
He’d have to turn sideways on his bike to make the turn, almost lying down, the pedals under his feet throbbing with the vibration of turning and he’d hold his breath, sure the tires would slip in the gravel, sure a skid was just at the end of the turn, sure that the ride would end with him bloody and bruised, gravel stinging the cuts on his legs while the bike lay in a crumpled heap, wheels still spinning, cards slowing back into the clack clack clack applause.
The thing was, as sure as he was he would fall, he never did.
None of them did.
They took the corner one at a time, sliding into that odd half-lay, their hair streaming to the left as they gave their bodies over to the lean. When they reached the chain linked fence at the end of the street, Vinny would let out a blood curdling yell that always made Marcus’s heart lift. When Vinny yelled like that, it was the sound of joy.
Vinny would usually be behind him, on the Crayon Box. The Crayon Box was a three speeder they’d assembled out of old broken and discarded bikes. They’d built Vinny’s bike one rainy weekend, after weeks of scouring the neighborhood for parts. They’d had to build Vinny a bike because his old man refused to buy him one.
Marcus turned his thoughts away from that direction and remembered the sound of Vinny’s yell as they took the corner, the sound of cards clacking into a single long note, the whoosh of adrenaline as they slid into the turn.
And then they’d be in the shipyard, the boats at the dock moving in time to the swells and if Marcus looked at them too long, he’d start to feel dizzy and so he’d turn his attention to the factories. The buildings by the dock were three-storied crumbling brick. The window ledges and top floors were black with age and soot. Marcus’s father told him the buildings were still heated by coal. That wasn’t unusual, even in the 1970s. Growing up, his own apartment had been heated by coal and it was Marcus’s job to tend the oven in the basement.
The shipyard buildings were dark with coal dust and the air was scented with the tarry smell of burning embers. The factory windows were filthy, narrowed-paned. As kids, they used to try to look in, but after a few attempts, the idea of peeking into the factories was deemed a waste of time. There wouldn’t be anything interesting in there, anyway.
Except…
Marcus turned toward Essex Street, narrowing his eyes to make out the factory smoke stacks. They had seen something there, once. It was Bo who saw it first and she screamed and pointed and for just a second, Marcus thought he saw…
thought he saw…
He turned away from the road and shut the thought down. He didn’
t see anything. Not anything real, anyway. They were just kids; they’d been playing around with a stupid Ouija board and were kind of spooked out. It was no wonder, really, that one of the girls thought she saw something peering at them through the grimy window. A white face-
White face with blood red eyes and lips, Bo’s voice whispered in his brain. You did see it, Marcus. We all saw the same thing.
Marcus closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes again, he focused on the road. From the Forest Field, the hill was just a winking glimpse. He could see the dip in the pavement that signaled the first real decline, but the hill itself was cut off from view. Maybe it was just as well. Bo had lived at the bottom of Blood Hill.
Marcus stood in the early morning sun and thought about the years he’d spent riding down the hill to Bo’s house, how they’d climb back up together, pushing their bikes until they reached the top and then riding, full out, into the Forest Field. They’d meet Alex and Katie, Vinny and Gina and pretend they were part of an Army rescue troop, searching desperately for their fellow GIs, shot down in a ferocious battle, lost now in the jungle—
The Forest Field wasn’t a jungle anymore.
The weeds were waist high, but the trees that blocked Essex Street were gone. The stumps were old and gray. Marcus wandered over to the largest of the stumps, remembering with a vague ache how they used to climb the tree to watch traffic roll past. The stump was rotted and split. The tiny ball field they’d made in the center of the Forest Field was long gone, too. There used to be a smooth dirt path from first to second to third to home, the soil black and hard-packed. On hot days, dust would fly around the runners’ feet so that it looked like they were running on a cloud. From a distance, that diamond was as visible as Fenway.
There was no trace of it left.
Trash littered the field. A Chelsea Record newspaper tumbled through the weeds. As he walked through the dry grass, Marcus saw used condoms, broken beer bottles, plastic water bottles. It broke his heart.
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