by Lisa Gardner
In this neighborhood, I’m the minority. Then again, same with the past year, and the year before that, and the year before that. I’m used to the looks, though that doesn’t mean it’s always easy to take.
At least midday drunks have more serious matters to tend to. One by one, they return to their individual miseries, which leaves me with the dark wood bar, straight ahead, where a lone Black man stands, drying a tray of beer glasses one by one.
I head for him.
A trim figure, he sports gray hair and a groomed salt-and-pepper beard. His dark eyes are lined heavily and he has about him the air of a man who’s seen it all and lived to tell the tale.
“Stoney,” I guess.
“You lost?” He sets down one tall glass, picks up another. He wears a white apron tied around his waist and wields the dishtowel with practiced dexterity. Definitely the owner, and a long-term tavern operator at that.
“I’m here about the bartending position.”
“No.” He grabs the next glass.
I park my suitcase next to the bar, take a seat on a stool. His answer doesn’t surprise me. Most of my conversations start this way.
“Twenty years of experience,” I tell him. “Plus I have no problems cleaning, brewing coffee, or working a fryolator.” Fried food is the natural partner to booze—and this close to the kitchen, the air is thick with grease. Fried chicken, fried potatoes—maybe even fried plantains, given the Haitian community.
“No,” he says again.
I nod. There’s a second towel. I pick it up, select the wet glass nearest to me, and start drying.
Stoney scowls at me but doesn’t stop me. No business owner argues with free labor.
We both dry in silence. I like the work. The rhythmic feel of twisting a glass, buffing it with the towel. Even dry, the top lip of the glasses bears a faint white line. Years of beer foam, human lips. They are clean, though. Which makes me partial to Stoney and his establishment. Plus, he has a room above the bar to let, at a price I can almost afford. I found it posted on a community board.
“I don’t drink,” I offer. The first tray of glasses is done. Stoney removes it from the bar. Lifts a second tray of wet half glasses.
“Teetotaler?” Stoney asks.
“No.”
“Here to save us?”
“You’re assuming I’ve been saved.”
He grunts at that. We both resume drying. From what I’ve dug up, a significant portion of Mattapan’s population, being from the Caribbean, speaks French, French Creole, patois, et cetera. But I hear none of that in Stoney’s voice. He has the clipped tones of most New Englanders. Maybe he’s lived in Boston his entire life or moved here from New York or Philadelphia to open his own place. It’s always dangerous to make assumptions, and yet nearly impossible not to.
“Friend of Bill’s,” I volunteer after we finish the whiskey glasses and that tray is replaced with dozens of shot glasses. We both get back to work. Quick, brisk, thoughtless. The perfect meditative exercise.
Stoney doesn’t answer. He dries faster than me, but not by much.
“Water glasses?” I ask when the shot glasses are done.
He raises a brow. So, not an establishment big on nonalcoholic beverages. Good to know.
“You have a room to rent,” I continue, folding my arms on the heavily lacquered bar.
“Go home.”
“Don’t have one. So this is what I’m thinking. I work for you four nights a week, three p.m. to closing, in return for free board.”
Stoney is a man who can communicate volumes with a single eyebrow.
“You’re worried that I’m white,” I fill in for him. “Or that I’m female. Or both. You think I can’t handle myself.”
“I’m a local business. Frequented by locals. You’re not local.”
I make a show of twisting around on the barstool. “Funny, because I don’t see too many locals lined up for the open position. And you’ve been advertising for two weeks. Room’s been vacant even longer than that, which must mean something given how desperate everyone around here is for housing.” I regard him curiously. “Did someone die up there or something?”
He shakes his head. With no more glasses to dry, he crosses his arms over his chest and looks me straight on. He still doesn’t say a word.
“I work hard.” I tick off a finger. “I’m on time, especially because I’m going to be living upstairs, and I won’t siphon your booze. I pour fast, I know how to change out a keg, and I’m an excellent listener. Everyone likes a good listener.”
“They won’t like you.”
“Neither did you, but you’re coming around. Give me a month. By then, no one will notice my white skin or superior gender. I’ll just be another fixture behind the bar.”
He raises another eyebrow but doesn’t say no. Finally: “Why are you here? Plenty of other neighborhoods in Boston.”
“I have something to do here.”
He stares at me again.
I hold his gaze. I like Stoney. A survivor. He’s my kind of person—and sooner or later, he’ll come to see the same about me.
“Five nights a week,” he says. “Three p.m. to close.”
“Rent includes utilities,” I counter. “One free meal a day. I keep my tips.”
He regards me a moment longer, then abruptly extends his hand. We shake. Definitely my kind of person.
“Room comes with a roommate,” Stoney informs me.
“That wasn’t in the ad.”
“Now you know.”
“Male or female?”
“Feline.”
“The room comes with a cat? And that’s why no one will take it?”
For the first time, Stoney smiles. It wrinkles his salt-and-pepper beard, softens his weathered face. “You haven’t met the cat yet.”
* * *
—
Stoney leads me upstairs. At first glance, the tiny, single-room setup is exactly what I’d expect from an apartment in an overcrowded, economically depressed neighborhood. Double bed shoved against the far wall. Lone nightstand to one side, tightly drawn black curtains on the other. A metal rod bolted to the wall serves as a closet opposite the bed, while next to the front door is a small kitchenette with a European-size fridge and a microwave. No oven, but a coffeemaker and a hot pot, which suits me fine. On the other side of the door is a plain white curtain wrapped around a curved rod attached to the ceiling, much like a hospital room setup. A quick look behind the curtain reveals a bathroom with the world’s skinniest standing shower and a minuscule mounted sink. Again, City Living 101. Not much space or privacy, but priced right.
Not to mention, the room is unerringly clean, while the bed is topped with a surprising colorful handmade quilt. Again, there’s more to Stoney then meets the eye.
I glance around. “Where’s my roommate?”
“She’s not social.”
“Does she have a name?”
“Piper.”
“And this is her room?”
He shrugs. “Suits her.”
I’m still not sure what to make of this. In theory I like cats. But Stoney’s words of warning have made me cautious. I wheel my bag to the center of the creaking old floor, then pause.
I bend over, carefully lift the quilt, and peer under the bed.
It takes me a moment, then I spy a pair of glowing green eyes regarding me balefully from the far corner. It’s too dark to make out her build or coloring. I have more an impression of pure hostility.
“Piper,” I acknowledge.
She flattens her ears and growls low in her throat, followed by a distinct hiss. I take the hint, drop the quilt.
“Okay then.”
Stoney is already turning back to the hallway.
“Hang on. Cat food, water, litter box, what do I need to
know?”
“Nothing. Piper takes care of herself. She’s not stupid. Just hates people.”
“How long has she lived here?”
Stoney scratches his beard. “Long enough.”
“You took her in off the street?”
“She came in off the street.” Stoney gestures to the open door, which I now realize has a small pet-sized hole cut out. “Piper heads downstairs at night, patrols for mice. She’s got food, water, and litter box in the basement. Nothing for you to worry about.”
“Um, we didn’t talk start day.” I don’t know why, but I suddenly feel a bit panicky. Not about being alone with a cat. So then about being alone? Except I’m alone all the time. It’s my way of life. No reason to balk at it now.
“Tomorrow,” he says. “Oh, door lock isn’t so great. Got a computer in that bag, I’d hide it before you leave each day.”
I nod.
“Hot water comes and goes. Mostly goes.”
“Okay.”
“No smoking.”
“I don’t.”
“No guns.”
“I don’t.”
“And in the event of trouble?”
“I rely on my charming personality.”
He grunts. “I keep a baseball bat behind the bar. In the event your wit fails.”
“Good to know.”
Final nod, then he’s clearly ready to get back to his customers down below. Leaving me and the feral cat.
He surprises me by turning back at the last minute. “Come on down when you’re ready and help yourself to some food. I don’t have time to wait on a nonpaying customer, but you can make yourself a sandwich. I keep all the fixings on hand.”
It’s the most words he’s spoken to me. I wonder if Piper received the same offer when she showed up. Maybe Stoney has a thing for strays. Or maybe, like most bartenders, he recognizes a lost soul when he sees one.
I nod my thanks. He leaves. I remain standing in the middle of my new home. For weeks? Months? I have no idea. Beginning is the hardest part. And though I’ve done this before, I can’t help but feel overwhelmed.
Which makes the dark beast of my addiction stir in my belly, opening a single eye to survey the opportunity. While I’m downstairs making a sandwich, I could pour a beer. Or even better, vodka, tequila, whiskey straight up. Something potent and searing that would turn my muscles into liquid and chase all my fears away.
I think of Paul. I feel the familiar pain squeezing my chest. Deep breath in, deep breath out.
Then, I leave my suitcase to the mercy of a feral cat and, as long as it’s still light out, head back to the street, where I consult my printed map again, and the red X that marks Angelique’s aunt’s house.
I resume walking, aware once more of all the eyes falling upon me, and the deepening chill whispering up my neck. I keep my head up, my shoulders back. I smile in greeting. I tell myself I’m strong enough.
And I pray this time that I really am.
CHAPTER 3
All I know about this area is what I looked up prior to arrival. Mattapan is densely populated, more than thirty-five thousand people crammed into apartments, city housing, and so-called triple-deckers. The majority of the people are immigrants, which adds splashes of ethnic food and specialty hair salons. There are small pockets of Latin and Asian Americans, as well as an even smaller cluster of Caucasians.
Google Earth revealed some shocks of green space amid the mass of overcrowded streets—Harambee Park, the Franklin Park Zoo, and the Boston Nature Center. Not being accustomed to city life, I’d probably be more comfortable in those areas, but I can barely afford a single room with a hostile cat over a bar. An apartment with a view is out of the question.
My primary concern is the area’s crime stats. Half a dozen stabbings a week, not to mention the monthly shootings and annual homicide rate. Gang activity mostly, but predators are predators, and as a middle-aged woman I’m not particularly intimidating.
The best I can do, as I start navigating the confusing mishmash of city streets, is utilize basic personal safety rules. One, I don’t carry anything of value. No smartphone, no electronics, no purse. I have the world’s stupidest Tracfone, which is one of the reasons I’m old-school when it comes to research and navigation. In lieu of a purse, I have my driver’s license and a couple of bills jammed deep into my front pocket. Some kid wants to demand all my worldly goods, have it. You can’t take from someone things she gave up a long time ago.
Tucked into my jacket pocket is a red rape whistle, because there are worse things than muggings. I also wear stainless-steel “tactical clips” in my hair. Each boasts tiny saw teeth, a wrench, a ruler, and a minuscule screwdriver for the low, low price of $3.99. I have no idea if hair clips can really be that effective and hope I never have to find out.
Finally, I have my necklace, a plain gold cross, picked up at a pawn shop years ago and now worn tucked under my shirt. Again, sometimes the simplest things remain the best deterrent.
Another trick—attach myself to others when possible. Predators prefer the lone game, so don’t look too lonely.
This time of evening, that strategy is easy to accomplish. Five p.m., buses are screeching to a stop, disgorging piles of weary locals grateful to be heading home. The sun is still out but lower in the sky, a fall breeze starting to kick up, carrying with it the stench of diesel, grime, and human sweat.
I catch the occasional whiff of fried food and savory spices. My stomach rumbles again. I’ve never eaten Haitian food. Judging by the smell, however, I’m looking forward to trying it.
For now, I keep hoofing it. I don’t really understand Boston’s mass transit yet and I have at least a mile to cover, from Stoney’s place to the side street where Angelique’s aunt lives. Everywhere I look are tired buildings and worn faces. Bit by bit, I start to parse it out. The groups of teens with thousand-yard stares, peering out sullenly from beneath their hooded sweatshirts. The wide streets jammed with brake lights and blaring horns. Intermittent booms of music, from reggae to rap, blasting out of various vehicles. A crowd of older Black men, probably returning from a local construction project given the dust on their clothes, laugh and clap one another on the back, grateful for the end of the workday.
Ahead of me, another city bus screeches to a halt. This time a group of Black women in pink hospital scrubs and bright-colored headscarves disembark. Local healthcare workers. I fall in step behind the last member of the line as they stream forward into the night. The woman directly in front of me notices the slowing of my gait as I slide in behind her. She nods once in acknowledgment of my presence. I’m no threat to her, and she clearly recognizes my strategy. Safety in numbers.
I think of this often, drifting from community to community, always being the stranger and never the neighbor. People all over really are the same. They want to fall in love. They’re glad to survive each day. They pray their children will have a better life than they did. These truths bind us. At least I like to think so.
The sun sinks lower but the street grows brighter: more car lights, shop lights, streetlamps. My lead companion peels off to the right with a parting nod. I return the gesture, plodding forward on my own.
At the end of the next block, I have to pull out my printed map. I hate doing that in the open, as it marks me as lost, and even now I can feel gazes boring into my back.
I wasn’t lying to Stoney when I told him all I had to rely on was my quick wit. Which, interestingly enough, can be very useful when dealing with people above the age of twenty-five, but completely irrelevant to anyone younger.
I didn’t grow up in a city. Nor as a young girl did I ever picture myself doing this kind of work. I was raised in a small town in Northern California. My father was a drunk. As an adult looking back, I came to recognize his addiction as I learned to fight my own. But for most of my childhood, I associated my f
ather with silly adventures and sloppy smiles, as well as the smell of beer.
My mother was the intense one. Worked two jobs, the first as a secretary in a law firm, the second doing the books for mom-and-pop businesses. I don’t remember her smiling, or playing, or even stopping long enough to give me a hug. She got up early and worked late, and in her brief moments at home, mostly gritted her teeth at the dishes my father hadn’t done, the meals that hadn’t been cooked, the dirty clothes that hadn’t been washed.
I think my father loved my mother for her fierceness, and she loved him for his sense of fun. Until they didn’t.
I ran around outside a lot. Through woods and scrub brush and winding streams. In my childhood we didn’t have Amber Alerts or stranger danger. Even seven-year-olds felt free to dash out their front doors and ride their bikes for miles. I had friends who were latchkey by nine because why not? We didn’t worry. We just were.
I don’t think any of us realized that was a magical moment future kids would never get to experience. Certainly, we didn’t understand what bad things lurked out there. Until one of my classmates went missing in high school. Then another girl from the town over. And four more girls quickly after that.
The police caught the killer when I was twenty-five. By then I’d moved down to L.A. with no real plan other than to get the hell out of small-town life and party like a rock star. Turned out I was damn good at the partying part. And pretty enough for others to buy my drinks, my meals, maybe even a new dress or two.
I’d like to say those were my free spirit days, but the truth is, I don’t really remember them. It was a rush of drugs and booze and sex, and that I’m alive at all . . .
Paul. He saved me. At least until I grew strong enough to save myself.
House, white picket fence, suburban bliss.
Funny, the things you can grow up not wanting, then suddenly crave with single-minded obsession.