by K A Bryant
CHAPTER SIX
Caleb Promise
My sweatshirt is wet. The snow on the roof still clinging to me. Can't catch my breath. Not now. Who's that? He is standing right in front of my exit. I can't read him. Snitch? Saint? His hand on the fire alarm but his eyes are locked on me. At his age, I could just shove him out of the way. He may not even be able to get up after. But that is not my style. Even drunk I wouldn't hurt anyone. Especially an elderly man. I can hear the officers teaming into the front door of the building and running past the Chinese restaurant straight up the steps to the apartments above.
I'm in his kitchen. His eyes are kind. Turned downward. When all the officers are up the steps. His eyes trace upward. My brow drops, confused. My beard wet and water dripping onto my sweatshirt.
He pulls it. I can hear frantic residents clamoring into the hall above us. He looks at the chefs in the Chinese Restaurant, stirring hot woks and nods at them. They glance over their shoulders at him, nod and keep cooking as if nothing is happening.
The doorway to the apartments upstairs opens and people are streaming onto the sidewalks cursing and waving their arms in the cold. Then, they do what any New Yorker would do, they go into the Chinese Restaurant and order an egg roll to wait it out.
"You gotta be kidding me!" an officer says.
My heart is pounding. The elderly Chinese man takes keys from a nail beside the door and waves me through the back kitchen door to the delivery van in the back of the restaurant. An elderly woman eating noodles with chop sticks, perhaps his wife, locks the door behind us and I can hear her seat butt against the door.
I climb into the van via the driver’s side door and slip into the passenger seat, he points me to the back. I huddle between some boxes and squat down.
"Stop," an Officer standing in front of the van says. That's it. I'm caught.
"Open it."
"Huh?" the man replies as if not understanding English. I hear a paper bag rustle. He lifts it insinuating he's making a delivery. Then starts speaking Chinese angrily. He squeezes out a few words in English.
"I late... food cold."
Then keeps ranting. The back door opens. The cold rushes in. Inhale. Hold it. The Officer glances in. The door shuts.
"Go ahead. He's clear."
Exhale. The Chinese man throws up his hand in frustration instead of thanks. Smart. Authentic response.
The van bounces and jolts. He drives through the delivery alley all the way to the next main cross street. If he didn't, we probably would have been stopped again. The next cop may have searched more thoroughly.
"Come."
No cause to not trust him. Yet, I do. He's wearing a faded, New York Yankees baseball cap. A rebel. The adventurer hidden in him, betrayed by the smile lines in the corner of his eyes, quick thinking and sparkle in his eyes. I don't know where we're going. I've seen him only a few times and barely said hi. Now, I wish I said more.
He stops in front of the train station and starts reaching into his pocket. I know that reach. He hands me a fist of ones, probably tips.
"No. No, thank you but I can't take your money. I owe you."
His eyes are dancing. Life and excitement dancing in them. I feel, if I don't take it, I'm somehow robbing him of the moment. I won't rob him. I exhale.
"Thank you," I say, stepping down from the van. About to close the door, he reaches over the seat and grabs my arm.
"Sta-t ova," the elderly gentleman says.
He turns my arm, so my palm and his is facing up letting me see a Chinese Mafia tattoo on the inside of his forearm.
A lump forms in my throat. He smiles. I won't ever forget that smile. I pull on my hood and nod at him. A car stops behind him, yells impatiently.
"Come-on! Move it!"
Fists in my jeans pocket I fiddle with the small gold key between my fingers.
I don't get it. Why all this. For rent? Can't be. Jerry is a jerk but that's even overkill for him. Hard to think looking over your shoulder.
Subway? No choice, but there are cops even in the subways. I have to chance it. The streets are crawling with Police. I'm missing a piece to this puzzle. I've got to go to Lou. I've got no choice.
I wait for a crowd coming out of the subway and ease in with them. The Diner. The gate is down, locked. Why? No sign, and no one around. I have never seen it shut. Lou always stays open during the holidays.
"Caleb?"
Judy. Owns the hair salon next door. I'd know her voice anywhere. Right next door but always requested me, personally, to deliver.
"Caleb? Is that you?" She looks deeply into my eyes. "What have you done to yourself? Come in here, you'll catch your death. Drink this, sunshine. Now, tell me, how is Lou?"
I stop raising the cup to my lips. My hands are blue and wrapped around the heat of the cup.
"Lou?"
"Yes... wait, don't you know?"
She leans her head in the other direction, she fiddles in her mini fridge and pulls out a packaged sandwich. I put the cup down and run my fingers through my hair.
"Know what?"
"Sweetie, Lou had a stroke last night,"
I feel weak. My heart must have skipped five beats. I just let her finish. She couldn't tell.
"Last night, some cops came in and told him about Liz." She can tell I don't know about Liz either. She continues. "She was shot, Caleb. She died. I think it was too much for him. They've got him in Mt. Sinai Hospital. That's all I know."
I feel like I'm going to pass out. No. Not here.
"Can I use your bathroom?"
She points down the hall.
"Sure. Straight through there."
The sink is holding me up. I wail silently and hit the wall once. My eyes look fifty years old and my beard and hair look like one. Too much. That's why the police were there. They think I killed Liz. I have to let Lou know it wasn't me. The room is spinning. I need a drink. Badly. Deep breath and I walk out of the bathroom.
"Thanks, Judy, I've gotta go check Lou."
"I tried. No visitors allowed until tomorrow. He's in I.C.U. (Intensive Care Unit). Tomorrow, they move him to recovery. First thing in the morning."
"You're right."
I reach for the door but my hand is shaking so much I can't grab it.
"Wait, just wait Caleb." She hurries behind a wall in the back of the shop swirling a breeze of sweet perfume in the room behind her.
"I kept this, it was my husband’s. I keep it in the back room just where he hung it. Said it was the warmest coat he ever bought. Every now and then, I hang it by the front door. You know, so people won't think I'm here alone. I wear the ring too, see. Look. Perfect fit."
It was too big but truly warm.
"I'll bring it back in the morning."
"No, sunshine, it's yours." Smiling kindly. “Don't you say a word. Just give Lou my love when ya see him and tell him don't go rushing back. I'll keep an eye on the place for him. Alright?"
The coat feels good. She was smiling as I walked out, but I catch a glimpse of her reflection in an angled window and see her smile drop abruptly.
I need to go below. There are cameras everywhere. Mounted on stores, inside of stores, searching for shoplifters.
I'm soaked. It's snowing again. Who doesn't dream of a white Christmas? The train is warmer than my room. I lost track of the time. I tuck into a corner and change train lines when I see them coming to do their rounds. Too many cops. I can thank the increased alert for that. After all everyone wants to blow up New York. A status state.
It should be dark by now. Shifts are changing. I can't take this anymore. Looking. Always seeing who is coming. But there's something earthy about this place that grabs me. Maybe that's why I never tried to go back home. Who am I kidding? I never went back because I didn't want to face going back.
Sounds strange but I miss 'me'. I catch glimpses of myself in the bank windows and don't recognize myself. I don't even think the same. It has been too long. I walk into the bank, use the b
athroom and end up getting shoved out by the security guard with a firm warning. Bitterness set in.
I'm on the street. I don't know where but it's dark and when you're wanted, that is a good thing. The only bad thing about getting a break from the cold is that going back outside, the cold feels even more extreme. I haven't walked two full blocks and can feel myself starting to shiver. I see light, flickering in the darkness. It is under an overpass. A fire? Yes. A large one. All of the stores are closed and I can't go back to the subway. Not yet.
I move closer to get a better look. It's a barrel on fire. Are those men?
"Step up," someone says to me.
An invitation? I'm hesitant but out of options. It's like I'm a part of some unwanted breed. I've only been homeless a day and they can tell. The idea of being embraced by the unwanted is confusing but humbling. In a matter of hours, I was launched into this mysterious society that no one wants to be a member of.
I have no choice. I dried off in the train but now, again I'm soaked. Standing shoulder to shoulder in the circle of three men around the flaming barrel. The beard is serving me well. I look older than I am. I want to run back to the above ground land of the living. The land where you didn't feel like you had to hide.
People lower their eyes when I walked by. Once one crosses that line, can one cross back? If not, what is down this rabbit hole? A life of survival? A life of hardship and hiding? What is its end? I think I know.
I can't go for a job. Not looking like this. No address. No phone. Wanted.
"Better put-em up fore ya catch frost bite. There's no saving them after that."
He's twice my age. Weather beaten. How long has he been out here? The heat feels good. My palms warm first. Barely feeling the heat on my fingertips, I put them closer.
"Not too close. You'll burn them. Look, here."
He backs his hands up from the fire and I imitate him cautiously.
"Let him figure it out. What are you, his daddy?"
I'm tall, but not very muscular. This coat helps. I can tell, that guy is bigger than both of us. Scarred. There's a strange eye exchange going on. The nice guy shakes his head no and lowers his glare to the fire.
"Nice coat."
Somehow, I don't think that's just meant to be a compliment. The older man confirms it for me.
"Come'on, he won't last long without it. Tomorrow, I'll get-"
"Mind ya business!" he yells at the old man.
A burning rises inside. I squeeze my fists. The older man takes a step back from the barrel and gestures to me to leave with a shift of his eyes. Not a chance. I'm done running.
"Hey! He's twice your age."
The traffic rumbles overhead and the big guy steps up to me.
"Take it off," says the man, lowering his hands from the flame. "I'll take it with holes in it, if need be." He pulls out a knife but is still on the other side of the barrel. "You deaf? I didn't stutter!"
"Just give it to him!" yells the old man from the shadows.
I step away from the blazing barrel and two men grab my arms. The big guy pulls a knife. I can feel the blade on my cheek. He cuts a piece of my beard. He punches me in the gut. The air is knocked out of me. I'm buckled over and he pulls the coat off of me. Then it begins. Kicks and punches to my ribs, head, and back. Feels like forever. Finally stops.
"Nice fit!"
I'm in the slushy mud. Soaked to the skin. A dull heavy pain between my shoulder blades. Snow mashes into my nose and eyes, then, a tug on my leg, he's trying to take my boots. My money falls out. My life savings. My wallet's in the jacket. But the little gold key. That's still in the pocket. More important than than the money.
"Jackpot!" He says.
There is no one rushing to my rescue, no feeling of release from the weight of the massive man on top of me. I see the older man huddled against the bridge wall rocking, humming to himself.
Rage. A piece of the old me shows up. I hate seeing people bullied, victimized or just afraid. I push my body up as hard as I can and the big man falls off of my back. I grapple the ground and find a chunk of ice, perfect. I grab it. I hit him. Again. Again. I feel no urge to stop. The two other men completely ignore the fact that I am beating this guy and grab the money then run into the shadows. Faces peek at me from tents and boxes watching with no emotional reaction at all. Witnesses.
I stop. I get up, leaving him on the ground groaning. I spared him. I didn't hit him in the head. Just the face, neck and chest. I can't recognize him. Between the blood and dirt, hey I think I did these guys a favor.
"Go," whispers the elderly man, still rocking.
He looks like a man trapped within himself. The bloody man starts to get up. I start running. Back toward the street and shops. It's safer there. I would rather be ignored than killed.
I smell fresh pizza from an all-night pizzeria. A few party goers, bar hoppers are out. I'm trembling. I look in the reflection of a closed glass store front and try to fix my hair. There is mud and blood on the front of my sweatshirt and on my face.
My thoughts aren't rational. I need a drink. My hands are trembling and it's not from the cold. It's withdrawal. Someone must have a heart, at least tonight. Christmas night. I'm going to ask. I have no money. I have to ask. At least if I can get something to eat I may feel better. My thoughts will be clearer. I pull the door on a pizzeria. Before I get to three steps in the door the clerk yells across the room.
"Can't you read? No Vagrants."
I turn and see a sign. 'NO VAGRANTS'.
"Please, I've been robbed," I say, biting every bit of pride I have.
"The Police Station's up the block!" Flinging his hand in the air he turns back to attend to the food.
Jail even sounds good. Wait, but not when I'm wanted for murder. I can't believe I'm doing this but a white paper plate creased, with a greasy napkin tucked between it in the garbage outside the pizzeria looks good. A thick bitten pizza crust.
Without hesitation, I reach into the garbage and grab it. I bite it and start walking up the street as fast as I can. Embarrassment wells inside with each bite. My eyes fill with tears and there's no need to fight them back. No one looks at the crack in the mirror. I pass a store with television monitors playing. Pictures of the winter storm setting in tonight. Warnings for people to stay inside and keep warm.
I have to get inside somewhere or I'll freeze to death. The churches are filled with people going to mass. I can't. A vacant building. Why not, I have nothing for anyone to steal.
I look for a viable room on the first floor. Easy escape. Lightly pushing the unlocked doors. They are all occupied by families. Children huddled between their parents. Couples lying on sheet-less mattresses. Some drug addicts eight to a room, half naked but they can't feel the cold anyway. This is a dark place.
No choice, up the urine-covered steps, disturbing rats and unknowingly kicking cans on the dark steps. A rustling sound. Just a dog. I continue down a long corridor with doors staggered on each side. Empty studio apartments stripped of all their contents. The linoleum beneath my feet, ripped and curled.
A door slightly open. It's empty. After my last experience, the absence of people is more comforting than the presence of them. The room across the hall is also empty but this one has a mattress. What's left of one.
Ripped pale blue wall paper flaps in the breezes slipping through the spaces in wood slats nailed in front of a broken window.
I ease down on the dirty blue mattress and lean my back against the wall. A blinding headache. I just curl up. I just need to shut my eyes for a moment.
Green fields. Rolling hills and green fields covered by warm rays of sun. I see my house. I am going up the front steps and can see mom holding the serving tray of baked chicken. The screen door is open with the little rip in the side I promised to fix but never got to.
"What the hell! Get out! This is my house!"
Someone is kicking the side of the mattress. For once, I would love to just wake up peacefully. My head. Th
robbing. My nightmare didn't even give me a break.
"Stop! Stop kicking me, you crazy..."
"I'm not CRAZY! You're on my bed you freak!"
"You can have it."
I scoot to the end of the mattress and try to stand. The room spins violently. The wall. I need to lean.
"Hey, hey..."
She steadies me, holding my arm. I snatch my arm away.
"Don't touch me!"
“How long has it been?" she asks.
"Long for what?"
"You're kidding me, right?"
I close my eyes but feel myself shaking my head. Now mistaken for a drug addict. Great.
"I'm not like you. I'm not a drug head."
“Whoopee-doody. Well whatever you are, you look terrible. And I'm clean. Seventy three days and counting."