Each day he pinched off more diseased leaves. The first sign of blight had been small black spots on some of the leaves. Every morning before work he sprayed the bushes with baking soda, water, and dishwashing detergent, a concoction recommended in a
Better Homes and Gardens
magazine he’d been reading free at work, a few pages a day. The soapy froth dripped down the spray bottle onto his sneakers. The roses were drenched, the leaves glistening a brilliant green as his last few sprays sent a stream of bubbles into the air.
“Hey, look!” a boy called, wiping his mouth as the bubbles floated by.
“Yo! Whatcha doin’, mister?” another hollered as four boys strutted around the side of Mrs. Jukas’s house. Feaster and his runners hadn’t been around since the old woman had come home. The last boy out of her yard sported a thick gold chain around his neck and diamond studs piercing both ears. Like those of the other boys, the front of his shirt was wet.
“You shouldn’t be over there,” Gordon said in a low voice. “She’s an old woman and she’s very sick.”
“We’re not doin’ anything,” the biggest boy scoffed. He looked like a young Buddha with his round thick head and small dark eyes. Rolls of fat tubed his midsection.
“That doesn’t matter. You’re not supposed to be there.”
“Feaster said for us to wait here,” the boy said.
Gordon stepped through the bushes. “No. You wait out there. On the sidewalk. Now.”
Their eyes held his. They left the yard, glancing back until they turned the corner.
A few minutes later he thought he heard water running. He followed the sound to the back of Mrs. Jukas’s house, where the outside faucet had been turned on. He turned it off as tightly as he could, but it continued to leak. He mounded some nearby rocks under the drip. A window rattled open. Mrs. Jukas called down to ask what he was doing. He explained about the faucet, then asked if she was feeling better. No, she said. As a matter of fact, she felt terrible, worse than she ever had. But that’s the way it was, and there wasn’t anything anyone could do about it. Before she could shut the window, he asked if she needed anything from the Market. He could bring it by on his way home from work. “No, thank you,” she said, closing the window.
He went into his house and washed his hands. As he came down the walk, Mrs. Jukas shuffled onto her porch and called to him. She had lost a lot of weight. Her head trembled, and as she leaned on her cane with both hands, the front of her housecoat parted, revealing her sagging underpants. She needed coffee and orange juice, whatever brand was cheapest. She’d pay him now or later, whatever he wanted, it didn’t matter. Later was fine, he said, pleased that she wanted his help. Have a good day, he said, but she was already on her way back inside.
After work he rang her doorbell. Waiting, he was shocked by the mess on her porch. Cigarette butts, Styrofoam cups, empty cans, crumpled fast-food bags. He was kicking some of it into a pile when the door opened.
“How much?” she asked, taking a coin purse from the pocket of the same housecoat she had been wearing that morning. She paid him, and before she could close the door he asked for a bag to put this mess in.
“Don’t bother,” she said.
“It’s no bother. It’ll take me a second, that’s all,” he said, pushing another pile together.
“I don’t even care. Do what you want. I’m too tired,” she muttered, closing the door.
He went home, then came right back with a broom and a trash bag. He had just finished sweeping when Feaster’s SUV pulled up. Polie ran across the street and banged on Jada’s door. Inside, Jada’s dog was barking. When no one came, he peered in her window, knocked a few times, then returned to the SUV. Feaster got out then and came up Mrs. Jukas’s walk as Gordon came down the steps with the broom and bag. He asked Gordon if he’d seen Jada or her mother around. He hadn’t. Not for a couple of days, anyway.
“Look, do me a favor, will you?” Feaster said, scribbling on a piece of paper. “Give her this. Her mother. Tell her it’s the new number.”
“No.”
“No? What do you mean, no? It’s a fucking cell phone number, that’s all. Here.”
Gordon walked past him.
“You can’t do me a favor, is that what you’re saying?” Feaster fumed as he followed him onto the porch. “Is that what you’re saying? You can’t do this one fucking simple little thing, is that what you’re saying?”
Gordon tried to open his door, but Feaster stepped in front of it. Polie lumbered up the walk in his huge flapping sneakers.
“Is that it? Is that what you’re saying?” Feaster demanded.
“I didn’t say anything,” Gordon said, head lowered, staring.
“You don’t get it. See, I’m, like, tryna help her, that’s all. When she gets this strung out she doesn’t care. She’s crazy. She’d slit your throat for a nickel and not even know you. Just give her this.” Eyes gleaming, he offered the paper again.
“No.”
“Take the fucking paper,” Polie growled, the club by his leg.
“I got a better idea,” Feaster said. “How’s this? You don’t wanna give her the number, so we’ll just sit here and wait till she comes home.”
Feaster pulled two chairs close to the railing and sat down, hands behind his head, his feet up on the railing. Polie sat next to him and did the same.
Inside, Gordon sat on the couch with the bag of trash in his lap. He felt sick to his stomach. He could handle Thurman, but these two were liable to pull a knife or gun on him. He could hear them laughing and calling out to people. A cruiser hadn’t been by in days, and now two were racing around the corner, sirenless but with lights spinning. They turned at the corner and were gone.
A few minutes later a car pulled into the driveway. Dennis was halfway across the lawn when he stopped.
“Nice car,” Feaster said to him as Gordon came to the door.
“Who’re you?” Dennis asked, chin out.
“I got a better question. Who’re you?” Feaster said, and Polie giggled.
Gordon held the door open.
“What’s going on?” Dennis asked him.
“They’re waiting. The woman across the street, they’re waiting for her,” Gordon said with an awkward gesture. He hoped Marvella didn’t show up now with Dennis here. “Are you going to come in?” He opened the door wider.
Dennis came inside, then stood by the window. “What am I missing?” he asked, looking out. “Would you mind telling me what’s going on? What do they want? What’re they doing out there?”
“They’ll be leaving soon. The woman, she’ll—”
“They’re punks. You want them out there, right? On your front porch? With their feet up on the railing like it’s theirs? What’re you thinking? You can’t let punks like that just do what they want. Next thing you know they’ll be coming in the house anytime they want.”
“They’ll leave soon. I just don’t want any trouble, that’s all.”
“You don’t want any trouble!” Dennis shook his head with a derisive hoot. “Jesus! That’s good, that’s really good.
You
don’t want any trouble! You don’t want any trouble.”
“I don’t.”
“Then go tell them to get the hell outta here.”
He glanced at Dennis. It wasn’t disgust or pity that finally made him look away, but the venom in Dennis’s eyes. And Gordon knew why. Because of what Gordon had seen and knew. Because of Dennis’s own weakness.
“Then I will.” Dennis stormed outside and ordered Feaster off the porch. His brother didn’t want them there. Polie stood up, a head taller than Dennis.
“Fuck off,” Feaster said without even looking back.
Dennis leaned over and knocked Feaster’s feet off the railing, almost tipping him out of the chair. Polie’s lunge sent Dennis stumbling across the porch. He caught himself on the post, and Gordon rushed outside. There was a dull black gun in Polie’s hand.
“Jesus Christ!” Dennis gasped. “What’re you doing? What the—”
“Don’t move, asshole,” Polie growled as Feaster came toward Dennis.
“That’s my brother,” Gordon said in a low voice.
“I don’t care who the fuck he is,” Feaster hissed, face twisted, his eyes never leaving Dennis. “He keeps his fucking hands off me or else he’s fucking nobody’s fucking brother. Now go in the house. Go in the fucking house!”
Dennis followed Gordon inside. The minute the door closed, Dennis picked up the phone.
“Don’t!” Gordon said.
“Don’t? He’s got a gun out there!”
“No! They’re leaving. See?” Gordon pointed. They were. Feaster and Polie were getting into the SUV. “They’re gone,” he reported as they drove away. “It’s all right.” He held out his hand for the phone.
“All right?” Dennis shook his head, and now Gordon saw how hard his brother was breathing. His face was gray. “You think this is all right? Then Jesus Christ, you’re even more pathetic than I thought.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I don’t
understand!
Jesus Christ! How can you say that?”
“Because you don’t. You don’t understand how careful I have to be. All the time, every minute, every day. I have to stay away from trouble. I’ve been doing it so long now it’s like second nature. I keep my head down. I look the other way. I don’t hear, I don’t see, and I don’t ask questions. Somebody bumps into me, I apologize to them. And you’re right, it is pathetic, but that’s the way it is. That’s the way it has to be for me.”
“I’m sorry.” Dennis rubbed his forehead in a dismal gesture of shame and resignation. “Look, I just want things to be all right for you, that’s all. I don’t mean to be dumping on you like this. Things are just so screwed up right now.” He sighed and turned to look out the window again. “The reason I came is . . . well, it’s about that night. I mean, there’s certain things you don’t understand. I mean, how can you? You’re not married, you don’t know how these things work. Oh, Christ! What I’m trying to say here is, what you saw, it’s not what you think. It’s just this . . . this thing that happens sometimes and who the hell knows why!”
“You don’t have to tell me this.”
“Of course I do. It’s important. I want you to know. Jilly’s a sweet, sincere girl. She cried all that night. She’s still upset. She thinks she’s done some terrible thing.”
“Well, she has, hasn’t she?” Gordon blurted.
“Well, no,” Dennis said slowly. “That’s what I mean—she hasn’t—not in the big scheme of things, that is. But what she’s really upset about is you.”
“Me? Why?” He almost smiled.
“That’s why I came over. She’s afraid. She said she tried to be nice and show you places like I asked her to, but you took it the wrong way. You tried to come on to her.”
“I asked her out to dinner, that’s all I did.”
“Well, the whole thing’s got her really freaked out now. You, me, her!”
Gordon’s face burned in a turmoil of shame and anger. “What about Lisa?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Are you two breaking up?” The words sickened him.
“No! Jesus Christ, is that what you’re thinking?” Dennis looked incredulous. “No! I’d never do that. Never! My family, I mean, that’s my whole life!”
CHAPTER 12
G
ordon ran up the cellar stairs. Someone was ringing the bell and banging on the door. Jada. She looked terrible: acne on her forehead and nose, cold sores on her mouth, red, teary eyes. Leonardo had worms. Her little dog was dying, and she didn’t know what to do. He’d been on the bed whimpering all morning. He wouldn’t eat or drink anything. Gordon said he probably needed to see a vet. He might as well have told her the dog needed to go to Tibet. A vet? Where? How?
“Find one in the phone book.” His guide to life, everything he needed to know, was in there. “Veterinarians,” he said, thumbing through the pages. “Here they are. A whole page of them.”
She held the book close, then drew back her head. “They’re all someplace else. There aren’t any here.” She handed it back.
Dearborn, Hilliard, Plainfield: all in the suburbs. She was right. There weren’t any in the city.
“Maybe you can get a ride from somebody,” he said.
“I can’t.”
“What about your mother?”
“She doesn’t have a car, and besides, she’s not home.”
“When she comes back, then.”
“Can I have a piece?” She gestured to the loaf of bread on the counter.
He handed her a slice. “She might know someone to call.”
“Polie,” she said, chewing. “But I’m not going anywhere with him. That asshole.”
He offered her another slice. When he saw her devour that one, he asked if she’d like a ham sandwich. She grinned, watching closely as he made it. Did she want mustard? Yeah! A lot or a little? A lot, she said. Especially when she ate mustard sandwiches.
“I never heard of a mustard sandwich.”
“Well, yeah, if there’s nothing else to put in.”
He added another slice of ham. “Here. Sit down.” He started to put it on the table.
“That’s okay.” She ate standing by the counter. “What’s that?” She nodded at Delores’s tin.
“Nothing.” He was saving the last few cookies for dessert tonight.
When he turned to give her a glass of milk, the sandwich was gone. She guzzled down half the milk, then asked for a paper cup. A little milk might make Leonardo feel better. He didn’t have any paper cups. She could take it over in the glass if she brought it back. “Are you out of milk?” he asked.
“Yeah, but there’s still some Coke left,” she called back.
After she left he felt guilty. He should have given her the cookies, he thought as he cleared the table and counter. He hadn’t seen Marvella Fossum for a while. Maybe she was sick. No, because Jada said she wasn’t home. He remembered Jada’s ravenous consumption at the cookout that night. Like a stray no one dared confront. Her dog probably wasn’t even sick. She’d just needed an excuse to come begging. He stared out the window. Was it possible? Was there a hungry child over there? He couldn’t recall such a thing ever happening when he’d been a boy. Not here, not on Clover Street. There’d been an old man over on Liberty Street, once, who fell down his cellar stairs and broke his hip. Days later the mailman found him incoherent from hunger and dehydration. Twenty-five years, and everything was different now. Children screamed at their mothers every day in the Market. Holdups were so commonplace, Neil had gone through three in four months. Last week a gang of girls had beaten up Serena’s teenage niece in the school library for e-mailing one of their boyfriends. Expecting order and sanity, he had found a world gone awry, the planet tipped. Instead of meteors, airplane bolts and metal chunks fell from the sky. Untended babies plunged through open windows. But who was he, what right did he have to expectation, disappointment, indignation, of all people, him, Gordon Loomis,
so insignificant, so lost in his own life, that he had surely been on his way long, long before the night she dead-bolts her door, hobbles on one crutch from the shower into bed, where the last book she reads is
The Healthy Woman’s Guide to Happy Pregnancy,
never suspecting that in minutes it will be over. Everything, past and to come. Ended. He would be twenty-five years old. Almost twenty-six.