Bloodroot (8 page)

“Bloodroot,” I said. I leaned back in my chair, nodding. I felt like the new kid at boarding school. If you’d just try harder to make some friends . . . why don’t you join my chess club? So that was the inspiration for Whitestone’s sudden attack of sensitivity. Nagging me to join his group had failed and he had turned to seduction. I thought of Whitestone’s scarred hands.
Join me, Luke
.
Know the power of the dark side.

“Those lost children from Bloodroot deserve a champion,” Whitestone said. “When the atrocities they suffered saw the light of day in the late seventies, care of the orphaned and the disabled there and everywhere else in this country changed forever and for the better. The changes were, dare I say it, revolutionary. Their sacrifices, though unwitting, deserve commemoration.”

It was quite a speech. I was almost moved. I knew the stories, too, about how kids left at Bloodroot from the forties through the seventies lived little better than the inmates of concentration camps. My family had been part of that story. Grandpa O’Malley had played a huge role in shuttering the place and disgracing the doctor in charge. But that wasn’t the reason I was getting the hard sell. Whitestone surely knew about what my grandfather had done, but he didn’t know I was Dr. O’Malley’s grandson. It was the kids at Richmond that Whitestone wanted. The students, complaints and all, loved me. If I joined the Friends of Bloodroot, kids would start signing up the next day. Admin didn’t much care what their teachers wanted, but the kids who paid tuition? That was another story. I could be a hell of a recruiting tool for him.

“I’ve got to catch up on my grading,” I said, standing, “before I can take on anything else.”

“Before you go,” Whitestone said, “pick up those papers for me.”

I bent and gathered the fallen complaint forms.

“I understand your workload,” Whitestone said. “But I don’t know how long I can carry someone unwilling to show true commitment to the department.”

“Duly noted,” I said, handing the papers across the desk. “I’ll get caught up. No more complaints. I promise.”

Whitestone reached for the papers but snapped his arm back when he saw me staring at his scarred hand. “Childhood accident,” he said. “You’re dismissed, Curran.”

 

 

 

ABOUT TWENTY MINUTES AFTER
I got home from campus, I heard Al’s Charger rumbling outside the apartment building. I buzzed Danny in when the doorbell rang. I would’ve preferred a call first as I was staring into the fridge, wearing only my boxers, strap-T, and dress shirt when Danny knocked on the door. I let the fridge door swing closed and answered as I was.

Looking sharp again, I thought. Another fifty-dollar T-shirt, midnight blue, under another black suit jacket that probably cost more than everything I owned put together. He had a diamond in his ear now, replacing the dull silver hoop he’d worn for years.

“Nice outfit,” Danny said. “The look works for you.”

“You’d think it’s the tie that kills me,” I said, passing through the living room toward my bedroom. “But it’s the pants. I fucking hate dress pants.”

In the bedroom, I dropped the boxers, pulled on some jeans. I opened my wallet. Payday wasn’t till next Friday. Forty bucks had to last me a week. Like they did every time I counted my cash, thoughts of a second job jumped into my head. The idea made me want to throw the bedroom lamp out the window. I didn’t know where Danny wanted to go that night but it didn’t much matter. I couldn’t even afford the movies. I sat on the bed, gazing into my closet, thinking again about Danny’s clothes.

He wasn’t flashy, but I wondered how he financed the upgrade. Maybe his wardrobe caught my attention because three years ago he dressed one step up from homeless. It’s not like I knew the first thing about fashion. The clothes probably weren’t half as expensive as I thought. But that didn’t explain where Danny got his money.

Most of my clothes that weren’t for work were either grad school leftovers or bought at the thrift store around the corner. Maybe that’s what got to me: maybe I was just jealous. I tossed my wallet on the bed. Forget the cash to go anywhere cool that night. Even if I did have it, I certainly didn’t have the clothes.

Wearing my ratty jeans and the same wrinkled dress shirt, I walked into the kitchen, where Danny was drinking one of my last Cherry Cokes and peering into the freezer.

“Four Cherry Cokes, two pounds of coffee, and a huge box of Oreos.” He turned to me, looking concerned. “Have you even been to a grocery store since I last saw you? You certainly haven’t gained any weight.”

“Like I want this grief,” I said, opening the balcony doors.

Danny joined me outside. “You realize you’ve got a Weber grill in your living room.”

I sat in the chair. Danny leaned against the railing, his back to the street. The way that railing was bent and rusted, I’d never had the nerve. Danny didn’t seem to care. He threw a glance at the corner. It wasn’t half as busy in the daylight.

“If I leave the grill outside,” I said, “there’s not enough room to sit. The smoke just blows back into the house anyway. I don’t remember why I bought it in the first place.”

“It is a great view,” Danny said, looking over at Manhattan.

“It’s a quiet place to sit and think,” I said.

Right then, the couple living two houses down burst out of their front door. The woman screamed from the porch steps as the man, beer bottle in hand, stomped away from her and toward his car.

“Yeah, peaceful and serene,” Danny said as the screaming continued, now in Spanish.

Before he got in the car, the man turned, yelled something in Italian, and threw the beer bottle. It smashed on the step at the woman’s feet, spraying her bare ankles with glass. She laughed and flipped him off as he drove away. She spat on the cracked walkway before running back into the house. Maxie howled in his yard.

“Tony and Maria,” I said. “He must’ve started his bender early. Or maybe he got fired again. They usually don’t get really cranked up until Sunday afternoon.”

“Tony and Maria?” Danny asked. “You’re not serious.”

“Not entirely,” I said. “That’s what I call them. I don’t know who they are. Unless they really are named
Puta
and
Cabron
.”

“Please tell me they don’t have kids, at least,” Danny said.

“She had one,” I said. “The city took it away not long after Tony moved in. I heard she’s pregnant again—with Tony’s brother’s kid. I think that’s what they’re always fighting about. Four years in this neighborhood, I’ve picked up some Spanish. And Italian. And Polish. It’s very multicultural here.”

“Fucking savages,” Danny said, scowling at Tony and Maria’s house. “That kid’ll never know nothing but pain. And turn out just like them.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” I said. “She’s young, maybe this time it’ll be different, whoever the father is.”

“Bullshit,” Danny said. “That dog across the street? He probably got his balls cut off before he was three months old. But those animals two doors down can crank out as many kids as they want and no one says boo.” He took a deep breath. “Whatever you say, Kev. Maybe it will be different.”

“Look at you,” I said. “You got your shit together. I mean, look at those fancy threads you got there.”

Danny pretended to dust his lapels. “Yeah, I look all right these days. You, however. You still got your bum’s eye for clothes.”

“My clothes money goes into my work wardrobe,” I said. “I gotta look professional. I can’t get my clothes . . . wherever it is you get yours.” I was getting worked up, desperate to cover the fact that I bought about two new shirts a year. And that the only time I got new dress pants or ties was Christmas and my birthday, when our parents bought them for me.

“You remember high school,” I said. “We always knew who was wearing the same stained-up shirts and ties. Image is more important in teaching than you might think. It’s called the subjective curriculum.”

“Hey, I was just breaking balls,” Danny said. “I’m sure it is important. You know better than me. What I remember from school? How Mrs. Fallenti’s nipples always poked through her sweater. That’s what I remember about teachers’ clothes.”

“Those rumors that Al fucked her when you two were seniors,” I said, “are they true?”

“You can ask him yourself,” Danny said. “He’s picking us up in ten minutes.”

I looked myself over, hands in the air, my cheeks burning. The bedroom lamp was doomed.

“Look, about going out tonight,” I said. “I thought on Wednesday night that I get paid today, but it’s not until next week. Maybe we can hang out here, get a movie or something.”

“Fuck that,” Danny said. “You know how much TV I watched in rehab? I hate TV. You oughta throw yours in the street. I got the tab tonight.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I said.

“I know. I’m doing it anyway.” He leaned over me, smiling but jabbing his thumb hard into his chest. “I got the tab tonight.” It sounded almost like a threat. “Don’t worry about money, your clothes, nothin’. You’re with me tonight.”

AL DROVE US OVER THE VERRAZANO AND INTO BROOKLYN. TO MY
surprise, we got off the highway before the Manhattan bridges.

The sun setting, we cruised through Park Slope, my mother’s old neighborhood, slowing for schoolkids still in uniform playing football in streets lined with SUVs. We slid by the regal brownstones, the sun an orange fireball in their windows, and we drifted through the shadows of expansive oaks and elms, acorns and itchy-balls crunching under the tires.

Al dropped us off on Flatbush Avenue, along the edge of Prospect Park, outside a restaurant called Santoro’s. As he had on Wednesday night, he declined to join us, even offering the same excuse.

“He must have a girl in each borough,” I said as Al drove away. I was glad to see him go. “Nice racket you’ve got, though, him driving you around.”

“I kick in for gas and tolls,” Danny said, turning in a circle on the sidewalk. “I still can’t believe what they’ve done with this neighborhood. I’m glad Grandpa passed before he could see what happened to it.”

An Irish pub nestled into one corner, Guinness and Harp signs glowing in the small windows. A trio of guys in suits with guilty looks on their faces stood smoking around an empty flowerpot. They didn’t speak to one another. On the opposite corner glowed a Starbucks doing brisk business. Men and women in business attire shouldered open the glass doors, each with a paper or plastic cup in one hand and a BlackBerry or cell phone in the other. Inside, a laptop on every table. Salons and boutiques occupied the rest of the block, most of them closed for the evening, their high-dollar, faux-bohemian offerings spotlighted in the wide, immaculate shop windows.

“Fucking yuppies,” Danny said. “All they talk about is how much they love the neighborhood and then they completely fucking ruin it. Who drinks coffee through a fucking
straw
? Watch, Kev, your neighborhood’ll be next.”

“And then they cry about how great it used to be,” I said. “Like they didn’t grow up in Connecticut.”

“See?” Danny said. “You and me? We still think alike. And we’re not entirely alone.” He gestured toward the Irish place. “Shanahan’s remains true to the game, bad food, three-dollar pints, no dogs small enough to fit in a handbag, but even he’s had to make compromises. He finally told his bartenders to start making specialty martinis, though he lets them charge fifteen bucks a pop. Three weeks ago, he got free wireless.”

Danny grabbed the brass handle of Santoro’s oak door and yanked it open. “This place, too, is still cool. A true sanctuary. Same owner for forty years.”

A bald old man, thick salt-and-pepper mustache twitching under his nose, greeted us on the other side of the door. He wore an immaculate white apron over a shirt and tie. He kissed Danny on both cheeks, vigorously shaking my hand as Danny introduced us. His name was Gino Bavasi. “Ciao, ciao,” he said, over and over.

To my surprise, Gino and Danny exchanged pleasantries in Italian as we took our table in the back. Gino handed us menus. Moments later, he brought out a pitcher of ice water and filled our glasses. He waddled back to the host stand.

I opened my menu and scanned the prices. The forty in my pocket might cover a few olives. I remembered what Danny had said about the tab and closed the menu.

“Gino knows you pretty well,” I said. “You working here?”

“I live upstairs,” Danny said. “On my own, I can barely afford to walk down the street in this neighborhood anymore, but I do a lot of work for Bavasi, and sometimes for the guy that owns this building, a few other people. I manage the POS, the sound system, security. I’m in here a lot.”

Bavasi took our orders. Three tuxedoed waiters idled in the bus station. I wondered how it was that the boss waited on our table. Danny ordered for both of us without even a glance at me. I didn’t mind. The menu was mostly in Italian anyway. I eased back, water in one hand and my other arm stretched along the back of the bench, trying to look like I ate in places like Santoro’s all the time.