Staten Island Noir (22 page)

"Are you sure you don't need a doctor?"

"Mom, I'm fine. I just need some rest. Can I just get some rest?"

"Okay, Mikey." But she didn't leave. A thin slice of light from the hallway lingered on the bed. "Jenny's downstairs."

"I'll be right down."

He swung out of bed and gingerly placed his swollen ankle on the floor. It was twice its normal size and bluish streaks were visible on the swell. He threw on a T-shirt and the jeans he'd worn the night before and hobbled downstairs.

Jenny sat at the kitchen table, still wearing her yellow rain slicker. His mother was at the sink, washing dishes but attentive. Jenny stood and he could tell that she had been crying. She looked like a little girl lost in a mall; she couldn't contain the panic on her face.

He knew right then, knew before they left the house without a word, before she drove a few blocks away and pulled the car over. He knew before she started to cry, before the crying turned into great heaving sobs. When he reached over to comfort her, she blurted it out.

"I'm pregnant, Mikey. I think I'm pregnant. I missed my period and I feel sick in the mornings. Mikey, what are we going to do?"

Now it was solid, in the world. It was spoken fact. Desperation flooded through Mikey. LeMoyne was a million miles away, its campus sliding away in the rain. He saw his future harden into something ugly, something clichéd. The summer and its miseries had smothered the memory. A few thrusts on a hard wooden floor. One time. It wasn't possible. He started to cry.

They drove to a pharmacy and Mikey bought a pregnancy test. They chose a sleepy diner on Hylan as the place for her to take it. Mikey's skin hummed, his stomach churned. This would not happen. He would will it not to happen.

No, it would. He was powerless to stop it. His life was ruined. He was soaked to the bone, shivering despite the month. Jenny was a zombie, gliding through the streets, all cried out.

They parked the car across from the diner and Jenny dashed inside. Mikey waited in the car, making promises to God if He would only let Mikey escape this. He could not shake the image of Mandy on top of him the night before, smiling at him; his jeans were still seeped with that betrayal. This was punishment.

No, this was Jenny's fault. She wanted to trap him.

Fifteen minutes ticked by, an eternity.

Mikey left the car and hobbled into the diner. An older man was mopping behind the counter and there was a solitary customer reading the paper at the far end of it. The customer looked at Mikey and then pointed to the bathroom door.

Mikey heard Jenny sobbing. He opened the door to find her sitting on the floor, wedged between the toilet and the wall. The test was facedown on the mopped linoleum, a few inches away from her splayed feet. Jenny reached for Mikey. He reached for the test.

A single pink line. Negative. He tucked it into his rear pocket. He helped Jenny to her feet and they floated out of the diner into the rain. He checked the test again as they crossed the street. Negative. He placed her in the passenger seat. He didn't care about the rain. He was floating. He was free.

When he got into the car, Jenny was still crying. She reached over and hugged him. She said she knew he hated her, she knew she'd lost him. She asked Mikey whether he loved her. Rain pounded onto the car.

Mikey said that he did love her, that he would always love her. He said it because it didn't matter, because she was already in his past. The whole miserable summer was just concrete that had already hardened and he had somehow escaped it and he would never let it touch him again.

THE FLY-ASS PUERTO RICAN GIRL FROM THE STAPLETON PROJECTS

BY
L
INDA
N
IEVES
-P
OWELL

Stapleton

She was last seen sitting on the front steps of PS14, on the Tompkins Avenue side, across the street from the New York Foundling, the place that finds homes for unwanted or abused children. The day before the Fourth of July. The old church lady with the crooked brown wig and thick glasses, who lived close enough to the Foundling to volunteer from time to time, saw her sitting there. Waiting.

The Fly-Ass Puerto Rican Girl lived in the Stapleton projects with an elderly grandmother who was always too tired, too ill, too medicated, too unlucky to hit the numbers, too stuck in her novellas to keep track of her granddaughter's whereabouts. So she had no idea that the Fly-Ass Puerto Rican Girl was the most hated girl in the hood. Unlike her daughter, her granddaughter was too perfect to live in the Stapleton projects. She was nothing like the rest of them who lived or hung around in the hood. She was different. She was like the star of that
Twilight Zone
episode where the lone gorgeous female is considered a freak among monsters.

They wanted a piece of her. And more. Dudes wanted bragging rights. "Yeah, I fucked that bitch. Hard."

Common-law wives wanted to kick her ass far out of the projects: "I will slice that bitch's throat if my man even sniffs the air around her pussy."

Little did they know that you can't break a bitch if she's already been broken. Inside.

But he and everyone else saw perfection. Outside.

That made him crazy. That made them all crazy.

He swept the grounds, unraveled the twisted swings, made sure the community pool was safe and nontoxic, tried to teach the hood kids how to use the chess tables the right way. They tried to convince him that "Boogie Nights" was on the flip side of "Always and Forever," a steal. He collected three hundred a week for eight weeks. Easy summer job. Even if he had to cover for his boss who used the Parks & Recreation uniform to impress prepubescent females who were easily impressed by any man in a uniform, no matter the rank.

No one messed with him. Everyone, including his father, seemed to know this.

"You coulda had a job workin' for Esposito, organizing shit. Instead you want to work in the fucking jungle, with the monkeys? I dare you to bring home a monkey. I dare you. I fucking dare you. Monkey-lovin' fuck."

He had just turned seventeen, like her.

So many, like his father, had it out for her. Wives, girlfriends, and ex-boyfriends stayed up at night hoping that the Fly-Ass Puerto Rican Girl from the projects would step on a needle, get hit by a Cadillac Seville, or walk into the wrong neighborhood at the wrong time. For the following reasons:

Hair too bouncy, too soft, too straight, too manageable. Skin unblemished, olive, more European than Latina. Taller than the average tall girl. The space between a set of perfect thighs, a perfect view. Her heart-shaped ass. Heart-shaped face. Full ruby-colored lips, not too plump, not too thin, like her nose that was always buried in a library book. Curves and narrow hips, more in line with Patti Hansen, the Tottenville supermodel who married a Rolling Stoner, than Iris Chacon, the big broad on Spanish television.

And she spoke English. Well.

Who the hell she think she is? She ain't better than nobody. Why she don't talk like the rest of them Puerto Ricans talk? Like Jesenia, the one with the cottage cheese thighs, the pockmarked sister who talks all half Spanish and shit. Calls dudes
papito
, says
coño
every two seconds, and eats plantains like she's making money on every one she swallows. Or Mary Poseur or Mariposa, whatever the fuck that girl's name is, who lives in 2B, or not 2B. Why she don't act like Mariposa? Mariposa talks like a real bitch talks, she blows real good, she almost black. That's how a real Stapleton bitch talks. That's how a real Staten Island bitch walks. Hunched. She walk like she got a stick up her ass. Too straight. Too white. Who the fuck she think she is?

The old woman told the detective that a white car had picked up the Fly-Ass Puerto Rican Girl from the projects. All white. White tire rims. White interior. White paint. White.

"So you're telling me you saw nothing but white?" the detective asked.

"Sir, I saw what I saw."

"Those glasses are really thick."

"But I knows what I see."

"You knows the difference between a German and Jew?"

She glanced at his badge. Esposito. She'd run into a few Espositos on Staten Island. There was Esposito's Bakery.

Esposito's Car Wash.

Esposito's Pizzeria.

Esposito's Salumeria.

Esposito's Bagel Shop.

Esposito's Car Service.

Esposito's Dry Cleaners.

Esposito's Liquor Store.

Esposito's Nursery School.

Esposito's Hardware Store.

"No sir, I don't, but I think he be Eyetalian."

"Eyetalian? You mean Italian."

"You Eyetalian?"

"It's none of your business."

"Okay, well, he looked like he could be you."

She wanted to lick her index finger to gauge the temperature in the space between them, hoping that the frigid air was biting enough to make him leave. But he pushed her down into her armchair. Accidentally. She felt a loose spring stab her in her back. Pain. Always by the hand of a man.

Mostly always white.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Let me help you." He reached out his hand.

She ignored it.

"Well, thank you for your time. If you can make it down to the precinct, we'd like for you to look at a couple of mugshots to see if you recognize anyone. Oh, wait." He flashed a mugshot he conveniently had in his pocket of a young black boy, no more than eighteen years old. "Is this him, the boy you saw?"

She shook her head.

"You sure?"

She nodded.

"Hmm, okay. Looks like you might need a new pair of glasses."

He left the front door open on his way out.

She wished that he'd trip, fall, and twist his ankle on the open cracks on the concrete steps.

When the news broke out, about how the Fly-Ass Puerto Rican Girl from the Stapleton projects was missing, most folks in the hood thought that the young nickel-bag seller had something to do with it. Everyone knew that although he and the Fly-Ass Puerto Rican Girl were kind of together, he hated the thought of a smarter, better-looking brother tapping that ass. The thought just fucked with him.

She had that kind of ass, though. The kind that once he hit it, it made him cry and he knew no other ass would ever compare. No matter how many other fly-ass girls he tapped. They were all imitations, forgeries. Her ass made a brother take a trip back to the cocoon. It was safe, warm, nurturing. No fear of pain. No fear of being rejected. No fear of having to prove his worth. It was a place where knives, guns, drugs, poverty, welfare cheese, and absent parents were as real as unicorns.

The brothers in the hood called it electromagnetic pussy vibes. But what it really was, what it really really was, was love.

That is what she threatened all of them with.

She made him fear the warmth he didn't know he yearned for. If he let go, she could undo his carefully constructed defense mechanism, his brick wall, his chip on his shoulder. Could make a brother weak. Gotta be smarter than a bitch. Tighten up. Hurt a bitch, before she hurt you.

Lucky for him, though, one of his other, not-so-fly girls assured the detective that he'd been with her the night the Fly-Ass Puerto Rican Girl from the projects disappeared.

"You don't believe me? I got a Beta tape, a little nasty, but all the evidence you need to see."

Her grandmother called the police forty-eight hours in. Not because she had been worrying. But because the gossip had landed at her dirty sandaled feet while she washed her clothes at the neighborhood laundromat.

 

* * *

 

They found the Fly-Ass Puerto Rican Girl's size-eight sandals from Kinney's in the wooded area behind Greenfield Avenue near the A&P, under the high concrete arch, the entryway to Rosebank, better known as
No Niggerland
.

Those words were painted on the highest point of the arch. In black.

 

* * *

 

A few weeks earlier, he boarded the R104 bus with some of his teammates from the Curtis High School football team, a.k.a. the offspring of the Rosebank Boys, whose reputation was equivalent to that of the KKK—sans the burning cross, since they were all devout followers of Jesus. He sat in the back of the bus. Slid the window open, stuck his hand out, and flipped the bird to the quarterback waiting for the bus to Grasmere, the town on the right side of the Staten Island Expressway. In return, he got a flip and a glob of spit on the window. That's when he saw her black hair blowing in the wind. He tapped Esposito's arm so he, too, could glimpse the girl standing on the corner. Esposito checked her out, then violently snapped his head. "You fuckin' kiddin' me, douche bag. She's a spic."

"I know, stupid. I was just playing."

"Don't fuckin' play like that. You know I heard she fucks teachers, old men, and homeless dudes for money."

"Right."

"You a nigger lover?"

"Joking, stupid."

"Yeah, well, don't say shit like that. It's bad enough your hair looks like fucking Brillo."

His father hated his hair.

"Now that's a hot babe right there!"

Esposito was pointing at Liberty. Talk about whores. Between Liberty's legs was a neon sign that read:
Enter, 24 hours a day, at your own risk.
But he wasn't one to play follow-the-leader, even if Liberty did have a bodacious rack. He wasn't interested in what Liberty had to offer.

 

* * *

 

He'd invited her into the woods, a few feet beyond the arch, the midway point, because that's where you went when you wanted to experience that thing, that thing, that thing. It would eventually become the place that would be known as the scene of the crime.

She went anyway, knowing the danger, but trusting his pretty green eyes.

He grabbed her hand and pulled her into the sharp brush. He scratched his arm trying to stop the branches from poking her eyes out or, worse, ruining her perfect skin. Finally he found the dirt path, the one that lead to the wide tree stump where young couples had carved and revised their love for one another.

She turned a full 360, taking in the dense, almost impenetrable brush, and sat next to him on the wide tree stump.