Every Time a Rainbow Dies (5 page)

Every morning after he set his birds free, Thulani walked to the corner of Franklin and waited across the street from her house, hoping to catch Ysa on her way to school. His heart would say, Go to the buzzer, call out her name. After all, he told himself, they were hardly strangers. They had talked. They had argued. She had given him her name—something she wouldn't have done unless she intended him to use it. Even so, he couldn't bring himself to her door to press the buzzer. For a month he stood in the same spot from seven o'clock until eight watching the window curtains part occasionally. Then he'd leave for school.

He didn't give up once inside school grounds. He took to roaming the halls of Erasmus Hall High, peering
into classrooms from door windows on the chance that he would see her. He'd press his face against the glass and look for her hair, a mass of ringlets piled on her head, or even better, he'd seek out a rainbow among the rows of browns, blacks, and grays. Color would lead him to Ysa.

He roamed the halls during first and second periods and wondered how he could have missed her before. She could have been there all along, walking down Eastern Parkway as he stood above her on his roof. She could have been one of those who gave him “cut eyes” when he bumped into her in the hallways. He had been in a fog and hadn't seen what was in front of him. Since the time his mother died, no one existed. No one—except his birds—could touch him or be with him. Then there was Ysa. The girl whose scream pulled him from sleep, whose naked body wore his jersey. The girl who both rendered him speechless and drew him out. Out from his roof, out of his silence, out where he heard his own voice. Out of himself. All he wanted was to find her, touch her, talk to her, be in the world with her.

 

“Where your pass, son?”

Thulani released the doorknob and faced the hall patrol. He
could
run, but he had been caught. It didn't matter. “Don't have one.”

He was promptly thrown into detention.

The next day he did it again. Peered into the windows of classes in session, hoping to find her. He observed hundreds of girls sitting in classrooms. Pretty girls wearing jeans and tops the colors of fall. Girls in curls and braids, short hair, ponytails, hair up, hair down. Girls writing in loose-leafs, passing notes, or staring at chalkboards. Some had even smiled at him, catching him off guard and making him feel good. But as pretty as they were, none of these girls was her.

He had only her name, Ysa, to go on and where she lived. He had no last name, although he was quite sure she was Haitian. He knew that she surrounded herself with color, believed in herbs, confession, and prayer and that her little breasts would fit his mouth.

He also knew he couldn't continue like this, hanging outside her house or roaming the halls hoping to find her. He decided to seek out some Haitian girls and describe Ysa. As big as it was, the school had a decent representation of Haitian students. Surely someone knew her or attended mass with her at St. Augustine's. Haitian students stuck with one another the way Chinese stuck with Chinese, and Pakistanis stuck with Pakistanis. If he had to go up to every Haitian girl to find her class schedule, he would.

In his social studies class he spotted Janine Desravines,
a girl he remembered from elementary school and junior high. Janine had always been a fairly popular girl, always the center of her group. If anyone knew Ysa, she would.

He tried to get her attention at the end of social studies, but Janine and her friends were already out of the classroom. He followed them out to their lockers and called her by name, but she didn't respond. He knew she was messing with him, but he didn't care. He wasn't going away. Finally one of Janine's friends, a girl in brown, tapped her and pointed in his direction.

“There's this girl,” he said quickly, because all eyes were on him. “Haitian girl. Lives with her mother or grandmother on Franklin. Wears a lot of colors.”

Janine and the three other girls giggled. It was the kind of thing girls did well. Cut a man down to size. If he had to take their abuse to find his girl, he would. “Her name is Ysa. Do you know her? If she goes to Erasmus?”

Janine conferred with her group in Creole, tossing her name, Ysa, up and down in what he felt were derisive tones.

“You sure she's not Jamaican?” Janine asked.

They all giggled.

“She's Haitian.”

Janine shot back something, and she and her friends burst out laughing.

He started to walk away.

Janine called after him, “No. We don't know your Ysa.”

Later in the cafeteria Janine sat next to him while he drank milk and said, “You know Julie?”

“Julie?”

She gestured to the girl in the brown top.

“She thinks you're okay.”

He blushed, then smiled, not expecting this at all. That someone would think he was cute.

“While you're looking for this Ysa, you should think about it.”

Janine rejoined her group. They began talking excitedly and giving him face, particularly the girl in brown, Julie. They wouldn't leave him alone until he smiled back.

 

He did not go first to the roof as he usually did when he got home. Instead he flew upstairs to the bathroom, locked the door, and stood before the mirror to see what he had. To see why Julie smiled at him and told her girlfriends she thought he was okay and why Janine was bold enough to tell him so.

In the mirror he saw his mother's slanted eyes. Her long lashes. Her lips as he remembered them, well defined and full. Not so much from memory, but from
the photo in his bedroom, he saw his father's prominent features, his strong nose and jawline, red brown complexion smoothed over high cheekbones.

He smiled at his endowments. He had looks a girl could find attractive.

Since the age of thirteen up until nearly sixteen, his face had been eclipsed by hooded sweatshirts. Even through hot summers he wore hoods. He would have worn them the past summer if not for a police sketch of a mugger that appeared on the news. The robber, a black male between the ages of sixteen and twenty, was armed and considered dangerous. He vaguely fitted Thulani's height and build and committed his crimes wearing hooded sweatshirts. Before the broadcast was over, Shakira had broken through his door, gathered up every hooded sweatshirt he owned, and stuffed them into a Hefty bag, which she set out with the trash. “They round you up first, ask questions later.”

If he wasn't so angry at Shakira, he might even have laughed.

 

There was a knock on the bathroom door. “Thulani. I have to get in there.”

“I'll be out.”

“You've been in there an hour. Let me in.”

She exaggerated. He'd been in there five, ten minutes.
When he finally opened the door, she pushed him out and closed the door to pee. With her belly even larger she was always in the bathroom.

He went downstairs to wait for her. Today he decided to give her what she always wanted: in. He was going to talk to her. Ask for her opinion.

Shakira had changed clothes and appeared to be a little flushed, but Thulani let these things slip his notice.

“Suppose you like a girl,” he began, though Shakira seemed preoccupied, putting away her still warm but unserved dinner. “But she's kinda hard, uh, hard to know. Then there's this new girl.”

Even preoccupied, Shakira wouldn't spoil this opportunity. He'd never give her another chance.

“First Girl givin'ya hard time?”

He nodded.

“Ya sure New Girl like you?”

“Yeh.”

“Ya like New Girl?”

“She cute.”

“Which one on your mind?”

“First Girl.”

“Then stop triflin' with New Girl and call Truman.”

“Truman?”

“What, I stuttah? Call him. Tell him to get to the hospital quick. Then call the EMS.”

“Hospital?”

“I tried to wait, but I can't go no longer.”

 

Thulani did not do things in the order that Shakira had asked. First he ran up to the roof to leave the cage open for his birds. Then he called 911 for the EMS. They asked him questions about the contractions, blood, and water—questions he couldn't answer. They said they would be there in fifteen minutes. Then he called the dispatcher's office at the subway station to leave the message for Truman.

The EMS ambulance came in thirty minutes. They took Shakira's pulse and put a stethoscope on her belly. Thulani wanted no part of it when the female driver raised up her skirt. He waited outside until Shakira came out on a stretcher. The EMS driver said the baby was not crowning but they should get to the hospital quick.

Thulani locked up the house and rode in the ambulance with his sister-in-law. Every five minutes she dug her nails into his arm. He was relieved when they arrived at the hospital and Shakira was wheeled away, glad when Truman finally arrived.

Two hours later he was an uncle and Truman was a father. When Truman emerged from the delivery room, his stone face broke and tears gushed. Thulani had never seen his brother cry, not even during the time that
Mommy went away. Died. Truman said the baby girl was healthy, she looked like Shakira, and they would name her Eula after Mommy. He gave praises to Jah, then told Thulani, “There is but one child in our house. You have to help out. Get a job.”

For three days Thulani knew the peace of a quiet home. Everything was as his mother intended, with both sons caring for her home. Thulani cooked and did laundry while Truman painted Eula's room. Once the baby was brought home, Shakira's family would visit often, so the house had to be ready.

During this time Truman never repeated what he had said in the hospital or asked his brother how the job hunt was going. This was not Truman's way. He stated himself plainly and once. Even though he ate Thulani's oxtails, wore the shirts that Thulani washed and ironed, and likened all of Thulani's housework to their mother's, it was understood that Thulani was to seek work.

On the morning that Shakira and Eula were to come
home, Truman said, “I've been thinking.” This meant that he and Shakira had been discussing this new thought in detail and it was now time to bring it to light.

Thulani waited for the other shoe to drop, and at that moment he fully comprehended the expression. In Truman's pause he tried to match the tone of Truman's last word with the many possibilities that could follow. He thought of the many things Truman and Shakira could devise and held his breath.

“You show no inclination for school,” Truman began.

He could breathe freely. This was true. He spent more time roaming the hallways looking for Ysa than sitting in class taking notes and fretting over the SATs.

“Mommy left you some money for college.”

“Yeh, so?”

“The money will be better spent toward a down payment on a house in Jersey.”

“What? Leave Brooklyn?”

“A child canna grow on concrete. We need a house with a yard.”

“They have homes with yards in Brooklyn,” Thulani said.

“We're leaving Brooklyn,” Truman told him.

“The brownstone's worth money. Mommy always said—”

“It needs too much work, Thulani. Who's going to
do it? I'm selling the brownstone. In two years we're gone. End of discussion.”

Is this what Truman and Shakira did at night? Thought of ways to choke him with their plans? Steal Mommy from his memory? Kill off his birds?

Truman put his plate in the sink for Thulani to wash. He said, “You'll be eighteen before long. Old enough to be responsible with the money Mommy left. That money plus my share will make the down payment until we sell the brownstone.”

The other shoe landed. There was nothing left to say.

Thulani ran up to his roof to unlatch the dovecote. Even though he had no morning treats, no cereal or seeds, his birds still gathered at his feet and perched on his arms and shoulders. Bruno landed on his head. He needed to surround himself with their cooing, their feathers.

Leave Mommy's house? Leave his birds? Leave Brooklyn? And leave Ysa—if he ever found her again. He couldn't leave yet.

He took Yoli to his heart and stroked her breast feathers. When she grew restless in his grip, and Bruno became jealous, Thulani let her go. He let them all go.

 

Shakira and Eula were home by the time he came in from school. He wanted to get a good look at his niece,
although it was impossible. Shakira did not let her child out of her arms. Even when her own mother, sisters, aunts, and cousins warned her Eula would be spoiled, Shakira never turned her eyes from her daughter.

With much reluctance Shakira brought Eula to the nursery and placed her in her bassinet. While Shakira was being catered to by her family, Thulani saw his opportunity. He had seen the baby but wanted to have this moment alone with her.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “Just look at you.” Truman was right. She was the very picture of Shakira but with Truman's eyes. Before Thulani could reach down into the bassinet to hold her, the door flew open.

“
Cha!
Ya crazy or what? She's had no shots and you smellin' like pigeon shit. Gwan from her!”

 

For five days Thulani cleaned, cooked, and did homework while Shakira rested and fussed with her baby. Once Shakira was ready to resume housework, Thulani went back to his rooftop or went looking for Ysa at the Chinese herb store, St. Augustine's, or the park. When he thought of it, he approached storeowners in his neighborhood for after-school jobs. Although these inquiries for work were halfhearted on his part, he knew he could not continue to live off his brother's earnings. With the addition of Eula to the family, his life
changed. He was suddenly a man, expected to give up everything he knew simply because he had no plans of his own.

In class he drifted in and out of the finer points of bacteria and trinomials. He flirted with Julie but dreamed of Ysa. Nothing held his interest longer than fifteen minutes. School was simply the sitting place. Sitting and longing. Longing to be elsewhere, and having nowhere in mind.

He would do enough work to be promoted, then graduate the following year. If he couldn't keep himself in school, he would take the GED exam. He might have tried college for a year to please his mother, but she was gone, and he couldn't envision a lecture hall as a place to be, only a place to sit.

For now he needed a part-time job. Any job would do. Just something to put money on the table once a week for his share of the groceries. If he didn't find a part-time job on his own, Truman and Shakira would find work for him.

He took the bus downtown to scout out possible employers. Most fast food-places welcomed him, but he did not crave hamburgers, and he would be knee-deep in burgers. He thought about the big library at Grand Army Plaza, but this would keep him indoors. He needed to be outside. Perhaps get work as a messenger.
That would take him around town without a boss to breathe down on him. He found a place on Flatbush, but it already employed too many foot messengers. Did he own a bike? No? No job.

After two hours of filling out applications and hearing “Check back in another month,” he gave up. No one wanted to hire part-time help, even if he would soon be seventeen. They wanted either a diploma, a GED, or some experience. Or the jobs just did not appeal to him.

Maybe he should leave school. Take his GED by the summer. Get full-time work, but not with the Transit. Truman worked long, crazy hours and didn't laugh anymore. No hospital work either. Nothing near sickness and death.

 

The stores were closing. He took the Flatbush bus and got off a few stops before his house. He had been out all day without so much as a drink of water. But he didn't want water. He wanted something sweet, quenching, and filling. He imagined the taste of Ysa's lips. If he could kiss her lips, he would want nothing else.

“Eat all the strawberries, all the mangoes, but don't touch the so-so-plump berries.”

This is what his mother said when he fished around the fruit bowl not knowing what he wanted. His mother made up fruit that grew only in her homeland on
Nanny's trees. The so-so-plump berry was such a fruit. It could be eaten only once in a lifetime, for its sweetness was hard to tolerate. “Make sure you truly want it,” Mommy warned. “Once you suck the fruit, nothing will ever taste sweet again.”

He walked on, looking in stores, thinking, Wet and sweet, wet and sweet. Then he came upon Yong Moon's Fresh Fruit Market and headed that way in spite of what Truman had said.

Nearly three years ago Truman had told him never to buy from Yong Moon, following an incident at the fruit stand. Mr. Moon struck an old man he caught stealing plums. No matter how hard Mr. Moon had struck the old man, the old man held on to the plums, and the dark plum blood oozed between the old man's fingers. The gathering crowd turned on Mr. Moon, pelting him with grapes, peaches, and limes from the outdoor carts. Mr. Moon's wife, a tiny woman, then ran into the crowd swinging a baseball bat in every direction. For two weeks after the incident the community picketed Yong Moon and his wife, but the fruit eventually won out. Yong Moon sold the best produce in the neighborhood, if not all of Brooklyn. No one could picket Mr. Moon forever.

Thulani saw Mr. Moon, himself an old man, struggle to push the melon cart into the store. Halfway up the
ramp Mr. Moon stopped to massage his shoulder. This was an opportunity. Thulani crossed the street and pushed the melon cart up the ramp and inside the store. It was all too easy for him. He pushed the citrus cart inside as well.

“I need work,” he told Mr. Moon.

Yong Moon said there was no work.

Thulani just stood there while Yong Moon stacked empty crates. He followed the man. “I can push these carts in, no problem.”

Mr. Moon said nothing.

“I can stand right here and watch the store when it gets busy.”

Mr. Moon was deaf.

“I can wash down the sidewalk,” Thulani said.

Yong Moon went on stacking the wooden baskets as if he were alone.

Thulani looked to the back of the store where the register was. Mrs. Moon was not there. She hadn't been there for a year.

“I can come after school. Three to six.”

Yong Moon said, “Close at seven.”