This Side of Providence (19 page)

“With who? You know they didn't call the police.”

“My teacher. School. You.”

“I'm not going to tell anyone else about this. I'll take the fifty I just gave Tony out of your check this week and as far as I'm concerned, we're done on this topic. Is that all right with you?”

He nods again. Then he looks away. “I'm sorry,” he says to the ground.

“Sorry you stole or sorry you got caught.”

He thinks for a second. “Both.”

I want to laugh, but instead I say, “I guess that's fair.”

“I won't do it again,” he says. “If you don't want me to.”

“It's not about what I want. What do
you
want?”

He shrugs. “Don't know.”

“Well, figure it out,” I say. “'Cause if it happens again you're on your own.”

I walk away, leaving him alone in the alley. My hands hurt from the cold so I blow on them repeatedly. A hollow sound comes out, like some pathetic birdcall, which makes a cat crossing in front of me stop its prowl.

“It wasn't for me,” he says, calling after me. “The pills were for my friend César, the one who got shot. He lost his eye.”

I stop walking. When I look back he's picking a scab on his hand.

“Why?”

He keeps his head down when he talks, still picking at the scab. “He's got a prescription for painkillers, something real strong, but his grandmother can't afford them. I thought these could help.”

I walk back to him slowly, shortening my steps to avoid the chill of my skin touching the inside of my pant legs, wishing I'd grabbed the pair with the fleece lining. When I get to him he's still looking down.

“You gotta stop taking care of everybody else and start taking care of yourself. Otherwise you're gonna end up like your friend.”

I reach out and palm his head with my hand. His skull feels so small under all that hair.

“You hear me under all that hair?”

He nods.

“You better watch out, kid. You're about to have a real Afro.”

He shrugs and finally looks up. “What's wrong with that?”

“Nothing, I guess. Shit, if I had your hair I'd grow it out, too.”

“You still could.”

“Please, you ever seen a white Afro? It ain't pretty.”

“Is that why you shave your head?”

I nod. “It's just easier to keep it short.”

We start walking together, through the alley and back onto Manton. The night is still and dark, and we walk for a while without talking. No cars pass by on the street.

“You heading home?” I ask him.

“Nope,” he says, shaking his head harder than he needs to. “I'm going to Kim's.”

“Come on, I'll walk you.”

“You don't have to do that.”

“I know, kid. I don't have to do any of this.”

I can feel him look over at me. “Then why do you do it?”

“'Cause you're a good kid,” I say. “And I like you.” What I don't say out loud is that I like myself when I'm with him.

His ears are bright red, so I zip his sweatshirt all the way up and tighten the drawstring on his hood. “Didn't your momma teach you to cover your head in the cold?”

He tries to pull away from me, but I can see him smile in the dark. “Mami's from Puerto Rico, what's she know about the cold?”

“Good point,” I say, stepping off the sidewalk to take a shortcut down Pope. We pass behind a taco stand and the smell of grilled meat fills the air. Cristo inhales the scent like it's oxygen.

“You hungry?” I ask him. “I was just sitting down to eat when Tony called. I got extra.”

“Nah, that's cool. I already ate.”

“I thought kids could always eat.”

“I'm straight. I can find something at Kim's.”

I stop walking. “I'm asking you to eat with me.”

He looks at me. I can tell he's choosing his words carefully. “I thought that was one of your rules. That nobody knows where you live.”

I spit on the ground next to him. “You ain't nobody.”

He chews on the string to his hood and smiles. “Is it far?”

I point to the rooftop towers of Atlantic Mills, twin globes that make the skyline look like some Russian ghetto. “Right
over there.”

“Atlantic Mills?” he says. “I thought that was just a factory.”

“Used to be.”

Along with the needle exchange, it's home to the loft I bought when I was eighteen, on the same floor where the Providence Jewelry Exchange used to make engagement rings for the Kennedys.

“I didn't know anybody lived there,” he says, his feet falling into step with mine.

I look down at him and wink. “Nobody does.”

We enter through the back, beside the loading dock, since the building has no official front door. There's an elevator for freight, but I never use it. We climb the stairs—six flights—and at the top Cristo pretends he isn't winded. The hallway is cluttered with boxes from the manufacturing company that shares the floor with me. My downstairs neighbors are a wholesale furniture dealer and a gospel music producer. I'm the only one who actually lives here.

Cristo keeps looking around as we walk down the hallway. He notices the stack of pizza boxes by my front door, a tower as high as his waist.

“Damn,” he says. “Guess you like yourself some pizza.” He starts to count the boxes.

“Not really.” I look down at them. I want to tell him that I never eat the stuff, that the boxes are strictly for transport, but I decide against it. The less the kid knows the better.

“Don't worry, I recycle.”

The door to my unit is oversized, like a barn door, and it slides on wheels as big as a plate. Cristo holds his breath, tapping his fingers against his jeans as I unlock the door. I can tell he's scared—not of what's out here in the hallway, but of what's inside. I slide the door open slowly, revealing my home inch by inch. His mouth falls open.

“Wow, this place is huge. Like a supermarket.”

I laugh. “Come inside. Don't let all the heat out.”

He closes the door and stares at all the deadbolts.

“Which do I lock?”

“All of them.”

I turn on the lights as he walks into the living room.

“I don't get it,” he says. “Where are the walls?”

“It's a loft. There are no walls.”

“You like it like that?” He stands in the same spot, slowly spinning around.

I shrug, walking toward the kitchen. “Without walls, I don't have to worry about who's hiding on the other side.” I open the fridge. “You thirsty?”

“Sure,” he says. “Whatever you got.”

“I got rice milk and green tea.”

“I'll take water,” he says.

“Wow. The kid's got jokes.”

Across the room, he's smiling to himself. He walks to the other end of the living room, where there's a pool table next to a long wall of windows. The billiard balls are scattered across the tabletop, but he lines them up along one side, ordering them based on number. He puts the cue ball at the head of the line.

“You got cats?” he calls to me.

“No.”

“Good. A cat could get lost up in here.”

He walks up to the thirty-gallon glass tank where my python lives. He peeks inside, stepping back when he sees the snake.

“He's sleeping or I'd let you pick him up.”

“No thanks. I only like animals with legs.”

I shrug. “He's quiet. And he doesn't need a lot of attention.”

“You had him a long time?”

“Since high school. I got him after my momma died.”

He looks surprised, like he thought I didn't have one.

“You got any other family?”

“No. Not anymore.”

He taps the side of the glass, trying to wake Kingston up. “So you're like me then?”

“Nope. You got family. You're just separated right now. They'll come back.”

“How you know that?”

“Some people are meant to be alone. You're not one of them.”

He looks at me. “Are you?”

I open my mouth to answer, but end up telling him we need to eat soon so I can walk him home.

“Okay, boss. Whatever you say.”

We sit in the dining room, at a wide mahogany table that came from my Uncle Dayton's estate. It was the only thing I kept when I sold the house. I like it because it's massive—it sits twenty people with elbow room—but it's made from one solid piece of wood. It took four men to carry it inside. Cristo is the first person to sit down at the table to eat with me.

Dinner is takeout from Thai Patio, where I eat almost every day. Cristo says he's never had Thai food, but he eats a few spring rolls and all the noodles from the pad thai, and says the chicken satay is the best chicken he ever ate. He leaves the coconut soup for me. We eat in silence; him staring at his food, me staring at him. The light from the candle makes him look darker than he really is, and with his hair all curly he looks like any black kid I could have brought home from the South Side, including my own son. The thought of having a son makes me smile. Imagine that—having somebody walking around with my blood, somebody I made.

He looks up and sees me smiling, which makes him look away.

“You want some more?” I hold up a piece of chicken.

“Nah. I'm good.” A second later he points to the extra spring rolls. “You gonna eat those?”

“Help yourself,” I tell him.

He wraps the rolls in a napkin and puts them in his pocket. “For Luz,” he says, looking through the containers for anything else he could bring her.

I don't take Cristo with me when I start working on his old apartment on Sophia Street. No need to bring up the past. I
leave the front door half open to air out the room while I paint, risking cats and other riffraff sneaking in. I like the smell of paint, even though it gives me a headache. It's the closest I ever get to being intoxicated.

The lady from DCYF shows up unannounced. They usually do. She slips in sideways without touching anything, and waits until she's standing in the middle of the kitchen to call out hello. She startles me, but I pretend I'm not surprised to see her standing there. I get down from the ladder, a paintbrush in my hand.

“Can I help you with something?”

“I certainly hope so. Do you work here?”

“I own the building.”

“Well that's even better.” She crosses the room to approach me. “My name is Sylvia Sousa and I'm from the Department of Children, Youth, and Their Families.” She holds out a business card but I don't take it. “I'm looking for information about a family that used to live here. Mom's name was Arcelia Perez De La Cruz. Obviously you knew her…?” She looks down at her clipboard and back up at me.

“Yeah, she lived here about six months ago. Haven't seen her since.”

“Well, no, you wouldn't have. She's currently incarcerated.” She clicks the top of her ballpoint pen, making marks on the paper. “What can you tell me about her children?”

I gesture around the empty room. “They're not here.”

“Well I can see that.” She looks at her paper again. “It says here there are three children. A son, Cristoval Luna Perez, age eleven; daughter, Lucila Luna Perez, age ten; and daughter, Trinidad Collazo, age three, currently residing with her biological father. The older children were placed with one guardian at this address for several months, a Luciana Cuaron, and were recently relocated to a nearby family member.”

I turn around to dip the brush into the paint can. “Are you asking me a question, lady?”

She flashes a fake smile, a line of offensively white partials. “I'm simply reviewing the facts I've gathered thus far. I'm newly assigned to the case.”

“So what do you want from me?”

“General impressions would be helpful. Of the children and their relationships with their mother, as a start. If there were any signs of neglect or abuse in the children, or if you saw any illegal activity on the part of the guardians, that would be helpful to know. That sort of thing…”