The Turnaround (16 page)

Alex cut the register tape at three to hide some profit from the tax man. He left enough money in a metal cash box to get started in the morning, locked the box in the stand-up freezer, and took the remaining cash home to Vicki, who managed their finances, just as he had delivered the
chrimahta
to his mother when he had first taken over the business. The system worked, and he felt there was no reason to change it.

Juana and Blanca were gone, always the first to leave. Rafael had finished mopping and rolled the industrial-sized bucket and wringer out to the back hall. Johnny and Darlene were by the grill area, working out a recipe in a notebook, Darlene having changed into her street clothes, an outfit complete with matching handbag. It was her routine to come back into the shop from the hallway bathroom, dressed nicely, before going home. Alex knew she wanted him to have a look at her, the way she’d done when they were teenagers. Telling him that she was a grill girl in a uniform but also a woman with a life outside the store.

Rafael ambled down the other side of the counter and had a seat on the stool nearest the register. He too had changed into clean clothing and had doused himself with strong cologne.

“Hey, boss.”

Alex finished counting quarters and made an entry on the calculator.

“Rafael. You got a little behind today on the deliveries. Was there a problem?”

“Blanca send me too far away, all the way to Si’teenth Street. Then when I get there, the lady don’t have the money collected for the order.”

“Sixteenth’s out of our delivery area.”

“I know it!”

“All right, I’ll speak to Blanca.”

Rafael did not move to leave. Alex waited, knowing Rafael wanted one of two things. Advice, because he had no father in this country, or money, because he was always short on cash.

“One more thing, boss.”

“Yes?”

“I’m takin a girl out to dinner tonight.”

“One of our customers or a round-the-way girl?”

“I don’t mess with the customers.”

“You try.”

Rafael smiled shyly. “This a girl I meet in my neighborhood. We’re goin to Haydee’s. You know it?”

It was a place that served Mexican and El Salvadoran food. The owner had come to America from El Salvador, worked as a waitress, and opened her first restaurant on Mount Pleasant Street and then a second on Georgia Avenue. Alex had taken the family to the Mount Pleasant location for dinner one night and bored them, no doubt, with his enthusiastic retelling of another immigrant success story.

“It’s nice,” said Alex. “Reasonable, too. So don’t ask me for too much.”

“Can I get forty dollars?” said Rafael.

Alex reached into his pocket, produced a roll of bills, peeled off two twenties. “You want it all taken out the next payday?”

“Half nex week, half the nex. Okay?”

Alex handed him the money. “Wear a rubber, Rafael.”

“
Que?
”

“You heard me. You’re too young to be a father.”

“I don’t like the raincoat.”

“Do what I tell you, boy.”

Rafael winked. “Thanks, boss.”

Alex made a small wave of his hand. “Have fun.”

Rafael headed for the back door with a cocky, athletic dip. Alex was reminded of Gus. He had had that kind of physicality and confidence. Alex had constantly reminded him to use condoms, too. “Your mother and I don’t want any grandchildren yet. You don’t want to mess up some girl’s life.” Gus, like Rafael, didn’t look past the pleasure at the consequences. It was not that they were insensitive, but rather, they were insensible. Alex never had to tell Johnny to use a condom. He knew little about his personal life, but he felt that Johnny would be cautious. Gus, on the other hand, made decisions based on desire and emotion. Gus was certain he would play football at a higher level, despite his average size, and wanted to move to Florida. Gus had joined the army behind his romantic vision of the warrior. Gus had dreams and fantasies. Johnny had plans.

Alex heard a knocking sound and turned his head to see a tall black man rapping his knuckles on the glass of the front door.

“I’ll get it, Dad,” said Johnny.

“No,
I
will,” said Alex.

He slipped the cash box under the counter, shut the register drawer, passed through the break in the counter, and stepped up to the door. Through the glass, he mouthed the word “Closed” to the man, but the man did not move. Alex flipped the dead bolt and opened the door just enough to speak to him.

“We’re closed, sir.”

“I’m not here for food or drink.”

“What can I do for you?”

“My name is Raymond Monroe.”

The name was a common one. It was also vaguely familiar. Alex had the growing feeling that he had seen this man before.

“Can I come in for a minute?”

“Why?”

“Look, I’m not here to rob you.”

“I know that,” said Alex, a bit embarrassed and also annoyed.

“I saw you outside the Fisher House yesterday, at Walter Reed. You and I almost bumped into each other.”

“Right,” said Alex. So that was where he recognized him from. He didn’t quite remember the encounter, but he had no reason to think this man would lie.

“It was Peggy. You know Peggy, don’t you? She told me who you were. See, there was something about you. Well, it was your eye, you want the truth. And then, when she said your name . . . You
are
the boy that got hurt out at Heathrow Heights, aren’t you?”

Alex hesitated. “I was.”

“I’m one of the young men who was involved in the incident. The younger brother.”

Monroe drew his wallet and held out his driver’s license so Alex could match the photo to the name. Alex glanced at it, keeping his foot against the door.

“Look, I don’t want anything,” said Monroe.

“You’ve, uh, caught me off guard here.”

“Just a word.” Monroe placed his palm on the glass of the door. “Please.”

“Certainly.” Alex stepped aside. “Come in.”

Monroe entered the shop, and Alex locked the door. They walked toward the counter.

“Can I get you a soda, something?”

“I’m okay,” said Monroe.

“Dad?” said Johnny, standing with Darlene by the rear door.

“Go home, both of you,” said Alex. “I’m just gonna have a word with this gentleman. I’ll be right behind you.”

After Alex waited for Johnny and Darlene to go, he gestured to the stool nearest the register. As Monroe got situated, Alex took a seat himself, leaving one empty stool between them. Alex rarely sat on this side of the counter. He didn’t know what to do with his arms.

“That was your boy?”

“My oldest, yes.”

“Nice-looking kid.”

“Thanks.”

“I have a boy, too, a soldier. Kenji’s in the Tenth Mountain Division, First Battalion. Third Brigade Combat Team.”

“God protect him,” said Alex.

“Yes.”

“Is that why you were at Walter Reed?”

“No, I work there. I’m a physical therapist.”

“That’s admirable.”

“Well, I’m getting paid for it. So it’s not like I’m donating my time. But I’m tryin to help out, you know. I felt a little useless, what with Kenji over there, doing his part.”

Alex nodded. On the Coca-Cola clock, the second hand swept past twelve, dropping the minute hand with a soft click. Alex placed his forearm on the counter and ran a finger along the artificial grain of the linoleum.

“I’m sorry,” said Alex. “I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just that I’m not exactly clear on why you came to see me.”

“I’m just reaching out,” said Monroe. “You move along in life, you feel the need to make the beds you left undone.”

Alex nodded. He could think of nothing to say.

“We don’t have to do this all at once,” said Monroe, sensing the man’s resistance and confusion, deciding that the rest of it would have to be left for another, more appropriate time. “When you feel more comfortable, when you’re ready to talk again, give me a call.”

Monroe reached for the guest check pad and the pen that was lying beside it. He wrote his name and cell number on the top sheet, tore it off, and pushed it along the counter to Alex. Alex was polite and did the same.

“I’m sorry for the loss of your son,” said Monroe.

“Thank you.”

Monroe and Alex got off their stools and headed for the door.

“Mr. Monroe.”

“Make it Ray.”

“Your brother . . . What was his name again?”

“James.”

“Is he around?”

“He’s alive, yes.”

“How’s he doing?”

“He’s out. Stumbled some, but he’s out now. Back in D.C., working. Yeah, James is doing good.”

Monroe offered his hand, and Alex shook it.

After Raymond Monroe had left, Alex sat in the quiet of the shop, thinking about the door that had just been opened. Picturing himself walking through it, and wondering what he might find if he did.

Thirteen

R
AYMOND MONROE drove his aging, well-maintained Pontiac out into the County and north on the Boulevard, coming into the retail district, passing the big hardware store and the Safeway, the Greek-owned pizza parlor, and the old gas station where his brother, James, had worked, now self-service, a minimart having replaced the mechanics’ bays. He hooked a left at the end of the strip, before the split in the road, and rolled down the incline, along the B&O railroad tracks and into Heathrow Heights.

Adults were getting home from work, and kids were playing in their yards and riding their bikes down the sidewalks as the shadows stretched out in the dying light. Nunzio’s, the local market and country store, had closed long ago and been replaced by two split-level houses, one with turquoise siding. At the bottom of the street, bordering the woods, was the government barrier, painted yellow, telling anyone unfamiliar with the layout that the road had come to an end.

Raymond waved to an old man he knew and, farther along, a girl he’d once kissed down by the basketball court, now a grandmother. He still knew most of the people who lived here. He’d known their parents and now recognized their children. A few Hispanic families had moved into the neighborhood in the past five years, workingmen and women with many kids, but Heathrow was still a black enclave, its people proud of their struggle and history.

Many houses had been improved, and others were in the process of being renovated. There were a couple of homes being built from the foundation up, but the new structures looked to be as modest as the teardowns they were replacing. If folks wanted to flash, they went elsewhere. Many, even those who had markedly improved their standard of living, had chosen to stay in Heathrow Heights.

Rodney Draper, the Monroe brothers’ old friend, was one of those who had never left. Rodney still lived in his late mother’s house, though no longer in its basement. He had a wife and three daughters, one of whom was attending college. Rodney had gone into stereo sales, then major appliances, and had worked his way up in a small operation that became a ten-store chain in the 1990s. He was now the merchandising manager for the company, worked the sixty-hour weeks common to retail, and made a solid if unspectacular living. Raymond passed his house, expanded, well tended, and bright with a fresh coat of white paint. Rodney’s car was not out front. He always seemed to be at work.

Monroe parked in front of his mother’s house, not far from Rodney’s on the street parallel to Heathrow’s main road. This street, too, concluded in a dead end. Dogs, even those who knew his smell, barked at Monroe from the yards of the surrounding houses as he crossed his lawn.

His mother, Almeda, sat in the den of their two-bedroom home. Monroe took her cool arthritic hands in his, bent forward, and kissed her cheek.

“Mama.”

“Ray.” Almeda’s eyes went to the overnight bag he clutched in his hand. “You staying the night?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She was seated in her husband’s old recliner, which Raymond had re-covered himself. Her hair was white, the moles on her scalp visible through the cottony wisps, her thin wrists and forearms prominently veined. She wore a clean floralpattern blouse from Macy’s and black pants with an elastic waistband. She was well into her eighties. The hump in her back was most pronounced when she stood.

Almeda would need professional care soon if she were to live much longer. Raymond was determined to keep her out of a nursing facility. She wasn’t sick, just weak. Money was not an issue. The house was paid for, and Raymond took care of the property taxes and utilities, and performed most of the maintenance. Almeda received modest Social Security benefits, along with a check from the VA, reflecting Ernest’s service in the war. They got along fine. Most of the time, Raymond enjoyed his mother’s company. He liked living here.

Monroe went to the television set and turned down the volume. Almeda was watching
Jeopardy,
and like most elderly folks, she kept the sound up loud. He sat on the sofa beside her and leaned forward so she could hear him clearly.

“Something troubling you, son?”

“Not at all.”

“It’s nothing to do with Kenji, is it? Have you heard from him?”

“I haven’t. He’s busy, is all it is. Out on those patrols he goes on. I’m sure he’s fine.”

“Problems with your girlfriend, then?”

“Nah, Kendall’s good. The both of us, we’re good.”

“Running back and forth between two homes is going to take a toll on your relationship.”

“Trying to kick me out?”

“I’m saying, you might as well move in with her. Get a minister, have a ceremony. Do right by her and her son.”

“I might. If they’ll have me.”

“Who wouldn’t?” said Almeda. “Fine man like you.”

“Listen, Mama . . .”

“What is it?”

“I visited a man today. One of the white boys in the incident, back in seventy-two.”

The incident. All involved had always called it that. Almeda’s shoulders slumped as she sat back in her chair.

“Which boy?” she said.

“The one Charles Baker hurt.”

Almeda folded her hands in her lap. “How did you find him?”

“I ran into him at Walter Reed. Alex Pappas. I recognized his name and put it together with his face.”