Manhattan Nocturne (19 page)
Read Manhattan Nocturne Online
Authors: Colin Harrison
I followed Sally up to the second floor and reminded her to hang up her coat. The classroom smelled like fish, and indeed, the teachers, Patty and Ellen, had a red snapper, quite dead, lying in a pan.
“We're going to paint it!” Sally said, pulling on my hand.
“Yes,” said Patty, a kindly woman of about forty. “Do you want to get a smock?”
Sally put on a little yellow smock and began to dip a thick brush into some red paint. The idea was to paint the fish, then press a piece of paper on top of it. The fish would then be washed and readied for the next child.
Patty watched to see that Sally was occupied, then said to me, “Mr. Wren, I'd like to show you something that Sally drew yesterday.”
She pulled out a drawing from Sally's folder. Five stick figures: Mom, Dad, Sally, Tommy, and Josephine. Each had a lurid scrawl of hair, herky-jerky limbs, big smiles. “I always ask the children what they are drawing,” Patty said, “and Sally told me who each person was. I asked what this black thing was”âshe pointed to a black, spiderish scribble next to the figure of Josephineâ“and she told me it was the gun that Josephine keeps in her bag.”
I looked directly into her face, aghast.
Patty nodded. “I asked her again. I said, âWhat is that?' And she repeated it.”
. “Jesus.” I'd seen the bag a million times; Josephine pulled out all kinds of things from it: potions, religious tracts, asthma inhalers, junk mail, just about anything. The bag was always left on a certain chair in the living room, within reach of the children.
“I thought you should know,” Patty said.
“Absolutely. Yes.”
“We talked about calling you, but I know you and Mrs. Wren both work late ⦔
I nodded. “Now I have to find out if it's true.”
Patty looked at me. She'd taught children for a long time. She had seen a lot of parents, too, and preferred, I could tell, to trust their children.
Â
Â
Lisa was not to be disturbed, not when she was looking at a freshly severed thirty-seven-year-old toe through a surgical microscope, trying to figure out how to connect it to the thirty-. seven-year-old stump of a thumb. We would discuss Josephine and her gun, but for the moment I would have to deal with Josephine alone. I walked straight back to the house, angrily pulling the gate shut behind me. Having gone to a lot of trouble to see that nuts and idiots did not endanger my family, here I had Josephine quietly packing what I could only imagine was a loaded gun in our house five days a week. I found her in the living room pulling one of Tommy's rubber boots onto his foot. He sat in her huge lap, watching her hands.
“You forgot something?” she asked.
“No, Josephine. I just took Sally to school and the teacher showed me a picture Sally had drawn. You were in it, too, and something that Sally told the teacher was a gun. A gun you kept in your bag.” .
Josephine sat frozen, her eyes open. Tommy fumbled with his boot.
“Just tell it to me straight, Josephine, yes or noâis there a gun in the bag?”
“Wellâ”
“Just
tell
me, Josephine.”
tell
me, Josephine.”
“Yes.”
I said nothing.
“I only carry it to be safe.” She pulled on Tommy's second boot. “Sometimes I come home very late, you know, and so many people I know been attacked and mugged, you know, so I went and got lessons on it, you know. I'm just trying to be safeâ”
“Josephine! One of the kids could have pulled that thing out and shot it! Goddammit!”
“But the children never go in my bag, they
know
they not suppose to do that.”
know
they not suppose to do that.”
“Well, how did Sally know about the gun, then?”
Josephine didn't have an answer. She looked down in obvious shame, and I thought perhaps that Sally must have spied the gun when Josephine had the bag open and was searching for something else.
“Let me see it.”
“In front of Tommy?” asked Josephine.
I got Tommy started with some Lego blocks, and then went into the kitchen with Josephine. She reached into the bag and pulled out the gun, keeping it pointed down. It was huge and ugly, like you could bang nails into a board with it. As a kid I shot a gun at crows in the woods and actually hit one once, its head turning to red mist and black feathers.
“Jesus, Josephine, that's a thirty-eight.”
“I'm very careful.”
“Is it loaded?”
She looked at me.
“I want the bullets.”
She didn't answer.
“I want them, Josephine. I can't go to work this morning knowing there's a loaded gun in the house.”
She tipped the gun up and slid out the bullets. She handed me each one. Black hand putting bullets into a white hand.
Simon Crowley could have filmed the moment. I slipped them into my pocket.
Simon Crowley could have filmed the moment. I slipped them into my pocket.
“Any more in the bag?”
She shook her head.
“Sure?”
“Yes. I wouldn't lie about it.”
“Did you imagine that we would be happy that you were bringing a
loaded gun
into our house every day? No, of course not, Josephine! So yes, that is
sort of
a lie, don't you think? For God's sake, Josephine, who the hell do you think you are?”
loaded gun
into our house every day? No, of course not, Josephine! So yes, that is
sort of
a lie, don't you think? For God's sake, Josephine, who the hell do you think you are?”
She was silent. I hated to do this. “Josephine, look, you're fantastic with the kids. They love you. We feel lucky to have you, and we've tried to show you our appreciationâ”
“You and Lisa been very good to me.”
“I want you to keep working for us. We need you. But you absolutely must
never
bring a gun into this house again. Never. I'm not fucking around, Josephine. If the gun comes back into this house, you're fired, on the spot, no questions asked. I hate to say that, but it's really that simple.”
never
bring a gun into this house again. Never. I'm not fucking around, Josephine. If the gun comes back into this house, you're fired, on the spot, no questions asked. I hate to say that, but it's really that simple.”
She was crying now, her hand over her eyes, lips soft and twisted, and I wanted to go comfort her.
“Josephine, I know you'd never try to endanger the kids, but I can't have this. And I'm not going to go checking your bag or your pockets or anything, so long as you give me your word.”
“I won't bring the gun here no more,” she sobbed. “I made a big mistake. Oh, Lisa's going be so mad at me.”
This was true. I went back into the living room and hugged Tommy and kissed him for luck, looking into his happy, unknowing face, his cheeks smeared with snot and red juice, which provided an adherent for green Froot Loop crumbs from breakfast. Oh beautiful, beautiful boy. The world, and his father, were not good enough for him. I kissed him again and for a moment felt like crying myself. Then I got up, grabbed my briefcase, and went out the door, the bullets jingling in my pockets like money. Could I really have fired Josephine, there on the spot? Our children loved her with all
their hearts, had never known another baby-sitter. When she got ready to go home each day they ran to her thick legs and hugged her good-bye, and Sally insisted that Josephine give her a “lickstick kiss,” which entailed a huge smack on Sally's cheek that left the red lips of Josephine there until bath time. To the children she was a second motherâpatient, strict, fair, untiring. As in most things, my wife had made an excellent decision in hiring her, and we knew any number of other families who had suffered disastrous relationships with baby-sitters, even one case in which the husband came home early to find the kids watching a Barney video and the sitter getting an insertion of happiness from the Con Ed man. But Josephine was another matter entirely, and other parents had tactfully inquired as to when we might be “done” with her and what we paid her. (White still owns black in America, let us admit this, if only secretly, to ourselves.) In fact, Josephine's very existence challenged my conception of myself as a parent; she had wiped more shit from my children's asses, fed them more meals, taken them for more walks than I had. She was paid for her labor and not her love, but she gave her love freely and copiously to my children, and I wondered from time to time if such a love might be equal, or even superior, to mine. Certainly she was more patient, certainly she communed more closely with the minutes of their lives than I did. She and I rarely spoke directly or deeply to each other, preferring instead to keep the conversation on a level of banalityâthe weather, the newsâbut I had a strange feeling for her. Somehow my children's love for Josephine refracted into my own grudging heart, but in a way that I could not acknowledge openly. The two of us understood that the forces of history had created very different fates and that nothing ameliorated this but basic human respect. She was a proud woman, and I was glad of it, for it meant that her life was not hopeless. Her past had largely been concealed from me, but from time to time she and Lisa talked, perhaps both working in the kitchen together, and I imagined, perhaps unrealistically, that in those moments they stopped being white employer and black employee, and became simply two women talking. Over several
years Josephine had told Lisa that she had birthed five children, three of whom had disappointed her, one of whom had died in a fire in a crackhouse. Her first husband, whom she married young, had beaten her as well as the boy who became the man in the crackhouse. They had divorced. Josephine's second husband, with whom she had three children, was an older man who had died of advanced diabetes. Lisa suspected that he had been the genuine love of Josephine's life, for he had bought her a small home in Port-au-Prince, where Josephine hoped to retire. Josephine had chosen her current husband less out of passion than pragmatic awareness of his basic decency and economic dependability. In fact, whether there was any passion left in Josephine was a mystery. At times she sat quietly next to the window, reading her Bible in the natural light. Her faith was unshakable, and made me wonder if her belief in God, which seemed to me as humanly genuine as is possible, had been forged by her suffering or only tested by it. I believe that grace is the most elusive of gifts, and Josephine, slow-moving, inarticulate, superstitious, was one of the most graceful women I had ever seen. In my heart I knew that she was a finer human being than I. Let me say it again and know it always: gun in her handbag or not, Josephine Brown was a finer human being than I, and among my other sorrows of this account, there is the miserable knowledge that my acts forced upon Josephine yet another unnecessary dose of suffering.
their hearts, had never known another baby-sitter. When she got ready to go home each day they ran to her thick legs and hugged her good-bye, and Sally insisted that Josephine give her a “lickstick kiss,” which entailed a huge smack on Sally's cheek that left the red lips of Josephine there until bath time. To the children she was a second motherâpatient, strict, fair, untiring. As in most things, my wife had made an excellent decision in hiring her, and we knew any number of other families who had suffered disastrous relationships with baby-sitters, even one case in which the husband came home early to find the kids watching a Barney video and the sitter getting an insertion of happiness from the Con Ed man. But Josephine was another matter entirely, and other parents had tactfully inquired as to when we might be “done” with her and what we paid her. (White still owns black in America, let us admit this, if only secretly, to ourselves.) In fact, Josephine's very existence challenged my conception of myself as a parent; she had wiped more shit from my children's asses, fed them more meals, taken them for more walks than I had. She was paid for her labor and not her love, but she gave her love freely and copiously to my children, and I wondered from time to time if such a love might be equal, or even superior, to mine. Certainly she was more patient, certainly she communed more closely with the minutes of their lives than I did. She and I rarely spoke directly or deeply to each other, preferring instead to keep the conversation on a level of banalityâthe weather, the newsâbut I had a strange feeling for her. Somehow my children's love for Josephine refracted into my own grudging heart, but in a way that I could not acknowledge openly. The two of us understood that the forces of history had created very different fates and that nothing ameliorated this but basic human respect. She was a proud woman, and I was glad of it, for it meant that her life was not hopeless. Her past had largely been concealed from me, but from time to time she and Lisa talked, perhaps both working in the kitchen together, and I imagined, perhaps unrealistically, that in those moments they stopped being white employer and black employee, and became simply two women talking. Over several
years Josephine had told Lisa that she had birthed five children, three of whom had disappointed her, one of whom had died in a fire in a crackhouse. Her first husband, whom she married young, had beaten her as well as the boy who became the man in the crackhouse. They had divorced. Josephine's second husband, with whom she had three children, was an older man who had died of advanced diabetes. Lisa suspected that he had been the genuine love of Josephine's life, for he had bought her a small home in Port-au-Prince, where Josephine hoped to retire. Josephine had chosen her current husband less out of passion than pragmatic awareness of his basic decency and economic dependability. In fact, whether there was any passion left in Josephine was a mystery. At times she sat quietly next to the window, reading her Bible in the natural light. Her faith was unshakable, and made me wonder if her belief in God, which seemed to me as humanly genuine as is possible, had been forged by her suffering or only tested by it. I believe that grace is the most elusive of gifts, and Josephine, slow-moving, inarticulate, superstitious, was one of the most graceful women I had ever seen. In my heart I knew that she was a finer human being than I. Let me say it again and know it always: gun in her handbag or not, Josephine Brown was a finer human being than I, and among my other sorrows of this account, there is the miserable knowledge that my acts forced upon Josephine yet another unnecessary dose of suffering.
Â
Â
The only thing Bobby Dealy could offer me that morning was the arrest of a demented old guy who had been attacking children with syringes, which admittedly was a good storyâespecially because the man was a defrocked Catholic priestâbut the victims were spread all over the city, which meant a lot of legwork, and I was due to spend the afternoon in the Malaysian bank. So I passed on that one and the paper put a young Puerto Rican woman on it who was going to be as good as anybody in about three years. I didn't mind; I had the retired Coney Island nail-pounder story set for the next
day, and I wanted to talk to the guys at the demolition company that handled the job at 537 East Eleventh. The firm, as I remembered from the file Caroline had shown me, was called Jack-E Demolition Co., and I found it way out in Queens, not far from Shea Stadium, on one of those avenues where the sidewalks are gone and the trees are cut off halfway up, where smashed cars and disemboweled trucks are everywhere and guys in jumpsuits with axle grease on their hands drive eighty-thousand-dollar BMWs and big dogs sleep in little sheds with a pile of chain in the dirt out front and the NO PARKING signs note that THIS ABSOLUTELY MEANS YOU. Jack-E Demolition Co. was a dirt lot filled with cranes and yellow bulldozers pocked with rust and, in the back, a trailer that served as the office. A lot of these places do some kind of illegal businessâstolen cars, oftenâand I was wondering how pleased the management would be to answer my questions, but McGuire, the foreman, a man in his fifties with a dried trickle of tobacco juice on his chin, laughed as soon as I introduced myself.
day, and I wanted to talk to the guys at the demolition company that handled the job at 537 East Eleventh. The firm, as I remembered from the file Caroline had shown me, was called Jack-E Demolition Co., and I found it way out in Queens, not far from Shea Stadium, on one of those avenues where the sidewalks are gone and the trees are cut off halfway up, where smashed cars and disemboweled trucks are everywhere and guys in jumpsuits with axle grease on their hands drive eighty-thousand-dollar BMWs and big dogs sleep in little sheds with a pile of chain in the dirt out front and the NO PARKING signs note that THIS ABSOLUTELY MEANS YOU. Jack-E Demolition Co. was a dirt lot filled with cranes and yellow bulldozers pocked with rust and, in the back, a trailer that served as the office. A lot of these places do some kind of illegal businessâstolen cars, oftenâand I was wondering how pleased the management would be to answer my questions, but McGuire, the foreman, a man in his fifties with a dried trickle of tobacco juice on his chin, laughed as soon as I introduced myself.
“You're fucking shitting me! Porter Wren, right here? I read every column!” He pumped my hand, and I hoped I would get it back. “Here, here! Sit down.” He rummaged through the mess on his desk and came up with a newspaper from the previous week: MOM BURNED WEDDING DRESS. “About the lady whose daughter got shot? And the wedding dress? Fucking shitting me!”
I asked if he remembered the job in which Simon Crowley's body had been found.
He nodded vigorously, as if the question was somehow an insult. “How can I forget? My son found him, head like a smashed tomato, poor kid threw up.”
I asked if he could explain the demolition procedure.
McGuire nodded. “Yeah, here's what we do. Remember, we're covered by all kinds of regulations and shit. We inspect the building. Maybe there's some old blueprints on file somewhereâhalf the time, nobody has any plans. Maybe if there was, like, a partial rehab or something twenty years ago, but these buildings are mostly the same. We figure out how it's
going to break apart. Sometimes you take it down floor by floor, especially if there's a lot of steel in the building or the space is tight. You just need room for a chute and a truck to get rid of the rubble. Or if it's not that kind of job, then we're probably knocking it down with a ball on a crane and bulldozers. If it's too big, too high, then you have to use specialized procedures like beam cutting, explosives sometimes, that kind of thing. We don't get into thatâthat's for the big boys. But this building you're talking about was what? Six stories? No, we'd just look it over, you know, take out the detail if there was any left. Ornamentation on the lintels, anything a little out of the ordinary. Sometimes we might take out the fixtures or doors or something, fireplace mantels, anything that can be salvaged and sold off. Sometimes people like to buy the old radiators. Myself, I hate them, make too much noise. The copper we pull out of the rubble. You got to destroy the walls to get the copper. Sometimes we'll hang on to a banister. Maybe a nice arched window, something, you know, no longer code but someone's going to want it. Then we just put the sidewalk shed up.”
going to break apart. Sometimes you take it down floor by floor, especially if there's a lot of steel in the building or the space is tight. You just need room for a chute and a truck to get rid of the rubble. Or if it's not that kind of job, then we're probably knocking it down with a ball on a crane and bulldozers. If it's too big, too high, then you have to use specialized procedures like beam cutting, explosives sometimes, that kind of thing. We don't get into thatâthat's for the big boys. But this building you're talking about was what? Six stories? No, we'd just look it over, you know, take out the detail if there was any left. Ornamentation on the lintels, anything a little out of the ordinary. Sometimes we might take out the fixtures or doors or something, fireplace mantels, anything that can be salvaged and sold off. Sometimes people like to buy the old radiators. Myself, I hate them, make too much noise. The copper we pull out of the rubble. You got to destroy the walls to get the copper. Sometimes we'll hang on to a banister. Maybe a nice arched window, something, you know, no longer code but someone's going to want it. Then we just put the sidewalk shed up.”
Other books
Under the Orange Moon by Frances, Adrienne
The Purrfect Stranger by Bianca D'Arc
My Own Worst Frenemy by Kimberly Reid
Riding Raw by Stephanie Ganon
Spirit Fighter (Son of Angels, Jonah Stone) by Jerel Law
Too Many Blooms by Catherine R. Daly
Whistling Past the Graveyard by Susan Crandall
Pack and Mate by Sean Michael
Gone Tropical by Grant, Robena
Against All Odds: The Most Amazing True Life Story You'll Ever Read by Paul Connolly
