Minding Ben (8 page)

“Don't you read the paper? The old Irish fools don't want gays and lesbians marching in their parade, and I guess they decided to hold their own?”

“Is she that desperate?” Sol asked. “Did you remind her she's a Jew?”

“Ah yes.” Ettie leaned forward. “But you forget she's a lesbian Jew, and, regardless of what I say,
lesbian
is her chosen definitive adjective.”

Sol yawned. “Nancy needs to get laid.”

Miriam laughed. “Maybe that's why she went.”

I focused on the plank mask.

“How are you feeling today, darling?” Ettie stretched a hand and gave Miriam the briefest touch on the knee. Her short nails were a polished cream. “Would you like a drink?”

“A cold zin spritzer would be divine, but I'll just have orange juice. Grace, ask Jane to please pour me a glass of juice.” The
please
I noticed was for Jane.

In the kitchen I asked Jane how long she'd been working for the Bruckners.

“Too damn long. Every day me tell them I am ready to go back to Jamaica. One of these days I am just going to get on a plane and go.”

“Well”—I took in the glass cabinets that reached to the ceiling and the double-door fridge—“I'm just arriving.”

“Grace them call you? Grace, don't make the mistake you see I make in this America, you hear me.” She placed a glass and a white cloth napkin on a small wicker tray. “I don't know you situation, child, but work for these people, let it be a stepping-stone and not the whole island, you hear me?” She put four ice cubes from an ice bucket into a separate glass and laid a pair of miniature tongs on the napkin. “Take my advice and try and get all this for yourself instead of stopping and wondering how the white people, the Jews, the Japanese—whoever—get what they have.” She poured some foamy orange juice from a pitcher and handed me the tray. “Get it for yourself and don't never content yourself with no scraps.”

I WAS UP AND
lying in Ya-ya's bed. Maybe my bed. The room smelled like clean laundry, and I thought about home, helping my mother fold clothes fresh and crisp from drying on the lines strung between the papaya trees. This scent came from detergent, but it still smelled good.

There were two full bathrooms in the apartment, one opposite the kitchen and the other closer to the Bruckners' room. Just as I reached past the sea creature shower curtain to turn on the tap, someone went into the other bathroom. I heard throwing up. Retch after retch echoed through the partition. Sol's voice murmured through and then there was more retching.

By eight I was ready, but I didn't want to knock after what I'd heard, so I sat on the bed and waited, hearing the apartment's unobtrusive noises. At nine I went to the living room. Sol came out first, in a knee-length robe. His hair was flattened on one side and up in a slant on the other. “Morning, Grace. Are you ready to leave?”

“Morning, Sol. I have to be in Brooklyn by ten.”

“And you live with your aunt, you said?”

I hadn't said that at all. “With cousins.” He didn't ask any more, so I decided to ask a question. “Sol, the first time I talked to Miriam on the phone, she said you guys were willing to do a sponsorship?”

When he sat on the couch, the robe opened to his thighs. “It's not that Mir and I are looking for someone to sponsor, but if we find someone who works out, we'd want to help them.”

Miriam came out of the bedroom. Her face was chalky and pale except for two red spots on the sides of her mouth.

“Morning, Mrs. Bruckner,” I said to her.

“Oh, Grace, go ahead and call me Miriam.” She leaned her head against the wall, and the motion arched her back and sent her belly forward. She was pregnant. Not that she had a big bump or anything, but I knew it. That's why everyone kept asking her how she felt. “So what do you think, Grace? Do you want to work for us?”

There was so much to say, but all I managed was “Yes.”

She looked over to Sol on the couch, and I thought they were going to make a you've-got-it announcement. Instead Miriam said, “We'll let you know as soon as possible.”

Just then the intercom buzzed. Miriam got it. “Hey, Danny.” “Okay.” “Thanks, Danny.”

She came back holding the money cup from the counter and then screamed, scattering change over the floor. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Sol jumped from the couch, and I saw a white flash of underwear. “Mir, are you all right?”

She bent to cradle her left foot. I knelt to pick up the fallen change and saw drops of blood on the wooden floor. “Oh, God, you're bleeding,” Sol said.

“No, no.” She placed a hand on her stomach. “It's my foot. I stepped on something, a piece of glass. Did you break a glass?” She asked Sol and not me. I looked up from the floor, and he caught my eye.

“I did break a glass.” He stooped to press his thumb against her heel but kept his eyes on mine. “But that was a while ago. Maybe Carmen missed a bit on her last clean. Here.” He got up. “Press the spot. Let me get you a Band-Aid.”

I don't know if Sol had in fact broken a glass or if he was covering for me. I was grateful for whichever it was.

Miriam rested her injured foot on its toes. “That woman. Ben could have stepped on that.” She looked down at me as I rose with a handful of change. “Grace, did you get the receipt from Gino's?”

Shoot. “No,” I said, calculating that the added-up errors of this weekend totaled me not getting this job. “Oh, Mrs. Bruck— Miriam, I'm sorry. I forgot.”

Miriam didn't say anything and passed me some folded bills.

IN THE LOBBY DANNY
looked pointedly at me. He kept staring and lifted his chin toward the room off the lobby then looked away. I walked over. The woman from the newsstand sat on the couch, legs comfortably folded, flipping through a magazine. I guessed she had made the Bruckners' final cut too. Outside was still freezing, and I wondered if I was ever going to be warm again.

“O
kay, Dame, ready?” I lofted his ladybug ball low between us. “Buh, buh, ball. Can you say that for Gracie? Can you say
ball
?”

Nothing.

“Baalluh?” I stretched the word as far as it could go, touching my lip with the tip of my tongue for the added emphasis. “Baallluh.” Dame gave me his sweet smile but nothing more. Then there was a knock at the door.

“Who are you?” a man asked, before I had a chance to open the door all the way.

“I'm Sylvia's cousin. From Flatbush.”

He leaned down and looked into my eyes. “How long has she had you living here?”

“I live in Flatbush. I'm only here to let you in. Sylvia had to go out.”

“What's your address in Flatbush?”

“Why on earth would I tell a strange man my address?”

He chuckled. “You're a smart one, eh? What is your name?”

“Grace.”

“I am Jacob, the landlord. Sylvia's not here, you say?”

“Do you pronounce your name Jacob or Yacob?”

“You know some Hebrew?”

I said no and moved toward the living room. Jacob followed me, seeing the flaking paint on the walls and ceiling, the permanent flecks ground into the carpet.

“One of my best apartments, and look how she keeps it.”

I saw him better in the bright living room and stared straight into his clear blue eyes.

“What?” he asked. “You never see a Jew before? Don't you see them walking up and down Eastern Parkway?” He waved his hand like a conductor.

“Yeah, but never this close.”

He stretched out his arms in a “tada,” and we both laughed. But it was true. I had never seen a real Jew this close before. Mora kept kosher in the house and went to shul on some Saturdays, but the boys did not have sidelocks, and her husband, Abe, did not dress all in black like a warlock. Sylvia's landlord was in full regalia, including a long, wavy beard and a mustache with a few strands of gray. He wore a black coat that came to his knees, and under that a black suit jacket and a white shirt. From his waist I could see a bit of white fringe.

“This is Sylvia's youngest child?” he asked. “He and my second-to-last son were born in Tishri.”

“September or October?”

“Aha, you do understand Hebrew.”

“A few words are not a language.”

He folded his arms. “So what other words do you know?”

“I can say grace, the prayer before you eat. The
Baruch ata adonai eloheinu
. . . prayer.”

“Amazing.” He lifted his eyebrows. “You know, I can find a nice Jewish man for you to marry. You have to convert and cut off all your hair, though. You know how to keep kosher?”

I had half a mind to ask if said Jewish man was an American citizen.

“You're funny,” I said.

There was another knock at the door, and as I moved past Jacob, I thought to ask on Sylvia's behalf for a new doorbell. Bo breezed in wearing a nice puffy parka with a fur-trimmed hood.

“Where'd you get that coat?”

He was about to answer when he saw Jacob. “But what the ass this man doing here? Jacob, who tell you you could come in here?”

“You are a bum,” Jacob answered. “Look at you. Where did you steal this coat?” I thought for sure Bo would hit this man hard right here in Sylvia's living room and I would have to call the police and then testify in court and get deported. But the two men laughed and shook hands. “Grace”—Bo draped his arm around Jacob's shoulder—“this man is my good good friend, you know.”

“I wouldn't go so far,” Jacob said, but he was grinning. “Your Sylvia is complaining about the paint. It looks good to me.” He dug his hands deep in his pockets and looked up at the ceiling. “When was the last time we painted? Last year? Eighty-nine?”

“Jacob, you know you really full of shit. Is going on five years now this place paint. And is a real cheap job them Russian boys do.” Bo's fingernail flicked a quarter-size piece of paint from the wall. “Why you don't spend some of that money you hiding and give the girl a real paint job?”

“You know how much rent she pays? You know how much I could get on the open market for this place? Your Sylvia is practically living for free.”

I was glad Bo came, because he could haggle much better with this man than I could.

“You see that little boy sitting down there only smiling smiling?” Bo pointed to Dame. “Is the paint in here get that little boy sick. That is why he not talking.”

“You are the one who is full of shit,” Jacob said. “The child is fine. I was just telling Grace that he and my son are the same age. My child too is not a big talker. It's the way of boys.”

“Your child don't talk because your wife is your first cousin. The two of we know this place full up with lead.” Bo threw his coat on the couch. “Give me a cigarette,” he said to Jacob. He took four. “Let me figure how much your Russian boys have to scrape and how much paint they need to bring, and then I will decide if I should tell Sylvia to sue your ass.”

Was Bo right? Did Dame have lead in him? Dame was so slow I could imagine lead on the soles of his little feet, weighing him down. I sat next to him and cupped his small, warm face between my hands. “Say
b-a-all
for me, Dame.” I dragged the word out, but he only swayed and smiled.

SYLVIA WAS RUNNING HOT
water on some turkey wings when she called me into the kitchen. “What you think I should do with this meat tonight? Stew or curry?”

This was not why she'd called me from folding her laundry.

“When last you make curry?” I asked. She cocked her head and thought about this.

“Sit down, Grace. I want to talk to you.”

I didn't know if to be nervous, or frightened, or how. For a second I wondered if she was going to tell me that I needed to leave, that Jacob had figured out I was living here and she would lose her place if I didn't go.

“You hear back from them people yet?”

She meant the Bruckners. “I still waiting.”

Sylvia nodded. “How the weekend pass? The lady nice?”

I wiggled my hand. “Hot and cold.”

Sylvia belched. “This gas on my chest from since last night. At least it coming out.” She turned to look at me across the table. “Grace, hear this. I not putting no pressure on you and do what you want. Is not because I giving you a lodging mean you have to do what I say.”

“What is it, Sylvia?”

“What if I give you fifty dollars a week to mind them children for me? You don't have to do nothing different from what you doing now. Get Micky and Derek ready in the morning, watch Dame in the day, and help them with the home lesson when they come from school.”

Of course she would offer me this now. Had she thought about arrears for the past two months? Or giving me back the forty or so dollars I must have spent buying her packs of More menthols? She had to be scared that I would actually get the job.

She was watching me. “So what you think?”

“Sylvia, I already living here for free. I can't take money from you to watch them children.”

“Is just so you could have a little change in your pocket when weekend come and you want to go down Fulton or Pitkin.”

I knew how it would go. Sylvia would start with the best intentions and give me fifty dollars for the first two weeks. By the third week she'd tell me she had only twenty and could she make it up next weekend. Then we'd be back to me minding the children for free and using the money she'd given me to buy her cigarettes.

“Grace”—she leaned her full weight on the table—“I not telling you to make up your mind now for now, you know, is just something for you to think about. Them children like you, and I see you trying to teach Dame to talk. Sometime I think Micky like you more than she like me.”

“Sylvia, please.” I hadn't told her that for the last Parents' Day at Micky's school she had asked me to come. “I know fifty is all you have, but I have to help my mother. And then this thing with Bo,” I went on. “When will I save three thousand dollars from fifty dollars a week?”

Sylvia had done me a huge favor by taking me in, but the thought of staying in her apartment was unbearable. My life moved in slow motion, and I could feel myself turning drab to match the color of her curtains. I hadn't quite figured out what I wanted from America, but it wasn't on the fifth floor of 579 Eastern Parkway.

“Grace”—she got up to run some hot water on the turkey wings—“what if Bo do the thing for you for free?”

I rolled my eyes. “You really think Bo would go from three thousand dollars to for free?”

She laughed. “If I send Bo City Hall in the morning he will go.”

We looked at each other. This
was
a good deal. Miriam and Sol were willing to help the right person. Maybe. But the money they were paying was nothing, and the work was hard. Plus, I didn't know Miriam Bruckner. I knew Sylvia and all her hot and cold parts. Sponsorship could take ten years. If I married Bo, I could be legal in two. “Sylvia, I don't know.”

“So you saying no?”

“I not saying no, but I not saying yes either.”

“Well”—she turned away from me—“I can't stop you from living your life, mama.”

For a few days now, Sylvia hadn't been herself. She hadn't lost her temper at the kids or me; in fact, she had barely raised her voice. I wanted to ask her something, and now seemed a good time.

“Sylvia?”

“Umm.”

“You know Bo run into Jacob this morning?”

She faced me again. “He tell me he give him a good piece of he mind. Before, Jacob use to give all them boys work. They use to come and paint, fix the shower or the toilet, the electrikcy. Bo, Nello, and Keatix use to work for him regular regular. Now is only Russians he using. Is because them Jew could pay them next to nothing. And everything break as fast as they fix it.” She flicked the loose tap on the faucet. “Jacob is a real Jew.”

“I hear Bo tell him something.”

“What Bo tell him?”

“That is the old paint what causing Dame to take so long to talk.” I didn't tell her about Bo asking Jacob for work.

“What stupidness Bo talking about? Some children does take time to talk. Micky and Derek talk fast fast, but Damien just slow.”

“Yeah, but why?”

“And Bo say it might have something to do with the paint? What Jacob say?”

“That his son is three too, and he not talking either. But maybe you should take Dame for some tests.”

“Tests for what, Grace?”

I didn't know.

She thought about this and then changed the subject. “You didn't meet Michael, them boy father, when you come?”

“Only once or twice, and then they took him to the G— to Kings County.” I almost said the G Building, the mad-people's section at the hospital.

“He skizzophenric, you know.” She drummed her fingers on the sink. “Every day I pray them boy don't take after him. You see how Derek hyper, and how Dame quiet. Is just so Michael use to get, quiet quiet before the madness take him. Maybe my boy children mad?” She looked in my eyes. “Watch how Micky different from the two of them. They don't have the same father, you know.”

She seemed worried, and I didn't know what to say. “But you don't have it on your side. Even though I think Dodo might be crazy.”

She considered this.

“But still carry Dame to the doctor. And tell Micky and Derek if they see him eating paint to make him stop.”