Red on Red (8 page)

“Is it the drugs, then? Hadn’t he a good job, with the computers? I thought he’d too much to drink.”

The old man shook his head, not so much to disagree as to dislodge the thought from his mind. Jamie Barry was the superintendent’s son, and Ms. Barry was also from the other side. Jamie and Nick had known each other for the entirety of their lives, which was an indifferent matter to both of them. Nick had tried to avoid him at each phase of his life, from the mousy, cosseted, and complaining child to the hard-drinking, hard-talking, hard-puking young man. He was an only child as well, and his mother had died when he was in his late teens, which had sped him into dopeland. After a few lost years, he’d cleaned up, moved to Long Island and Christianity, which was not how he referred to the religion of their fathers. Still, Jamie had been doing well, Nick had heard—his father was right, it had been something high-tech—until somewhat recently, when something had slipped. He’d returned home not long before Nick had, and when Nick had run into him, the bleary look of kinship Jamie had offered, the bond of brotherly failure, had made Nick want to kick his teeth down his throat.

As the coffeepot gave up its last sputter and gurgle, his father’s thoughts continued to meander.

“Still, it seems it’s the black ones who are just mad for the drugs. Not all of them, of course. Look at Mr. Williams, from the third floor—what a nice man! A bus driver, like I was, married. Two children, very polite, both of them in Good Shepherd. I wonder what he thinks of all of this…. I might ask him one day.”

That was a little too much for Nick before coffee, but he didn’t say anything. His father was fully capable of asking Mr. Williams what he thought about the Negro Question; for all Nick knew, Mr. Williams had the Negro Answer. Nick was afraid sometimes he would end up like his
father, without even an acquaintance to share his benignly boorish small talk across the breakfast table. As the coffeepot emitted a final hiss, Nick shifted the topic to an old favorite.

“How is Mrs. O’Beirne feeling? Did they find out what was wrong with her?”

“Ahh,” Nick’s father replied, standing and turning to fill the cup, then looking back, as if to check if there were listeners in the room. “She’s not well at all. It was … the cancer.” He said it in a hissed whisper not unlike the sound from the coffeepot. He sat back down and slid the coffee across the table, anxious to begin.

The brokerage of bits of bad news was the great pastime of the neighborhood and one of the few pleasures that his father did not deny himself. There was a comfort in misfortune that fell elsewhere, as if there were then a little less left to go around. Three years ago, he had considered joining a parish trip to Lourdes; Allison and Nick had both urged him to go, had offered to pay. A dozen men and women had signed on, mostly his age, mostly out of a sense of devotion, a hope to witness the miraculous rather than any particular need for a miracle. He’d decided to stay home, alluding to various inconveniences. When the tour bus had collided with a milk truck, and the pilgrims who had left in robust health had then returned with crutches and neck braces, his father had felt not merely spared but somehow vindicated. He’d visited the injured at every opportunity.

“She has months left, at most, poor woman. Did you know her nephew, her brother’s boy, Mannion the name was, and what happened to him? It was on his honeymoon. He went rock climbing, of all things. He broke his neck. Now he’s a paraplegic, God bless him. On his honeymoon! Who would ever go to a place where you could get hurt on your honeymoon?”

“People used to go to Niagara Falls.”

“Not to jump, though. I’m sure Niagara Falls has had its share of jumpers and honeymooners both, but they were rarely the same crowd.” He let out a small, satisfied breath, looking ahead and slightly upward, as if to picture the separate lines of lovers and leapers, each in their rightful place. “I’m not the type to say they were asking for it, but God knows what put it in his mind to climb a cliff when he had a woman at the bottom waiting for him.”

Nick remembered the woman in the tree. Knocked a dead body down
last night, Nick had, like the special boy at a Spanish birthday party, too enthused by the piñata. He felt bad enough to resolve to put extra effort into that one, to find out who she was, where she belonged. That way, there would be fewer questions, all around. She was like his mother—immigrant, and emigrant—on the other side.

“Where’d you go on your honeymoon?” Nick asked.

His father looked perplexed, as if he were disappointed to see that his son was capable of such a stupid question.

“To bed, of course.”

Nick walked away, laughing, tramping back down the old hallway to finish getting ready for work. As his father watched him recede, he didn’t get what the joke was, but even when he did, he felt sorrier for his son for missing the larger point of it, for fixing on what might have seemed backward or out of touch. He’d gone where he’d wanted, with the one he’d wanted with him, and he didn’t think it was a bad thing at all.

N
ick walked across the aged linoleum of the lobby, down the concrete steps onto Broadway. The air was cold and lively, taking up stray leaves and old newspapers in vigorous, jerky gusts. The storm had torn down branches, with green leaves along with the yellow and brown. There was no sign of Jamie Barry, and Nick was glad to be spared his reminiscence of how Mike Diskin hid the erasers on Father Callahan in the third grade before asking for spare change. When Nick saw the bus slow down, he half-jogged toward the stop on the corner. This was a day for walking to work, but he hadn’t the time. Yes, he did. Today was for autopsies and arraignments, reports and notifications, plus whatever fresh calamity awaited, the hell of the day. Still, the prospects did not weigh on him as they might have, did not seem more than he could bear. A little sunlight, a little sleep—was that all it took to make it all seem workable, worthwhile?

The bus stopped for him, the pneumatic brakes shifting with a whoosh, and he waved it on. Today was a day for walking. Below Dyckman Street, the west side of Broadway framed another park, Fort Tryon Park, a hillside rising up the spine of Manhattan, up and over to the Hudson. He loved this time of year, when the woods started to turn the color of lions and tigers, and the distant views were no longer hidden beneath the heedless green. The blocks of six-story prewar apartments gave way ahead to the patchy commercial strip above the George Washington Bridge, the gas stations and storage spaces near the precinct. Too short a walk, coming down.

When he was married to Allison, Nick would begin his walks on the Upper West Side, full of new strivers, people who came here for the money and freedom. Sunday was brunch and the
Times
. On Sundays,
you saw white women pushing their children in strollers. During the week, you saw the same white children, pushed by black women. Following Broadway north, you came upon a ten-block stretch of no-man’s-land, of winos and bums selling old porno magazines on blankets on the street, men who stared through you, with the sour, goatish smell of schizophrenia. The fleabag hotels then gave way to Columbia University, fortress and factory, that sent a lot of strivers and a few schizophrenics to the neighborhoods below. In Harlem on Sunday mornings, you heard gospel bursting from storefront churches, and saw the women in their hallelujah hats, dressed up to meet Jesus for a date.

As you crossed the border to Washington Heights, on 155th Street, you passed the most melancholy landmark in the city, which Nick thought of as the museum of museums. Even the graveyard across the street was less desolate, with its sign that warned,
Activo Cementerio
, promising at least the company of ghosts. The same couldn’t be said for the museums, which comprised an entire city block of stately old beaux arts buildings, surrounding a plaza of herringbone brick. Two of the institutions were definitely gone. The Museum of the American Indian, the American Geographical Society—these had moved elsewhere; as for the American Numismatic Society, it was hard to tell if it had been abandoned or just ignored, a penny dropped in an old pocket. The illustrious names were engraved just below the rooflines—the now-lost tribes, like the Eskimo, the Salish, the Algonquin, and the now-lost explorers, such as Livingstone and Magellan. As you read around the plaza, it had the look of old ticker tape, of data you no longer needed to know. The motto of the Geographical Society was carved above the door:
Ubique
, Latin for “everywhere.” Nick wasn’t sure if the word was ill chosen or the loss was in everything but the translation. How could it be everywhere if it wasn’t even here?

The Hispanic Society shared the same air of desertion. The section of plaza before it was sunken and walled, which trapped leaves and newspapers in eddying off-river breezes; the fountain was dry and its two flagpoles were bare. But while the other places were sites of double erasure—no more Iroquois, and no more Iroquois exhibit—the Hispanic Society was in the middle of a thriving Hispanic society, which had pushed the edges of the older black neighborhood farther south. An equestrian statue of El Cid dominated the section of plaza. He was a champion of the Reconquista in the eleventh century, who helped drive
the Moors from Spain. Legend had it that when he died, his wife strapped his body upright on his horse, to lead his troops in one last battle. A thousand years ago, he helped kick out the new people; now his monument stood in an immigrant neighborhood, whom half the country thought of as invaders. That was the difference between history and a joke; you could kill a joke if you repeated it.

In Washington Heights, on four Sunday walks, Nick saw four different fights—a cock fight in an alley; a dogfight on a roof, from which the loser was thrown, yelping, to the sidewalk ten feet from Nick; a catfight between the prettiest girls he’d ever seen, tearing each other’s shirts and screaming,
“Puta! Puta, puta!”
; and then a gunfight, as shooters from a passing car let loose at three guys on a corner, who emptied their own guns back at them. After the gunfight, Nick ran to Riverside Drive, where the old Jews still lived, from before the war and after, and he saw a pair of old hands close a window, muffling a piano concerto on the record player. When you crossed Dyckman Street, to Inwood, the last Irish bit of Manhattan, there were games in the park and beers in the bar, after Mass at Good Shepherd, the gray stone church where stony old monsignors gave stony sermons about what would not last, which was everything, almost.

The monsignors were right about the neighborhood, at least, about the good times and the bad. Inwood was disappearing and had been since Nick’s childhood, as the working classes worked hardest at leaving. In the seventies, the city was a cesspool, bankrupt and flooded with heroin, but it was a golden playground for Nick and his friends. They would run across rooftops and hide in the park, Inwood Hill Park, green since the beginning of time. For a decade, the city was on the mend, until crack hit in the mid-eighties, and the Heights were narco central for the entire northeast. The Colombians brought in cocaine, and the Dominicans moved it, cut it, and cooked it into the little rocks that burnt people alive. For a time, the precinct that covered the Heights and Inwood logged a homicide every three days, and shootings, robberies, and break-ins beyond counting. But through the nineties and after, crime began to fall, and then to free-fall, so quickly it seemed like a stock market collapse—
Murder is now at two thousand … fifteen hundred … twelve … closing this year at less than a thousand … eight hundred, seven. We are now approaching six…. Sell, sell, sell!
Young people with money started to move to Inwood, consultant types and creative types who didn’t dress
for work, and worked not at jobs but in “fields” like software and graphic design. The newcomers were in the main thoughtful, respectful, and tasteful, and a lot of the old-timers liked them even less than they’d liked the Dominicans. They baffled bartenders with requests for wine lists. There goes the neighborhood….

And then the apocalypse downtown, on a morning that began with the bluest of skies. For hours, it seemed that history had ended, that Manhattan would join the list of ancient lost places—Babylon, Byzantium, Troy. The two towers had possessed a flat magnitude that had made them seem ageless, though they’d been no older than the men who’d destroyed them. The cataclysm felt like a natural disaster or even a supernatural one, visited as it was by demonologies of the air, but it was history, its return and not its ending. The city had been built by foreign hatreds, after all. It had taken in throngs of exiles to such extravagant benefit. And New York was never more splendid than in the grieving season that followed, abundant in dignity and decency, even as cops and firemen fought with gulls in the rubble piles for fragments of what once had been friends. There were no unknown soldiers here—wakes were held for scraps of skin, funerals for bits of bone. For a while, if you got a bad feeling, a sudden intuition of fear, you looked up instead of over your shoulder. What to make of it all? What warnings and amends? Was it a singularity, a rogue wave, or just the first to break?