Show and Prove (21 page)

W
e take the Champs to the pool at Crotona Park, only to find out that it's closed for emergency maintenance. This budget crisis is bogus. How does the city let the biggest pool in the Bronx fall apart? I bet the ones on Twenty-Third or Seventy-Seventh Streets never have problems.

“Let's just wait a little,” I suggest to Big Lou. “Maybe they'll fix it fast, and we won't have come all the way here for nothing.”

“That's a good idea,” says Cookie. “I mean, it's a nice day, and this is a huge park. Not like the kids can't play until we know if they're letting anybody in today.” So we stay in the park for about an hour, and the kids are having a blast.

Then things get dicey. Another day camp from a nearby community center is having a field day, and we challenge them to some friendly competition. It's all harmless fun until the Champs lose to them at tug-of-war and Stevie starts popping mess. A little trash-talking is no big deal, but now he's cracking welfare jokes, which, of course, POs Nike.

“How you know they's on welfare?” he says, flicking Stevie's ear. “They're wearing camp shirts and cutoff jeans just like you, dummy!”

Stevie grabs his ear and backs out of Nike's reach. “ 'Cause they go to public school, moron! If they had money, they'd go to Catholic school and camp like us. That's how you know their parents don't work.”

“Stevie, you're so ignorant!” yells Cookie. “How you're going to assume they go to public school or their parents didn't work? Just because their camp isn't run by a church? Stop it.” She apologizes to the counselors of the other camp, and we whisk away the Champs back to the oak tree we've designated as home base. Those campers just dusted us in tug-of-war. The last thing we want is to go mano a mano with them.

“We need to burn off some of their energy,” says Nike. “Let's march their butts over to the lake.”

“For what?” Cookie and I say in unison.

“Because.”

Cookie says, “Have you been to the lake lately, Nike? It's full of reeds up to here.” She flings her hand over her head. “God knows what else is in there.”

“Not to go
in
the lake, dummy. On that side of the park there's a playground with sprinklers.”

“OK, true, but…” Cookie surveys the park. Thugs to the left, addicts to the right. Walking these kids to the lake would be a live game of Mined-Out. “If the pool isn't open by now, I'm going to tell Big Lou we should just take them back to the church.”

And that's what we do. Big Lou tells us to hand out lunch in the school yard and let the kids play until dismissal. They get over their disappointment quickly and dive right into their usual games of ringolevio, hopscotch, and box ball.

“Who wants to play red light, green light?” I say, walking toward the wall. About a dozen kids, including Pedro and Stevie, run behind me. “This crack right here's the starting line.” After Stevie explains to Pedro in Spanish how to play, I turn to face the wall. “Red light, green light, one, two, three.” I spin around, and all the kids freeze, trying hard to not bust a gut. Most folks would just turn around again, but that's not how I play. I run up to Stevie until we're nose to nose and laugh like Scooby-Doo. He snorts, then keels over cackling. That cracks up Pedro and half the other kids. “Moving violation! All of you, back to the line!”

Pop!

I look around for the knucklehead setting off fireworks in the school yard. This is one thing about this neighborhood that works my last nerve. The Fourth of July starts on July 1 and continues for the entire month.

Pop! Pop!

Another counselor yells, “Yo, those are gunshots!” Everyone screams and runs for cover that doesn't exist.

“Get the kids inside!” I say, running toward the church.

Cookie shouts, “No time! Get everybody down.” Sara is hysterical, diving to the ground and screaming as if we were being invaded. The twins are crying, and Cookie yanks them to the concrete and throws herself over them. “Everybody, down now!”

I tackle Pedro and Stevie to the ground, then shield my own head with my arms. My mother's face flashes behind my closed eyes.

Pop! Pop!

Kids and counselors sob as we lie across the hot pavement. I can smell the old bubble gum wedged between the slabs of concrete and feel the sweat on Pedro's back seep through my shirt into my chest.

When I think the gunshots have stopped, I lift my head and peek across my forearm. I catch Nike's feet as he climbs off the ground and runs into the street. I pull myself up to my knees. Pedro and Stevie cling to either side of me, whimpering. “It's over, it's OK, everyone's all right.” But I really don't know this. I look around the school yard, praying to see each and every kid and counselor rise off the pavement.

I'm in the middle of a frantic head count when Nike races back into the school yard. “Smiley!” He has blood on his shirt, and his voice trembles. “They shot up Qusay's storefront.”

T
hey came for Qusay but killed Cutter.

Those savages just opened fire in the street in the middle of the day with kids running through the water gushing from the fire pump, mothers chilling on the stoop with their babies, and the viejos sitting on milk crates and playing capicu in front of the bodega. The Barbarians could've killed so many innocent people.

Word is that Qusay and Cutter were unlocking and raising the security gate to the storefront when Junior's Mustang convertible came tearing around the corner. Booby hopped out the passenger side and fired one shot from a Colt .45 before Qusay ran for cover. The second shot caught Q in the shoulder as he fled into the school, and Junior ordered Booby to go after him. Cutter got in his way. They exchanged words because Cutter wouldn't move so Booby could get to Q. Booby pumped three bullets into Cutter's stomach, fired another shot through the storefront window, jumped back into Junior's Mustang, and fired a few more shots just for the hell of it as they sped off.

That's what everyone's saying, anyways. Just none of it to the cops, lest Junior does another drive-by and opens fire on
their
stoop. They brought Junior to the precinct but couldn't keep him. No one has seen Booby since the whole thing went down. Some folks say he's booked. I'm sure he's dead.

I sit out here on the curb watching an endless stream of folks enter the funeral home. Every time I think it's over, another crowd turns the corner or piles out of a car. Elsie, JD, Moncho, Don Silvio. Black, Rican, Irish, Jewish—everyone shows up to say good-bye to Cutter.

Smiles comes out of the funeral home and lowers himself next to me. “You coming in?”

I shake my head. I've already tried, and say no go. Took one look at that giant poster full of pictures of the old Cutter in the foyer and couldn't stay. Tossing his cap in the air after graduating from Baruch College, feeding his bride wedding cake, helping his son rip off the wrapping of a Big Wheel one Christmas. Then there's the one of our Little League team the year he coached us to the Bronx World Series. Cutter stands right next to me, his hand on my shoulder. After that I can't bring myself to go inside and see him lying pale and stiff in a silk-lined box. “Smiles, what's he wearing?”

I wait for Smiles to read me for asking such a dumb question. Instead he smiles. “They dressed homeboy in a fly burgundy Brooks Brothers suit with gold cuff links and a matching tie clip. And your rosary beads are in his hand.”

“Fresh.”

A pair of mules wobbles next to me and down plops Cookie. “I hate these things.” She pulls them off her feet and smooths her sailor skirt between her mosquito-bit legs. Cookie gives me the once-over. “Nice suit, Nike. Don't think I've ever seen you in one before.”

“Yeah, you have,” says Smiles. “Mama's funeral, 'member?”

“I think he booked before I got there.”

“Oh, yeah.” That old suit is still hanging in my closet. I didn't realize it was the only one I owned until I went looking for something to wear today. I had to ask Ma for the money to buy a new one because it didn't fit. As she went into her purse for the cash, I waited for the lecture.
You remember this the next time you want to mouth off to me about money.
But she didn't do that. Instead, Ma stuffed the bills into my palm and kissed the back of my hand. She and Glo are holding a seat for me inside, with no idea I'm never coming in. Almost nobody's going to see me in this suit either.

“Is Sara coming?” I ask Cookie. I already know the answer. After the shooting, Sara freaked out. She was crying so hard and trembling so bad that walking her home was impossible. I had to hail a gypsy cab for us, and the whole way Sara clung to me in the backseat, sobbing into my chest and gripping my bloody shirt.

Cutter's blood on my shirt.

When I broke from the school yard after the shooting, I saw his body lying on the street. People who weren't running for their own lives were shielding their children and seniors. I didn't know who it was until I was kneeling beside him. Cutter was clutching his stomach, his blood seeping between his fingers.

He reached out for me with his bloody hand. “Willie.” Cutter remembered my name, but I wouldn't take his hand.

Instead I said, “Cutter, hold on. We getting help.” I yelled over my shoulder, “Somebody call 911!”

“Willie.”

“I'm here, Cutter.” But I wouldn't take his hand. “I ain't going nowhere till the ambulance comes.” But I wouldn't take his hand. “You're going to be OK, Cutter.”

“Willie, how you like my threads?”

His suit was a polyester catastrophe. It was cheap but new and clean and even tailored. Booby had torn a huge wet maroon stain in its gut. Cutter was dying in a sports jacket and slacks I wouldn't be caught dead in. “Real fly, Cutter. Straight out of
GQ.
”

My crucifix was dangling above his face from the rosary I wear around my neck. Cutter reached for it, and I leaned forward so he could wrap his bloody fingers around it. Then I pulled it over my head, allowing him to clutch it to his chest. But I wouldn't take his hand.

Cookie shakes her head. “She's traumatized by all this.”

I nod. “We're used to this madness, but I guess she's never seen anything like this before.” Cookie bites her lip and scratches at one of her mosquito bites. “Maybe this is all for the best,” I say. “Cutter was going down a bad path. Now he's out of his misery.”

“What are you saying?” Smiles says with an edge in his voice. “Cutter was making a comeback. Q was turning him around.”

“Who in this fuckin' place—”

“C'mon now, Willie,” says Cookie. “Have some respect.” She motions to the funeral home as if it were a church.

“My point is nobody here turns around. You don't turn around and stay in this hellhole. You turn when you leave. If you grown and still here, it's because you can't do no better.” I turn to Smiles. “That's why you going to Dawkins, right? And that's why you lie about where you live to go to Kennedy, right, Cookie? That's why Sara still trekking all the way to Astoria for school.” No one answers, so I continue. “Q might've helped Cutter out, giving him a little money to help around the school and getting him on methadone and all that. But in time something would've caught up to him.” The more I talk, the more I believe what I'm saying. “Cutter was bound to relapse or land in jail or get AIDS if he ain't have it already. Booby did him a favor.”

“Sometimes, Willie,” says Cookie, her eyes brimming with tears, “you're a real asshole.”

Smiles says, “Word.”

Barb comes out of the funeral home. “Kids, come on inside. The service is about to start.” She waits for Cookie and Smiles to get to their feet and cross the sidewalk. When Smiles walks past Barb and into the home, they briefly grasp hands. Then Cookie walks into Barb's arms and breaks down. As Barb holds Cookie, she looks at me, her eyes asking,
Are you OK?

I turn away. I'm not OK. I'm worried about Sara. I get why she couldn't bring herself to come—God knows I do—but I still wish she had. Maybe if she was here, I could find the strength to go inside and volunteer to be a pallbearer like the other old Little Leaguers. I might have even had the guts to walk up to Cutter's casket and tell him how he looks flyer than ever, thanks for teaching me how to pitch a slider and helping me dodge the Barbarians when they were fixing to jump me at the park, that I hope to become a good-enough man to catch him in heaven seventy years from now, and that I'm so sorry for being an asshole to the very end.

Instead I just stay out here during the service and book the second they open the doors to take Cutter to Saint Raymond's Cemetery.