Tender at the Bone (18 page)

At the refreshment stand both girls wanted hot dogs. “Do you want mustard?” I asked Janisse. She nodded solemnly. “You sure?” I persisted. She was. I papered the front of her dress with napkins but she squirmed so much while she was eating that it didn’t help. I was looking despairingly at the golden blob on her green plaid dress when Mrs. Forest found us.

She was radiant. “I could do it all day,” she said. “We went back and forth four times. So cool and pretty.”

“It was pretty from the top too, Mama,” said Crystal shyly. “And we could see your boat. You looked so tiny.” She held up her fingers, demonstrating.

I hated the idea of going back to the Bronx and I tried to think of some other cool and pretty place to take them. For a brief moment I considered the Metropolitan Museum, but when I thought about Mrs. Forest toting the baby through those vast halls the picture didn’t seem right. Crystal and Janisse would be bored; they’d get fussy and she would get embarrassed and then angry. So I didn’t say anything and we all got back on the ferry. I watched Mrs. Forest as she stood, her hair swept back by the wind and the sun on her deep ebony face. I wished I had a camera so she could see herself.

She laughed as we herded the children off the ferry and the sound was young and easy. I had never heard her laugh before. We stopped at the Good Humor man and then sat down on a green park bench to eat. After she had licked all the toasted almonds from the ice-cream bar, she slowly fed a Dixie cup of vanilla ice cream to the baby with a sensual, hypnotic motion. She was so absorbed that she didn’t notice when Janisse’s ice cream started dripping
down her arm. I quickly herded the girls to the water fountain, where I did my best to clean them up. Mrs. Forest was still busy with the baby and she didn’t seem to notice we were gone.

The subways weren’t air-conditioned; it was hot and airless in the car. I could feel my dress start sticking to the seat. At Fifty-ninth street the train filled up and the people who stood over us were dripping sweat. By the time we reached the Bronx the good feelings were all gone. Coming up from underground, Mrs. Forest jabbed a finger into the mustard spot on Janisse’s dress and said, “You know what I told you.” Janisse erupted into tears.

Her lament accompanied us through the stinking, trash-strewn streets. “Maybe we could take another trip together,” I said brightly, feeling like the Avon lady. I could see that, to the Forests, the cool water already seemed like some faraway dream. Desperate to bring it back I suddenly said, “I have a friend I’d really like you to meet.”

Mac was coming through town on his way to the Newport Jazz Festival, but I don’t know what I expected him to do. I just had a vague feeling that it would be good for Mrs. Forest to meet him. He might give her some hope. She was still so young.

“Maybe,” she said vaguely. She handed the baby to Crystal and sent the children up the stairs. “You get that switch, hear?” she called to Janisse. She turned to me. “We’ll talk about more trips and your friend when you come next week,” she said dismissively. “I got laundry to do.” And she followed the children.

“You’ll really like her,” I promised Mac the following week. He and Serafina were stretched out on my parents’ living-room floor smoking marijuana and listening to Quiet Nights. I was lying on the turquoise sofa, so stoned I was finding patterns in the abstract painting on the wall. Mac looked dubious but I knew he’d come if I really wanted him to.

“The kids are great,” I urged. “We can take them to Central Park and then on on the carousel. Maybe the zoo too. Please come.”

Mac rolled over on his back and looked at the ceiling. “It sounds to me,” he said reasonably, “as if we ought to go back on the ferry. You said that really turned her on.”

He was probably right. “Maybe we could go on the ferry and then to Chinatown. I bet they’d like dim sum.” I imagined the Forests in one of the cramped booths in the tiny Nom Wah Tea Parlor, and the picture seemed all right to me. “There’s a place we used to go when I was little where they just bring plates of food around on a tray and you pick what you want. When you’re done, they count up the plates to figure out your bill. You should see the giant fried shrimp; they’re the size of drumsticks!”

“I’d like some of those right now,” said Serafina.

“I don’t know,” said Mac reasonably. “Isn’t that woman going to be embarrassed watching you pay for her and her kids?”

I saw instantly that he was right.

“I’m hungry,” said Serafina. “Let’s go get some of those shrimp.”

We walked down Fifth Avenue, arms linked, underneath the Washington Square Memorial Arch and through Little Italy, where shirtless men played bocce in the streets. We were happy to be together in New York with no responsibilities and a whole weekend stretching before us. Somewhere south of Houston and north of Canal the smell of garlic wafting through the streets overcame us and we knew that we were too stoned, and too hungry, to wait for Chinatown.

“Let’s go to Luna,” said Serafina, as we passed beneath the narrow restaurant’s sign, a slice of neon moon. We took a seat at one of the long communal tables and ordered glasses of the cheap red wine that they poured out of jugs. It tasted like a mixture of raspberry pop and vinegar and I knew from experience that I would have a headache in an hour. But I drank it anyway, and we gobbled down baskets of bread and plates of spaghetti with meat sauce.

“New York!” said Mac, wonderingly, and I remembered that it was his first visit. And so, trying to be good hosts, Serafina and I
took him to Max’s Kansas City for drinks so he could see the people from Andy Warhol’s Factory preening, and then to Bradley’s to listen to jazz. “What a city!” said Mac as we wandered home.

The elevator man looked annoyed and sleepy when we rang the front-door bell. It was almost four and my head was starting to hurt; I was feeling the wine and the wine and the wine I’d been drinking all evening.

We pulled out the convertible sofa in the living room and threw a few sheets on it for Mac. In my old bedroom Serafina and I fell into our beds. We slept past noon.

That day we finally made it all the way to Chinatown. Afterward we went on the Staten Island Ferry to cool off.

“No wonder that woman—what’s her name?—likes the ferry so much,” said Mac, watching the city retreat behind us.

“Mrs. Forest,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s a great deal for a nickel.”

“So maybe we should take them on the ferry and then take them back to the house?” I asked.

Mac sighed. “I’m sure you’re not supposed to take clients to your house,” he said.

“I don’t care,” I said. “It’s not as if my parents have a fancy apartment or anything.”

Mac just stared at me, exasperated.

“Count me out,” said Serafina. “I’ll be at work.”

All evening we considered what to do with the Forests. We discussed it between John Hammond’s sets at the Café Wha? and while the three of us consumed an entire watermelon in Washington Square Park. We talked about it while we danced at a disco called Arthur. Then Serafina picked up one of the Andy Warhol Superstars and the conversation changed.

“That guy,” I said darkly, “I don’t trust him. He seems like he’s a hustler with something to hide.”

“We’re all hustlers, and we all have something to hide,” said
Mac. “I think we should take your friend on the ferry and for a picnic in the park.” He shook his head and added, “I hope you don’t get in trouble. I don’t know why I agreed to this.”

And I wasn’t quite sure why I had asked. Especially in those first awkward moments when I picked the family up in the Bronx and told Mrs. Forest that my friend was meeting us at the ferry terminal. She made some remark and I realized that she assumed that the friend was female and white. Short of coming out and saying so, I didn’t know how to tell her otherwise, so when Mac came up to us, carrying the big shopping bag that contained our lunch, she was caught completely off guard.

But Mac was rarely at a loss with people; he knew just what to do. He leaned over Charisse and said, “Hey, that’s a beautiful baby,” and then made some joke about not trusting me to hold her. Before long they were trading geneologies; it turned out they had roots in Georgia towns a couple of miles apart.

“At this rate you are going to find out that you are cousins,” I said.

“Probly,” Mrs. Forest replied. She was softer around Mac, which made the girls relax too. They all seemed happy. Mac, who rarely talked about himself, started telling Mrs. Forest about his mother and how he came to be at the University of Michigan in the first place.

“I got there because I was lucky,” he said.

“I started out unlucky,” said Mrs. Forest. She was matter-of-fact, not bitter. “I was pregnant before I was grown.”

“But you don’t have to stay unlucky,” said Mac.

We were riding, back and forth, back and forth. Mrs. Forest seemed willing to do that all day, but having examined every inch of the boat the girls were getting restless. “When we goin’ to get off?” asked Crystal on our sixth round trip.

Mac grinned down at her. “You getting hungry?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Guess what I’ve got for you for lunch,” he said.

“Peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches?”

He feigned a hurt look. “How did you know?”

“Because that’s what everybody always brings for kids,” she said. “Mama says it’s cheap and tricious.”

“Nutritious,” Mrs. Forest corrected her. “And don’t be givin’ away all our secrets. We don’t eat peanut butter every day.”

“Yes we do,” said Crystal.

“Don’t you sass me, young lady,” said Mrs. Forest in the sternest tone she’d used all day. Crystal subsided instantly.

“Well, I ate peanut butter every day of my childhood,” said Mac. “And that’s what made me so big and strong.”

Both girls giggled; Mac looked like a pretty puny specimen. We got off the ferry and Mac herded us all toward a big Checker cab. “We’re takin’ a taxi?” asked Janisse. “Us?”

“My treat,” said Mac opening the door and pulling up the two little jump seats for the girls.

“A taxi,” breathed Crystal. “We’re ridin’ in a taxi!” I knew how she felt; in our household taking a taxi was the sort of thing you’d do only if it was so late that the buses weren’t running or if you were deathly ill. A taxi in the middle of the day felt slightly sinful. Even one as crowded as this.

We tumbled out at Washington Square Park and went to sit by the fountain. We ate our sandwiches and talked and listened to one of the musicians strumming his guitar. The girls, admonished not to get wet by Mrs. Forest, immediately waded into the fountain. It was clear that this was not a day for whippings.

But then Janisse had to go to the bathroom, and the restroom in the park was closed. “They always are,” said Mrs. Forest with resignation.

“My house is just three blocks away,” I said impulsively. “We could go use the bathroom there.”

By the time we got there Janisse was hopping up and down in
the bathroom dance and I was so busy praying she wouldn’t pee before we reached the apartment that I didn’t notice the elevator man’s sour look.

“Friendly guy,” said Mac when we got off. The sarcasm was lost on me; I was fitting first one key into the lock and then another, jiggling the three locks. Then I was leading Janisse to the bathroom, and sighing a huge sigh of relief.

One by one we paraded to the bathroom. And then we left. If Mrs. Forest thought anything about the strange art or the dead tree she didn’t say. The girls giggled at the abstract painting in the hall but stopped when Mrs. Forest frowned.

We walked down Tenth Street to Sixth Avenue, and down Sixth to the subway. Mac left us there, saying he was going to check out a class at the University of the Streets. “Nice meetin’ you,” said Mrs. Forest. And that was that.

“’Bye,” chorused Crystal and Janisse. Mrs. Forest bantered with the girls all the way back to the Bronx and when we got out at Tremont Avenue she was as cheerful as she had been when we got on.

“Where you girls think we’re goin’ next?” she asked. “Maybe Ruth’s going to take us to the moon.”

“To the moon, to the moon,” the girls said, trying to match her cheer.

“To the moon,” I said as I waved them up the stairs, thinking that our next journey would be to the Planetarium. “Wait until you see how much you weigh there!”

I went back to the office to write up my report, leaving out Mac and the part about taking the girls home to pee. And then I went down into the subway and back to Manhattan.

The elevator man was his usual dour self, but I didn’t think much about it. “No company?” he asked.

“All alone!” I said cheerfully, fishing my keys out of my purse. I could hear the phone ringing as I stepped into the hall.

“Hi, Pussycat,” said my mother’s voice when I picked it up. I was instantly wary.

“Hi?” I said. “Is something wrong?”

“Just a little thing,” she said cheerfully.

“Mmm?”

“I just got a call from the superintendant. He wanted to know who was using the apartment.”

“So?”

“I told him that you and your roommate were staying there for the summer. But he said that you had a Negro man staying there as well.”

“Mac’s here for a few days,” I said. She sighed.

“He also said that today you took a Negro couple with three children upstairs.”

“So?” I said. “What business is it of his who I have in the apartment?”

“Well, darling, the thing is …” Mom hesitated.

“Yes?”

“They’d like your Negro friends to use the service elevator.”

“Are you crazy?” I said. “This is 1967. This isn’t the South, it’s New York! And not some snooty Park Avenue address. This is the Village!”

“I know, dear, but some people don’t like it.”

I took a deep breath. And then I said, in the most dignified voice I could muster, “I’m going to forget we’ve ever had this conversation. And I will certainly not tell Serafina, or Mac, or anyone I know that it has taken place. I don’t care what you tell the superintendent.”

I don’t know what my mother did. I never spoke about it with anyone again. Mac came back from the University of the Streets and Serafina came home from the bar. And we went down in the front elevator and out to dinner.