The Boy in the Black Suit (19 page)

“Sounds amazing. And what about Valentine's Day?”

Lovey's face dropped. It was almost as if all the blood were draining out of her. Like . . . the pennies became stones.

“What?”
Damn. What did I say?

“I don't do Valentine's Day,” she said, plain.

“You mean, you don't do it at the shelter?”

“I mean, I don't do it at all,” she snapped. She whipped around and started fumbling with her keys trying to get the front door unlocked.

“Wait, did I say something wrong? I wasn't trying to say nothing like we was going to spend Valentine's Day together or anything like that, I just thought . . .”

“No, it's fine,” she said, finally getting the door unlocked. “I just don't do it, and I think you should leave now.”

She kept her back to me as she flung the big wooden door open. I thought that if I waited, she would at least turn around and look me in the face. But she didn't. She just slammed the door behind her. I stood there at the top of her stoop, which thirty seconds ago felt like standing at the top of a mountain, and I crumbled, shocked, as the glow of the day faded to nothing.

Okay. Okay. Okay
, I told myself,
that's the way it goes.
Just like Mr. Ray said, sometimes you win, and then you turn a card and lose. And clearly, I had turned something like a two or three and I didn't even see it coming. All I knew was that a day that had gone so well, a day that was so different from any day I had ever had, the first day I wasn't totally dazed and numb, all zoned out because of my mom being gone and my dad being all jacked up, suddenly
became just like every other day before it. A mess. And just like with those days, I had no idea why it was happening.

I got home, looked at the notebook on the table, slammed it shut, and stormed up the steps to my room. I threw myself onto the bed with all my clothes on. It wasn't really that late, but there was nothing else for me to do but try to go to sleep. I just wanted the day to be over, and for tomorrow to go back to normal, where I would get up, put on my black suit, go see my father, then go to a funeral and watch other people hurt. Forget about being happy and feeling alive. Most importantly, forget about Love.

Chapter 12

LIKE SEEING A GHOST

D
OORBELL.
W
HO COULD BE COMING
here so late? I checked my phone. 10:40 p.m. I wasn't 'sleep, just doing everything I could to ignore Chris's text message begging me for details, and trying not to text Lovey to see what the hell I did to blow the night.

Doorbell, again.

The last time this happened I got only bad news. Well,
more
bad news. I bopped downstairs and thought,
At least this time I'm dressed.

“Who is it?” I called when I reached the door.

“Mr. Ray.”

I felt like I was having déjà vu.

I opened the door and there he was, holding what looked like two metal Frisbees.

“I brought you some food. In case you hadn't eaten,” he said, coming in.

“Thanks, but I have,” I told him. He didn't seem to hear me. At first I thought it was a little strange that he had shown up so late, but he was always checking up ever since he declared he'd look out for me after the Cork/Dad fiasco, so maybe this was just one of those times. He set the food on the table and unwrapped one of the plates. Colors and sauces all mixed up. Looked good. But I wasn't hungry. Even if I hadn't already eaten, I wouldn't have been hungry.

Mr. Ray moved toward the living room, and I stood behind him watching as he held the food and limped. That's when it hit me. The newspaper clip in Mr. Ray's basement—the one separate from the rest. A crushed knee. A crushed dream. Martin Gandrey. It was like Mr. Ray's offbeat stride turned the light on in my brain, and I could suddenly remember exactly who Candy Man was and where I had heard that name. He was the guy who fell on Mr. Ray and ended his career all those years ago.
Shoot, shoot, shoot!

We both took a seat on the spaceship.

“So, how was your date?” he asked.

“Actually, pretty good until the end.” I turned the
TV
on, now nervous. I wasn't sure if I should tell Mr. Ray about Candy Man or not. I mean, I could, but what for? What good would it do?

Mr. Ray lifted his eyebrows almost to his hairline. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Everything was cool, the cookies worked—”

“What'd I tell you? Told you, man. Chocolate chip always wins,” he interrupted.

“Yeah, yeah, I think it had more to do with my baking skills,” I boasted. “Most of them went to the kids, anyway.”

Mr. Ray looked as confused as I had when I heard about
the kids
.

“We went to the shelter,” I explained, letting Mr. Ray off the hook. “That's where we spent the day. And to be honest, it was pretty cool.”

“Oh, okay. Y'know, I've been meaning to volunteer there for years, but I never have time.” Mr. Ray stabbed at his mac and cheese. I swallowed hard. If he volunteered there, he'd probably bump into Candy Man, and who knows what would happen.

Mr. Ray continued. “So what happened at the end of—was it still a date? I mean, shelters aren't exactly first-choice date spots.”

“It was still a date,” I said, short.

“Okay, okay. Well, what happened at the end that threw it off ?”

“I asked her about Valentine's Day, that's all.” I punched at the buttons on the remote. “And she flipped on me!”

“Ohhhhh,” Mr. Ray moaned.

“What? You know what it is? Why Valentine's Day pisses her off ?”

Mr. Ray took a fork-full of everything and stuffed it in his mouth.

“You know, don't you?” I asked, urgently. Mr. Ray just chewed his food. “Mr. Ray? Are you going to tell me or what?”

He swallowed and said calmly, “Matthew, I can't. It's not my place. And I need you to understand that.” He took the remote and found the football game. I leaned back on the couch, frustrated. Yeah, I understood why Mr. Ray couldn't say what he knew. Loose lips sink ships, my mom used to say, and I went to school every day on the
Titanic
, so I got it. But still, I wanted to know.

But I got myself together. “What about you? How was your Thanksgiving?”

The score on the game was zero to zero, fourth quarter, making this the most boring game ever. At least that's what it seemed like to me, and Mr. Ray apparently felt the same way because he turned the channel again. News. He looked at the
TV
screen as if it were the reporter who just asked him a question. He never looked at me. “I had dinner in the basement,” he finally said, his voice empty. And I suddenly knew why he really came over. It wasn't to check on me—at least not
just
to check on me. He just wanted to be around someone. He was just like Candy Man waiting on one more game of chess. I got it, and I knew I didn't need to comment on it, so we just sat there, swallowed by the giant burgundy couch, watching the news, when suddenly I sat forward—Connie Whitlock came on the screen. Her head seemed larger than it did in real life.

“Good evening, folks. I'm Connie Whitlock, and today was a special day, not only for people fortunate enough to break bread with family, but also for the less fortunate, who today also got to share in a family meal, thanks to the good people down at Helping Hand Shelter.”

I slapped Mr. Ray on the arm. “Hey, this is about the shelter. She interviewed me today. I'm about to be on this thing!” Strange—even though I'm not the smoothest person when it comes to things like interviews, I was superhyped to see myself on
TV
. Who wouldn't be?

First, Lovey (who looked even better on-screen) talked about
the history of Helping Hand, and about her grandmother, Gwendolyn Brown. She and Connie were walking around the shelter—they got some really cool footage of all the kids waiting in line to get their pictures taken, the massive pots and pans and trays for the food, and some of the other volunteers. And then, I was up.

“. . . I thought maybe I'd come and everyone would just be bummed out . . .”

I was hoping they'd edit that out. But, they didn't.

“Bummed out!” Mr. Ray shouted, heaving with laughter. He pounded his leg and threw his head back like old men do, cracking up. “Man oh man,” he panted. “If I was that dude sitting next to you, I would've been pissed!”

“Who, him?” I pointed to the screen. “Crazy thing is, he didn't seem to even catch it,” I said. Then I took a deep breath and looked away from the television, away from Mr. Ray, and said, “The other crazy thing is that his name is Candy Man.” I tried to laugh it off, and hoped this didn't go bad. I'm not even sure why I said it, but it just seemed like the right thing to do. If Mr. Ray hadn't mentioned him, I would've let it slide, but he gave me an opening, so I took it as a sign. Maybe Mr. Ray could find closure or something. I didn't know.

Mr. Ray's cackling tapered off. “Wait, what did you say?” He caught his breath. “What's the guy's name?”

“Him?” I pointed to the guy who was sitting behind me on the screen again. “They call that guy Candy Man.”

Mr. Ray leaned into the
TV
to get a better look. He leaned so
far that his butt was up off the couch. He studied the man for at least ten seconds, while Connie Whitlock wrapped up the report.

“. . . have a happy Thanksgiving, everyone. Now, back to you, Carla.”

Mr. Ray flopped back down on the couch, his face stricken, like he had seen a ghost.

“I'll be damned,” he muttered. Then, “Sonuvabitch.”

Mr. Ray had a sick look on his face. As if the mac and cheese was spoiled and was suddenly tying his stomach in knots. He wiped his forehead, his eyes, and his mouth all in one motion, then said, “Martin Gandrey.”

I bit down hard on my bottom lip. “I didn't want to tell you.”

“Martin ‘Candy Man' Gandrey,” he repeated again, ignoring me. Mr. Ray stared at the
TV
. The news had gone on to the next story. Fire in Bushwick.

Fire in Mr. Ray.

Fire in my mind.

“That's him, Mr. Ray.”

Mr. Ray turned back toward me, his eyes lost, his mouth frowning. “That's him.”

Chapter 13

516

“H
ELLO
?”
MY
D
AD SAID, GROGGY,
over the phone.

I wiped the sleep off my face and cleared the night before from my throat. I wasn't sure what time Mr. Ray left, but I know he stayed past midnight going on and on about Martin Gandrey.

“Dad, I'm sorry I didn't make it in. I overslept. Long night.” I looked in the mirror. The couch cushion left lines in my cheek.

“Oh, really? Long like you ain't your mama's little boy no more, long?”

“No, man.” I rubbed my eyes. “Not like that at all. Mr. Ray came over and we just sat up talking for a while. I think he was having a tough day.”

“Ah, I've had quite a few of those myself,” my dad said. He pulled the conversation back. “How was Thanksgiving?”

“It was cool. Different, but cool. Yours?”

“Terrible. Hospital food is running straight through me. I been up all night too, but I been calling on God and releasing the devil!” he howled out, his staticky voice popping in my ear. “So I'm glad you ain't come in here this morning. Damn room smells like a war zone.”

We talked a little bit more as I slipped on my suit. Then I told Dad I'd see him Monday, and ran out the front door to see if Mr. Ray was sitting on his stoop.

“I'm so sorry, Mr. Ray,” I said, running across the street, shoes untied and shirt untucked. “I overslept.”

Mr. Ray sat there smoking a cigarette, flipping through the last few pages of the newspaper. I noticed he wasn't wearing his tie.

“No biggie, son,” he said, lowering the paper. There was tired in his eyes. “No work today, anyway. People typically don't bury folks the day after a holiday.” He took a pull of his cigarette and blew the smoke into the air. “Can't blame 'em for that.”

“Oh, okay,” I said, sort of disappointed and sort of relieved. “What time did you leave last night?”

Mr. Ray tapped the ash on the step. “I don't know, one or two. You were passed out. Snoring and everything. Then I came on back over here, and just sat up and thought for a while. Candy Man.” He took a quick pull on the smoke. “You know I wasn't really mad when you said that was his mug on the
TV
screen.”

“You weren't?” That was a relief.

“Naw . . . it was more like . . . it hurt. It was sad to see him that way, y'know?” Mr. Ray flicked the cigarette butt out onto the
sidewalk. I watched it hit the ground and roll a little, still smoking. “Like I told you, life ain't shit like chess.”

Mr. Ray snapped his newspaper and lifted it back to his face. I couldn't read his mood. Couldn't tell if he was in a bad one or a good one. Maybe neither. Maybe both.

“Two days off in a row?” I changed the subject, which I realize now was one of my better talents. “What you gonna do?”

Mr. Ray folded the paper and slapped it flat on his knees. “Well, after yesterday and last night, I think I'm just gonna sit right here and enjoy the sunshine.”

I took a seat next to him and looked across the street at my house. It was weird how even from the outside you could tell something had changed. It was like even the house didn't look as alive. Like some of it had died too. I'm not sure if it was just because for the past few months fewer people had lived there, or what, but it definitely looked different. Darker.

My phone buzzed.

1 TEXT MESSAGE

Sleep?

It was Lovey. My stomach turned over. Part of me wanted to smile, and part of me wanted to be upset.

I tried to cover the phone. I didn't want Mr. Ray to see and start teasing.

Nope wassup?
I texted back, trying not to sound desperate.

Buzz.

Nothing just chillin at home

U work today?
she asked, as if everything was cool between us.
I didn't know Lovey well enough to know how she really was, but I hoped she wasn't one of those girls who cussed you out and then acted like it never happened the next day, making you feel all crazy. That's not cool.

Nope wassup?
I repeated.

I tried to play off the texting as smooth as possible. I wouldn't look at Mr. Ray, who was now reading the last page of his paper and pretending not to hear the constant buzzing.

Buzz.

I'm off too,
she texted.

I didn't really know what to text next. I mean, first she got all mad at me and now she's texting. What was up with that? And still, I wanted to see her. But after the whole Valentine's Day drama, I didn't know how to ask.

“Tell Lovey I said hello,” Mr. Ray said through the newspaper.

“What you talking about?” I faked a laugh. Awkwardness was such a natural thing for me.

Mr. Ray lowered the paper and just glared at me. “Uh-huh. I'm old, Matt. And when you old, certain things you just know. This is one of those things.” He raised the paper back up. “What's that look?” He dropped the paper again to catch my eyes. I turned away.

“You know what this look is, Mr. Ray. Tell me why she got so mad at me yesterday?”

Mr. Ray sighed. “I can't tell you, son. You know I would if I could, but what kind of man would I be?”

“I know, and I feel you. But what am I supposed to do?”

Mr. Ray flashed a grin. “You need to get to clicking and clacking on your little fancy phone there to figure out a time for y'all to talk. Really talk. Not this mess y'all doing right now.”

“Texting.”

“Whatever.”

Dang. Mr. Ray was right. We needed to talk, plain and simple. And seeing as though
she
was texting
me
, she clearly was opening the door. I just had to be man enough to walk through it.

Buzz.

Come over?
she texted.

Come over?

My stomach started twisting up with nervousness and excitement and fear and weirdness. But my reply came across cool as ever. I understood where Mr. Ray was coming from about talking, but at the same time, thank God for text messaging.

Be there in 20

I glanced up at Mr. Ray, who was just looking at me smiling. Before I could even tell him that I was about to leave, he bounced his eyebrows like a weirdo.

“See ya later, Matt,” he said all singsongy as I hurried off the stoop.

I was hoping that on the way to Lovey's house I'd have a chance to get myself together and work out all the nerves, so that when I got there, I wouldn't have to worry about becoming a robot or an alien or anything like that. But since this is Brooklyn, and I'm Matty
Miller, of course my quiet walk was interrupted before I even got to the end of the block.

“Yo, Matt!” someone called behind me.

I turned around and Chris was skipping toward me, his shoes only halfway on, the heels flopping.

“Yo man, you couldn't hit me back?” he said, talking about text­ing me
What happened?
right before Mr. Ray showed up last night. I never responded, because what happened was, well, I didn't even really know.

“Man, my bad, but I wasn't feeling that well. Went to bed early. Long day,” I said, walking backward.

“How was the date?” he asked. Then, realizing that I was on the move, “Where you going?”

“I'm going to Lovey's house to hang out.” I held in a smile. “Down on Greene.”

Chris's eyes bugged out. “Word?” He looked at me funny. “Well, I'm going that way too, to the barbershop.”

What could I say? He was my best friend. Even though I wanted to walk by myself . . . he was my best friend.

“So forreal, tell me about yesterday,” he demanded, pausing to tie his shoes. He told me that he saw me pass the building and ran outside to catch me, which is why he was all over the place.

“Ain't really nothing to tell.”

“What? Yes there is,” he said, this time assuming that I
had
had some crazy time with Lovey.

“Man, not like you think. She took me to a homeless shelter and we spent the day there.”

“Oh,” he said, awkward. “That's . . . um . . . different.” He thumbed a smudge on his left shoe.

“Shut up, man.”

“What?” Chris stood up and stretched his arms out. “I'm just saying I never heard that before. A date at the
shelter
.”

“Dude, you're not funny.”

“I'm not trying to be, Matt.” He was lying. He was totally trying to be funny. “I'm just trying to understand.”

A woman pushed a stroller up the street. Me and Chris stepped to the side so she could get by.

“Let me get this straight,” Chris said as we continued to walk. “You ate turkey with a bunch of bums?”

“Don't call them bums! But yeah, I did. And it was pretty dope,” I said, serious.

“Ah . . . all righhhhhhht. Huh. So after that you better had at least been rewarded with a smooch,” Chris finally said.

“Not even.”

Chris stopped short. “What?!”

I kept moving. “It didn't happen.”

“What do you mean, it didn't happen?” His footsteps quickened as he tried to catch up. “Why not?”

I kicked at an empty potato chip bag that the wind was blowing around like a leaf. A salt-and-vinegar leaf. “The thing is, it was all going smooth. A great time at the shelter, a sweet walk home, vibin'. But then I asked her something about Valentine's Day and she lost it. Like, she totally flipped and just shut me down.”

“Wait. Let me get this straight. You mention Valentine's Day,
and she spazzes on you? What the hell kinda girl does that?” Chris yelped.

“That's what I'm saying! And now I'm going over her house so we can talk about it.” It was my turn to stop short. “Oh. We're here.”

Chris looked up at Lovey's house, then looked at me, still stuck somewhere in his head.

“Wait right here. I want you to meet her.”

I ran up the stoop, skipping every other step, and jammed my finger into the buzzer.

“Who is it?” Lovey's voice came through.

I cleared my throat. “Matt.”

A few moments later there she was, standing at the front door in jeans and a sweatshirt, her hair down but pulled back behind her ears. The gold chain with her mother's name hung around her neck.

“Hey,” I said, my heart beating crazy fast. “I want you to meet my boy, Chris.” I stepped out of the way, so she could see him. “Chris, Love. Love, Chris.”

“Hey, Chris.” She stood in the doorway and waved.

“Hey,” he said, running up the steps to shake her hand. He wore a stupid smile on his face, and I knew he was sizing her up so he could run down all of his crap about how he could tell she was crazy just from the handshake.

“Matt, I'll holla at you later,” he said. “Nice meeting you, Love.”

As he walked down the steps, he looked back as I closed the door. Big stupid smile still there.

Lovey's apartment looked exactly like a grandma's place is
supposed to look. Old. Comfortable. Warm. Brown and green and orange. Big sofas, small
TV
s. Old-school.

“Shoes off,” Lovey commanded, as we came into the front room.

I slipped my hard black dress shoes off, glad I didn't have any holes in my socks.

There were photos everywhere, some framed and propped up on tables, some just pinned to the wall. There were tons of pictures of flowers, but most were of her and her grandmother, who I recognized from the funeral. As a matter of fact, a lot of the photos were the ones that ended up in the funeral program.

“You want something to drink?” Lovey asked while I took a seat on the brown couch in the living room. The couch was soft, and I could tell that a lot of butts had been on it by the way I sunk down in it, just like I do when I sit on the big burgundy spaceship in my house.

“Sure. Anything is good.”

Lovey bumped around in the kitchen while I kept looking around at all the old trinkets and pictures. There was a framed piece of cloth with
BLESS THIS HOUSE
sewn into it on the wall next to a picture of Jesus, next to a picture of Martin Luther King Jr., next to a picture of Lovey, young and weird looking. It was a school photo, one of the ones with the bookcase background. Lovey had pigtails, and that same chain around her neck. In the picture the chain was a lot longer.

“I know you happy you didn't have to work today,” Lovey called out from the kitchen. “I know I am.”

“I don't know, I was actually kinda disappointed. I mean, I don't hate my job. Matter fact, I kinda like it,” I explained as Lovey came into the living room holding two glasses of orange juice.

She handed me a glass and plopped down on the couch next to me, looking surprised.

“Really? You like working around dead people? Funerals? Sad families?”

I took a sip.