Visitation Street (13 page)

“Valerie!”

Two men are sitting on a bench. One of them has a withered face the color of coal dust. He coughs with a tin can rattle. “Whitey lost his baby girl.”

His friend, whose face is covered in scrub-brush stubble, takes a pull from a brown-bagged bottle. “Yes sir, indeed.”

“No use chasing that little girl now,” the first man says. “When a girl wants to be gone, she is gone.”

Jonathan stands up and breathes deeply. The whine in his ears is now in sync with the wheeze in his chest. His whole body sounds like a kids’ recorder concert.

“Now, what’d you do to make a girl run from you like that?” the man with the bottle says.

When Jonathan catches his breath, he heads out of the projects, taking his time getting back to the waterside.

The sun has passed over Van Brunt and is heading for the river. “Missing” posters for June still flutter from lampposts and mailboxes. The bench outside the Dockyard is packed with Lil’s most devoted drinkers.

“Hey, Maestro, where you been hiding?” Biker Mike calls. “You got a song for us?”

Lil steps outside. She leans up against the door. She’s already wearing her shot glass and has been putting it to good use. “How about a drink on the house for my best customer?”

“Since when am I your best customer?”

“Since when weren’t you? So how about it, Maestro?” Lil lifts her shot glass to her lips, draining a droplet of whiskey. She brushes against Jonathan’s hips. “Keep me company. All I’ve got is a bunch of dorks inside doing a book club.”

“If you’re buying.”

“For you?” Lil slaps Jonathan on the ass. After her initial shit, she’s been extra sweet on him lately. It’s as if his association with danger made him worthier.

Before he and Lil head inside, he looks south and catches Val crossing Van Brunt and heading toward the water. The allure of free whiskey fades.

Jonathan’s only gone a few steps when Lil calls, “You’re not turning down a free drink are you, Maestro? You owe me some company after I saved your ass. If you leave me, I’ll drink myself under the table by closing.”

A few more drinks and Jonathan’s not sure Lil will even make it to the end of her shift. “I’m not leaving you,” Jonathan says, turning away.

“Hey,” Lil says. “When I’m sober, I’m going to fuck you.”

Jonathan can hear Biker Mike and New Steve laugh. Lil turns and gives them the finger.

Jonathan hurries off before he has to hear any more.

He arrives at square of grass that leads to the rocky beach and pier where he found Val. The Staten Island ferry slides across the water. A tug rounds into view, its engine humming like a muffled snare drum. As he looks down toward the pier, he sees Val strip off her clothes and climb over the railing. Jonathan’s breath catches as he watches her jump. Her legs and arms are bent like cricket wings. She sails, her legs pedaling the air, pushing her far from the pier. Then she dips from sight. An image of her holding her breath, weighing herself down, forbidding herself to rise fills Jonathan’s mind.

Jonathan begins to rush to the pier. As he approaches, he sees a young black man strip to his boxers and jump in after Val. Jonathan hurries, unsure whether the second jumper intends to harm or help.

When he reaches the tip, he sees Val and the black kid treading water about fifty feet out. He watches them sink below the water—an agonizing disappearance that makes him feel as if he’s drowning. They surface, their lips locked. Then they plunge again.

Jonathan calls Val’s name, turning his voice into a buoy or a beacon, summoning her home. He wants to dive into the water, haul her to safety, be the person who brings her ashore. She swims farther out.

On the pier, he finds Val’s skirt and blouse. He waves them to get her attention. He shouts her name, making a melody of the syllables. He worries that each of his cries is sending her farther out into the currents of the Upper Bay.

Close to Jonathan, two fishermen have cast their lines into the water. Their bucket holds the slick bodies of several glassy-eyed fish.

“Let the kids go,” one of the men says. “Your yelling’ll only make them drown faster. You can’t help them from here. Either get in the water or wait for them to come back.”

He watches Val’s small, dark head bob as the wake from the tug crests over her. Light waves hit the rocks with a castanet clatter. A seagull chatters to itself. Then Val sees Jonathan. She stares at him, her gaze rising and falling with the waves. She begins to swim for land, cutting through the gray water with uneven strokes.

Valerie hauls herself out of the bay and onto the rocky beach. She appears at the far end of the pier. Her cotton underwear droops. She wraps her arms around herself as she makes her way to Jonathan. Her stomach is flat and white. Below her small breasts, hidden by a flimsy child’s bra, Jonathan can see the outlines of her ribs. He wants to look away.

They meet in the middle of the pier.

“Mr. Sprouse?”

Val drops her hands to her sides. Her hair hangs limp. Her pale skin is almost blue. Goose bumps have blossomed on her arms. Jonathan holds out her blouse. Val reaches for the shirt, then takes one step farther and steps into Jonathan’s chest. She is as cool and clammy as when he found her under the pier. Her limbs seem as fragile as dried leaves. He worries that if he wraps his arms around her, he will bruise her skin.

Val bows her head, pressing it into his shoulder. She begins to shake and soon Jonathan feels tears wetting his collarbone. He hesitates, then embraces her, wrapping his arms around the points of her shoulder blades.

The fishermen reel in their lines to watch. Jonathan loosens his grip, but Val only sinks in deeper. Her sobs are audible now. “You found the wrong person,” she says. “You should have left me there.”

One of the fishermen scrapes back his camp stool. “What do you think you’re doing letting that girl stand around in her underpants? You some kind of pervert?”

“You didn’t even look for June. Why didn’t you find her instead?” Val says. Jonathan feels her mouth move against his shirt.

“You were the only girl under the pier.”

Jonathan looks over Val’s head and down the pier. Her swimming companion is standing halfway down dressed only in his boxers. “Who the hell are you?” the kid calls.

Val jerks away from Jonathan.

“Get her dressed,” the fisherman says, “else I’m going to call someone.”

Val grabs her blouse and clutches it to her chest.

“What’s going on?” the black kid demands, looking at Jonathan. “What d’ya do to her?”

“I’m fine,” Val says. She stoops to collect her shoes, skirt, and blazer, then hurries away from the pier, not stopping for her friend who stands shirtless in the swollen afternoon sun.

Lil is nodding off on the bench outside the bar. Jonathan walks by without disturbing her. He goes to the liquor store and buys a fifth of whiskey which he brown-bags on the way home. He’s fumbling with his keys when Lil comes to life.

“Maestro—wanna share that with me?”

“Looks like you’ve had plenty.”

Jonathan gets his door open.

“What?” Lil says, standing up and steadying herself on the bar’s window. “You too good for me now you’re a hero? I make your life possible,” she says. “Don’t forget.”

He has a half a mind to give Lil his bottle. Instead he slams the door, climbs his stairs, keeps working on the booze, skipping the formality of a glass.

He has no idea how long his phone has been ringing. He’s lying on the couch, one foot on the floor. The apartment is dark. His head feels bruised. He’s killed the whiskey. The empty lies on its side on his coffee table.

“You bitch,” Dawn says when he answers. “I’m up here singing a cappella to a room full of bridge and tunnel ketamine-clobbered beefcake. You
abandoned
me.”

Jonathan looks at the time. He’s missed his first set at Cock ’n Bulls.

“You’re ruining my life,” Dawn howls. “You’re
ruining
me. I’m having twenty heart attacks up here alone. I can’t find my range.

I’m sharp. I’m flat. I’m
dying
.”

“I’m sure you’re doing fine,” Jonathan says.

“You don’t
do
this to a girl. You don’t stand a girl up. I’m working like Martha Stewart on Christmas. And no one’s tipping. I need backup.”

“Why don’t you lip-sync?” Jonathan asks.

“You think I’m just another low-rent tranny with a boom box?”

Jonathan rubs his temples. “If you’re not here in half an hour, I’m gonna cut your balls off,” Dawn says before hanging up.

The Cock ’n Bulls bar is in full feather when Jonathan arrives. A few drag queens are standing along the far wall. They catch sight of him and snap their fingers, purse their lips, and bob their heads from side to side.

“Girl,” one of them says as Jonathan passes on his way to the stage, “Ms. Dawn is ready to kill.”

He catches sight of Dawn Perignon in a floor-length pink sequined gown that slithers over her boyish hips, and elbow-length evening gloves. Her curly brown wig ends just below the ear. Her eyebrows are drawn on with thin pencil semicircles. Her eyelashes are so long they cast shadows on her cheeks.

Jonathan waits for her to finish “Age of Aquarius” to take his place at the piano.

“You look like Edith Piaf,” he says. “On a bad day.”

Dawn covers the microphone. “Fuck you.”

“That isn’t very ladylike.”

“You smell like a sports bar.”

He bangs out the opening bars of “Sunset Boulevard” before she can get in another word.

Dawn turns back to her audience and holds out one hand toward Jonathan, flashing cocktail rings with gems the size of jawbreakers. “A good man
is
hard to find. Am I right, boys?”

As she sings, Dawn lounges on top of the piano, crossing her legs and showing off her six-inch white patent leather platforms.

They run through their repertoire—songs from
Evita
and
South Pacific
, a bunch of Judy Garland numbers, and much of
Cabaret
. Dawn won’t look Jonathan’s way, but she knows that she’s at her best when they sing duets. His voice is the anchor and hers the comedy. They ham up “Me and My Girl” and “The Lady Is a Tramp,” which are both good for laughs at Jonathan’s expense.

Before their last set they step into the alley behind the bar for a smoke. She makes him hold her cigarette for her. She snaps her gloved fingers when she wants it put to her lips.

Jonathan tries to get ash on her dress.

“Why are you so quiet?” she asks. “I hope you’re not about to give me that
I used to be a real musician
crap.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t
have
to say anything. I can
see
it.” She signals for the cigarette. “A girl has to work her ass off to keep a steady booking at a place like this. I don’t need you standing me up. You know how many queens are out there selling a show-tune revue? Millions.”

“None of them have an accompanist who was once on Broadway.”

“Don’t you have anything nice to say about me?”

“None of those queens can hold a candle to you. You’re a real star, sweetheart. I just bang the keys.”

“That’s better. Now how do I really look?”

“Like you belong on Park Avenue.” Jonathan places the cigarette into Dawn’s mouth.

“I read about you in the paper.” She inhales without pressing her lips to the filter. “Don’t act all surprised that a girl like me reads the paper.”

“I bet you even check the box scores.”

“It must have been horrible. Do you feel like a hero?”

“I feel like shit.”

She pinches Jonathan’s cheeks, pulling his lips into a pucker, then she kisses the air in front of his mouth. Her face is so close Jonathan can see the cracks in her foundation. “Well, baby, you should have called. That’s what girlfriends are for.”

Dawn and two other queens close the bar. They chase tequila shots with Coke. Jonathan sticks to whiskey.

“I’m not letting you head home all on your lonely,” Dawn says as they step onto the street at four
A.M.
The city is still flying. Cabs are streaming up Sixth Avenue and the all-night restaurants are packed.

One of the queens pinches Jonathan’s ass. “Why don’t you grab us a cab?”

“Get one of those big ones,” Dawn says. “A minivan.”

Eventually, Jonathan hails a minivan cab. The queens beg the driver to put on KTU, the dance station from Long Island, for the short ride to Dawn’s place on Avenue A.

Dawn’s apartment has one bedroom that she’s divided into three windowless rooms. For someone who wears six-inch heels and can apply mascara on a moving subway, she’s handy with power tools. The makeshift bedrooms are occupied by a revolving cast whose stage names blend into one long pun.

The girls kick off their heels, put their eyelashes on the coffee table, take off their wigs, but leave their stocking caps on. They fall back on the leopard-covered futon. Maybe it’s the heat or maybe it’s because the drugs are wearing off, but the energy is low.

Jonathan wakes up feeling the stubble of Dawn’s cheeks against his lips. Her breath is hot and sour; her body has a manly odor. He tries to push her off. She presses his shoulders back and covers his mouth with hers. Her tongue is massive.

Jonathan rolls out from under her. “What the fuck?”

“Baby, it’s not
good
to be lonely all the time.”

“I’m not that lonely.”

Dawn raises the smudged remains of her painted eyebrows. “Girl—” she begins.

“Forget it, Don.”

Out on the street, joggers, dog walkers, and commuters have replaced the late-night stragglers. People are lined up behind their laptops in coffee shop windows. Jonathan decides to walk to Brooklyn, because he has no real desire to get there.

T
he newspaper coverage of the June Giatto story has been disappointing. Except for the free local paper, the
Eagle
, the story never made the front page.

There were a few local color stories in the major papers—a brief mention of Jonathan. No criminal and no body make for no news. Even Fadi recognizes that.

Because of the papers’ lack of coverage, Fadi’s newsletter has gained traction in a community that craves any news of June—whether rumor, gossip, or fact. Not satisfied by the police’s response to their tips, people started dropping slips of paper in Fadi’s submission box. He edits and reprints them.