This Side of Providence (33 page)

Snowman

F
or years I had the same dream, over and over again. A nightmare, really, about Justin drowning. We were swimming in a waveless ocean, somewhere warm and bright where the sun is always shining. Everything was white: the buildings, the clouds, the sand, and me. Only Momma and Justin were dark, like penguins against the snow.

At first we were all swimming together, but then Momma got out to lie in the sun. I was holding Justin, teaching him how to kick and blow bubbles and paddle his hands like a dog. A wave came from behind me, crashing over us. The salt water burned so I closed my eyes and just as I did I felt Justin slip out of my hands. I opened my eyes to look for him. I scanned the water, but the surface was completely still. He was gone. I dove under the water but it was too dark to see. I couldn't even see my own hand in front of my face.

I yelled for Momma to come quick, that Justin had gone under the water. She stood in the sand, towering like an ancient tree, one that would not grow on the beach and yet somehow did, learning to adapt to the constant wind, the salt, the sea-thick air, and told me to find her son.

“Bring me my boy,” she yelled from the water's edge. “I don't care what you have to do. Bring my boy back to me.”

I dove under the water again and this time I saw him right away. He was frozen in motion, his eyes wide open like a doll. I picked him up; his body was stiff and cold. His lips were slightly parted like he was talking or about to smile. I stepped from the
water to a chill I'd never known. I held him in my arms and walked out of the sea, his body limp and breathless. The sand was cold against my feet, packed hard like snow. I tried to revive him, to bring him back to life, but nothing I did worked.

By the time I looked up to face Momma, she was gone. She and Justin were both gone, and I knew I was going to spend the rest of my life alone.

I realize I'm probably making a huge mistake by renting Arcelia the apartment, but I did it for the kid and his sisters. And for her. So that's how I justify it. She's sick and I took pity on her. How am I going to say no to a lady that's dying?

To convince myself, I try to believe she's changed. That she can really stay clean. But I've seen enough of my neighbors try to straighten out to know it's close to impossible. Heroin fucks with your brain chemistry, not just your body, and that shit never heals no matter how long you're clean. It's like cutting out the piece of your brain that makes you feel good, and then hoping you're going to be okay without it. When you got a hole like that, you spend all day filling it; by nightfall, if you're lucky, you're back up even with the ground. The hardcore junkies don't even get a high, they're just using to maintain. Because if they didn't the hole would grow to the size of the Grand Canyon and they'd feel so sick by the end they would rather just be dead.

The first few weeks go pretty smoothly. She gets the subsidy and pays first month's rent and the security deposit, and every time I stop by everything seems okay. She's by herself most of the time, usually washing dishes or cooking, sometimes writing in this fat spiral notebook she leaves on the kitchen table. She looks more comfortable with a knife than a pen. She seems calm, or actually more like somber, and I take that as a good sign. It must mean she's still clean.

When I see Cristo he looks happy. The smile on that kid's face when I show him his bedroom—when he slides across the clean wood floors in his socks, when he opens the brand-new
refrigerator and shows me the ice maker—that makes it all worth it. Even if I regret it later it's worth those few seconds of joy. For him and me.

He comes to see me at the pool one day and brings a pair of cutoff jeans to swim in. There's problem number one: the kid needs a real bathing suit. He says he's ready to do laps with me, but after a few seconds in the water I can tell he can't really swim. He keeps himself afloat, but he doesn't know any strokes except the doggy paddle. Problem number two. I tell him to come back next weekend after my workout and I'll show him a few things.

In the meantime, I buy him a pair of goggles and a spandex cap to keep his hair out of his face. And a Speedo so he isn't dragging all that unnecessary weight through the water. When he's all suited up I teach him how to move his arms for the crawl and how to breathe on alternating sides. I show him the flutter kick, and I hold his hands in the water as he practices.

I used to imagine bringing Justin to this pool when he got bigger, to swim laps with me and do backflips off the diving board. After he got adopted, I wouldn't let myself think about him too much—not while I ate his favorite chicken potpie dinners or walked to the corner store to buy ice pops and orange soda, his favorite combo during a heat wave. But I did keep seeing him whenever I was in the water. I heard his laugh echoing across the crowded pool. I could see his smile on the faces of all the little boys in the preschool swim class. For years I would come here every day and swim laps for over an hour, just so I could have that time with my brother. So I could see his face and remember how much I missed him. So I could cry without any trace of tears.

Cristo's a natural and by the end of the first lesson he can swim a few laps without resting. As he gets more confident, his strokes get stronger until next thing I know he's slipping into the fast lane, trying to catch me.

When we walk out of the locker room I ask him if he wants me to put him on my membership. “That way, you don't have to keep sneaking in.”

He looks at me, water still dripping from his hair. “You'd
let me do that?”

“Of course. It's no big deal.”

I stop at the counter and tell the lady I want to update my card so I can add him on. She scans the card in the computer.

“You have an individual membership, Mr. Lewis. The only way to add him is if you change to a family one.”

“Okay.”

“Is he part of your family?”

“Yes.”

She looks at me.

“He's my son.” I don't even hesitate. I don't even think about the lie.

She opens her mouth to speak. She's wondering how she could see me almost every day for years and never have seen him before. She thought she knew me.

I smile at her, which makes her close her mouth. “Okay,” she says.

They take his picture and make him his own card so he can get in anytime, even when I'm not there. Cristo holds the card like it's a driver's license or a credit card, something that makes him a grownup. He stares at the photograph as if he doesn't recognize himself.

“What's up? You don't like it?”

“No. It's not that. It's just the first photograph I seen of myself since the class picture last year.” He raises his eyebrows. “I didn't know I looked so old.”

Maybe it's putting him on my card, with the name Cristoval Lewis printed next to his picture, or maybe it's the form I have to sign about being the responsible party if he gets hurt on their property, but something changes for me right then and I realize I have to take care of this kid no matter what. I have to watch out for him. And I have to trust that nobody's going to take him away from me—not his teacher, not his mother, not the state.

After Justin I used to swear I'd never get attached to anyone again, and I kept that promise for more than fifteen years, till this skinny Puerto Rican kid with an Afro and an attitude as big as Rhode Island made me break it.

I know it's a bad sign when I hear she's looking for me. First in the Laundromat, then from Lorenzo, my corner man, and finally from the ladies at Dunkin' Donuts.

“Arcelia's looking for you,” they say when I stop by for a bran muffin after my swim. “She acted like she was going to die if she didn't find you right then.”

“When was that?”

“Last night sometime.”

I nod like it's no big deal but inside my stomach twists and when I walk out the door I throw the muffin away without even taking a bite. I have work to do on a house in the Armory but instead of going straight there I head over to her apartment first. I wait for almost half an hour but nobody's home. I go around to the back and peek in the kitchen window. There's no sign of anything wrong so I decide not to let myself in. No reason to panic.

I'm walking down Westminster when I notice a car driving slow behind me. I sneak a look at the driver and recognize Lucho's sullen expression instantly. She turns her head away, as if not looking at me means that I can't see her. She pulls into a driveway, figuring I'll walk away I guess, but instead I walk straight up to the car. All the windows are down and she's blasting some Spanish dance music.

“You looking for someone?” I bend down to scan the inside of her car, making sure it's empty.

“No.” She turns the music down.

“Why you driving so slow then?”

She puts up her hands like I'm a cop. “I'm just driving around the neighborhood.”

“I thought you might be looking for me, since you owe me some rent on the last place. You're not looking to pay up, are you?”

“My name wasn't on that lease,” she says.

“Oh, so now you pay attention to the law, huh?”

She looks away. “How much does she owe?”

“You just said it wasn't your business, didn't you?”

“Fine.” She puts the car in reverse. “Don't say I didn't offer.”

“You're about six months too late, champ. Somebody else paid your debts.”

She shrugs. “Anything I owe Arcelia is between her and me.”

“I wasn't talking about Arcelia.”

She stares at me with a confused look.

“The kid covered your ass,” I tell her. “Cristo. He's the one you owe.”

“Cristo?” She says his name like she doesn't know who I'm talking about.

“Arcelia's son.”

“I know who he is.”

“You don't act like it.”

She taps on the steering wheel, which is covered in fake leather. The car, a Honda that can't be more than a few years old, is a great improvement over the last junker I saw her in. I stand back and admire it, the silvery green paint shimmering in the sunlight.

“Nice car.”

“Thanks.”

“You pay it off yet?”

“Almost. Not everybody has the cash flow you got, Snowman.”

“Shit, I don't even own a car.”

That makes her laugh, which takes several years off her face. “That's 'cause you're cheap, not poor.”

I shrug. “Walking clears my head. Just like the Indians. I figure if I can't walk there, I probably don't need to go that far.”

“If my people followed that rule they never would've left Puerto Rico.”

“And would that have been such a bad thing?”

She lights a cigarette. “Do the math, man. If all the Spanish people left this city tomorrow, half your houses would be empty. And let's not even count your other business.” She offers me the pack but I decline. The only chemical I allow into
my body is the chlorine from the swimming pool.

“You're right,” I say. “But it wouldn't take long for another group to show up and fill them back up. If you've got a good product there's always someone willing to buy.”

She exhales a long stream of smoke. “And you always had the best, didn't you?”

I cross my arms. “I guess the customer's always right.”

She flicks the cigarette onto the sidewalk. “Listen, I know after last summer you said it was over for me and you, but the guy I been using just got popped and I'm kind of in a jam.” She tucks her hands into her armpits. “I'm not talking a lot, just something to help me out until I find somebody else. A couple of dime bags and some weed. Whatever you got laying around.”

I look up and down the street before answering. “I can't do it, Lucho. It's not the right time.”

“What's that mean? I got the money.”

I look toward Arcelia's apartment, a thin red house on the other side of the park. I wonder if Lucho knows how close we are to her ex. I look back at her.