Another Brooklyn

13

We were not afraid of the dark places we went to with our boyfriends. Even though years before, a serial killer who called himself the Son of Sam had terrorized New York City, we backed into the darkened corners of the park anyway. Son of Sam killed white women. We were safe inside our brown skin.

But in Times Square that same year, brown girls were dying. Although we were miles away in Brooklyn, their stories felt close enough to touch, and haunted our nights. Those were the ones that were found, bodies rolled into rugs, behind trash bins, or naked and bobbing on the East River, throats slashed in the bathrooms of Forty-Second Street porn theaters. We knew that crossing that bridge meant being on the same side of the river as that place called Times Square, where girls like us got snatched up by pimps, shot up with dope, and spent the rest of their lives walking along Eighth Avenue, ducking their heads into slowing cars. This terrified us even more than losing Angela.

We’ll see her on Monday, we said. But Monday never came. She’ll be back, her teacher at Joe Wilson’s School of Dance said. Something has to come of that kind of talent.

We were so afraid. Angela had been taken to a foster home on Long Island, we heard. Or was it Queens? With an aunt? Or was it a group home? We were fourteen. There was so much we didn’t know.

One night, my father tiptoed in with another woman. I heard the ice clinking into glasses, heard the soft laughter. Rain beat down hard against the windows. The smell of damp surrounded us. I heard the soft plink of ice returning to the bottom of near-empty glasses. Where was Sister Loretta? I pulled my sheet over my head and reached for my brother’s hand.

In the morning, the prayer rugs were still there but rolled up against the wall now. Outside, Brooklyn was bright blue. Cloudless. Already, kids screamed and called for each other on the street. When I tiptoed into the living room, the woman lying on his sofa bed pulled the covers up over herself but not before I saw the size of her breasts, the dark nipples.

You his baby girl? the woman asked.

Sylvia’s father had a plan for her. One morning, Sylvia’s first boyfriend showed up at her door. He was tall and brown-skinned, the captain of the neighborhood high school basketball team. Please wait a moment, her father said. When he came back, he pointed a.22 at her boyfriend’s chest.

I will die in jail for my daughter, he said, his voice higher and softer than Sylvia had ever heard it. So high and soft, she couldn’t scream. Just watched, her hand to her mouth, as her father lifted the gun higher and her boyfriend closed his eyes, begged, Please God Please until her father lowered his gun, said, Go home to the God you believe in and don’t ever come to my door again.

He didn’t know he had already lost Sylvia.

It hurt like hell, she whispered to us. And then it didn’t anymore. It didn’t feel good like it’s supposed to. But it didn’t hurt.

Please, Jerome begged. But I said, No. Everything but that, I said. At night I heard the woman who was not Sister Mama Loretta calling my father’s name. In the morning, she pulled my father’s robe together at her breasts, made instant coffee, and sat at our kitchen table, smoking.

Oh just do it, Sylvia said. He’s too fine to let slip away.

Forget you then, Jerome said finally. Forget you.

Forget me.

I held on to my body and my brother held on to his faith, finally pulling my father back into it. On the weekends, they left the house in the early morning, spent the day at mosque, then returned late in the evenings, somber and soft-spoken, their Qur’ans tucked into the black briefcases they carried.

Other books began to fill our small bookshelf—How to Eat to Live; Message to the Blackman in America; The Fall of America. We sat together at the kitchen table late into the evenings, my father’s and brother’s heads deep inside their Nation of Islam books, me slowly turning the pages of my textbooks. I was suddenly hungry for the world outside of Brooklyn, something more complicated, bigger than this. Some evenings, my father looked over my shoulder, questioned me about geometry, The Crucible, the USSR. I stared at him, letting my shoulders rise and fall listlessly, the words too much trouble. My father patted my cheek, mumbled, I have a woman I want you to meet, and moved back to his Nation. I dipped my head back into my books. Because what else was there? Once, my brother and I had sat at a window, watching the world. Now we were deeply inside that world, working hard to find our way through it. I cooked the foods they would eat, omelets and eggplant, bean pies and roasted vegetables, leafy salads topped with tomatoes and onions, grilled fish, and olive oil. I was nearly as tall as my father and our Saturdays at Coney Island were long behind us. Hot dogs and boiled corn from hawking vendors felt like something out of another place and time.

The woman’s office was small and smelled of musk oil. Beneath her hijab, her face was unlined and calm, so that at certain angles, she looked no older than Jerome.

Brother, she said to my father.

Sister, he replied softly. This is my daughter.

There were degrees on the wall behind her, her name in boldly inked letters.

August, she said, after my father left. I want you to know you can trust me.

August, she said. Tell me about your mother.

Orba (feminine), the Latin word for orphaned, parentless, childless, widowed. There was a time when I believed there was loss that could not be defined, that language had not caught up to death’s enormity. But it has. Orbus, orba, orbum, orbi, orbae, orborum, orbo, orbis. .

The shortcut from the subway meant walking through Irving Park, past the boys slamming balls into hoops and the handball players with their single-gloved hands. So many nights, this park transformed itself into a party, silhouettes of bodies moving to the DJ’s music, couples disappearing into the deep pockets of it. But it was early spring and the DJs weren’t jamming in the park yet. I walked through it slowly, my head down, my mind on the AP exam I’d be taking come Monday.

When I looked up, my eyes landed on Sylvia and Jerome, her head on his shoulder, her hands small and warm inside of his. I knew that warmth, that kind of holding.

Sylvia?

August. Hey.

Hey yourself.

When you’re fifteen, pain skips over reason, aims right for marrow. I don’t know how long I stood there staring at them, watching Jerome slip his hand from Sylvia’s, watching Sylvia inch away.

Where’re you heading?

When you’re fifteen, the world collapses in a moment, different from when you’re eight and you learn that your mother walked into water — and kept on walking.

When you’re fifteen, you can’t make promises of a return to the before place. Your aging eyes tell a different, truer story.

Linden, Palmetto, Evergreen, Decatur, Woodbine — this neighborhood began as a forest. And now the streets were named for the trees that once lived here.

It’s crazy, Sylvia said. The way this me-and-Jerome thing happened. Don’t be mad. You guys broke up. I was gonna tell you.

What about law? I wanted to ask. What about your father? The question vast as the silence between us: What about me?

My geography text had shown me the complexity of the world, and that night I leaned over it, hungrily, intrigued by all the places out there beyond Brooklyn — Mumbai, Kathmandu, Barcelona — anyplace but here.

In Fiji, so that the dead were not left alone in the next world, their loved ones were strangled in this one, the family reunited in the afterlife.

You said she was coming tomorrow and—my brother said.

For a long time, I believed it was true.