Slapboxing with Jesus

kids on colden street

This was the year of crib deaths. This was the year of baby sisters. Our newborn, named Nabisase, cried even after she was fed. My mother came home weak from her labors. Grandma was the dishwasher and a pessimist. And then there was me.

Flushing had come alive in a wave of infants. You’d have thought there was a block-wide blackout nine months before. Our building leaned left with all the new weight on our side; at the other end of the place the elderly were not propagating. Diapers and bottles came in like a relief effort. When the elevator was broken, supplies were hauled up stairs on the scarred legs of older brothers. This was a change for most of us, this was a very new thing.

Each boy had ways to handle it. The standard was indifference. Ray and Bertram did this. Ali took it another route and ran. At twelve that seemed stupid, but he’d always been good with people so he took a chance. Between other conversations we would imagine where he had gone.

I became a family man.

Todd brought me to his third-floor apartment, on a Monday. He lived in one of the strip-thin homes that larger buildings like mine bracketed. We climbed past boxes, bikes left on landings. His mother was at work, his older sister too, cashiering at Key Food. His mother was distant and tall, a skinny woman who never let him have visitors. His long, swinging hair was a family trait, superblond; Todd’s skin was so pale we had to call him Red.

Todd, his sister and his mother had their own rooms. I shared one with my mother and our new girl. This arrangement wasn’t deadly yet: I hadn’t started having those dreams that left me needing privacy, waking up with messy sheets.

— What is it? I asked, annoyed at the buildup. I have something to show you, that’s all he’d said.

Todd opened the door to his room, told me to wait inside. His room was how a boy’s should be: a mess. A week of clothes on the floor, piles of the unwashed. I sat on the bed, that old Space Shuttle — style frame, a short mattress in the middle. I only came up to Todd’s shoulder and this thing was too small for me. On the end where his ankles would droop his mother had wrapped the thick yellow cushioning that televisions came in before Styrofoam. I stared at the material, getting bored; it was so perfect I couldn’t help but pick at it until fingerfulls were at my feet like baby chicks on a farm. Todd stepped in. — What the fuck are you doing? He tossed me a ball good for running bases, stickball or handball. I squeezed it.

He left again, shut the door. That Thurman Munson poster was still hanging there, on tacks. Todd talked about it incessantly. In it, Thurman was watching something he’d swatted over a fence, standing straight like he wouldn’t run until he’d heard the ball bounce down Bronx streets. The look on his face might have been called intensity but it had been a few years since he’d been in that crash, so to me he seemed to be listening to those game-day clouds as they whispered, You’re going to die up here. Todd’s father had left this for him before catching a plane back to Sweden where he lived apart from all he’d made here; somehow, fathers were leaving all types of things behind with which their sons might remember them, objects over which we could obsess.

Todd pushed open the door, in his right hand a small peach-colored box; with his left he turned on the light. He sat next to me, opened the box, turned it over and dropped the diaphragm onto his palm. It looked like half a rubber ball.

— That’s it?

— Oh yeah, Todd said. He held it over his mouth and nose. Look, a surgeon’s mask.

Laughing for no reason, I asked, — How does it work?

— My sister puts it in her pussy and it catches the guy’s cum so she won’t get pregnant.

I looked at him like he was stupid.

— I swear.

I put my hands out, he tossed it to me. — In her pussy? I asked, then, to my nose with it.

— She hasn’t used it yet, asshole.

I kept it over my face, trying to imagine. I threw it back to Todd.

— But that’s not the best part. See the little holes? He held the thing up to the bulb.

I stared, soon saw them. Shrugged.

— So? If she uses it she’ll get pregnant for sure.

My sibling was new to me, so I didn’t understand this hatred yet.

— My mom will kill her.

I shrugged again. — Okay.

He shook his head, put it back in the box. — Her life’ll be so fucked, he laughed. My sister says all babies are assholes.

— Not all of them. I picked up five candy wrappers he’d littered on the floor, crinkled the plastic in my hand.

— Isn’t she getting on your fucking nerves already? Todd asked. Doesn’t she cry a lot?

— She cries sometimes, but I get up.

— Why?

I reiterated, — Because she’s crying.

Todd grabbed his balls. — You sir, are a superfag.

— Your mother’s a faggot, I said, looked outside. All those apartment buildings, in every direction, and so many people inside, too many for me to count.

Kids on Colden Street could sense only two things instinctively: fights and running bases. Guys sat on stoops while younger ones slapboxed for their approval. Cars were lined up and never moved. I stood in the street, raised the ball for all to see. They came at me in multitudes, like the Israelites escaping Pharaoh’s bondage.

David was older, seventeen, a scourge. Normally he’d have appeared already, cut through our bodies and enthusiasm with his thick left hand, grabbed the ball from me, would have turned his back and launched that little blue globe up. It would bounce around when it hit our roof, where it would stay. Willie the Super would appear in a week with a brown box of balls: handball, football, baseball, more, that he’d sell back to us at a fair price. He and David were in on some high-class business venture. Around Flushing there were lots of ways to make money. Some harmless scheme. I even worked. One employee. Supervisor and supervised. For two dollars, you got one page. A letter, a note. You tell me the specifications and I turn out a product makes you seem: articulate, sensitive, heartbroken, serious, funny, concerned (choose one).

In my dresser drawer I had an envelope with forty-eight dollars inside, all singles. I was known for my work. Famous. Recognized by guys ages nine to nineteen as, that kid. I had been doing it for two years, since I was ten, and getting better. When I saw some guy holding hands with his new girlfriend, heard about the handjob he’d received at the movies, I took pride in knowing I had played a part. I told them all to recopy my letters in their own handwriting so females wouldn’t get suspicious.

But David was not around. Munish told me, — I haven’t seen him all day. When he spoke his shoulders bounced, laughter and relief.

Cindac agreed. — David hasn’t fucked with us once.

We played: half a block between manhole covers, Todd and Chewy tossing the ball to each other, seven of us between them going base to base. Whoever was tagged had to throw next round. It was a long time before I went up because I was willing to run on cars. To our right was my building, six stories. Behind it, through a hole cut in the structure, was the backyard, a place of yellow weeds and broken swings. The only reason to go back there was when hiding for a game of ring-a-levio or to pop off Roman candles and blockbusters.

My mother’s voice came searching for me. With a job to do. She dropped a brown paper bag out the window when she found me. It floated erratically, the change inside giving it enough weight to keep from blowing into the street. — There’s a list in there too, she called.

I tried to make a joke with her, but she hadn’t been in the mood to laugh with me for a long time now. Grandma would try to assure me that it was too soon after having the baby for Mom to be lighthearted again, but I would see her smiling with Nabisase, even with the neighbors on our floor. Nothing as simple as an apology would smooth things. It was my fault. For so many reasons then, I turned to my sister. Everyone has their secret joys and she was mine.

Didn’t check the paper until I was near the pizza parlor (one of them). Baby items. David was chilling by Lou’s Diner so I spun around the back to run my errands, through the alley full of fumes.

My arms were numb by the time I’d run the last flight of stairs, hands heavy with items in plastic bags. To the fourth floor, to our apartment door, ringing the bell with my forehead. Grandma let me pass. Mom was in the living room, flopped against the couch like she’d been punctured. The blinds were drawn; all the times my football had crashed against them had left dents and bends so that, even fully closed, slight fingers of light felt their way inside. Grandma announced my name to Mom in a whisper, as though I were being granted some audience. She worked at a grin for five minutes, then said, — Just leave those things. I’ll get to them later.

— What do you need done? I asked. Is it for her? I was asking about my sister.

My mother sighed heavy, looked away from me. — I can take care of my own daughter sometimes.

I slid down onto the cushion beside Mom. My butt was already half on my sister before Mom threw out an arm and knocked me back. Nabisase lay wrapped in green, her head pointed away from the mother; her sad little cry spilled out in burps like a bottle you’ve tipped over. I hadn’t seen her. — You sat on her. My mother laughed.

Apologized as I pulled the girl into my arms, tested around her soft spot with a gentle thumb, shook her slightly to calm her. Apologized some more.

Mom became annoyed again. — You didn’t hit her with a car! Put her down. Go outside or something.

I still held her while Mom tried to put a glare on her face so I’d understand she was angry. — I’m your big brother, I said.

Nabisase was serious when she stared at me, one hand around my neck. With the other she grabbed the glasses off my face and threw them behind the couch like that should tell me something.

The next day I ran into David, his teeth so bright they seemed store-bought. I had been hiding in the backyard as, on the street, Munish counted to one hundred before starting his search for us. I was wearing skates my mother had bought me; she said they were for helping with my sister, a present. When I tried them on she put her hand on my back, ushered me to the door, saying, — You have to use those outside. They were white joints with two stripes: one red, one blue. Around my friends I felt proud rocking them, but older heads said they made me look 100-percent gay.

David had come to the backyard to smoke weed with some friend. I was behind an air-conditioning unit, the industrial kind. He pulled me from my crouch into a stand. In my skates we were about the same height. It was strange being of equal stature, so I looked down. Cindac had been hiding in some things we called bushes, when he saw me get yanked he hid harder.

— You trying to get in my business? David asked, his eyes already so red and cloudy. His face was flat and round.

— I was playing, I explained.

— Saw your ass go around me the other day, he said, blew smoke out but turned his face from me considerately. You don’t want to see your friend David no more?

— I just had to get stuff for my moms, I explained.

— So? You could have said hi.

I nodded, hoping that if I agreed with him we’d keep everything cool. I didn’t speak or move because I didn’t want to give him anything more to discuss.

— Nice skates.

I dropped my head.

— Them’s some girl’s skates right? His boy managed to ask between deep hits.

I burst into an uneasy wobble. David yoked me without talking a step. I was very bad on my new skates. He dropped me quick. He leaned down, close to me, his breath warm and rich, said, — You know what I need from you?

When I wrote David’s first letter I went geographical: taking her to Australia and the Great Barrier Reef, a picnic at the source of the Nile, kissing her as we leaned against the Great Wall. David wouldn’t tell me who the girl was so I had to keep it all vague, no playing with her name, alliteration was out.

I was with Nabisase when I wrote it. She, on her back, on my bed, with her feet hefted up to her nibbling mouth and me on my stomach beside her, touched pen to the yellow legal-pad paper Mom had pilfered from work. — Should he meet her at night or daytime at the Hanging Gardens? I asked my sister.

When I spoke she darted her little black eyes at me, but only to see what was rumbling. She saw it was only her brother and looked away, to the more fascinating lightbulb, screwed into the ceiling and glowing.

Written as best the letter would ever be, I dressed Nabisase, told my mother we were going for a constitutional. She and Grandma were on the couch eating dinner. They didn’t agree to let me take her, but their protests were less adamant this time.

Along with us and the letter came the change of diapers, bottle, pacifier, bib, talcum powder, cloth, baby wipes and two comic books. As we walked I did the little mommy-bounce, the calming up and down with the girl weighted against my left hip.

We rode the elevator to the top floor, sixth. At the door to David’s crib I waited and switched Nabisase to my other arm, moved the baby bag, smiled at her, kissed her baldish head. She pulled back from my lips to throw her arms at the slick, painted door. When I leaned forward to ring the bell she rested her palms against the surface. I had to ring it twice. Finally David opened up. — What?

— Letter.

He took it, turned on the light in his hallway, read it running his finger across each line, looked at me. — Nah.

— Nah?

— No.

— No? I asked. What’s wrong with it?

He twisted his shoulders absently, like he was getting ready to exercise. — What I did wrong was tell you to write me a love letter. This is a love letter.

— Right.

— And I want a fuck letter.

I pulled Nabisase back like the curse was a projectile. — How I’m supposed to do that?

— You live with women, you know how they like it. Say some shit about her face. Or her ass, like that.

I wasn’t going to get one decent idea from this moron; his dad was raising him alone.

— Why don’t you get that for me tonight, he said.

— Tonight? I got homework.

— You think I give a fuck about your homework? He crunched the paper and threw it at me. I gotta make a diorama for fucking Art class, feel like I’m in second grade.

— I’ll try.

— Try? David sneered. He stepped out of the doorway quickfast and grabbed Nabisase. Then this motherfucker shut the door, locked it and spoke through it. Now what the fuck you going to try?

My eyes focused on the arms, those sad loose things that had not put up a fight. I got angry with them, then with everything else. I kicked the door. Hard. — Gimme back my fucking sister.

— Write the letter.

I swung the baby bag; the bottle inside popped and popped, leaked all its milk.

— Pops isn’t home, so hit that door all you want. But if you get me mad I’ma hurt this girl.

Defeated, I said, — Then give me some paper. I’ll write it now.

Footsteps leaving, footsteps coming back; some paper slid under the door; a pen in my jeans. I sat, squinted as the bad lights shone down their yellow against the yellow tiles and yellow walls until I got dizzy. Writing, it was done in minutes.

He said, — Read it to me or I’ll throw her out to the street.

He was having fun. I imagined Nabisase going out the window, dying on the ground, her legs snapped, frozen at some strange angle. As big as he was, as frightened as he made me, it wouldn’t have been a question, I’d have been through that door so easy.

I read: —You don’t know how many times I’ve seen you, wanted to take your hand, pull tight and look at your face. You’re so pretty it makes me mad. I want to make you forget his name and what he calls you. You think I don’t really care, but what I want for you is so real.

Three locks clacked as he opened the door, handed me Nabisase, took the letter. His smile was something gentle, like he was the doctor who’d delivered my sister and now, here she is. — That’s the shit, he said.

I held her close and she put one hand on each of my cheeks, a sensation I loved.

David pointed. — You write me some more shit like this. You keep it up and I won’t have to bust your ass.

Me, Grandma and Nabisase went to the Botanical Gardens and parked at some benches. The old lady hadn’t wanted such a large family outing. She bribed me with money to leave the two of them alone. Her English was not the greatest; as she gave me the three dollar bills she said, — You mustn’t be greedy for her.

— With, I corrected. I went near the swings at the top of a hill. A tree had fallen and the way it lay, the branches and leaves came together to form a small alcove, a little cave into which you could slide, avoid overheating in the summer. I sloped toward it and peeked in for people.

David lay on his back; the girl on top of him was Michelle. They kissed heavy, her shirt up, almost off, his pants unbuttoned, hand trying extra-hard to get them down further, get his underwear off. My mouth was open, emitting a soft moan I’d have thought too low to hear over their excitement and the wind and traffic nearby, so when they bolted up, her off and over, sliding down her shirt, him buttoning his jeans, I fell backward, tumbled down the hill. I rolled on my ass and back and shoulders and neck, stopping only once I’d reached flat ground.

Grandma, dressed in blue, turned in my direction. Her friends, also old, who had gathered to witness a grandchild, who had crept from their own benches at all ends of the park, they looked at me as well. I stared up, an eye on Michelle who was tall and blond, whose long hair swung evenly like her brother’s when she ran. She lifted herself over the tall black fence that surrounded the Botanical Gardens. I wondered if she was late for work. Once she was out of sight I scanned left and there he was, resting against a stone smoothed down for sitting, watching me, far enough that David’s eyes were impossible to see, but from his expression I knew that I was fucked.

I wrote a letter. In it I made certain things clear, explained that courting her had just been something to do, there had been no love in it, she had just been something to try and get inside. Rough. Honest. At the bottom I signed David’s name, popped it in an envelope, sealed it and walked warily down to Key Food. Todd was inside, at the gumball machine, trying to fool it with slugs. I waved the missive at him, said, — I’ve got something for your sister.

He nodded. — Michelle keeps everything David gives her.

I didn’t say something, merely walked to register nine, slid it to her between customers. She seemed happy to receive. — This is from David? He didn’t have to send me another one.

Todd and I returned to my block, raced on the sidewalk for an hour, until David appeared like out of nothing, as if me tagging the side of my building, the finish line, had been me rubbing a magic lamp to make my torturer appear like some Arabian djinn.

— What are you on, David asked, dust? Todd, suddenly, was gone.

— No, I said.

He brought his hand down on the back of my neck in the grandest of all red-necks. I fell forward into the wall, wished for my mother to open our window and scream out for me, send me to buy a thousand things, just get me far from here. But she didn’t, not my grandmother either; I pictured them too busy stealing time with Nabisase while I was out, mesmerized by a hiccup while their boy came close to death.

— I knew it was stupid trusting you, he said. Now you fucked my shit all up.

Money dragged me hard by the shirt, I tripped behind him as he took me to the backyard. At the seesaws he spoke again, but his tone, he was begging; he was hurt. — Why’d you have to do that? I wasn’t going to ask for no more letters. You did good. I was even going to pay you some money.

I shrugged.

— Say something! He punched me in the arm.

David wanted me to explain and he wanted me to apologize, but I wasn’t sad for having destroyed his little rap. There was this routine, I knew it: two kids fuck, girl goes pregnant, belly grows, baby’s born, someone goes, Mom or Dad. Kid is left with half a temple for worship; kid is left.

— You get to fuck her? I asked, thinking of her brother, Todd, and the trap he’d laid out for her just a few weeks before.

— Yeah, he said. But it wasn’t even about that anymore. Then David was all over me, punching his knuckles into my thighs, pockmarking me with dead-legs. I fell backward, lay there as he hit. My throbbing was constant, seemed normal, pulsations moved up from my knees like the blood rushing through the spiraling pathways of my veins. From nearby he skipped stones at me. Some jumped off in chaotic motions while others attacked at my hands guarding my face, more tapped my ribs. When he came to me, he was not full with the joy I’d have imagined. He whispered, — It’s nothing more to say to you. Every day I’m going to do this.

When I came home the television was on. I made a show at the door, shutting it forcefully, kicking my sneakers off and into the air, but they sat unperturbed. Mom and Grandma seemed to be in too good a mood to let me spoil it. A long white blanket with ruffled edges lay on the floor in front of them, lousy with trinkets: golden plastic pacifier, a set of chewable oversize plastic keys, an elephant with a wind-up trunk that whistled notes through its tusks. I went to the bathroom, washed the dirt from my face and neck, the sweat; dropped my pants and stared at the purple bruises, which were getting darker. — Where’s Nabisase? I called out.

— Let her sleep, my mother yelled back. She sounded annoyed. She was also pleading.

In our room I sat on the bed and listened to the sounds my sister made as she sucked in quick, shallow breaths. She lay in her crib on her back. Even with eyes closed she looked confused, her lips parted in a little o that made her seem awestruck. I put my finger under her nose, left it there until I felt that warm in-and-out of life against my skin. Leaning on the crib made an aching noise. Every few hundred breaths her chest expanded to twice its size as she pulled in a gasp big enough for me. She moved some when this happened. I stayed, interested in the rubbery twists she managed. Moved my hand, sat it purposefully across her mouth and nose like an insect or animal feeding. I whispered, — I can’t keep you safe.

The time from her last breath to the moment when she tossed her head, trying to get back to fresh air, went quickly. She was twitching, still sleeping, kicking so quickly. I held my hand there until she almost woke up, eyelids threatening to open; then I took my hand away, watched her suck in angrily but more like thankfully. Safe again, she rolled left and fell quietly back to her dreams.

My mother and grandmother wouldn’t know until morning if tonight I killed her. Mom would be grateful really for no three A.M. feeding. When the sun rose she’d be one great smile, ready to handle delicately what I’d so easily destroyed. I returned my hand to her nose and mouth; as my sister’s legs kicked again I listened to the light sounds she made, like newborn animals calling out for assistance in the natural order of things.