Art on Fire (7 page)

Francesca fell asleep while it was still light outside, then awoke to a dark and silent world. She could smell Lisa's baby powder and sugar breath. She licked her lips, remembering the long white stretch of Lisa's neck. Hot tears loitered behind her eyes. A crooked bolt of sensation traveled down her spine and sent a shock to her groin. She pressed her fists against the zipper of her jeans and rolled left and right. The thin murmur of Isabella talking in her sleep drifted up through the floorboards as the previous day returned to her like fragments of a dream: Mr. Sinsong clenching Lisa's thin arm, dragging her down the porch steps and over the slate path, Lisa's feet barely touching the ground.

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Vivian had said.

“It's your fault,” Isabella had whispered to Francesca, giving her the evil eye.

And Lisa had become tinier and tinier, like a strand of hair, a blade of grass, finally a blurry profile trapped inside the prison door of the Buick.

She pulled her knapsack down from its hook on the back of the door and packed her Captain Kangaroo sweatshirt, then doubleknotted her shoelaces and tiptoed downstairs into the dark kitchen. She cracked the refrigerator door for light, then removed the telephone book from the potholder drawer and quietly flipped pages. There were so many S's. Her finger glided up one column, down the next, landing upon two Sinsongs, but only one in New Haven. 496 Temple. She memorized the address and put the thick book back in the potholder drawer, positioned the remaining half of an Entenmanns chocolate cake at the top of her pack, then adjusted the pack so it sat comfortably on her shoulders. This, too, she'd learned from Sam Gribley: Never be hampered by awkward apparatus.

The night air smelled sweet and earthy. Francesca edged along the driveway to avoid the clamor of gravel, and crossed the street. The sky was spotted with marble stars, a nearly full moon. She rolled down the embankment, only half on the path, recognizing enough of the girthy pines and spindly birches to know she was in the vicinity. Still, the milky darkness infused everything with danger. She plowed into prickers, splashed across the thick black swamp—a mystery of underlife and cling—repeatedly reminding herself that these were her favorite woods, and that although she never wanted to see her parents again, they were, dependably, just across the street.

The hut appeared at the center of a round blue clearing, lit up by the night sky and surrounded by darkness. She pulled back the door and scrambled inside, slid her body all the way to the back wall, and extended her legs straight out in front of her. A car passed on the street above—nearing, nearing, then fading like something that changed its mind. She removed her flashlight from the shelf overhead and aimed its beam all around the small room to remind herself where she was, how many afternoons she'd spent by this river, never attacked, never eaten by animals. What was the worst thing that could happen: Bobcat? Rabid dog? Pack of hungry wolves? Grizzly bear? Sadistic teenage boy? Hadn't they caught the legendary Hillbilly Hermit after he strangled a young girl with strings from his banjo? Even so, there were always more murderers, ones who sought girls like Francesca: ugly girls, girls overgrown and devoid of form, who kiss other girls and build huts at the riverside.

She pulled her bag toward her and removed the cake, opened the box, let the sweet muddy smell of chocolate drift toward her face. She scooped out a clawful, stuffed it into her mouth, the crumbs falling down the front of her sweatshirt. In minutes, it was gone. Francesca sat dumbfounded and stuffed, her eyelids sinking closer and closer together. She pulled the wool blanket down from the shelf overhead and curled up beneath it, fell into a deep, sugarcoated sleep.

Hours later she awoke to a stiff neck and aching bladder. She pulled back the door and blinked against the earliest morning light, unfolded into the misty air. Her stomach growled, more from sickness than hunger, and her head ached as though she'd been spinning
around and around. The sticky smell of chocolate lingered on her fingers and around her mouth. She stepped away from the hut and squatted to pee. The structure no longer looked impressive. It seemed childish and pathetic, like a good wind could send it into the river. Her eyes filled with tears. She hated it. She would never come back here. Ever. Thus it was decided: She would fetch Lisa and leave New Haven, never see any of them again. Except maybe her grandmother. But it would all have to be hush-hush, their whereabouts kept secret from Mr. Sinsong, from Vivian and Isabella and Alfonse.

“Meet me across the street,” she would tell Lisa from a pay phone. “Pack a bag.” She'd borrow her grandmother's Chevy, speed down Fountain Street, past the decrepit synagogue, past the library, past Kentucky Fried Chicken with its rotating portrait of the colonel. Past the duck pond where Evelyn had brought her as a child, covered now with green scum. Lisa would be waiting, denim jacket over her pajamas, eyes still sticky with sleep, hair in a zigzag part. Francesca would toss the suitcase into the trunk, open the passenger door, close it after Lisa got in, then tap on the window and mouth “Lock up” with authority. She'd saunter around the front of the car, climb behind the large brown wheel, and grab a confident hold. Then she'd lean over and kiss Lisa kind of rough, kind of tender. The way a man does when he's got a woman to himself. They'd follow the low orange moon, speed through red lights, floating like a whisper over highway pavement. Stop at Denny's for breakfast, just as the light was thin and smoky like milk around an empty glass. Have coffees, why not, big omelets with bacon. Then crash their tall, plastic juice glasses together in a toast.

She fastened the door to the hut and headed back along the path, through the swamp, the prickered eaves, until she reached the bottom of the embankment. There, her legs aching, she exhausted her reserves scaling the steep incline. In front of her sleeping house the only evidence of life was a tall rake with green shoulders. The post was plunged into a newly dug flowerbed alongside the house. The sky was light but still sunless; the only sounds were faraway trucks, a barking dog. No cars moved along the street. She knew it was very early. Her sister was asleep. Her parents were facing opposing sides in their double bed,
the beige comforter pulled up to their chins, the black and white TV hot from running all night.

Alfonse would soon awaken, load his tools into the station wagon, yank the rake out from the dew-soaked ground. Sundays he worked at the high school, his biggest account. Often Francesca would tag along, pull weeds drowsily, play in the dirt. There was an intimacy to those outings, nearly silent but for Alfonse's whistled renditions of Italian opera. Even without words, Francesca could tell it was Italian music. His jaunty fingers bounced on the steering wheel, his knee danced. He'd look over at Francesca and wink. He seemed to be somewhere else, somewhere happy. Then, on the way home, they'd eat butterscotch sundaes at Farm Shop. Alfonse would finagle the waitress's pen, and they'd play tic-tac-toe on sandpaper napkins. Stuffed and silly, as they waited at the cash register to pay, he'd tickle Francesca until she promised to eat all her dinner, even the vegetables, so Vivian wouldn't know they'd been bad.

Francesca moved farther and farther away from the house, toward the main road. This is the last time I'll ever see this place, she thought, turning back once more for a good, long look. Nothing, I feel nothing. She shrugged. Her body seemed light, as if she'd shed weight or thrown off a heavy garment she'd never needed.

By the time she arrived at her grandmother's house, the sun was up. Evelyn, hair still in curlers, adjusted the waistband of her powder blue nylon pajamas and pulled Francesca inside. She sat her down at the kitchen table, poured a steaming cup of coffee, and pushed the jar of Cremora across the table. Francesca dumped three heaping teaspoons onto her coffee, then exploded the hills of sticky, sweet dust with her finger and watched the beverage turn a caramel color. Magically, a tupperware of rugelach appeared on the table. Evelyn sat kitty-corner and pulled the airtight lid off of the container. The sweet, buttery smell made Francesca salivate.

“Here,” said Evelyn.

Francesca took a pastry. She bit far into it, found it was not apricot, but prune. “Are they all prune?” She tried not to sound disappointed.

“Oh, they're delicious. Prunes are good for you.” Evelyn reached for one, as if to set an example, took a bite, and wiped some fallen
crumbs from the yellow, vinyl placemat in front of her onto the floor. She untangled the clips from her hair, letting the brassy toboggans unfurl and bounce toward her shoulders. Carefully she deposited the clips into a plastic box that said Evelyn's Things in white writing on the lid.

“Gramm?” Francesca said sweetly.

“What is it, Bunny?” Evelyn put her hand over Francesca's. “So cold. Where have you been?” She took Francesca's hand in between her two veiny ones, rubbed it firmly, her wedding band bumping Francesca's knuckles.

“Can you take me somewhere?” Francesca asked.

“Of course I can. Where do you want to go? Florida? Hawaii? Where should we go? Like a couple of gangsters,” Evelyn winked.

“I need to visit my friend.”

“Well, that's easy. Where is she?” Evelyn closed up the plastic box of curlers and pushed it to the side.

“She lives downtown in the Chinese neighborhood.”

“Wha—?” Evelyn squinted up her face, pushed her fingers through her hair to loosen the curls.

“The Chinese neighborhood,” Francesca said loudly. Sometimes Evelyn was hard of hearing.

“There's no Chinese neighborhood,” Evelyn waved her hand and made a face. She took another pastry and bit into it, chewed with her mouth open, the crumbs clinging to the corners.

“There is so,” Francesca insisted. “She lives there.”

“Who is she?”

“Lisa.”

“Lisa? What's Lisa doing in a Chinese neighborhood?”

“She's Chinese!” Francesca stood up.

“Alright. Calm down. I just never heard of that neighborhood. Where is it?”

“Temple Street.”

“Temple Street? No—” Evelyn made a big, dismissive gesture.

Francesca walked to the sink. She stood facing the backyard, her arms folded across her chest. “Forget it. I knew you wouldn't help me.”

“Alright. Alright. So, you have a Chinese friend. Does your mother know?”

Francesca nodded.

“Alright, so?” Evelyn stood up. “Let me call your mother so she knows where you are and we'll go. Okay? Everything better now?” She reached out, grabbed hold of Francesca's chin, gave it a squeeze. Years before, she'd vowed not to disappoint her granddaughter. But this promise she'd made in her fifties, when energy still rippled through her body, before it became evident how miserably her own daughter would fail at motherhood, how much would be left to do.

“Thank you,” Francesca said quietly, after Evelyn had left the room.

Evelyn's tobacco-colored Chevy Impala was littered with gum wrappers, broken cigarettes, discarded tissues, grocery lists scrawled on the backs of envelopes, receipts in faded blue ink. The air conditioner button was jammed, so it ran all the time, filling the car with a sick, fruity smell. They rode in silence through the center of New Haven, past the large, brown shopping mall propped several feet off the ground on cement stumps.

“It's so ugly,” said Francesca.

“Everything's ugly,” Evelyn answered, dismissing the world with a flash of her hand.

They crossed a river on which wrappers and cans floated like tiny ships. The street grew narrow, filled up with dark-skinned people. Cars were double-parked, sometimes with the doors hanging open, making it nearly impossible to pass. Baby strollers and bicycles popped out from between buildings, everything crisscrossing and sudden. No longer did anyone seem to follow a pattern, to move at a rhythmic, ordered pace. Evelyn blinked her eyes to burn a line of vision through the commotion. She felt an ineffable shame, unwelcome, as if she were trespassing in another world.

“Whew!” she said, when they'd finally paused at a red light. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. The light switched to green, and a man wearing sweatpants with one pant leg long, one cut short darted directly out in front of the car.

Evelyn held down her horn, then looked away when the man gave her the finger. “What kind of outfit is that?” she wrinkled her face at Francesca. “Lock your door.”

Music played through open windows, people greeted one another ebulliently in Spanish. Stores had signs painted on plywood: Rosalee's
Bodega, Allen's Discount Warehouse. In the window of Miguel's TV and Appliances, carpeted steps displayed a dusty turntable, two televisions, an iron. Evelyn pulled off of Chapel and onto Temple. Immediately, the world quieted.

“I've never seen no Chinese people here,” Evelyn said.

Temple Street ran eerily through a section of low-to-the-ground warehouses—no apartments, no people—until it metamorphosed into a residential neighborhood. A series of short apartment buildings sprang up.

“Here it is!” Francesca sat up straight, pointed to a putty-colored building. “496.”

A Chinese family emerged as if on cue. Evelyn stared, shaking her head, incredulous. “This is no neighborhood,” she scowled, irritated at the city for changing surreptitiously, making her feel extinct. She pulled the car alongside a dumpster.